Indeed, Catholic places of worship were sandwiched between the one Buddhist church in the city and the charismatics who spoke in tongues. So it was, that Catholics did not take their church for granted, never knowing when it might be burned by men in disguises, or criticized in editorials.
The congregation of Our Lady of Consolation was rocking the block this night, its stained glass windows glowing in the dark, Jesus bright and colorful in many poses, and sheep.
"You sure it isn't the bar complaining about the church?" Brazil wondered out loud.
West was finding the situation rather odd, too. How the hell could anyone inside that church hear a thing beyond their own choir, which was belting out some hymn, and accompanied by guitars, the organ, drums, and possibly a violin or two. She turned into the shopping center directly across the street and cut through the parking lot. Fat Man's Lounge wasn't doing nearly the business the church was. A couple of shifty-looking dudes were hanging out in front, drinking beer, smoking, and glaring.
Brazil did not hear any noise, not one sound drifting out of the Lounge. He suspected someone in the church had complained just to hassle Fat Man's, which clearly was a den of iniquity. Members of Our Lady would, without a doubt, have preferred another establishment across the street from them, something wholesome and family-oriented, like a Shoney's, a Blockbuster Video store, or maybe another sports bar. The dudes out front followed the cop car with hostile eyes as West parked. She and Brazil 'got out, and approached their welcoming committee.
"Where's all the noise?" West asked.
"We got a com plaint."
"Only noise is that over there," a dude said, jutting his chin at the church. He boldly took a swig of beer, drunk and mean.
"Word's the noise is coming from here." West held her ground.
She started walking toward the lounge, Brazil with her, the dudes moving out of their way. Fat Man's was a depressing, dark den, smoke hanging in the air, and music playing, but not too loudly. Men were drinking at wooden tables, watching a woman on stage, in g-string and tassels, as she twirled heavy, sagging breasts. Brazil didn't want to stare too hard, but he was pretty sure that the left one was tattooed with the planet Saturn, bright yellow, with rings orbiting fast. In big circles. These were, without a doubt, the biggest breasts he had ever seen in person.
The stripper, whose stage name was Minx, needed another Valium. She was thirsty, had to have a cigarette, and damn it all, the fucking cops were here. What this time? She started twirling the other way, then did two different directions at once. This usually got the men going, but tonight's stingy crowd was about as excitable as a cemetery. Minx smiled. The boy cop couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Never seen tits before?" she asked him as he went by.
Brazil was indifferent. West shot Minx a cool look, and thought the stripper's fried egg tattoo on her left breast was rather clever, not to mention apropos. Lord, this one even had stretch marks, cellulite, her clients not interested in anything that wasn't in a glass. Colt, the bouncer, was the exception. He was heading at the cops like a freight train on a mission. He was big and scary in a shiny black suit, thick gold chains, and a red leather tie. He looked like he might hurt them, starting with Brazil.
"We got a complaint of loud music," West said to Colt.
"You hear it?" Colt lifted his heavy jaw, veins like ropes in his powerful neck.
He was full of hate toward these white cops, especially the bitch. Who did she think she was, anyway, strutting into Fat Man's, in her fancy uniform with all its shiny shit meant to hurt hardworking people like him? He glanced at Minx, making sure she wasn't letting up. It seemed not a night went by when he didn't have to smack a little more energy into her, give her pain some place where it wouldn't show, encouraging her to do her job. She was slinging away. Nobody cared. Nobody tipped. Two of the regulars were getting up and leaving, the night still young. Colt knew the cops were to blame.
Colt jerked open the side door leading out into an alleyway. He grabbed Brazil by the front of his uniform shirt with such force, it ripped.
"Heyyyy!" Brazil yelled.
Colt lifted the punk off his feet and threw him outside in the trash, where he belonged. Garbage cans clattered against pavement, bottles clanging. It was just a good thing Brazil was dirty, anyway. He got to his feet in time to see West whipping out her handcuffs. Colt had her by her uniform shirt, intending to pitch her, too, as the little shit yelled "Mayday! Mayday!" into his police radio.
Colt gagged, and for a blinding shard of insight thought someone had shoved a pool cue into the hollow of his massive neck. It seeped into his fading consciousness that the bitch was drilling her index finger into that soft hollow over his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. His tongue protruded as she drilled and he gagged, gasping for air, his eyes bugging as he dropped to his knees, a gun barrel now staring at his nose. Colt's ears were ringing, blood roaring as the bitch screamed like she was going to eat him tartare.
"You move I'll blow your brains out motherfucker' Minx gyrated.
Patrons drank. Backup cops burst through the front door, far away across the dark, smoky room. West had a knee on Colt's beefy back, and was busy snapping cuffs on his wrists, tight behind him. Brazil looked on in awe. Cops hauled Colt and the drunk dudes to jail. Minx saw her chance and walked off her runway, plucking lousy folded dollar bills out of her garter, wrapping up in a sweatshirt, and lighting a cigarette, out of here for good this time.
"Why did I let you get me into this?" West was saying as she unlocked their car.
"I don't do this any more for a reason."
She climbed in, yanking the seatbelt across her chest, cranking the engine.
Both of them were excited and trying not to show it. Brazil held together his ruined uniform shirt, which was missing half its buttons.
West noted that he had a very well-developed chest to go with those shoulders and arms and legs. She instantly stopped transmitting any and all signals,
such as body language or glances or words or heat.
Where was all this coming from, anyway? Outer space. Not from her. No sir. She opened the glove box, and rummaged until she found the tiny stapler she was sure was in there somewhere.
"Hold still," she said to him, as if it were an order.
She leaned close because there was no other way to correct the situation, and gathered his shirt together, and began stapling.
Brazil's heart picked up speed. He could smell her hair, his own seeming to stand on end. He did not move. He was terrified to even breathe as her fingers brushed against him. He knew she could tell what he was feeling, and if he as much as twitched and inadvertently touched her somewhere, she would never believe it was an accident.
She'd think he was just one more prick out there who couldn't keep it in his pants. She'd never see him as a person, as a sensitive human being. He'd be reduced to this thing, this guy-thing. If she leaned half an inch closer to the right, he would die right there, on her front seat.
"When was the last time you had to do something like that?" he managed to ask.
West covered her repair job with his clip-on tie. The more she tried not to connect with his person, the clumsier her fingers got, fumbling, and touching. She nervously tried to put the stapler away, and dropped it.
"I use it for reports." She groped under the seat.
"Don't think I've ever used it on someone's shirt." She slammed shut the glove box on the third try.
"No," Brazil said, clearing his throat again.
"I mean, what you did in there. That guy must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and you decked him. All by yourself."
West shoved the car in gear.
"You could," she said.
"All you need is training."
"Maybe you…?"
She held up a hand as if halting traffic.
"No! I'm not a goddam one-person police academy!" She tapped the MDT.
"Clear us outa here, partner."
Brazil was tentative as he placed his fingers on the keyboard. He started typing. The system beeped as if it liked him.
"God, this is so cool," he said.
"Small minds," West commented.
"Unit 700," Radar, the dispatcher, said.
"Missing person at five-fifty-six Midland."
"Shit. Not again." West grabbed the mike, and tossed it to her partner.
"Let's see what they're teaching volunteers these days."
'700," he said on the air for all to hear.
"We're ten- eighteen five-fifty-six Midland."
Chapter Twelve
Missing person reports were so much paperwork, it was unbelievable.
Such investigations were almost always fruitless, for either the person really wasn't missing, or he was and dead. Radar's preference was that West had gotten her butt kicked at Fat Man's. At least Radar could ensure that she would be filling out forms the rest of her life, and Midland was government subsidized housing, definitely not a nice place for a female or her reporter ride-along.