slipped inside the locker room, around the corner, next to the urinals, ready to lay out the big one first. But they never showed. He waited two minutes and then booked out the front door, and they ’ d missed him. They hadn ’ t been thorough, or he was damned lucky. He didn ’ t know which. He couldn ’ t imagine how they ’ d gotten on to him for the little visit he ’ d paid to Tad in the first place, but they sure as hell had.
Now he needed to regroup. He needed to chill and get in touch with Riggi. “Wait,” he said aloud. He couldn ’ t just call Riggi, get him rattled, too, or he ’ d be facing his own little visit from someone else. Riggi was always bringing in new help, looking for the proper situation in which to prove their chops. Maybe he ’ d better just keep the whole deal to himself for a while, Rooster thought. A sickening sense of the mundane traveled in the car with him. He ’ d prided himself on being a professional, and now one simple piece of trigger business and he ’ d come away dirty, like a two-bit gangbanger. He coursed through the intersection of June and Prosser, trying to outdistance the damp feeling of failure, the car ’ s shocks bunching as he hit a swale in the road. He caught a glimpse, through the top of the windshield, of the traffic signal going from amber to red.
Officer Stacy Jennings dropped the radar gun, hit her lights, and went after the El Camino doing fifty-seven on June Road. Fifty-seven in a forty. Stacy loved being a cop. She was twenty-four years old and had been on the force for eighteen months. She couldn ’ t believe how right the job was for her. Her friends were all secretaries or worked in banks or were in law school. All that seemed like slow death by boredom to her. Even though nothing beyond a DUI had happened to her so far, she still got all jacked up on traffic stops, each and every one. She knew that things could turn without warning and stuck to the procedure she ’ d learned at the academy. She ’ d move up on the driver ’ s side, keeping in his blind spot as long as possible, and stop about a foot and a half back of being even with him, so he ’ d have to crane around to see her once he ’ d opened his window. This way, she stayed out of the line of fire if the motorist pulled a gun. She knew danger rode in every car. It was this knowledge that made her blood surge, that amped her up, so that even after a routine shift she ’ d have to put in a hard half hour on the stair-climber her father had given her for Christmas just to wind down and tire out for sleep. Daddy was so proud of her, though he said he ’ d never stop being nervous now that she was on the force.
The El Camino neared Clairmont before she ’ d reached speed and for a moment it pulled away from her. She felt her pulse hum and her stomach elevator-dropped halfway before she caught it and stepped on the gas. She wondered if she had her first runner and grabbed for the radio to call for backup. But she began closing ground on the El Camino and its speed dropped below fifty, almost as if its will had flagged. The driver made a show of drifting into the right lane, as if carefully looking for a good place to pull over. At least she knew he ’ d seen her lights. Growing impatient, she fluttered the siren, two crisp chirps, and he finished pulling over. She stopped about ten feet back of him and put it in park. Her patrol car was rigged with a dash-mounted video camera that automatically taped her traffic stops after the flashers were activated, for her safety, for a review of her performance, and to protect motorists ’ rights. She focused her mind for a moment, then got out.
Inside the El Camino the feeling of failure was gone. What replaced it was a bubbling lava river of self- disgust. Rooster was acting like a teenage redneck stick-up man on a losing streak. Now he faced a license check and worse if they put together who he was and that other cops were looking for him. He sat stone still and peeped his side mirror as the officer drew close. The cop stopped a few feet back of him, and he could see that it was a woman. She was pretty. Young. She had sandy blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and not a stitch of makeup. Her coat collar had white fleece lining that rode up around her chin and she looked cute in it. She tapped his window, which he lowered, then craned around for a straight-on look at her.
“License and registration, sir.”
He made her name tag in the glow of the streetlight. Officer Jennings. He felt his stomach quiver. She was a beauty.
“Aw, come on now, that light back there was yellow all the way,” Rooster said. He smiled. The smile came easy, clean and fresh as she was.
“License and registration,” the cop repeated, her voice flat.
Rooster half moaned in frustration but kept it low as he reached for the glove compartment. He handed over his papers. They linked him to a long-gone address with no forwarding information. The car itself was pristine, too, nothing — no weapons or substances — in it that could get him hauled in. His problem, however, was twofold. He had a hell of a lot of old parking tickets he hadn ’ t paid that had poof turned into bench warrants, and if she punched in his name, it might come up that her brother officers were looking. Can ’ t let that happen, he thought, shifting around again, trying for another look. She checked the license against his face, the registration against the car.
“Any chance of a warning on this one, Officer?” Rooster tried.
“You were going pretty good there, you know,” she said back. A little humorless, he thought, but he kind of liked it.
“I guess.”
“What ’ s the hurry?”
“Nothing. Just coming from the gym. I ’ m all jacked up after my workout, ya know?”
This penetrated her shell. She became present for a moment. “Yeah,” she said. For a moment he could see her racing a mountain bike or running, covered with sweat, like in a sports ’ drink commercial. Then the job came back into her. “But still.”
“I ’ ll take it slow from here. You can bank on that,” he offered. He tried to put some friendly in his eyes, unsure of how it came across.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him for a moment. She didn ’ t say yes or no to the ticket, just stared. He felt unable to stop himself from drifting. It was the sight of her patrolman ’ s shoes; shiny cap toes that were small, barely sticking out from under her trousers. This Officer Jennings, this pretty young thing, is the kind of girl I should be with, he said silently to himself. Could be, too. Why not? It wasn ’ t a great way to meet, but there ’ d been worse.
He imagined them together, a few months in. Long enough so that they were comfortable, not so long that it had become routine. He pictured her coming home after work. She ’ d toss her cap at him on the couch and pull out the ponytail doodad that held her hair back. She ’ d walk up to him and he ’ d unclip her gun belt, removing it from her slim hips. He ’ d begin to unbutton her pants, revealing a flat, hard stomach and the top of her fine white cotton underwear. He would ’ ve just gotten home before her, too. Because unbeknownst to her he ’ d have followed her on her patrol, making sure nothing bad had befallen her. He ’ d lay back and scout her patrol area for threats. He ’ d be her invisible backup. He pictured himself living clean. He ’ d drop the “Rooster” and go by “Garth.” Garth Mintz and Officer Jennings. Damn, what was her first name? It brought him out of his reverie just in time to hear her speak.
“Wait in the car, please, sir. It ’ ll be just a minute.”
A sense of gloom came down on Rooster like a heavy wave crashing over him. His movements felt thick, distracted, as if he were swimming through gelatin. He swung his car door open and put his feet on the ground. Officer Jennings, on the way back to her car, stopped. He stood and stretched, as if his arms and legs were tight. And they were tight — with disgust, for where he ’ d ended up and for what he had to do.
“I said, wait in your vehicle, sir.” He heard Officer Jennings ’ s voice, tight, come back at him.
“Just grabbing a smoke,” he said, bashful, making a show of looking for his cigarettes.
She took a few steps back toward him, reaching for her radio as she came. “I ’ m gonna ask you to place your hands on the side of the car.” Now her voice was commanding. If she had any fear, she ’ d put it down and locked it away.
He began to comply, turning toward the El Camino, stretching his hands out toward it. As he turned he saw her key her radio, readying to use it. He took a sip of night air, the gelatin hesitation gone from his limbs, and spun back the way he had turned. He threw a lead right with everything he could put on it that would still allow him to retain good balance on the tail end.
What ’ s he doing? Stacy Jennings wondered to herself when Mintz, the traffic stop, climbed out of his car. It was her last clear recollection. The rest she got from the dashboard videotape. Months later, after the surgeries, she ’ d watched the tape and could hardly comprehend it. She couldn ’ t believe the way the first punch landed, dead solid, that she didn ’ t slip it at all. She pretty much walked into it, in fact. She ’ d been a damn good boxer at the academy, and before, when her father had taught her. She could trade with any of the male recruits, and often got the better of them because of the way she could bob and move in the ring. But that was in the ring, with headgear and mouth guards and gloves and rounds. She could hardly believe the way she went down on the street:
