Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (15 page)

“What?” I choke.

“Don’t worry, doll, I won’t say a word. Use ’em and abuse ’em, that’s my motto. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Wen continues, smiling sweetly at me, repeating the words at the end of the song, “be untrue,” a few times, and I want to stand and shout out,
Yes. I’m sorry I am untrue.
You figured me out. I’m a phony. Untrue to you. I’m sorry that you’re up there singing that song so beautifully to someone who doesn’t deserve it. Please, please point the spotlight at someone else. I noticed a girl in the back of the café when we came in. She looks like she would dig that song. Really dig you singing it to her. Love you kissing her and maybe doing more to her, more than what I’m giving you. I’m not good enough for you. . . .
I’m so sorry.

The spotlight on the stage flicks off, and the audience madly applauds.

“Happy birthday, Beatrice Washington,” he says into the mike, in the darkness.

Please don’t say the words, please, please . . .

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I put my face in my hands.

Wendell sets down the guitar, steps off the stage, and comes toward me. The audience’s applause swells. He stands above
me, holds out his hands for mine. I take them, and he pulls me into his warm chest, hugging me tightly. I hear his heart thumping—a heart that I’m not worthy of. He rocks me back and forth. And then he lifts my chin. His eyes are moist with tears—mine are bone dry. The only thing I’m feeling right now is guilt. Ugly, arid, desert-dry—the color of my boots—guilt. He ignores it and lightly kisses me on the lips. His mouth tastes like sand. I close my eyes.
I’m such a phony.
I rest my head on his chest and peer at the exit sign. The red glow, drawing me in, luring me toward it. I want to run to it, pray that it sucks me in and out the door.

This is so not fair to him.

Finally somebody, thankfully, turns the spotlight off me, off us, and I feel the cool breath of Wendell’s whispering words. “Can you tell me, Bea? Answer my questions?”

“Um, that was lovely, Wendell, thank you.”

I can see the disappointment; his thick lids close halfway, and his brow slightly wrinkles. His head tilts, like,
That’s it? That’s all you have to say?

So I add, “Your coffee’s getting cold.” I sit at the table and try not to pay attention to the icy stares from the audience. Wendell joins me and immediately guzzles down his glass of water that Brad, being unusually thoughtful, somehow knew, sensed he needed. I watch Wendell’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

I wish I could love that Adam’s apple. I do. The way he swallows. It’s a nice-looking Adam’s apple.

The café resumes its normal activity. Generic coffeeshop music flows through the speakers. The buzz of conversation starts up . . . and I feel like a dick.

Secrets and lies.

After a half an hour of awkward conversation, Wendell and I leave the café. I take a deep breath of the crisp night air and shiver. “Brrr. It’s getting a little nippy.”

He raises the collar on his jacket and stuffs his hands in his pockets.

I pull one of his hands out and wrap my fingers around it. It’s the least I can do.

He smiles, weakly.

“That was so special, Wen. A wonderful present. Thank you.”

“Sure.”

He knows.

We turn the corner, heading out of Kerrytown, and walk hand in hand down the dimly lit side streets toward our parked cars.

A meter maid slowly makes her way up the road, checking every meter, waiting to pounce.

“Oh, shit. The meter. I forgot to feed it.”

“Hell, so did I. I’ve got it, Bea. No worries.” He lets go of my hand and starts to jog toward our cars.

Stop being so nice to me!
I want to call out to him.

He stops suddenly, pats his pockets, and turns back to me. “Well, this is embarrassing. But I don’t have any change.”

“Here, take my purse. I think I have some quarters.”

Wendell jogs up to me, I hand him my purse, and he dashes down the street.

I wave, yelling, “Hurry, Wen, she’s stopping.”

He runs faster down the street, clutching my bag.

Suddenly a cop car comes screeching up onto the curb in front of Wendell, cutting him off. Sergeant Daniels lunges out, tackling him and throwing him down to the concrete. “Let go of her purse now!” he orders.

Oh. My. God.

Wendell is facedown on the concrete. Daniels is on top of him. Wendell tosses my bag out in the middle of the road—splays his hands.

I run up to them. “What the hell are you doing? Get off him.” I try to pry the sergeant off Wendell’s back.

Daniels looks up at me. “But he took your . . . I thought he was . . .”

“Oh for chrissakes!” I throw my hands up in the air, circling, yelling at the gods. “This is my date, Wendell.” I bend down. “Are you okay?”

“Oh,” the sergeant says. And lifts his heavy body off Wendell’s back.

“
Oh?
That’s all you have to say?”

Wendell sits up, stunned, and keeps his scraped hands in the air.

“You can put your hands down; he’s nobody important. Just Sergeant Dan Daniels, from the Ann Arbor Police. He’s harmless.”

Wendell, always polite, awkwardly reaches out his hand to shake. His palms are scratched, bleeding a bit. “Um, nice to meet you, ah . . . sir . . . Sergeant.”

Daniels embarrassingly accepts his hand and hoists Wendell up, back on his feet. “You okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Wendell brushes off his pants, spits on his scraped hands. “I think I’m all right. A little shook up, but okay, I guess.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “This is unreal. What were you thinking, Daniels? And why the hell were you . . .” I look around at the near-empty street. “Are you following me again?”

“No. I happened to be driving by. I thought he was . . .”

“I know what you thought. You thought Wen, who happens to be black, was mugging me. Jesus Christ. You were profiling.”

“I was not profiling.”

“Bea, I don’t think that’s what it was,” Wendell interjects. “He was just doing his job.”

“No, he was profiling.” I turn to the sergeant. “What if he were white, huh? Would you have jumped him then?”

“Bea . . . it’s okay, really.”

I shush Wendell with my hand. “It’s not okay. Stay out of my life, Dan!”

“Hey. You’ve gotten yourself in some dangerous situations. How was I supposed to know you were out on a date? You’ve never mentioned you were dating anyone.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Why would I do that? Are you going to have a problem with every guy I go out with? Beat them up? Throw them out of town?”

“Every guy?” Wendell asks.

“Marcus was a loser. You know that,” Daniels says.

“Marcus? You’re seeing other people?” Wendell takes a step back.

“No, Wen. I’m not seeing anyone else. I just meant that I don’t need his protection.”

Daniels walks into the street, bends, picking up my purse.

I march over to him. “Give me that! I am not a damsel in distress, and I don’t need your help.” I snatch it out of his hands.

“I know that, Bea, but I think you think you’re tougher than you really are.”

“Bull. I am tough.”

“Not as tough as those gang kids, not even close.”

“Oh, Christ. You
have
been following me.”

“Cole saw you. At the track. Said he saw the tagger punk that I brought in the other day at the station.”

“God, he’s such a tattletale.”

“You’re pretending to be a boy with that team? Are you nuts?”

“I didn’t pretend anything. The coach assumed it.”

“How did you know about that gang, anyway?”

“Gang? Pretending to be a boy? Bea, what is he talking about?” Wendell’s looking royally confused.

“Nothing. He’s confusing me with someone else.”

Daniels blows through his lips, lowers his voice. “What are you not saying? You know something—how else would you have found them?”

I break eye contact.

“Stay away from them, Bea—you hear me? It’s not safe. Leave the case to me.”

“And why would I do that? What are you doing about it, huh?”

“We’re narrowing in on a suspect.”

“Well, narrowing isn’t fast enough. Someone shot that Junior kid in the head. Who’s going to be next?”

“Hopefully not you!” he yells. “Dammit! You shouldn’t be hanging out with gangs.”

“I’m not. . . . It’s a friggin’ track team. They give food to the homeless for chrissakes. And Wendell, look at him, he’s not in a gang. . . . Jesus!” I stamp my boot.

“I know, I know . . . I said I was sorry.” Daniels turns. “You’re okay, right?”

We search for Wendell.

“Wen? Wendell, where d’you go?”

He’s halfway down the street, shoulders slumped. Doesn’t even bother to face us. Keeps heading toward his car. “I’m going home, Bea,” he calls out. “I know when I’m not wanted.”

“Wendell, no. Please, stay.”

He waves his hand, shooing us away. “You two apparently have some unfinished business to work out, and I don’t want to be in the middle. Thanks for tonight. Oh, and by the way. . . .” He stops, faces me. “You answered my questions. Have a good birthday.”

Beep, beep, beep.
The car chirps as he unlocks it with his remote, hops in, starts the engine, and rolls off into the darkness.

“Dammit! Now look what you did.” I kick an old bottle top into the gutter. “Can’t you just mind your own business?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I could’ve grown to like him . . . I think . . . maybe.”

“Well, why would this stop you—the two of you? Go after him, Bea. Go on.”

“Ughhh . . . ,” I growl. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What? What don’t I get?”

“Wendell just said it. The unfinished business, you fool.” I twirl, stomping in the middle of the street like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum. “Shit, shit, shit. You!”

“You mean an old fart like me could actually compete with a stud like that?”

“No. You can’t,” I say unconvincingly.

And then, like two opposite-pole magnets, we are pulled together in the middle of the street—have no control, can’t resist, and don’t want to. We take baby steps toward each other—inches apart and then . . . stop.

Our hands are at our sides, frozen. And yet his green eyes dissolve into my hazel ones. The colors pool around, and I’m suddenly filled with all the answers. Flooded. The only answer I know—the only constant in my life is him, Sergeant Dan Daniels. There are no questions. None.

And in my head—without a pen in hand, a sheet of paper, we are there—in each other’s arms. I can feel him kiss my neck. My arm reaches up, and I touch the downy fluff at his nape, smell the smell that was meant for me, only for me, that takes me to where I belong, where I need to go. Grounds me. No questions. My hand runs through his blond hair, and he cradles me against his chest. I hear the heart I am supposed to be hearing—the steady beat—in sync with mine. And he lifts my chin, and our lips touch, ever so softly. I let myself fall into the deliciousness of his taste, like nothing I’ve ever tasted before, and it is
right
. So right, so safe. All my senses are engaged, alive . . . and imagined.

“Everything okay, Sarge?” A fellow cop in a passing car calls out the window.

Sergeant Daniels takes a step back from me. Addresses his colleague. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Why?”

“Just that you were in the middle of the street, frozen-like. She okay?” He points at me.

“Yeah.” He nods. “She’s okay. We’re okay.”

“See you at the station.” He drives off.

Daniels reaches into his car. Hands me my Moleskine. “Here. You dropped this. Thought you may be missing it.”

“Thanks.”

He places his hand lightly on my back. “Let me walk you to your car.”

We’re quiet for a few steps.

“I’m twenty-eight,” he says.

“Big whoop. I’m almost eighteen.”

“And I’m a cop.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the weird part for me. You being a cop—not how old you are.” We get to my car. A ticket’s stuffed under the windshield wiper. “Oh, man. For real?”

He grabs it, shoves it in his back pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Guess that’s one good thing about knowing you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.”

We stand there awkwardly.

“What are you doing for your birthday?” he finally asks.

“Not much. Dinner with my folks.”

“After that?”

“I don’t know. Will you be following me?”

“Perhaps.”

“So, I’ll see you then, right?”

“Yeah.” He smiles, leans down, and then whispers in my ear. “But don’t dress like a boy, okay?”

I melt.

3 days
45 minutes

I
tiptoe into my dark house, tiptoe into the unknown, and pray I don’t wake the parents. I don’t want to see Mom. I’m afraid to see her. She has to be over-the-top pissed because . . .

A.
Mr. Michael Connelly, moustache guy, told her everything I said to him, and she lost her job.

B.
She shared with Dad, in which case he’s probably over-the-top pissed, too.

C.
She confessed to Dad about her affair, in which case he’s heartbroken, and how the fuck am I going to deal with that?

D.
All of the above.

I’ve always hated multiple choice. I’m screwed no matter what the answer is.

Their bedroom door opens. “I’ll talk to her,” I hear Dad say.
The landing at the top of the stairs creaks, the door squeaks closed, and then his heavy, measured footsteps make their way downstairs.

I decide to tough it out on the couch in the living room—an odd name for the room, because no one is ever in here, no one lives in it, not even close. It’s like a distant cousin once removed or something—a part of our house, but not really.

Dad enters the dark room and switches on a table lamp—the base a glazed clay sculpture of my mom’s—the figure of a nude woman, beautiful, like a Matisse, I’ve always thought. She told me she made it in college freshman year and that my dad wired and converted it into a lamp as a surprise birthday present a year later. She hated that he did that. Thought he ruined it, and, yeah, I think he did, too. So it’s in a room that nobody’s ever in. All alone. I’m surprised it hasn’t accidently-on-purpose been knocked over and broken with the infrequent dustings.