Рита Браун - Claws And Effect

"How long can we fend off the reporters? We can't stop the television crew from shooting in front of the hospital. We can stop them from coming inside but they've made the connection despite us."

"Six o'clock news." He sat on the edge of her desk. "Well, all Dee"-he used the reporter's name-"said was that a member of the staff was killed. She couldn't say Larry's death was related to Hank's."

"No, but she said Hank was killed two weeks ago. Was it two weeks ago?" Ruth sighed. "It seems like a year."

"Yes, it does." He ran his fingers through his hair, thick wavy hair of which he was quite proud.

"Sam, issue the press statement. A good offense is better than a good defense."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I hate for that jerk to think he's one ahead of me or that I listened to him."

"Oh, Bruce is Bruce. Ignore him. I do. If he's really obnoxious just imagine what he'd be like as an ob-gyn."

"Huh?"

"He'd think every baby he delivered was his." She tittered.

Sam laughed. "You're right." He slid off her desk, stretching his arms over his head. "Rick or Coop pestering you?"

"Not as much as I thought they would. Mostly they wanted to know hospital routine, my duties, anything unusual. They were to the point. That Coop is an attractive woman. I think I'll tell my nephew about her."

"Ruth, you must have been Cupid in another life."

"I thought I was Cupid in this one." She picked up her pencil, sliding it behind her ear, and turned back to her computer.

"All right. I'll write the damned press release." He trudged back to his office.

34

Coop pulled white cartons of Chinese food out of a brown paper bag, setting them in the middle of Harry's kitchen table. Harry put out the plates, silverware, and napkins.

"Milk, Coke, tea, coffee, beer?"

"Beer." Coop wearily sat down, narrowly avoiding Tucker, who had positioned herself by the chair leg. She appeared glued to it. "I'll have coffee with dessert."

"You got dessert?"

"Yes, but I'm not telling you what it is until we eat this first. Sit down."

"Okay." Harry sat down, reaching for the pork lo mein as Coop dished out cashew chicken.

"I don't do Chinese." Mrs. Murphy sat in the kitchen window.

"Worth a try. You can fish out the pork bits." Pewter extended one talon.

"I had enough to eat," said the tiger cat, who kept her figure.

"I thought you'd be spending the night with Fair after picking him up at the airport."

"Oh, I wasn't in the mood for manly bullshit tonight," Harry airily replied.

"Like what?"

"Like him telling me what to do and how to do it."

"Mother, that's not exactly the way Fair does things. He suggests and you get pissed off." Murphy laughed.

"And what did he tell you to do? Something for your own good." Cynthia mixed soy sauce in her white rice, then dug in with her chopsticks. "Right?"

"Well-well, I know it's for my own good but I don't like hearing it. He told me not to go back to the hospital and not to snoop around anywhere by myself, and then he said I looked like a punk rocker who couldn't quite make it." She pointed to her stitches. "I suppose I could spend the next six weeks wearing a beret."

"Not you, Harry."

"Okay, a baseball cap. Orioles or maybe the Braves. Nah, don't like the logo."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a black cowboy hat-with black chaps and black fringe."

"Coop, is there something about you I should know?" Harry's eyes twinkled.

"Uh-no." She bent her blonde head over the food. "Just a thought. Fair would like it."

"Maybe you ought to play dress-up." Harry giggled.

"For one thing I don't own a pair of chaps and I won't buy the ready-made ones. If you're going to have chaps you've got two choices and only two choices: Chuck Pinnell or Journeyman Saddlery."

"How do you know that?"

"You told me."

"Early Alzheimer's." Harry smacked her head with the butt of her palm.

"Maybe it's not so early."

"Up yours, Coop. I'm a long way from forty."

"Oh-I suppose you were never a whiz at arithmetic. I count three years."

"Thirty-seven is a long way-" Harry smirked slightly. "And you aren't far behind, girlfriend."

"Scary, isn't it? What would I do with those chaps? No one to play dress-up with and I'm not going to wear them in the squad car."

"Oh, why not? It would be such a nice touch. Everyone thinks lady cops are butch anyway."

"You really know how to please a girl." Coop sighed because she knew it was true.

"Yeah, but I didn't say you were butch. You're not, you know. You're really very feminine. Lots more than I am."

"No, I'm not."

"You're tall and willowy. People think that's feminine until they see the badge and the pressed pleats in your pants. The shoes are winners, too. High heels. You could kick some poor bastard into next week but you'd never get your heel out of his butt. Police brutality."

"Harry." Cynthia laughed.

"See what Fair does to me. Just turns me into an evil wench. I think unclean thoughts."

"You don't need Fair for that. It's just that usually you keep them to yourself."

"Can you imagine me talking like this to Miranda? Smelling salts. And when she came to she'd have to pray for me at the Church of the Holy Light. I love her but there are things you don't say to Mrs. H."

Chopsticks poised in the air, Coop put them down for a moment. "I bet she knows more than she says. That generation didn't talk about stuff."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yeah. I think they did everything we do but they were quiet about it. Not out of shame or anything but because they were raised with guidelines about proper conversation. I bet they didn't even discuss some of this stuff with their doctors."

"The chaps. I wouldn't discuss that either." Harry laughed. "Better chaps than some of those silk things at Victoria's Secret. They look good on the models but if I put something like that on I'd get laughed out of the bedroom."

"I wish they'd stop talking about sex and drop some food," Tucker whined.

"Get on your hind legs. Coop's a sucker for that," Pewter advised. "I'll rub Mother's legs. It ought to be good for one little piece of cashew chicken."

The two performed their routine. It worked.

"You guys." Murphy giggled, then glanced back out the window. "Simon's on a food search." She saw the possum leave the barn.

"All he has to do is go to the feed room or get under the feed bucket in Tomahawk's stall. That horse throws grain around like there's no tomorrow. He wouldn't be so wasteful if he had to pay the feed bill." Pewter hated food being wasted.

"He's a pig. Wouldn't matter if he paid the bill or not." Murphy liked Tomahawk but was conversant with his faults.