Robert Lubrican - For Want of a Memory

"Well, you do," said Lou Anne. "You look at mine all the time, too."

Mitch’s eyes went straight to her breasts. It was the first time he’d looked at them since he got there.

"See!" said Lou Anne.

"You just called my attention to them," said Mitch. "I’m a man, after all." He grinned. "And both of you have a nice set."

"You’re a pig," snorted Lou Anne. "I’m going to tell Carla."

"That’s what Jess said too," said Mitch, unconcerned. He’d been in an on again/off again romance with Carla for five years. She wanted to get married and have a family, but Mitch didn’t think he could support a family on his salary, and it was his firm belief that his wife, if he ever had one, would not work.

"We should," groused Lou Anne. "You flirt with us all the time."

"You flirt back," pointed out the policeman.

"Only sometimes," said Lou Anne, as if that settled things.

"When ARE you going to make some man happy?" asked Mitch.

"When I find a man who deserves to be happy," she snapped. "I have to find somebody for Jess first."

"Good luck," said Mitch. "She’s the only black woman in fifty miles, more than likely."

"She’s a sweet, sensitive woman!" insisted Lou Anne. "She can’t help it if she’s black. It shouldn’t matter anyway!"

"Just like your haircut shouldn’t matter," said Mitch, looking at the bare side of her scalp that was exposed.

"Don’t go there," said Hank. "You’ll get her all riled up."

"Are we done here?" asked Lou Anne, her voice tight. "I have salt shakers to fill."

"Don’t go away mad," said Mitch, grinning. "I like your hair just fine."

The change that came over Lou Anne was startling. She smiled, a lazy, friendly kind of smile-the kind of smile that made a man’s groin tighten up. This would have been the point in time that small wagers would have been made, had there been any regulars there.

"Aren’t you just the sweetest man," she cooed. "I’ll be sure to tell Carla you like my hair." She got up. "You want some coffee with that?"

"NO MA’AM!" said Mitch. "I need to get going. That fella was in a car before you found him, and I need to find it." He turned to Hank. "Thanks for the fries. Put them on my tab?"

"Two-forty-seven," said Hank dryly. "Tax included."

Mitch got out his wallet and fished out three ones.

"Keep the change," he said. "As a tip for Lulu."

"I’ll be sure to tell Carla what a big tipper you are, too," said Lou Anne sweetly. "Y’all come back soon, now, you hear?"

It was three in the morning and Detective Sergeant Jim Harper had to piss again. All that coffee he’d been drinking-along with being in his late forties-was taking its toll, but it had to be done to stay awake. Reports would be expected to be ready for distribution in the morning. The fucking mayor was sticking his nose into it, as if the entire law enforcement hierarchy wasn’t bad enough. Lonny Hildebrand, the Captain of Detectives, had already pissed himself earlier in the evening, when Harper had had the balls to call up the governor’s mansion and ask Mrs. Custer to come in for an interview.

"We don’t call the fucking governor’s wife in for an interview!" Hildebrand had choked. "You get your ass over to Albany and talk to her! And you’d better fucking salute the fucking flag pole in front of the fucking mansion when you get there!"

"Gosh," said Harper, trying to look mournful. "I’d be happy to do that, Captain, except that she said she’d be happy to come see us. She’ll be here at ten, tomorrow morning."

"You actually fucking talked to Mrs. Custer her fucking SELF?" Hildebrand looked like he was going to have a stroke. He deflated, slumping into a nearby chair. "Ohhhhh," he moaned. "Fuck me to tears … I’m getting too old for this shit."

Harper decided not to point out that the captain was ten years younger than he was, and had gotten the appointment to his position only because his father had friends on the force. If the idiot quit, there would be a kegger thrown by the detectives who’d suffered under him.

"Take it easy," said Jim in a soothing voice. "I’ve been doing this a while. I know how not to ruffle her feathers. It will be fine. Why don’t you go on home and relax? I’ll have the report on your desk when you get here in the morning, with copies for the chief and the mayor. I’ll give you two extra copies for whoever else decides this is their business too. We’ve got the perps. The rest of this is just a formality."

Captain Hildebrand looked hopeful.

"OK," he said. "But PLEASE don’t screw this up, Jimmy. You got anything on the good Samaritan yet?"

"Just some paint scrapings," sighed Harper. "The lab should be able to give us a make and model tomorrow sometime. Then we can start looking for it. As best we can tell, that’s who Moe was shooting at, and if there are bullet holes, it should be a piece of cake to find."

Mitch Connel stood on the edge of the road, peering down the incline, where his flashlight simply reflected light off of falling snowflakes, rather than illuminating the terrain. Just enough light got past the falling snow that he could see bent and torn underbrush. This had to be the place, but he couldn’t see far enough to spot the car.

He’d have to come back in the morning.

If the roads were passable.

He got back in the department’s 4WD and slipped and slid back to town. The office was warm, and the snow in his hair started melting immediately. He sat down at the desk and flipped open the manila folder that had only a single piece of paper in it. All he had were two names and the possibility of a bullet wound.

On impulse he pulled open a desk drawer and pulled out a black hardback law enforcement directory for the state of New York. He’d already found the address on the driver’s license on Google maps. Now he had to figure out which precinct might cover that part of Long Island. Half an hour later, feeling helpless, he dialed a number.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency, please?" came a bored voice.

"I didn’t dial 911, said Mitch, I called the Nassau County PD."

"What is your emergency, please?" asked the voice.

"I don’t have an emergency. I need to talk to missing persons."

"Reporting a missing person is not an emergency, sir," said the voice. "Please clear the line and call the administrative number in the morning."

There was a click in Mitch’s ear.

Mitch checked the book and then looked at the number on the display of the phone for "Last Dialed". They were the same. There weren’t any nines or ones in the number at all. He dialed it again.

"Nine one one, what is your emergency, please?" came a different voice.

"This is the Pembroke, Connecticut Police Department," said Mitch, as officially as he could. "I dialed the number for the detective division that’s in the L.E.O. directory and got you instead. Transfer me to the detective division, please."

"This is nine one one," said the woman.

"Look," said Mitch patiently. "I’ve got a Long Island resident in the hospital, whose been shot and might die. I need to talk to a detective down there, OK? Is attempted murder enough of an emergency for you?"

"I can’t dispatch anybody to Connecticut," said the woman, sounding upset.

"I don’t want you to dispatch anybody to Connecticut," said Mitch, his voice rising. "I just want to talk to a DETECTIVE, OK?!"

"You don’t have to yell, sir," came the woman’s voice. "I don’t have to take that. I’m in the union. You should call the administrative number. This is nine one one."

"I DID CALL THE ADMINISTRATIVE NUMBER!" yelled Mitch. "AND I GOT YOU IDIOTS TWICE! I DIALED 516-555-7000!"

"Hold please," said the woman.