Part 12 (2/2)

Miami police officer Monica Ramirez could feel the pout vibes radiating from her partner, Walter Kramitz, as they patrolled westbound on Grand Avenue in their police cruiser. Walter was pouting because of what had happened forty-five minutes earlier, when they were eating dinner at the Burger King on 27th Avenue.

What happened was, Walter finally made his move. Monica knew he was getting ready, because he'd been displaying his biceps even more than usual, which was a lot. Walter had very large biceps; he kept them inflated by doing hundreds of curls per day. He rolled up the already short sleeves of his uniform s.h.i.+rt so their whole studly bulging masculine vastness was on display. At the Burger King, he was giving Monica a good view of them, flexing them when he raised his Whopper to his mouth, as though it weighed fifty pounds.

”So,” he said, with elaborate casualness, ”I was thinking maybe you and me could get together sometime?”

”Walter,” she said, ”we're together all the time. We're together now.”

”You know what I mean,” he said.

Of course she knew what he meant. He meant let's have s.e.x. Monica had discovered that's what guys always meant when they said, Maybe we could get together. Their other favorite way of putting it was, Maybe we could get to know each other better. What they'd like to get to know was how you looked with no clothes on. But they could never just say it, just come right out and say, Hey, let's have s.e.x.

”No,” said Monica, ”I don't know what you mean. What do you mean?”

”I mean, we're, like, in the car all the time, and I been thinkin' maybe we could get to know each other better.”

Monica sighed. ”Walter,” she said, ”do you want to have s.e.x with me?”

Walter stopped in mid-chew and stared at Monica, trying to figure out if this was really happening, if Monica was going to let him take the shortcut straight to paradise, if he had somehow found the wormhole in the universe that guys had been seeking for aeons, the wormhole that would enable him to bypa.s.s all the talking talking talking and just do it. He thought hard about exactly how he would phrase his response to Monica's question.

Finally, he said, ”Yeah.”

”Well,” said Monica, ”I don't want to have s.e.x with you.”

Walter stared at her. It had been a trick!

”It's not personal,” Monica said. ”You're a good partner, a good police officer. But you're married.”

”The thing is, me and my wife ... ”

”Walter, I don't want to hear about you and your wife. I don't care if you and your wife are having problems. I don't care if she doesn't understand you. I don't care if you've been thinking seriously about a separation. All I care about is, you're married, and I'm not going to get involved with you.” Monica was glad Walter was married, so she didn't have to go into any of the other reasons she didn't want to get involved with him, such as the fact that he had the intellectual depth of mayonnaise.

”You know,” said Walter, ”there's plenty a women think I look pretty good.” It was true. A police officer like him, good shape, tight uniform, big arms, did not have trouble finding women willing to meet him somewhere at the end of the s.h.i.+ft; or, if he had an understanding partner, during the s.h.i.+ft.

”I know that, Walter,” said Monica. ”You're an attractive man”-even though your head is shaped like an anvil and you wear enough Brut to kill small birds-”but with you being married, and us having to work together professionally, I just think it's a bad idea. But we're still partners, right? And we can be friends, OK?”

”OK,” said Walter, though in fact this was devastating news. Walter had spent over two months in the cruiser next to this woman, who he could tell had an excellent body, which he wanted desperately to see without a uniform on it. That possibility, that vision, had given him a sense of purpose, a goal, a reason to look forward to the working day. And now it was gone. Yet he was still going to be in the car with this woman hour after hour, day after day. What was he supposed to do now? Just talk to her? Get to know her? Jesus, what a waste.

So it was not a happy cruiser that was patrolling westbound on Grand Avenue. Neither Monica nor Walter had said a word since they'd left the Burger King.

It was Monica, at the wheel, who spotted Andrew up ahead, running out of the alley next to the five-and-dime, carrying a pistol.

”Man with a gun, your side,” Monica said, stomping the accelerator. ”Call it in.” As the cruiser surged forward, Walter grabbed the radio microphone. Ahead, Andrew raced straight out of the alley, across the sidewalk and into Grand Avenue. He turned left, heading directly toward the cruiser. Monica slammed on the brakes, jammed the gears.h.i.+ft into park, opened her door and slid out onto the street, crouching behind the door as she unholstered her Glock 40 semiautomatic pistol. Walter, having radioed for backup, slid out on his side. Both officers rose up partway behind their doors with their guns aimed at Andrew.

”Police!” shouted Monica. ”Stop and put down the gun right now.”

”FREEZE!” shouted Walter.

Andrew stopped, blinking into the cruiser headlights.

”FREEZE!” shouted Walter, again.

”Put down the gun,” said Monica.

”It's not my gun,” said Andrew. ”Some guy was ... ”

”Put down the gun,” said Monica.

Andrew bent down and set the pistol on the street, then stood. By the time he'd straightened up, Walter was on him, pulling his arms behind him and slamming his face onto the hood of the cruiser. Monica carefully picked up the pistol-a cheap .38 revolver; a cla.s.sic Sat.u.r.day night special-and put it inside the patrol car. She radioed in that the subject was in custody.

Walter undipped the handcuffs from his belt. He yanked Andrew's arms up high behind the back.

”Ow!” said Andrew. ”Listen, please! I'm not the ... ”

”Shut up, punk,” said Walter, yanking Andrew's arms higher.

”Ow!” said Andrew. ”Please, I'm not ... ”

”I TOLD YOU SHUT UP,” said Walter.

Andrew shut up. He was wearing khaki pants and a knit polo s.h.i.+rt. His nose was bleeding, and he was obviously terrified. To Monica, he looked about as menacing as Kermit the Frog.

”Officer Kramitz,” she said, ”maybe we don't need to cuff him right now, OK?”

Walter looked at Monica. ”We're supposed to cuff him,” he said. He was dying to try out his handcuffs. In his apartment, when his wife was out, he sometimes practiced handcuffing a chair to the dinette table, but he had never cuffed anybody for real.

”Let me just talk to him for a minute, OK?” Monica said.

Walter thought about arguing with her. He was feeling much less inclined to agree with her on police procedure, now that he knew he wasn't going to get to see her naked. Reluctantly, he said, ”OK.”

With Walter standing close, ready to pounce if necessary, Monica advised Andrew of his rights and asked him if he understood them. Andrew nodded. Monica asked him his name.

”Andrew Ryan,” he said.

”OK, Andrew,” said Monica. ”What were you doing with the gun?”

”I picked it up back there,” Andrew said, gesturing toward the alley. ”Some guy was shooting at us, and he dropped it, and I picked it up and ran.”

Walter snorted, to indicate that he, for one, was not buying this load of bulls.h.i.+t.

”Who was shooting at you, Andrew?” asked Monica.

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