Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Another squealing laugh escaped from behind Carson’s hand.

Battaglia waggled an index finger at her. “Well, now I know one of your dark secrets, B.J.”

She shook her head but couldn’t speak through the giggles.

“That squeaky laugh…” He shook his head. “Well, I just don’t know.”

The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Carson’s giggles slowly faded. When she had them under control, she took a sip of beer. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Battaglia said.

“Why didn’t we go to Duke’s?”

“Huh?”

“Duke’s,” she said. “Isn’t that the main hangout bar for patrol?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Sure. I mean, some guys go there.”

Carson didn’t reply. During her stint at the academy and since being in the training car, she’d hardly heard of officers going anywhere else. It was supposed to be the one place where the cops could cut loose without everyone eyeballing them. All the celebrations-promotions, retirements, probation parties-happened at Duke’s.

So why did Battaglia bring her here instead? The Happy Time was a nice little neighborhood bar, right along Division Street, just above the crest of the hill that rose from the river valley below. When she’d parked her car shortly after their shift ended, she’d been treated to a nice view of the city core below. So it wasn’t that this was a bad choice, but it wasn’t Duke’s. Which brought her back to, Why?

Battaglia was staring down at the beer in front of him. Carson opened her mouth to repeat the question when he spoke.

“Why do you think I asked you to beers at all?” he asked. He looked up and met her eyes. “Why, B.J.?”

Carson felt a nervous pang in her chest when she met his eyes. The attraction there was palpable and even when her mind raced to factor in the number of drinks they’d downed, she knew she couldn’t write it off to beer lust. She swallowed.

Battaglia’s penetrating gaze didn’t leave her.

Carson wet her lips, then cursed herself for the obviously flirtatious gesture. She hoped it was the drink talking.

“Uh, you’re the chair of the platoon’s welcoming committee?”

Battaglia shook his head. “No,” he said softly.

Carson shrugged. “I don’t know then. Why did you ask me to beers?”

“That call last night,” he said. “The traffic stop. With the Russians.”

“Oh.” Carson hadn’t wanted to think about it again just yet.

“I figured it might’ve shaken you up a little bit,” Battaglia continued. “Thought you might want to talk about it, is all.”

Carson took another sip of beer. “What’s to talk about?”

“Whatever you want,” Battaglia said. “Tactics, feelings, whatever.”

Carson grinned nervously. “Well, Dr. Battaglia, how much does it cost to lie on your couch and spew out all my secret feelings?”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them.

But Battaglia didn’t smile. His face darkened and he leaned forward. “B.J., you can joke if you want. I like joking. Hell, it’s all Sully and I ever do. But don’t joke about a partner reaching out to you when something bad happens on the job. That’s something sacred and you don’t joke about it.”

His intensity surprised her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. He called me a partner.

He waved her apology away. “Not necessary. You’re a rookie. You don’t know these things. But you’ll learn. Your platoon will help, as long as you’re a hard worker and not afraid to step up when things get hot.”

Carson nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”

“I know. I saw it last night.”

Carson looked back into his face. “I was scared shitless,” she admitted. “And I didn’t know what to do.”

Battaglia’s expression softened. He reached out and patted her hand, then left it on top of hers. “This job is ninety-nine percent boredom,” he told her, “and one percent sheer terror. The stressful part is, you never know when the one percent is coming.”

Battaglia’s palm and fingers warmed the back of Carson’s hand. She knew she should casually pull her hand away. That was the signal she should send: You’re married, and we work together. That’s what she should say.

But that’s never what you say, is it?

She cleared her throat and said, “Last night was definitely in the one percent category.”

Battaglia smiled. He squeezed her hand lightly and removed his. “It was. The whole thing could have gone to shit. So you have to ask yourself, what are we doing here? What’s at stake? They had, what? Seven guys?”

“I think so.”

Battaglia took a swallow of beer. “And who knows how many of them had guns? So we’re supposed to push matters? Get into a gunfight over a traffic ticket?” He shook his head. “No, we did the only thing we could.”

Somehow, Carson thought he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She lifted her glass and finished it.

Battaglia swallowed the last of his own beer, too. “We should probably call no joy, huh?”

“No joy?”

Battaglia shrugged. “Fighter pilot talk.”

“Were you a pilot?” Carson gushed.

Battaglia laughed. “Oh, I fly my cruiser low once in a while, but that’s about it.” He shook his head. “No, I got that from some movie.”

“Oh,” Carson said. She let out a giggle that she didn’t really feel, embarrassed at sounding like a teenage girl mooning over a fighter pilot.

“Careful,” Battaglia said, standing. “That squeal might escape again.”

Carson stood as well, sending a light punch into Battaglia’s shoulder. “Shut up.”

Battaglia fished some folded bills from his pocket. Carson rummaged through her purse for her wallet. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy.

“Relax,” Battaglia told her. “I got it.”

“No,” Carson said, “I can pay my share.”

Battaglia dropped a few bills on the table. “Next time,” he said.

Carson acquiesced and the two of them made their way to the door. Her movements were a little wooden and clumsy. She was probably borderline for driving home, even though it wasn’t very far to her apartment.

When she reached her car, she felt Battaglia’s hand on her shoulder. The warm strength of it almost made her knees buckle. She froze, then turned toward him, determined not to let her emotions and the beer carry her away. No matter what, I will not kiss him.

“Are you okay to drive?”

“Frobably pine,” she answered, then covered her mouth and laughed.

Battaglia smiled. “Or frobably not.” He released her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drop you at your place.”

Carson’s heart rate kicked up. Her place?

I can not sleep with him. He’s married. He’s on my platoon. That part of my life is over. I’m a different person now.

“No, that’s okay,” she finally said.

“What?”

“I’ll just, you know, sit and listen to the radio for a while. Then I’ll drive home.”

Battaglia strolled back toward her. “Did you learn in the academy about the rate that alcohol metabolizes in the body?”

“Yes,” she answered, struggling to remember the equation.

“What is it?”

“I don’t remember the exact figures,” Carson said. “You know, I didn’t realize there was going to be a test right here in the Happy Time parking lot.”

Battaglia smiled. “Well, trust me. You’ll be here at least an hour before you’re ready to drive home. So let me take you.”

“You drank just as much as I did,” Carson said.

“I did.”

“So should you be driving?”

“I weigh at least fifty pounds more than you,” Battaglia said. “Do the math.”