This time he blinked.
"Isn't it?"
"Well… yes," he said.
"Now you sound like Baz," she said, and laughed. "I adore him, he's such a sweetheart," she said. "I adore them all, they're such good friends."
"So they said."
"Yes, I know what they said. And you think they were lying, that I rehearsed them, whatever. But why would I have done that? And isn't it entirely possible that we think of each other exactly that way? As very good friends? All of us? Separately?"
"I suppose."
"Do you have any good friends, Mr. Willis?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Well…"
"Ah, there's Baz again."
"I have friends," he said, and wondered about it for the first time.
"Who? Cops?"
"Yes."
"Women cops?"
"Some of them."
"Who are friends?"
"Well… I don't think any of the women cops I know are… well… what you'd call friends, no."
"Then what? Lovers?"
"No, none of the women I see are cops."
"Do you have any women friends at all? Women you could actually call friends?"
"Well…"
"You do a very good Baz imitation, Mr. Willis. Do I have to keep calling you Mr. Willis? What's your first name?"
"Harold."
"Is that what your friends call you?"
"They call me Hal."
"May I call you Hal?"
"Well…"
"Oh, come on, I didn't for Christ's sake murder him! Relax, will you? Enjoy your scotch, enjoy the fire, call me Marilyn, relax!"
"Well…"
"Hal?" she said.
"Yes?"
"Relax, Hal."
"I'm relaxed," he said.
"No, you're not relaxed. I know when a man is relaxed, and you're not relaxed. You're very tense. Because you think I murdered Jerry and you're sure that's why I offered you a drink and the comfort of my fire, isn't that right?"
"Well…"
"If you want to be my friend, be honest with me, will you please? I hate phonies. Even if they're cops."
He was looking at her in open astonishment now. He took a quick swallow of scotch and then—to reassure himself that he was a working cop with some serious questions to ask—immediately said, "Well, you have to admit it was sort of funny, getting the same playback from three different…"
"Not at all," she said. "None of them would know how to lie, that's why they're my friends. That's what we enjoy with each other, Hal. Relationships that are entirely free of bullshit. Have you ever had such a relationship in your life?"
"Well… no. I guess not."
"You're missing something. Would you like another drink?"
"I know you've got a date…"
"She can wait," Marilyn said, and rose from the couch. "Same thing?"
"Please," Willis said, and handed her his glass.
He watched her as she moved toward the bar.
"Are you looking at my ass?" she said.
"Well…"
"If you are, then say so."
"Well, I was. Until you mentioned it."
She came back to him with the drink. She handed him the glass and sat down beside him. "Tell me about the man you killed," she said.
"It wasn't a man," Willis said.
He hadn't talked about this in a long long time. Nor did he want to talk about it now.
"A woman then."
"No."
"What does that leave?"
"Forget it," he said. He swallowed most of the scotch in his glass, rose, and then said, "Miss Hollis, I know you're busy, so maybe it'd be best if I…"
"Scared?" she said.
"No, not particularly."
"Then sit down."
"Why?"
"Because I like talking to you. And talking is the way people begin."
He looked at her.
"What is this?" he said.
"What is it? What is what?"
"I walk in here off the street…"
"Yes…"
"You spit fire the first time we meet…"
"That was the first time."
"So now…"
"So now sit down and talk to me."
"Your girlfriend's expecting you to…"
"Who'd you kill?" Marilyn said.
He kept looking at her.
"Sit down," she said. "Please."
He said nothing.
"Let me freshen that," she said, and took his nearly empty glass. He did not sit. Instead, he watched her again as she went to the bar, and half-filled two water tumblers, one with scotch, the other with gin.
He did not want to talk about who the hell he'd killed or didn't kill. He looked at her ass instead. He hoped she wouldn't ask again if he was looking at her ass, and was relieved when she didn't. She came back to him, handed him the scotch, and then sat again. Nylon-sleek knees again. No tug at the skirt this time. He did not sit beside her.
"Sit," she said, and patted the sofa. "Who'd you kill, Hal?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Honesty," she said, and shrugged.
He hesitated.
"Tell me," she said.
The fire crackled and spit. A log shifted on the grate.
"Tell me, Hal," she said.
He took a deep breath.
"A boy," he said.
"What?"
"He was a boy."
"How old?"
"Twelve."
"Jesus," she said softly.
"With a .357 Magnum in his fist."
"When was this?"
"Long ago."
"How long ago?"
"I was a rookie cop."
"Was he white or black?"
"Black."
"Which made it worse."
"Nothing could have made it worse," he said.
"I meant…"
"I know what you meant. There was that, yes, but… you see, that wasn't what mattered to me… I mean, what the newspapers were saying, white cop kills innocent black kid… he was coming off a robbery, he'd just killed three people inside a liquor store, but that wasn't… I had to shoot him, it would've been me in the next three seconds… he was twelve years old."
"God," she said.
Almost a whisper.
"Yeah," he said. "That was the thing."
"How awful for you," she said.
"Yeah," he said again.
Silence.
He wondered why he was telling her this.
Well, honesty, he thought.
"His mother… his mother came to the police station," he said, his voice very low now. "And she… she asked the sergeant where she could find Patrolman Willis… they called us patrolmen in those days, now they call the blues police officers… and I was just coming in from downtown where I'd been answering questions at Headquarters all morning, and the sergeant said, There he is, lady, not realizing, not knowing she was the boy's mother, and she came up to me and… and… spit in my face. Didn't say anything. Just spit in my face and walked out. I stood there… I… there were guys all around… a muster room is a busy place… and I… I guess I… I guess I began crying."
He shrugged.
And fell silent again.
She was watching his face.
Two shots in the chest, he thought.
Kept coming.
Another shot in the head.
Caught him between the eyes.
Questions afterward. Two big bulls from Homicide. Confusion and noise. Some guy from one of the local television stations trying to get a camera inside the liquor store there, take some pictures of the carnage. The owner and two women lying dead on the floor, smashed whiskey bottles all around them. The kid outside on the sidewalk with his brains blown out.
Ah, shit, he thought.
This city, he thought, this goddamn fucking city.
"Are you all right?" Marilyn asked.
"Yes," he said.
"You haven't touched your scotch."
"I guess I haven't."