alley, am I right? Cause this is where you found the gun, am I right? In the sewer right here.”
“Yes, this is where we found the gun.”
“This very same alley.”
“Yes. In the sewer there.”
“Only problem is,” Ollie said, and here he smiled understandingly and comfortingly, “this is the alley outside stageleft.”
Patricia looked at him.
“So how’d the shooter end up on the opposite side of the building?” Ollie asked. “You want a cup of coffee or something?”
PATRICIA WAS NERVOUSabout the time. She kept looking at her watch. Ollie told her not to worry about Sergeant Jackson, he’d take care of Sergeant Jackson if the man gave her any static. They were sitting in a Starbucks—Ollie knew the location of every eatery in the precinct—not far from where Ollie had picked her up earlier, and where she was expected to relieve on post again at two-thirty. It was now ten minutes past two. Ollie had ordered cappuccinos for both of them, and had also brought back to the table a pair of what he called “everything” cookies, which were oatmeal cookies with raisins and chocolate chips and M&M’s in them.
“Do you like to eat?” he asked her, chewing on one of the cookies, washing it down with his coffee.
“Yes, but I have to watch my weight,” Patricia said.
“Oh, me, too,” Ollie agreed. “I try not to have more than five meals a day. The Rule of Five. Otherwise it can get out of hand. This is very good cappuccino, don’t you think?” he asked, and before she could answer, he said, “Making cappuccinos is like everything else in life. You either know what you’re doing or you don’t. If you have to tell a person to put a lot of foam on it, then she doesn’t know how to make a cappuccino in the first place. Cappuccino is like a religion, you know. The same way Muslims have to fall on their knees, five times a day, I think it is, some people have to go for cappuccino at ten or eleven in the morning and again at two or three in the afternoon. There are different denominations of the Cappuccino faith, and different houses of worship all over the city, Starbucks is only one of them, you know. They’re like mosques and churches and temples in other religions, except people go there to sit and drink Ca-poo-chee-no,” he said, throwing his arms up, and grinning. “But there has to be lots of foam on it, or it ain’t kosher, are you going to finish that cookie, or what?”
“Help yourself,” she said, and moved the paper napkin with the cookie on it closer to him on the table.
“Cause, you know, it’s a sin to let food go to waste,” he said, and reached for the cookie.
Patricia watched him eating.
“Why are you studying Spanish?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“You said you were practicing your…”
“Oh, yeah. Right, right,mira, mira.Well, in this polyglot city, I like to be able to communicate with all types of individuals,” he said, chewing, drinking. “For example, I’m trying to learn how to say ‘What can you do?’ in five different languages. I got one language to go.”
“Why five?” she asked.
“The Rule of Five,” he said. “All good things come in five. For example, I’ll bet you’re five feet, five inches tall, am I correct?”
“No, I’m five-seven,” she said.
“That’s even better,” he said.
“I’m too short, right?” she said, and pulled a face.
“No, five-seven is perfect for a woman, ah yes,” he said.
“Is that W. C. Fields?” she asked.
“Why, yes, it is,” he said.
“I thought so.”
“Ah yes, m’little chickadee,” he said, and flicked ashes from an imaginary cigar.
Patricia laughed.
“The Rule of Five, huh?” she said.
“The Rule of Five, yes. I’m learning how to play five songs on the piano, too. Do you know ‘Night and Day’?”
“Oh sure.”
“I’ll play it for you sometime. Is there some song you’d like me to learn for you? Maybe some Spanish song? Let me know, and I’ll ask my piano teacher. Right now, she’s teaching me ‘Satisfaction.’”
“I like that song.”
“Yes, it’s a nice tune,” Ollie said.
“Why’d you pick that particular phrase? ‘What can you do?’”
“Well, it’s like saying ‘Go fight City Hall,’ ain’t it? Except it’s easier to translate. ‘What can you do?’” he said, and shrugged.
“Que puede hacer?”Patricia said, and shrugged in imitation.
“That’s it in Spanish, you’re absolutely right,” he said. “Do you know how to say it in Italian?”
“No, tell me.”
“Che si puoi fare?”he said, and hunched his shoulders and opened his hands to show the palms.
“Che si puoi fare?”she said, imitating him again.
“Perfect,” Ollie said. “Here it is in French.Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire?How’s that? I know my accent ain’t so hot…”
“No, that sounded very French.”
“Did it?”
“Absolutely. You should grow a mustache to go with it.”
“You think so? You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m kidding you. But it is a very good French accent. What other language do you know it in?”
“Chinese.”
“Get out of here!”
“I mean it. Well, not Cantonese. I only know it in Mandarin.”
“Let me hear it.”
Ollie squinted his eyes. Cleaving the air with the edge of his palm, he shouted“May-ohBANfa!”and burst out laughing. Patricia laughed with him.
“That’s remarkable,” she said.
“Yeah, I know,” Ollie said. “I want to learn it in Arabic, too. So when I arrest some terrorist hump and he complains about his civil rights, I’ll tell him to go fight City Hall in his native tongue.”
Patricia’s walkie-talkie went off.
She pulled it from her belt, flipped it on, said, “Gomez,” and listened. “I was just on my way, Sarge,” she said. “Right away. Yes, Sarge. This very minute.” She turned off the radio, pulled a face, and said, “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe we can have coffee again sometime,” Ollie said.
“Maybe we could,” Patricia said.
“Think up a Spanish song for me,” he said. “I’ll ask my teacher to get the sheet music for me.”
“You read music and everything?”
“Oh sure, everything,” he said. “I even wrote a book.”
“Get out of here!”
“I did. Some hump stole it from my car. I’m searching for him now, I’ll bust his ass when I find him.”
“Wow,” she said.
“Yeah,” Ollie said modestly.
“I’ll try to think of a song,” she said, and rose, and said, “Thanks for the coffee. Let me know when you figure out how that gun got over to the wrong side of the hall.”
“I will. You think about it, too. Maybe we can come up with something together.”
“Maybe so,” she said, and looked at him for a moment, and then said, “Well, I have to go,” and smiled, and raised her hand in farewell, and then turned and walked away from the table, one hip heavy with the weight of the Glock, swiveling toward the front door. He kept watching her till she was out of the shop. Then he went to the
