'Oh, baby,' the officer announces. His voice is filled with shove-it-in-your-face glee. He slams the door shut and strides around to our side of the car. As he approaches, he's holding one hand behind his back.
'What is it?' the second officer asks.
'See for yourself.'
I look up, expecting to see Nora's brown prescription vial. Maybe even a stash of cocaine. Instead, the cop is holding a single stack of hundred dollar bills.
Son of a bitch. She took the money.
'Now either of you want to tell me what you're doing driving around with this kinda cash?'
Neither of us says a word.
I look at Nora, and she's paste white. Gone is the cocky and wild vitality that led us through the stop signs, out of the bar, and up the embankment. In its place is that look she's had since we got pulled out of the car. Fear. It's all over her face and it's still making her hands shake. She simply can't be caught with this money. Even if it's not against the law to have it, even if they can't arrest her, this isn't something that's going to be easy to explain. In this neighborhood. With this amount of cash. The drug stories alone will shred what's left of her reputation. Rolling Stone will be the least of her problems.
She turns to me and once again opens her soft side. Her usually tough eyes are welled up with tears. She's begging for help. And like it or not, I'm the only one who can save her. With a few simple words, I can spare her all that pain and embarrassment. Then she and the President . . . I catch myself. No. No, it's not about that. It's like I said before. It's not for her father. Or her title. It's for her. Nora. Nora needs me.
'I asked you a question,' the officer says as he waves the pile of cash. 'Whose is this?'
I take one last look at Nora. That's all I need. Shoving confidence back into my voice, I turn to the officer and say two words: 'It's mine.'
Chapter 3
Like a judge with a gavel, the officer slowly taps the wad of money in his right hand against the open palm of his left. 'Where'd you get it?' he asks, annoyed.
'Excuse me?' I reply. Time to stall.
'Don't yank my chain, boy. Where's someone like you get ten grand in cash?'
'Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?'
He kicks the rusty bumper on the back of my Jeep. 'No offense, but you're not exactly traveling in style.'
I shake my head. 'You don't know anything about me.'
He smirks at my response and knows he's hit a sore spot. 'You can't hide who you are--it's written all over your face. And your forehead.'
Self-consciously, I touch the cut on my head. The blood's starting to dry. I'm tempted to fight back, but instead let it pass. 'Why don't you give me my speeding ticket and I'll be out of your way.'
'Listen, Smallville, I don't need to hear your attitude.'
'And I don't need to hear your insults. So unless you have some reasonable suspicion of a crime taking place, you have no right to harass me.'
'You have no idea what you're--'
'Actually, I have a really good idea. Far more than you're giving me credit for. And since there's no law against carrying money, I'd appreciate it if you'd give me my stuff and write up my ticket. Otherwise, you're risking a harassment suit and a letter to your sergeant that'll be a bitch to explain when you're up for promotion.'
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Nora smile. The cop just stands there. The way he scratches his cheek, I can tell he's plenty pissed off. 'Vate, do me a favor?' he eventually says to his partner. 'They're doing a drug sweep on 14th and M. See if they've broadcasted any lookouts yet. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
'It's not like that,' I tell him.
He looks at me skeptically. 'Let me tell you something, Smallville--pretty-boy, clean-cut white boys like you only come to this neighborhood for two reasons: drugs and whores. Now let's see that license and registration.' I hand them over and he turns back to his partner. 'Any word yet, Vate?'
'Nothing.'
The cop walks away from me and heads back to his car. Five minutes go by and I climb into the driver's seat of my Jeep. Nora's next to me, but she's brutally quiet. She looks my way and offers a faint smile. I try to smile back, but she turns away. I could kill her for taking that cash. Why the hell would she be so stupid? I mean, what would she even use it for? My mind jumps back to her so-called aspirin, but I'm not ready to believe the worst. Not yet.
Staring vacantly out the window, she's resting her chin in the palm of her hand. The way her shoulders sag, I realize the eyes of the world are always on her. It never lets up. Eventually, the cop returns with a pink slip that's marked 'Confirmation of Receipt.'
'Where's my money?' I ask.
'As long as it's clean, you'll get every cent of it back.' Reading my confused expression, he adds, 'If our boys on the street are unavailable to make an ID, we can legally hold your cash as the likely proceeds of a criminal act.' He's not smiling, but I can tell he's loving every minute of this. 'Now does that check out with you, Mr. Attorney- at-Large, or do you want to speak to my sergeant yourself?'
I shake my head, calculating the consequences in my head. 'When do I get it back?'
'Give us a call next week.' He knows we're not selling drugs; he's just doing this to bust my chops. Leaning in toward the window, he adds, 'And just so we're clear . . .' He motions to Nora, who's still sitting next to me. 'I'm not blind, boy. I just don't need the headache that comes along with this.'
Unnerved by the confidence in his voice, I shrink down in my seat. He knew who she was all along.
'And one last thing . . .' He reaches in the window and slaps a piece of paper against my chest. 'Here's your speeding ticket.'
* * *
Ten minutes later, Nora and I have returned to downtown D.C. and are heading straight for the White House. The adrenaline bath with every spigot open is now finally over. The cut on my forehead hurts and my stomach's churning, but all I really feel is numb. Numb and out of control. My eyes are locked on the road, while my thumbs are shaking as they tap against the top of the steering wheel. The casual repetition is a vain attempt to fight fear, but it's not fooling anyone. Including me. Being nailed with the cash, I'm not only known by the cops--I'm officially, on paper, tied to that money and whatever it was paying for.
Neither of us has said a word since the cops left. Watching me, Nora sees the pace of my thumb-tapping quickly increase. Finally, she breaks the silence. 'You doing okay?' she asks.
All I do is nod.
'I appreciate what you did for me back there,' she offers.
My eyes stay glued to the road. 'It's okay,' I say coldly.
'I'm serious.'
'I told you, it's okay. It's not that big a--'
'It is a big deal. It really is--that's not something that happens to me every day.'
'I would hope not,' I blurt angrily.
She pauses for a moment, sensing I'm about to boil. 'You know what I mean, Michael. The way you acted . . . it wasn't just for you. You did it for--' She once again stops--this doesn't come naturally for her. 'Thank you, Michael. It meant a lot to me.'
An hour ago, I would've done anything to hear those words. Right now, though, I couldn't care less.
'Say what you're thinking,' she says.
I brake to a sharp stop at a red light. Turning to my right, I take a long, hard look at her. 'What do you think I'm thinking? Why the hell'd you take the money?'
She crosses her arms and lets out that little girl laugh.
'You think it's a joke?' I shout.
'Not at all,' she says, suddenly serious. 'Not after what you did.'
I'm not in the mood for compliments. 'Just tell me why you took it.'
