Robert Parker - Death in Paradise

"And?"

"And I guess all I can do is come in every day and watch him. See what develops."

Kelly's hands were resting on the steering wheel. He drummed his fingers for a moment.

Kelly said, "I'll help you when I can."

"We do and it's your collar," Jesse said.

"Whose ever collar it is, it would be a pleasure to haul him off."

"And, it'll be our secret," Jesse said.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your captain doesn't find out you're cheating on him. And nobody else on the job knows I'm chasing Gino."

"You think he's got a cop on his tab?" Kelly said.

"What do you think?"

"I think guys like Gino usually do."

"That's what I think, too," Jesse said.

When Jerry Snyder came out of the car dealership where he worked, Jesse, in jeans and a gray tee shirt, was leaning on the fender of the aging Ford Explorer in which he had driven east when he left L.A.

"Whaddya want?" Snyder said. "You ain't even a cop in this town."

"We need to talk," Jesse said.

"I don't want to talk with you, pal."

"Why would you?" Jesse said, and opened the door on the passenger side of the Explorer. "Get in."

Jesse's tee shirt was not tucked in. It hung down over his belt, partially hiding the gun on his right hip.

"Are you arresting me?"

"Hell no," Jesse said.

"Then I don't have to go."

He held the door open. Another salesman walked by with a customer. Both of them looked uneasily at Jesse and Snyder.

"Sure you don't," Jesse said. "We can talk about domestic violence right here."

The salesman and the customer looked again and quickly away, trying to act as if they hadn't heard.

"Jesus Christ," Snyder said.

Jesse still held the car door open. Snyder looked around, and then at Jesse, and got into the car. Jesse closed the door and went around and got in and started the car.

"You wanna get me fired?" Snyder said.

Jesse didn't answer.

"Where we going?"

"Someplace where we can talk, and you won't get fired," Jesse said.

"I ain't done nothing wrong," Snyder said.

They drove south on Route 1, and crossed the Paradise town line. Jesse pulled the car off onto the little cul-de-sac near the lake where Billie Bishop had been found. He turned off the engine and took out his gun. Snyder's eyes widened.

"Open your mouth," Jesse said.

"What the hell are you doing?" Snyder said.

Jesse tapped him on the upper lip with the muzzle of the handgun.

"Open," Jesse said.

Snyder opened his mouth and Jesse put the gun barrel into it. Jesse didn't say anything. Snyder tried to swallow. Behind them the traffic went routinely by on Route 1. The hot damp smell of the lake came in through the open windows of the Explorer. Jesse looked at Snyder without expression.

"This is the only chance I'm going to give you," Jesse said after a time.

Snyder was breathing in small gasps.

"You hit your wife again and I'm going to kill you," Jesse said.

Again Snyder tried to swallow and failed. He raised both hands in front of his chest, palms toward Jesse. Jesse held the gun steady. His face was expressionless. Below them, down the hill toward the lake, a group of insects made a keening hum.

"You understand that?" Jesse said.

Snyder nodded his head maybe an inch.

"You believe me?"

Snyder nodded slightly as if it hurt to move his head.

Jesse took the gun from Snyder's mouth and put it back in its holster.

"Get out of the car," Jesse said.

Snyder got out.

"Close the door," Jesse said.

Snyder closed the door. Jesse started his engine, put the car in gear and drove away.

Lilly came down to the lakeside one evening to watch Jesse play. Though it was still bright, the lights were on. The players gathered in shorts and sweats and tee shirts and tank tops and baseball caps on backward. All of them had expensive gloves, and the talk among them was the same talk, she thought, that Cap Anson had heard, or Cobb, or Ruth, or Mickey Mantle: insulting, self-deprecating, valued for its originality less than for its tradition, like the ancient ballad singers she'd heard of, rearranging the same phrases to create something new. The music was the same. Beloved teammates. Beloved adversaries. Celebrating the same ritual, together on a summer evening. She felt entirely separate from this. She understood it, but she knew she'd never feel it. If there were real differences between the genders, she thought, she was observing one of them.

Looking at the game, her eyes were drawn to Jesse. It wasn't just because of their intimacy, she was pretty sure. It was the way he moved. Among twenty or more men who all valued the same thing, Jesse seemed most to embody it.

It was darkening after the game. Jesse and Lilly walked across the outfield toward the parking lot. The coolers were open. The beer was out. The cans were popped. The bright malty smell of the beer rode gently on the evening air. The men smelled of clean sweat. Jesse took two beers from a cooler and opened them and handed one to Lilly. She took it though she didn't like beer much.

"I don't belong here," Lilly said.

Jesse smiled.

"Can she play short?" someone said. "We need someone, bad, to play short."

Jesse held up his hands, all five fingers spread.

"Five for five," Jesse said.

He walked with Lilly across the parking lot toward his car. He had his glove under his left arm, and the open beer in his right hand.

"Don't you want to stay and drink beer with your friends?" Lilly said. "I could meet you later."

"No," Jesse said. "I'd rather drink beer with you."

She liked that. They sat in his car in the quiet, drinking their beer.

"You got a hit every time," Lilly said.

Jesse nodded.

"People hit eight hundred in this league," Jesse said. "Nobody's throwing a major-league slider up there."

The beer was very cold. One of her husbands had insisted on drinking it at room temperature, claiming that you could experience the beer's full complexity. Lilly found it more tolerable cold.

"You're being modest," she said.

"No," Jesse said. "I'm being accurate. I'm supposed to go five for five. I was a professional ballplayer."

"And the other players never were."

"No."

"And professionals beat amateurs."

"Every time," Jesse said. "You want another beer?"

"God no," Lilly said.

"You don't like beer."

"No."

"We don't have to stay here," Jesse said. "We could go someplace and get something you like."

"I like it here."

"Okay."

Jesse got out of the car and got another beer and brought it back.

Someone yelled, "You doing something bad in that car, Jesse?"

Jesse got back in the front seat and closed the door. He drank some beer. It didn't have the jolt that scotch did, and it took longer. But it had enough.

"Do you feel the same way about being a policeman?" Lilly said.

"As?"

"As being a ballplayer," Lilly said. "You know-professionals and amateurs?"

"Yes."

"And you're a professional policeman."

"I am."

"And it matters to you."

"Yes."

Someone had turned the field lights off. They could see the moon at the low arc of the horizon. They were quiet. There was something surprisingly romantic about sitting in a silent car with the windows down on a summer night. Maybe the memory of going parking , Lilly thought, memory of the uncertain groping in parked cars when everyone first had their license . It had all been starting then. She had not contemplated, then, being twice divorced at forty, living alone in an uninteresting condominium.

"Is the police work more important than Jenn?"

"No."