Jack O'Connell - Wireless

“Jesus, have you gotten pushy,” Hazel says, moving away from Hannah, leaning her back against the wall until she’s sideways in the booth.

“I’ve been hearing the same thing about you, love,” Hannah says, shrugging out of her suede jacket, exposing her holster and her Magnum.

“You wanted to talk to me, you could’ve just called.”

Hannah gives her a long look through squinted eyes. “You don’t have a goddamn residence, Hazel. You live out of a freaking car half the time.”

Hazel looks down the aisle to Elmore, motions with her head, and says, “You could’ve called here.”

Hannah reaches past her and takes a plastic menu from a metal-pronged salt and pepper holder.

“What happened to Wireless?” she asks. “They’re not taking your calls anymore? You and the radio freaks have a falling-out?”

Before Hazel can answer, Hannah yells out, too loud, “Can we get two coffees down here, please?”

Hazel rubs a hand hard over her left eye, which Hannah gets a kick out of.

“What is it in me,” Hannah says, pretending to study the menu, “that gets such a big kick out of embarrassing you in front of the ultra-hip?”

Hazel doesn’t say a word, just gives a bored, unblinking stare. Elmore comes down the aisle carrying two huge white porcelain mugs and a mini silver creamer, all atop a Day-Gloorange serving tray. He holds the tray up on his fingertips, higher than his shoulders, performing, indulging Hannah with a mime’s rendition of stiff, four-star service. He places the mugs in front of the women, positions the creamer between them, adjusts a bar towel over a rigid arm, and gives a solemn, theatrical waist-bow.

Hannah pushes the cream away and says, “You got to love that guy. He could charm the wallet off a dead man.”

She takes a sip of the steaming coffee and adds, “So what’s good in here? I haven’t had Orsi’s cooking in ages.”

Hazel knows Hannah could hold out all day, keep her penned in the booth and numb her with hours of insulting small talk. So, she breaks easy, gives Hannah her full attention, and says, “Okay, what did I do?”

Hannah matches her new serious tone and says, “You tell me, little sister.”

“I’m not your sister, Hannah. I honestly don’t know what the Christ you want. Why don’t you tell me and we can both get on with the day.”

“Why don’t you relax?” Hannah says, her voice slowing down and lowering to a level that makes Hazel buck a little. “If I want to sit here with you from now until summer, honey, that’s exactly what we’ll fucking do. And if I want to talk about goddamn makeup tips, that’s exactly what we’ll fucking discuss.”

She reaches over, puts a hand on Hazel’s leg just above the kneecap, and gives a long, hard squeeze. Hazel stays silent and motionless, but an ache starts up, not in her leg, but at the very back of her throat, a childhood kind of burning ache, more a prelude to tears than pain. Finally, she blinks a few times, looks into Hannah’s eyes, and nods slightly.

Hannah lets go of her leg and shifts herself closer to Hazel. She starts to talk in a whisper, so intense and heavy with breath that Hazel starts to think she’s going to draw the gun and pull back the hammer.

Instead she says, “Don’t you ever, ever give me any attitude, Hazel.”

Hazel nods again.

Hannah’s nostrils expand as she exhales and she repeats, “I mean fucking never.”

Hazel’s nod increases in speed and Hannah continues.

“I’ve been hearing that you’ve been growing some balls since the last time we spoke. And that’s fine. That’s great. I kind of get a kick out of it, the thought of you putting some fear into the dorkwhites down here in the Zone. You want to terrorize your radio dinks, I think it’s a riot.”

She picks up Hazel’s mug and takes a sip.

“But you never forget, from now till the day you fucking die, sister, that it was Lenore who hauled your seventeen-year-old ass out of Bangkok Park—”

“I didn’t forget,” Hazel starts, but Hannah cuts her off.

“Don’t interrupt me. This is a story I like and one you seem to need to hear on a regular basis. You were one more little shithead with stupid parents who took a bus east and came into my fucking city. And that two-bit Cuban pimp, that greasy little Cardona, he was all ready to spike your little ass full of smack and add you to his stable. And for reasons that to this goddamn day I don’t understand, Lenore Thomas stepped in.”

“I know she did, Hannah—”

“Shut the hell up. A dozen little brats like you immigrate to Bangkok every goddamn week. It’s not our job or habit to intervene. It costs favors and it’s usually a useless, pathetic act. It’s futile and everyone who knows me knows I hate futility.”

Hannah looks away for a second, lifts her head to see Elmore staring at them from behind his register.

Hannah explodes. “Hey, Orsi, you old Italian fuck,” she screams, “when’s the last time the health board went through this dump?”

The Rib Room falls to absolute silence and Elmore turns on his heels and disappears into the storeroom.

Hannah waits a beat for the room to fall back to some degree of background noise, then continues.

“Lenore saw something in you, Hazel. Now, I’ve got no idea what it was. But she pulled you out of the Park before any damage was done. And she gave your name to her friend Flynn and told him to watch out for you in the Zone.”

Hannah picks up Hazel’s mug, sips, motions in a circle with it. “She hoped you’d do better than this. She hoped this would be a kind of way station while you grew up a little and figured out what you wanted to do.” She pauses and says, “How old are you now, Hazel?”

Hazel has to gulp to lubricate her throat. “Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three,” Hannah repeats.

They sit in silence for a few seconds, then Hannah says, “I know you do Elmore’s books, Hazel. And I know you’re good at it.”

Hazel lets out a quivering, audible sigh, like a warning sign to a perpetual quarrel, a never-ending row with a disappointed parent, a frustrated mother who’ll never understand an infinite number of facts.

“I don’t understand why you still live this way, Hazel.”

“It’s my life, Detective,” Hazel says, staring at the table.

“I don’t see why you don’t get a decent place to live. I know Flynn would help you. He helped Lenore and her brother when their parents kicked. He’s good at his job, despite the radio shit.”

“Please,” Hazel says in a whisper, but Hannah keeps pushing.

“I don’t get you. Why don’t you buy some decent clothes? Why don’t you grow up?”

The last question pushes Hazel over the limit and she finds some volume of her own and says, “It’s my fucking life,” suddenly unconcerned about the consequences of her outburst.

They stare at each other, both wondering if it’s going to get physical, if punches will be thrown and steaming coffee tossed. But Hannah defuses the moment by bringing her hands together in a half dozen claps of applause.

“Still some piss left in the girl from Kansas, huh?” Hannah says. She pauses, drains the last of Hazel’s coffee, pulls her own mug in front of her, and says, “Why don’t we start this whole thing over, okay?”

Hazel lets her head fall back on her seat. Hannah thinks she looks tired and pale, that she could use a rare steak and a full day out in the sun, away from the noise of radios and self-righteous ideology.

“Last I heard,” Hazel says, now kind of languid, maybe even, Hannah thinks, kind of sultry, “you were still a narc cop. I’m not dealing and I’m barely using and you guys are not known for your love of the Canal Zone. So, why this visit, Detective Shaw? Is there a reason for you harassing me and Elmore?”