One was white, with a full head of light-brown hair; the other, Hispanic and bearded. The white man looked up briefly, then buried himself in a book.
Milo picked up a pointer and tapped the board. 'Mr. Jones won't be making it today. I'm Mr. Sturgis, your substitute.
All eyes on him, except those of the reader.
One of the girls said, 'Is he okay?' in a strained voice. She had very long, dark, frizzy hair, a thin, pretty face, and wore dangling earrings constructed of lavender-and-white plastic balls on nylon fishing line. Her black tube top showed off a big chest and smooth, tan shoulders. Too-blue eye shadow, too-pale lipstick, too much of both.
Despite that, better-looking than the photo in her student file.
Milo said, 'Not really, Kristie.'
She opened her mouth. The other students looked at her.
She said, 'Hey, what's going on?' and grabbed her purse.
Milo reached into his pocket and pulled out his police badge.
'You tell me, Kristie.'
She froze. The other students gawked. The reader's eyes floated above the pages of his book. Moving slowly.
I saw Milo look at him. Look down at the floor.
Shoes.
Clunky black oxfords with bubble toes. They didn't go with his silk shirt and his designer jeans.
Milo's eyes narrowed. The reader's fixed on mine, then sank out of view as he raised the book higher.
Theories of Organizations.
Kristie started to cry.
The other students were statues.
Milo said, 'Yo Joe! Cavity check!'
The reader looked up reflexively. Just for a second, but it was enough.
Bland face. Dick and Jane's dad from a half-block distance. Up close, details destroyed the paternal image: five o'clock shadow, pockmarks on the cheeks, a scar across the forehead. Tattoo on one hand.
And the sweat-a coat of it, shiny as fresh lacquer.
He stood up. His eyes were hard and narrow; his hands huge, the forearms thick. More tattoos, blue-green, crude. Reptilian.
He picked up his books and stepped away from the table while keeping his head down.
Milo said, 'Hey, c'mon, stay. I'm an easy grader.'
The man stopped, began to lower himself, then he threw the books at Milo and made a rush for the door.
I stepped in front of him, locking my hands in a double-arm block.
He shouldered me full-force. The impact slammed me against the door and pushed it open.
I fell backward onto the cement, landing hard and feeling my tailbone hum. Reaching out, I grabbed two handfuls of silk. He was on top of me, clawing and punching and spraying sweat.
Milo pulled him off, hit him very fast in the face and the belly and shoved him hard against the bungalow. The man struggled. Milo kidney-punched him, hard, and cuffed him as he sank, groaning.
