Happy Policeman Read Free Page B

you.”
    “Thanks.”
    Seresen finished with the Cokes and began stacking Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits, the hot first and then the mild. Around the other end of the aisle, a Torku had found a broom and was sweeping up the remains of the dog’s impromptu snack.
    “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Seresen? To tell me about the gas? There’s nothing else on your mind?”
    The disorienting eyes, more a murky pink in the gloom than blue, stared holes through DeWitt. Suddenly Seresen lowered his gaze and continued stacking. “The gas seems important to you. You complain about it.”
    Reaching past Seresen into the cool depths of the cardboard box, DeWitt took out a tuna fish sandwich. He stripped the plastic wrap from the end, extracted the soggy bread, took a bite and winced. The Torku imitations were exact: nothing was ever worse; and, certainly, nothing was ever better.
    “The Bo is upset,” Seresen said.
    Bread stuck in DeWitt’s throat. He choked. Seresen absently handed him a diet Dr Pepper.
    “I don’t understand why. I thought you might explain it.”
    The Dr Pepper was warm. When it hit DeWitt’s stomach, nerves nearly made it come up again. He belched wetly.
    “Oh. Somebody died. He tell you that?”
    The pink eyes dropped to a carton of Sara Lee brownies. “Yes.”
    “Well. That’s all there is to it. Somebody died.”
    The boneless fingers fondled the boxes in what the humans called “Torku foreplay.” DeWitt thought that perhaps Torku skin was different. It looked softer and thinner somehow, as though the nerves were exposed. When the Torku shook hands with humans, which they sometimes did, the hand would swell and the skin harden as if to protect themselves from the touch. DeWitt imagined that the aliens could sense more through their skin than other creatures could; that they could taste through it, and even smell out lies.
    Seresen didn’t bother to look up from his unloading. “There is no use being upset about such things. It is harmful. You must warn the Bo about that.”

Chapter Four

    POLICE BUSINESS demanded DeWitt’s return to town. A mellow high drew him the opposite direction.
    Leaving his horse in Hattie’s show barn so the mare couldn’t be seen from the road, he hurried across the yard, an anticipatory swelling in his pants.
    Hattie was in the kitchen staring at a wastebasket so ugly that it had to have come from Granger’s workshop. DeWitt thrust his pelvis forward, a surprise gift.
    “All yours.”
    She ignored him. “Granger’s doing things with wooden trash cans and dried flowers and gold paint. It’s sort of his spray paint and environmental period.”
    Unzipping his pants, DeWitt shoved her hand into the front of his shorts. “Come on, come on, Hattie. Have a Torku handshake.”
    She grabbed him, fingernails first. It was like being nipped by an annoyed dog. At the unexpected pain, he moved away, a wilting, a deflated man. “You could have just told me you didn’t want to.”
    “How would you know what I want, DeWitt? You never ask.”
    DeWitt needed Hattie in an intense but simple way, as an itch needs a scratch. “Are you in one of your moods? If you want me to leave, Hattie, just goddamned tell me.”
    Putting the wastebasket down, Hattie walked to the hall. Still hopeful, he followed. It was in the bedroom, with the door closed and locked behind them, that he was sure he would have what he came for.
    They undressed and got into bed. DeWitt didn’t waste time exploring Hattie’s familiar territory. He assumed the missionary position and, with one ear, listened for the sound of her teenaged sons’ return.
    The instant before climax he pictured Janet beneath him, and after he came, he rolled away—a distance without promises,
    “If you’re mad about Bo taking charge of the case, why aren’t you out looking for the murderer?” Hattie asked when he told her about Loretta.
    DeWitt put a hand on her breast and replied, “I’m working on it,” before