Saving Room for Dessert (3 page)

“But from then on, buddy boy, nobody walked into my space they didn’t show their hands, I didn’t care who else was there or
what else was goin’ on. Fuckin’ pope himself, he walked up on me, he’da had to show me what he was holdin’. What I’m sayin’
is—and you can’t ever forget this—their animosity for you goes a lot deeper than it ever did for me. And you can’t forget
that. Not for half a second. Not for a tenth of a second. ’Cause nobody’s reaction time is as fast as somebody else’s action
time. Burn that into your brain.”

Balzic got out, and went and talked to somebody standing under a lift using a hammer and chisel to take a rusted exhaust system
off a Nissan.

Rayford got out and went and stood beside Balzic.

“What year’s your Toyota?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Twelve-volt, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So whatta ya say, Tony? Got somebody go up City Hall, put a battery in this kid’s car?”

“Soon’s I get this thing off. Sent my kid out to get a whole new system for this forty-five minutes ago, he still ain’t back.
Which means either he’s makin’ it himself or else he thinks I forgot where the Nissan garage is. Eighty-seven Toyota, huh?
Whatta ya want, three-year, four-year, five-year, what?”

“Best you got,” Balzic said, ignoring Rayford’s protest that he couldn’t afford the best. “Put it on this,” Balzic said, taking
a Visa card out of his wallet and holding it up first for Finelli to see and then for Rayford, who continued to protest.

“Aw stop it. You can pay me back a buck a week for the next two years.”

“Buck a week? Man, how much you wanna make on this deal?”

“What’s it gonna cost me, Tony?”

“With tax, seventy-four nineteen. Just sold one, that’s how I know—holy Christ, finally, you’re back. What the hell you doin’?”

A teenage boy who bore a strong familial resemblance to Finelli shuffled up, shrugged, and said, “They were busy.”

“Busy? They were so busy it took you forty-five minutes to go one mile there and back, is that what you’re tellin’ me?”

“Yeah, right, they were busy.”

Finelli gave the tailpipe one final whack and ducked out of the way to avoid the rust as it clattered to the floor. “Hey,
Albert, your mother says I gotta put you to work, so I lay off a guy worked for me for three years to do that? And you’re
gonna disappear for forty-five minutes at a time? Don’t ever do that again. Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Where’s what—Jesus, what did I send you to get, huh?”

“Oh. Out in the truck.”

“How’s it gonna get on this car if it’s out there? I’m s’posed to carry it in? Hey, I don’t care what your mother says. This
is the last time I’m tellin’ you, you pull this crap again I’ll take you down the recruitin’ office myself, I’ll enlist you
in the goddamn marines for four years, see how you like that. What, you forgot Bill was sick? You forgot I’m here by myself?”

“They were busy I’m tellin’ you.”

Finelli wiped his hands on a rag and disappeared into another part of the shop, calling out, “I gotta go up town, put a battery
in this guy’s car. You better be here when I get back, you hear me? You walk outta here like last week, you’re not gonna be
livin’ in my house tonight, and that’s not a threat, Albert, that’s a promise.”

“Jesus, whatta you want from me, I can’t help it other people ain’t on your schedule.”

Finelli came back out wheeling a battery on a dolly. “What do I want, huh? I just told ya: be here when I get back, okay?”

“Yeah yeah. Where’m I gonna go on what you pay me?”

Finelli stopped short wheeling the battery outside, causing Balzic to bump into his back. Finelli started to say something
else to his son, but Balzic held up his hands. “Hey, Tony, fight with your kid later, okay? Please? Better yet, talk to your
wife.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, let’s go. I’ll follow youse up there, go on. City Hall, right? Where am I gonna go on what you pay me,
fuck me. My son’s a fucking load, he don’t wanna work, my wife’s been babyin’ him since the day he was born. Ah fuck’s the
use.”

Balzic waited until he and Rayford were in his car before he said, “Think you got family problems, huh? Wanna trade yours
for his?”

“I’ll keep mine, thanks, but listen, about this battery, man—”

“Don’t worry about it. See, from now on, every time you see me you’ll have to listen to my stories. You try to escape, your
conscience’ll bother the shit outta you. I know what I’m doin’.”

R
AYFORD HUNG
up from talking to his wife more disgusted and discouraged than he was Monday in the marriage counselor’s office. The third
marriage counselor. In six years. Right before their hour was up Monday Rayford said, “Charmane? You remember I told you I
passed the sergeant’s test? Well, baby, they goin’ give it to me, you hear?”

“Been sayin’ that for how long now? They give it to you yet?”

“They goin’ to, that’s what I’m sayin’. And you know what that means? Big raise, huh? You hear what I’m sayin’?”

“You hear what I’m sayin’, William? I’m not movin’ my momma to no got-damn Rocksburg, I don’t care how much raise you get.
I been tellin’ you that for six years now, when you think it might sink in, huh? And how many times do I have to remind you
Pittsburgh got a large police department? They lookin’ for apps all the time.”

On the phone today it had been a rerun. That’s when he’d said, “And when you goin’ understand they haven’t put a class through
their academy in more’n four years, how many times I got to tell you that? You say I don’t listen to you, you cap all over
my ass to that counselor—who was your choice, remember that? This one was your choice, you picked this one—”

“I know whose choice she was, why you keep remindin’ me?”

“ ’Cause the first two was mine—”

“And they were both men!”

“Well now you got you a woman!”

“Both men, both Jews. You know I ain’t goin’ listen to no Jew tell me how to act, bad as they treat their women.”

“So now this one’s yours and she keep askin’ the same questions them Jews did—”

“Oh she does not, what you talkin’ ’bout?”

“—don’t interrupt me—”

“Oh listen to you, you the king, right? Don’t interrupt me, don’t interrupt me, that’s all you say. All you
can say
.”

“See how you do? And yet you just shut your mind to that one fact I keep tellin’ you every got-damn time we talk—talk, shit,
we don’t talk. I talk, you look out the got-damn window—”

“And I talk, you look at your got-damn shoes!”

“Oh why we doin’ this mess, Charmane, can you tell me? And if you can’t tell me that, tell me why do I love you, can you tell
me that? Least tell me that much, shit!”

“I don’t know if you don’t know.”

“Aw bullshit, Charmane, this is bullshit, baby. I love you, you know that. I love you like the first day. More. Worse. Love
you worse than the first day, I didn’t get sick that
first
day. I got sick that night, yeah, right, if I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’—”

“And I’m sayin’ good-byein’.” And she hung up.

Rayford growled at the phone and wanted to bite it. That’s me, he thought. Police dog. William Milton K-9 Rayford. Growlin’
and wantin’ to bite, I need to be on a leash, need a motherfuckin’ handler, that’s what I need, don’t need no got-damn marriage
counselor. And I’m not even no grown-up K-9, I’m a motherfuckin’ puppy! Puppy motherfucker, that’s me. Baby, why do I let
you do that to me? Ten years! Ten years of this bullshit and I’m still as crazy for you as the first night, what the fuck
is wrong with me? Am I ever goin’ get over this shit?

Aw shut your mind up, William, get your gear on, get your duty face on, man, get to gittin’, it’s time to go to work.

But in the middle of putting on his summer-weight black trousers, it all started again. Got-damn you, Charmane, be so easy
to get me a lawyer, file the papers, send you a copy, do the drill, wait it out, get on with my life. Why can’t I do that?
Why can’t I love somebody else? Every woman I’m with, get ’em in the bed, all I see is you, can’t stop my mind from showin’
home movies of you, can’t stop my body from feelin’ you under me, beside me, on top of me— is this all this is? Pussy? Is
this what I’m crazy about? ’Cause nobody fuck like you? Is that what all this mess is?…. Got-damn counselor ask me am I unfaithful
to you? Shit, I ain’t unfaithful to you, I’m unfaithful to every woman I jump, can’t fuck none of their sorry asses without
thinkin’ how much I’d rather be with you. Be better off polishin’ my knob than be with these women, all they do is remind
me how much they ain’t you.

Aw, go on, man, listen to yourself, what are you, thirteen? Thirty years old, just passed the sergeant’s test, they’re goin’
make you a detective, and here you are actin’ like some got-damn thirteen-year-old boy woke up think his dick is broke just
’cause he had a wet dream. Least you can still put a crease in your pants.

Separate yourself from this woman, William, get her out your head! Stop thinkin’ like some got-damn pussy-whipped boy!

Rayford managed, briefly, to calm his mind while he put on his socks and shoes. He checked his watch against the Weather Channel’s.
Theirs said 2:48, so did his, which meant twelve minutes to finish dressing and get to City Hall. He watched the local weather
to see whether he might need rain gear. Sunny and warm, high of 66, low of 50, no rain predicted till Saturday. Too got-damn
warm for April, too got-damn dry too. Where these April showers? Need some storms keep these honky motherfuckers out their
backyards and in their houses.

He put on his white V-neck Commander T-shirt, then slipped into his Second Chance Monarch body armor and hooked up the Velcro
tabs. Then he put on his short-sleeve black shirt, tucked it in, went to the front door, and checked himself out in the full-length
mirror he’d hung the day he’d moved in. He put his cap on, squared it, put his heels together, saluted, and inspected himself
up and down, from black cap to black safety-toed oxfords, all cloth cleaned and pressed, shoes polished to a high gloss.

He got his duty belt from the bedroom closet beside his bed and put it on, adjusting his duty-belt keepers to his buckleless
trouser belt, then checked out his duty belt, sight and feel, from left to right around his back: key holder, baton holder,
pepper spray, cuffs, glove pouch, flashlight holder, SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol in holster, and double-magazine case. He took out
both magazines, made sure they were full, then replaced them in the case and snapped both snaps. Then he drew his pistol,
eased the slide back far enough to make sure he had a live round in the chamber, then reholstered it and adjusted the retention
strap. He made sure his PR-24 baton and four-cell MagLite flash were still in their holders on top of his black nylon gear
bag, checked his wristwatch one last time against the Weather Channel’s clock, turned the TV off, picked up his gear bag and
briefcase, gave himself one more inspection in the mirror, and went out, locking the door carefully behind him, ready for
Mrs. Romanitsky to bless him.

After pulling his door shut, he turned around and there she was, peeking out her door opposite his. She came out, eyes dancing
as usual, her palms together briefly, and then she made a cross in the air between them. “I’m gonna pray for you today, Officer
William. You gonna be safe ’cause God will look out for you.”

“Thank you, ma’am. As always, I appreciate your prayers. I know they’re keeping me safe. Now is there anything you need today?
Anything I can get for you while I’m out and about?”

“Oh no, no no, you just watch out, you be good, God will be good to you, okay? I don’t need nothing, no thank you very much,
you such a good boy, your mother’s very proud, I know.”

“I’m sure she is too, ma’am, wherever she is. I have to go now, okay? Anything you need, you call the station, tell ’em to
tell me and I’ll get it for you, okay?”

“Ouu, thank you, God bless you, you’re so nice.”

Every day, for nearly six years, it was the same exchange, almost word for word, since the first afternoon he came out of
his apartment in uniform and startled her as she was coming back from the grocery. She’d dropped one of her bags of groceries
at the sight of him, quickly asking what was wrong. He’d said nothing was wrong, he’d just moved in that morning and would
be living there for just a while until he could find a larger, more suitable place for his wife and child. She put her other
plastic bags of groceries on the floor, crossed herself, put her palms together, and rocked back and forth from the waist,
saying thank you repeatedly while looking at the ceiling.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?”

“That man,” she’d said, pointing at the ceiling, “he plays his music so loud, till one, two o’clock in the morning, I can’t
sleep, could you maybe ask him, please, not so loud, okay?”

“You talk to the owner about it?”

“I tell him, I ask him, please, but he don’t do nothing.”

“Alright, I’ll check it out when I come home tonight, okay?”

“Oh, please, would you? I would be so happy, thank you.”

When he came off duty that night, his first on the job, as soon as he got out of his car, Rayford heard the music, some white-boy
blues, some Stevie Ray Vaughan wanna-be. He listened for a moment on the sidewalk, then went inside and listened by Mrs. Romanitsky’s
door. Then he went upstairs and had to knock three times before a grunge-ball with a fish belly hanging over his sweat-pants
opened the door. He had a vacant grin and was gnawing on one end of a foot-long stick of pepperoni. As soon as the door opened
Rayford smelled the pot. It took considerably longer for Grunge-Ball’s grin to dissolve as the uniform registered in his brain.

“Whoa.”

“Almost right,” Rayford said. “Woe is you is more like it. Got a complaint about your music, but my nose tells me I got probable
cause to look for controlled substances, namely marijuana, which I can smell all over you.”

Grunge-Ball tried to close the door, but Rayford put the side of his left foot and left forearm against it. When he did he
happened to catch a glance through the living room into the kitchen, and his jaw dropped and he started to laugh.