She cut that suggestion off with a sharp wave of her hand. Themove did . . . disturbing . . . things with thesilk and under the silk. Like, she didn’t have panties on, either.
“Yeah, I’ve got hundreds of choices. And I choose you, dammit. And if you think blackwomen don’t know how to play that ‘single mother’ gig, you haven’t been payingmuch attention to social trends.”
Then she blinked. “Is that the problem? I’m black? Don’t wantto mix with those slave genes and criminal genes, hiding behind a badge and agun?”
Her voice had turned bitter. I blinked and stared at her. I’dnever thought Cash had any kind of self-image problem. Something about thatdamn-all attitude she radiated, supreme self-confidence and if you had aproblem with her, it was yourproblem. Your job to solve it. But,judging by her face, her ancestry didbother her. Inherited guilt.
It felt strange to see that thin hard warrior face lookvulnerable. I picked over my choice of words. “Not criminal genes, not slavegenes. Survivor genes. I’m surprisedyou would want my genes — coming fromwhere we did, Pattersons probably ownedslaves. Damn sure my father wouldn’t have seen a problem there. You want moreancestral guilt to wallow in, you can borrow some of ours.”
She moved in on me, took the glass out of my hand, and kissedme, all lean muscle and ribs again. Then she pulled back. “John, you would have seen the problem. Youwouldn’t have owned slaves, and I wouldn’t have run a drug gang out of the backdoor of a church. Now, shut up. I’ve got a realnice bed in the room over there. And before you dredge up another silly way tostall, it is strong enough to holdyour weight. I plan ahead.”
I remembered that bit in Zorbathe Greek where Zorba is talking to the English twit. God is generous, and Hecan forgive almost anything, but not the sin of a man who turns down a womanwho invited him to her bed.
That’s just rude.
XIV
The next morning, I drove back to my apartment andshowered and changed before hiking down to my office. I didn’t run into Sandyback at our building, for which a merciful and compassionate God be praised.
I had things to think about. Cash, for one, and the prospectof little coffee-colored Nef-babies, with cream stirred in. The woman seemedserious. I shook my head every time I thought about it, trying to spin somekind of explanation out of straw. But my name, as you may have noticed, isn’tRumplestiltskin. Spin and spin as best I might, the straw stayed straw. She wasthinking about babies? Fine, reproduction ranks right up near the top ofsurvival traits and she was getting on toward thirty. But wanting babiesfathered by me? Maybe she was crazy.
So I ditched that question as tail-chasing and moved on toanother. Last thing she whispered in my ear, leaving that morning, right out ofthe blue — “You’re right, Maggie didn’t do it. She’s not stupid enough.”
I hadn’t mentioned Maggie, not once. I have at least some concept of a gentleman’s properbehavior in such places. And I can imitate a gentleman when the mood takes meright.
That question had bothered me all along. Maggie was too smartfor the crime we’d pinned on her. She would have known, none better than aforensic magician of her ability, how we’d trace her down and nail her. She’dhave known about magical signatures, and she’d have known that damn near everymagic cop in the state would recognize hers. I’d just been the first one on thescene before the magic traces faded or got contaminated. But I could think ofat least five different ways to reach the same ends without leaving the sametrail behind.
I have to tell you, that’s one of the darker temptations ofbeing a cop — after a few years, you start to see holes in the net, think ofways that you could dodge the system.A good cop works to patch them. A bad cop, on the other hand . . .
But Maggie hadn’t been a bad cop. And she wasn’tself-destructive or suicidal, wanting us to catch her. She wasn’t bugfuckpsycho like Kratz, either. Kratz, now, he knew we’d identify him, but he didn’tcare. That was part of the kick, for him. I’m surprised he didn’t set up avideo camera on a tripod and leave the tape behind. Rub our noses in the factthat we couldn’t catch him.
But back to Maggie — “too smart to get caught like that” justwon’t stand up in court. It’s one of the oldest cop jokes, probably dating backto the night watch patrolling the mean streets for Gilgamesh — just about everyconviction we get boils down to one of two crimes, either Misdemeanor Stupid orFelony Stupid. We don’t have Capital Stupid on the books anymore, or that wouldup the total to three.
I never would have nailed Kratz the first time if he hadn’tdone a couple of first-class stupids. And no, I don’t feel like publishing how.I’d like a few more psychos to make the same mistake.
Cash had reminded me, Maggie was part of the mysteries. I hadn’tfigured out how yet. I just did my usual plodding and acting stupid myown self before I came up with answers. And that morning, I plodded off tobreakfast and to work.
I settled into my heavy-duty chair and stuffed my pipe and litit, early for the daily dose of nicotine-poisoning but my brain was spinning onthree different tracks at once, Cash and Maggie and Kratz, and I needed eithertobacco or whiskey. Give me credit for choosing the drug that still left me capableof thought and movement.
I swiveled around and stared out the window at the pigeons. IfI read Kratz right, he was long gone — off to Mongolia or Paraguay or Chad,wherever he’d been hiding for the last ten years. Close to 24 hours since he’dhit Reverend Fred, the bastard could be anywhere in the world. Or right nextdoor. No point in trying to question Mrs. Red-tail Hawk on the matter — shewouldn’t have been searching in yesterday’s weather.
Which was just as well. Like I told you, that’s proscribed magic,illegal. And magic that offered,
