Clown Girl - Monica Drake [38]
“Funny place for an angel to keep her résumé,” the cop said.
I found the worn edge of one damp clown card and pulled it out, stuck to St Julian, that old Hospitaller. I tucked St. Julian back in my bra, turned and leaned in close to hand the cop the card. Should I turn myself in, as the one who’d noticed his cinnamon smell?
I paused, debated. Weighed the options: Eenie meenie miney moe…Quietly as possible, I said, “Actually…OK. Maybe I was the one looking for you.”
“I knew it was you!” He said it loud, and busted into an easy laugh.
I jumped, gave a glance at Herman, at the street, then at the cop again. If he hollers let him go. “Listen, it’s been nice talking, but I’ve got work to do.” I pushed the mower. A stiff wheel caught on a sharp stick, a tangle of weeds in the overgrown lawn. It rolled with a stutter. I used both hands.
“Let me help,” he said. He kicked away the weeds, and reached for the mower to guide it back out on the sidewalk. “You starting it up, or putting it in the garage?”
What he called a garage was a wooden shed that leaned against the fence alongside the driveway. The shed was triple-pad-locked. Inside were items that might, to a cop, call for an explanation, if only because they needed no explanation. Herman-of-the-porch sucked in his breath, and froze.
With all four of our hands and the cane together on the chrome bar, the cop helped me push the mower up the drive to the shed. He said, “Peace officers aren’t just about crime. We’re here to make the neighborhood a friendlier place.”
I watched his jaw move. He said, “In lots of ways.”
I asked, “Anybody ever say you look like Steve McQueen?”
His blue eyes turned to me. His skin shifted into the lines of a smile. “The ears?” He nodded. “I’ve got McQueen’s ears.”
“More than that,” I said. “The eyes, that color. The upper lip. The hair…”
“Like in Bullitt?” he said, hopeful, and gave a McQueen eyebrow raise, a crease to his forehead.
I said, “More like in Love with the Proper Stranger.”
“Ah! I was hoping for Bullitt.” And he laughed his loud, boyish laugh again. His laugh made me laugh. “I’m Jerrod.” He held out his hand. I shook it. His skin was rough, his palm warm. Safe. We were side by side on the lawn mower handle, and as we shook we jostled into each other, and again I felt dizzy. It was all so close, I had to get out of there. On King’s Row, this cop’s hand had been the only thing between me and panic, me and despair. Back then, I’d been ready to tell him anything.
Our neighbor came out of his house across the street, in a faded blue bathrobe, and called over, “Make sure he read you your rights.”
“What are my rights?” I whispered.
“You got the right to sleep it off, Willie,” Jerrod hollered back.
“I got my rights to watch too, Jerry. You know that much.” The neighbor, William, sat on the porch, spectator to our spectacle.
“Jerry?” I said, “You know him?”
Jerrod nodded. “Like a flu I can’t shake. Sat side by side in second grade.” More quietly he said, “Now a petty criminal. I know ’em all. This part of town, they watch like I’m on TV.”
“I know the feeling,” I said.
“Yeah, I bet you do. Look,” he said. “Every window.”
A glance at the houses showed what he meant: In every front window the curtain was pulled away from the edge, or parted at the center. Some blinds were wide open with a face looking out. Others were closed, with a telltale gap.
“Let me give you this,” he said. He handed me his card. Officer Jerrod Evans, DPSST # 502210, North Precinct. “Listen, whenever you want to pick up your halo, just give a call. Maybe, if you wanted, we could get a bite to eat, or a cup of coffee? You could tell me about your life onstage, the Baloneyville Co-op.”
Behind me, Chance still spoke in her furious dog language: Fuck, fuck, fuck. What are you doing? I took the card, and slid the card up my sleeve.
“I could show you a few tricks of my own,” he said.
Herman, behind Jerrod, gave me the slit-throat signal, the curtain call.