Part 6 (1/2)

”Oh, I'm sure that won't do, sir. Not really the spirit of the thing, is it?”

”And what *is* the spirit of the thing? Humiliation? Boredom? An exercise in raw power?”

PC McGivens lost his faint smile. ”I really couldn't say, sir. Now, again if you please?”

”What if I don't please? I haven't been a.s.saulted. I haven't been robbed. It's none of my business. What if I walk away right now?”

”Not really allowed, sir. It's expected that everyone in England -- HM's subjects *and her guests* -- will a.s.sist the police with their inquiries.

Required, actually.”

Reminded of his precarious immigration status, Art lost his att.i.tude. ”Once more for you, three more times for your partner, and we're done, right? I want to get home.”

”We'll see, sir.”

Art recited the facts a third time, and they waited while Linda finished her third recounting.

He switched over to PC DeMoss, who pointed his comm expectantly. ”Is all this just to make people reluctant to call the cops? I mean, this whole procedure seems like a h.e.l.l of a disincentive.”

”Just the way we do things, sir,” PC DeMoss said without rancor. ”Now, let's have it, if you please?”

From a few yards away, Linda laughed at something PC McGivens said, which just escalated Art's frustration. He spat out the description three times fast. ”Now, I need to find a toilet. Are we done yet?”

”'Fraid not, sir. Going to have to come by the Station House to look through some photos. There's a toilet there.”

”It can't wait that long, officer.”

PC DeMoss gave him a reproachful look.

”I'm sorry, all right?” Art said. ”I lack the foresight to empty my bladder before being accosted in the street. That being said, can we arrive at some kind of solution?” In his head, Art was already writing an angry letter to the *Times*, dripping with sarcasm.

”Just a moment, sir,” PC DeMoss said. He conferred briefly with his partner, leaving Art to stare ruefully at their backs and avoid Linda's gaze. When he finally met it, she gave him a sunny smile. It seemed that she -- at least -- wasn't angry any more.

”Come this way, please, sir,” PC DeMoss said, striking off for the High Street.

”There's a pub 'round the corner where you can use the facilities.”

9.

It was nearly dawn before they finally made their way out of the police station and back into the street. After identifying Les from an online rogues' gallery, Art had spent the next six hours sitting on a hard bench, chording desultorily on his thigh, doing some housekeeping.

This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicated in the extreme, though it had sounded like a good idea when he was living in San Francisco and hating every inch of the city, from the alleged pizza to the f.u.c.king! drivers!

-- in New York, the theory went, drivers used their horns by way of shouting ”Ole!” as in, ”Ole! You changed lanes!” ”Ole! You cut me off!” ”Ole! You're driving on the sidewalk!” while in San Francisco, a honking horn meant, ”I wish you were dead. Have a nice day. Dude.”

And the body language was all screwed up out west. Art believed that your entire unconscious affect was determined by your upbringing. You learned how to stand, how to hold your face in repose, how to gesture, from the adults around you while you were growing up. The Pacific Standard Tribe always seemed a little bovine to him, their facial muscles long conditioned to relax into a kind of s.p.a.cey, gullible senescence.

Beauty, too. Your local definition of attractive and ugly was conditioned by the people around you at p.u.b.erty. There was a Pacific ”look” that was indefinably off. Hard to say what it was, just that when he went out to a bar or got stuck on a crowded train, the girls just didn't seem all that attractive to him.

Objectively, he could recognize their prettiness, but it didn't stir him the way the girls cruising the Chelsea Antiques Market or lounging around Harvard Square could.

He'd always felt at a slight angle to reality in California, something that was reinforced by his continuous efforts in the Tribe, from chatting and gaming until the sun rose, dragging his caffeine-deficient a.s.s around to his clients in a kind of fog before going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at 3 or 4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicing work-avoidance and clattering around with their comms.