call.” She handed me her card, and I read,
“Detective Elizabeth Penrose.” Beneath that it said, “Homicide,” then her office address, fax, telephone number, and so forth.
On the left was the Suffolk County seal with the words “Free and Independent” around a fearsome-looking bull. I commented,
“Not a very good likeness of you.”
She stared at me, her jaw sort of clenched and her nostrils flared as she took a long breath. She kept her cool, which is
admirable. I can be annoying.
I leaned across the table until our noses were about a football apart. She smelled good, sort of soapy and healthy. I said,
“Look, Elizabeth, cut the crap. You know that I knew the Gordons and that I’ve been to their house and I went out in their
boat, and maybe I’ve met their friends and their coworkers, and maybe they opened up to me about their work a little because
I’m a cop, and maybe I know more than you or Max put together, and maybe you’re right about that. So, you realize you pissed
me off, and Max is pissed at you, and you came here to apologize, and you give me permission to call you and tell you what
I know. Wow! What a terrific opportunity for me. However, if I don’t call you in a day or two, you’ll have me down in your
office for a formal interrogation. So let’s not pretend I’m a consultant, your partner, your bud, or a willing informant.
Just tell me where and when you want to take a statement from me.” I sat back and turned my attention to the potato skins.
Detective Penrose stayed quiet awhile, then said, “Tomorrow, my office”—she tapped her card—“nine A.M. Don’t be late.” She stood, put her beer down, and left.
New York had the ball on their own thirty with third and six, and this idiot of a quarterback throws La Bomba fifty yards
into the friggin’ wind, and the ball hangs there like the Goodyear blimp, and the three pass receivers and three Dallas guys
are all under it with their arms flapping, hopping around like they’re praying for rain or something.
“Excuse me.”
“Sit down.”
She sat, but it was too late, and I missed the interception. The crowd at the stadium and in the OTT were going nuts, and
the guys at the bar were yelling, “Pass interference!” though there were no yellow flags out there, and the Dallas guy ran
it back to the fifty. I watched the replay in slow motion. No pass interference. Sometimes I wish I could replay parts of
my life in slow motion like that. Like my marriage, which was a series of bad calls.
She said, “I’m going back to the scene now. Someone from the Department of Agriculture is going to meet me at about eleven.
He’s coming in from Manhattan. Would you like to be there?”
“Don’t you have a partner you can annoy?”
“He’s on vacation. Come on, Detective, let’s start all over.” She put her hand out.
I reminded her, “Last time I took your hand, I lost my gun and my manhood.”
She smiled. “Come on, shake.”
I shook hands with her. Her skin was warm. My heart was on fire. Or maybe the nachos were causing reflux. It’s hard to tell
after forty.
I held her hand a moment and looked at her perfect face. Our eyes met, and the same piggy thought passed through both our
minds. She broke eye contact first. Someone has to or it gets geeky.
The cute waitress came over, and I ordered two beers. The waitress asked me, “Do you still want that bowl of chili?”
“More than ever.”
She cleared some of the dishes and went to get beer and chili. I love this country.
Detective Penrose commented, “You must have a cast-iron stomach.”
“Actually, my whole stomach was taken out after I was shot. My esophagus is attached to my intestine.”
“Do you mean your mouth is connected directly to your asshole?”
I raised my eyebrows.
She said, “I’m sorry—that was crude. Shall we start yet again?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Turn around and watch the game.”
She turned
“Detective Elizabeth Penrose.” Beneath that it said, “Homicide,” then her office address, fax, telephone number, and so forth.
On the left was the Suffolk County seal with the words “Free and Independent” around a fearsome-looking bull. I commented,
“Not a very good likeness of you.”
She stared at me, her jaw sort of clenched and her nostrils flared as she took a long breath. She kept her cool, which is
admirable. I can be annoying.
I leaned across the table until our noses were about a football apart. She smelled good, sort of soapy and healthy. I said,
“Look, Elizabeth, cut the crap. You know that I knew the Gordons and that I’ve been to their house and I went out in their
boat, and maybe I’ve met their friends and their coworkers, and maybe they opened up to me about their work a little because
I’m a cop, and maybe I know more than you or Max put together, and maybe you’re right about that. So, you realize you pissed
me off, and Max is pissed at you, and you came here to apologize, and you give me permission to call you and tell you what
I know. Wow! What a terrific opportunity for me. However, if I don’t call you in a day or two, you’ll have me down in your
office for a formal interrogation. So let’s not pretend I’m a consultant, your partner, your bud, or a willing informant.
Just tell me where and when you want to take a statement from me.” I sat back and turned my attention to the potato skins.
Detective Penrose stayed quiet awhile, then said, “Tomorrow, my office”—she tapped her card—“nine A.M. Don’t be late.” She stood, put her beer down, and left.
New York had the ball on their own thirty with third and six, and this idiot of a quarterback throws La Bomba fifty yards
into the friggin’ wind, and the ball hangs there like the Goodyear blimp, and the three pass receivers and three Dallas guys
are all under it with their arms flapping, hopping around like they’re praying for rain or something.
“Excuse me.”
“Sit down.”
She sat, but it was too late, and I missed the interception. The crowd at the stadium and in the OTT were going nuts, and
the guys at the bar were yelling, “Pass interference!” though there were no yellow flags out there, and the Dallas guy ran
it back to the fifty. I watched the replay in slow motion. No pass interference. Sometimes I wish I could replay parts of
my life in slow motion like that. Like my marriage, which was a series of bad calls.
She said, “I’m going back to the scene now. Someone from the Department of Agriculture is going to meet me at about eleven.
He’s coming in from Manhattan. Would you like to be there?”
“Don’t you have a partner you can annoy?”
“He’s on vacation. Come on, Detective, let’s start all over.” She put her hand out.
I reminded her, “Last time I took your hand, I lost my gun and my manhood.”
She smiled. “Come on, shake.”
I shook hands with her. Her skin was warm. My heart was on fire. Or maybe the nachos were causing reflux. It’s hard to tell
after forty.
I held her hand a moment and looked at her perfect face. Our eyes met, and the same piggy thought passed through both our
minds. She broke eye contact first. Someone has to or it gets geeky.
The cute waitress came over, and I ordered two beers. The waitress asked me, “Do you still want that bowl of chili?”
“More than ever.”
She cleared some of the dishes and went to get beer and chili. I love this country.
Detective Penrose commented, “You must have a cast-iron stomach.”
“Actually, my whole stomach was taken out after I was shot. My esophagus is attached to my intestine.”
“Do you mean your mouth is connected directly to your asshole?”
I raised my eyebrows.
She said, “I’m sorry—that was crude. Shall we start yet again?”
“It wouldn’t do any good. Turn around and watch the game.”
She turned
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