Rogue Island

shocked!”

Who the hell writes that crap?

Ernie DiGregorio spun a basketball on his index finger and invited us to join the fun at Foxwoods. Cadillac Frank made a show of kicking tires with his Ferragamos and announced “an offer you can’t refuse on a previously owned Seville.” Then Logan was back with tape from the press conference at Providence Police Headquarters.

It was all backslaps and congratulations, the chief, the mayor, and Polecki taking turns giving one another credit. The mayor hogged most of the camera time, attributing the break in the case to Polecki’s diligent police work and doing his best to minimize the role of Zerilli and his bat-wielding vigilantes. Polecki injected a word of caution, saying “The investigation is ongoing,” but the smug smiles and the celebratory mood made it clear they thought Wu Chiang was their man.

When it was over, the crowd at Hopes applauded. Three cops and a half dozen firemen, segregated at two tables in back, rose to their feet and raised their glasses in a toast. Then they crossed their invisible line of mutual hostility to share manly hugs, the black eyes and split lips from the brawl at last August’s PD vs. FD softball game momentarily forgotten.

33

Seems like I’m always hustling for something—a lead, a quote, a free parking space, space above the fold. When there’s time to take a breath, it usually involves sucking in a lungful of Cuban and wheezing out a cheer for the developmentally arrested millionaires with “Red Sox” stitched across their chests. Tonight I’d gotten myself into something different, and I liked the way it felt.

We strolled past Nordstrom, an anchor in the sprawling mall just downwind from the stench of the statehouse. Behind the plate-glass windows, mannequins were draped in my annual salary. I focused on my companion’s hips as they drew silky circles beneath her skirt. A minute or two slipped by before I noticed she was speaking.

“… wanted to share the byline but Lomax wouldn’t go for it, so I gave you and Mason contributing lines at the end of the piece.”

When I realized she was talking business, I felt oddly deflated. “We make a good team, Veronica.”

“You and Mason?”

“You and I.”

“I think so too,” she said.

Suddenly I was hungry. I wanted food too.

Before us was one of those pretentious places with ferns, brass railings, hardwood floors, and preening waiters with names like Chad and Corey. As we settled into a corner booth, I felt Veronica shed the day. She pulled her jet-black hair out of an elastic tie and shook it loose to settle on her shoulders. Then she sighed and crossed her legs, diverting my attention from the twelve-page menu.

Veronica ordered veal. I asked for the rib eye. There are times when nothing will do but meat.

She was at it again. Talking. I caught about every third word. Arson. Deadlines. Wu Chiang. I just wanted her to tie that hair back up and pull it loose again. To uncross her legs and recross them.

“You ever get lonely, Mulligan?”

That caught me by surprise. I felt myself about to stutter, then remembered what a cool dude I’m supposed to be. “How could I get lonely with you, Gloria, and Polecki all wanting a piece of me?”

She didn’t smile like I thought she would. Instead, she lowered her eyes and ran a slow finger along the rim of her wine glass.

“We kiss, we roll around in your bed, we sleep. What you want from me now is something you can get from anybody.”

“No way,” I said. “From Gloria, sure, but Polecki’s a lousy lay.”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“Most things. Not everything.”

I was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say or how to say it.

“You’ve figured me out,” I said. “You know the shit I slog through every fucking day, how I stink of it, and you still think I’m good enough to be with you.”

As she raised her eyes to stare at me, Chad or Corey materialized, working me for a tip. No, I don’t want any more water. No, we haven’t finished our drinks. Keep your cracked pepper to yourself. Go the fuck away.

We ate in silence. It was a cozy silence, and it scared me a little. I’d said too much. Or not enough. What exactly had I said? Ah, yes. Shit, and stink, and fucking—the three magic words of romance.

“Mulligan?”

Silence broken.

“You get me too. And I’ve been told that I’m a hard woman to love.”

Love? Jesus! Who’d said anything about love?

I sawed at my rib-eye, stalling for time. Then she tossed that gorgeous mane, and my breath caught on something.

When Chad or Corey showed up with the check, Veronica snatched it, handed him her AMEX card, and headed for the ladies’ room. Love? Who said anything about love? I was still pondering that when I felt her hands on my shoulders and her breath in my ear.

I followed her out of the restaurant, and we strolled arm in arm to her car. We were through the door to my place and out of our clothes before I could decide whether the rush of blood to all the right places was lust or something more.

Heavy necking, Mulligan at full mast, then a cold shower. I knew the routine. But when I stretched out on the bed, her hands were insistent. So was her mouth. Then she moved to place me inside of her.

An interesting development, to say the least. As the sportscasters say, the crowd went wild.

What had I been doing with Dorcas those two wasted years? Whatever it was, it bore no relation to this. We tangled and writhed, slipped and adjusted, bumped noses and giggled, rode and shivered. And when it was finally over we—gulp—cuddled. Spent and sweaty, I hoped that I had been at least mildly entertaining. This lady was a keeper.

The lady lifted her head from my chest and smiled.

“That test I asked you to get?”

“Yeah?”

“You passed.”

So she had been just stalling for time. Be nice if she’d found a way that didn’t involve me getting stabbed with a needle, but I had to admit it had worked. I suppressed a pinpoint of irritation. What exactly had been the point of waiting?

“So,” she said, “are you all tuckered out, or shall we try that again?”

Love? Who said anything about love?

34

I awoke to the familiar sound of Angela Anselmo shrieking at her kids. Something about paste, confetti, and “How could you do that to poor little Toodles?”

I swung my feet to the floor and gazed back at Veronica in the light filtering through the shade. Her breathing was deep and regular. Resisting the urge to bury my face in the tangle of jet hair on the pillow, I tiptoed to the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and lathered up. Suddenly there was a sleepy, naked court reporter beside me in the cramped stall.

“Who’s Toodles?” she asked. Looking at the rivulets of hot water streaming over her skin, I had other questions, but I answered the one she asked.

“The family cat.”