says. “The sick one. He never gets any action.”
I love the way the smoke looks pouring out of her nostrils, curling and making letters in the air I can almost recognize. She’s got one arm up over her head, the joint between two fingers.
“C’mon, baby. What are you waiting for?”
I can do it — get those maimed and innocent fingers over to her. And I can hold the camera, too. And it watches her lead that hand between the buttons and into her dress.
“Can you feel that, Benjamin?”
I nod, too dry-mouthed to really talk. But I manage to croak, “Yes.”
She widens her eyes and delivers the next sentence like a mad scientist: “It’s alive. Alive, I tell you!” Then she laughs and pulls me toward her. Almost onto her, plenty close enough for her to get her hand in my hair and start kissing me.
And that’s what we’re doing when a car pulls up behind us and a whirling red light makes the whole scene look like a bloodbath.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, we’re sitting on a bench in the police station while the cops who brought us in joke around with each other and do paperwork. I’ve got my head in my hands. Colleen just takes everything in.
“This place is a gold mine, Ben. I’ll go over and stand by the Wanted posters, and you take my picture.”
I hiss at her, “You were smoking dope.”
She shakes her head. “When they lit us up, I flicked that roach so far, it’s probably in Santa Monica. What are you thinking — that they’d find my DNA on it? No fucking way. They smelled a little ganja, and now they’re trying to scare us straight. All they’re really doing is calling your grandma.”
“And your mom.”
“That could take a while. She hasn’t exactly got her cell phone in her thong.”
One of the cops comes over. He’s big, and the gear on his utility belt must weigh thirty pounds. There’s a pistol and a radio, pepper spray, a cell phone and a nightstick. He lets his left hand rest on the butt of his gun.
“Officer,” Colleen says, “we want to confess. We’re guilty of desire. But we want to pay our debt to society, then lead upright lives from now on. Maybe buy a little mom-and-pop store, live upstairs and give the beat cops free coffee.”
Officer Armstrong — he’s wearing a name tag — says to me, “Your girlfriend here’s got quite a mouth on her.”
“That’s why he likes me, isn’t it, Ben?”
The cop behind the desk says, “Ms. Minou. Step up here, please. We’re having trouble getting hold of your mother.”
Officer Armstrong sits down beside me. “I guess I know what you’re doin’ with her, and I can’t say that I blame you. That dress of hers is something else — what there is of it. But she looks like trouble to me, son. You’re a pretty clean-cut kid. She’s the pothead.”
I like the way he’s talking to me, too. Man-to-man. Not man-to-spaz. He doesn’t ask me how I manage to have a girlfriend like Colleen with only half of me in good working order.
Just then Grandma comes through the front door. She’s in cashmere, as usual. Something dark to set off the pallor, because I’ve never seen her look so washed out.
Officer Armstrong goes right to her with his hand out. Grandma takes it and holds on. I hear him say, “He’s fine.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
Oh, crap. So it wasn’t man-to-man. They’re in this together. She’s got him in her pocket. He’ll say whatever she wants him to say.
Grandma turns to the desk sergeant. “Is there anything you need me to sign?”
He shakes his head. “He’s learned his lesson, Mrs. Bancroft. We won’t be seeing him in here again.”
She motions for me. “Benjamin, let’s go home.”
“C’mon, Colleen.”
Grandma’s voice could quick-freeze vegetables. “That girl is not going anywhere with us, Benjamin. She’s got a mother.”
“We’re just going to drop her off. Her mother’s working.”
Grandma takes hold of my wrist. “Come along, Benjamin. My patience is
I love the way the smoke looks pouring out of her nostrils, curling and making letters in the air I can almost recognize. She’s got one arm up over her head, the joint between two fingers.
“C’mon, baby. What are you waiting for?”
I can do it — get those maimed and innocent fingers over to her. And I can hold the camera, too. And it watches her lead that hand between the buttons and into her dress.
“Can you feel that, Benjamin?”
I nod, too dry-mouthed to really talk. But I manage to croak, “Yes.”
She widens her eyes and delivers the next sentence like a mad scientist: “It’s alive. Alive, I tell you!” Then she laughs and pulls me toward her. Almost onto her, plenty close enough for her to get her hand in my hair and start kissing me.
And that’s what we’re doing when a car pulls up behind us and a whirling red light makes the whole scene look like a bloodbath.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, we’re sitting on a bench in the police station while the cops who brought us in joke around with each other and do paperwork. I’ve got my head in my hands. Colleen just takes everything in.
“This place is a gold mine, Ben. I’ll go over and stand by the Wanted posters, and you take my picture.”
I hiss at her, “You were smoking dope.”
She shakes her head. “When they lit us up, I flicked that roach so far, it’s probably in Santa Monica. What are you thinking — that they’d find my DNA on it? No fucking way. They smelled a little ganja, and now they’re trying to scare us straight. All they’re really doing is calling your grandma.”
“And your mom.”
“That could take a while. She hasn’t exactly got her cell phone in her thong.”
One of the cops comes over. He’s big, and the gear on his utility belt must weigh thirty pounds. There’s a pistol and a radio, pepper spray, a cell phone and a nightstick. He lets his left hand rest on the butt of his gun.
“Officer,” Colleen says, “we want to confess. We’re guilty of desire. But we want to pay our debt to society, then lead upright lives from now on. Maybe buy a little mom-and-pop store, live upstairs and give the beat cops free coffee.”
Officer Armstrong — he’s wearing a name tag — says to me, “Your girlfriend here’s got quite a mouth on her.”
“That’s why he likes me, isn’t it, Ben?”
The cop behind the desk says, “Ms. Minou. Step up here, please. We’re having trouble getting hold of your mother.”
Officer Armstrong sits down beside me. “I guess I know what you’re doin’ with her, and I can’t say that I blame you. That dress of hers is something else — what there is of it. But she looks like trouble to me, son. You’re a pretty clean-cut kid. She’s the pothead.”
I like the way he’s talking to me, too. Man-to-man. Not man-to-spaz. He doesn’t ask me how I manage to have a girlfriend like Colleen with only half of me in good working order.
Just then Grandma comes through the front door. She’s in cashmere, as usual. Something dark to set off the pallor, because I’ve never seen her look so washed out.
Officer Armstrong goes right to her with his hand out. Grandma takes it and holds on. I hear him say, “He’s fine.”
“I knew I could count on you.”
Oh, crap. So it wasn’t man-to-man. They’re in this together. She’s got him in her pocket. He’ll say whatever she wants him to say.
Grandma turns to the desk sergeant. “Is there anything you need me to sign?”
He shakes his head. “He’s learned his lesson, Mrs. Bancroft. We won’t be seeing him in here again.”
She motions for me. “Benjamin, let’s go home.”
“C’mon, Colleen.”
Grandma’s voice could quick-freeze vegetables. “That girl is not going anywhere with us, Benjamin. She’s got a mother.”
“We’re just going to drop her off. Her mother’s working.”
Grandma takes hold of my wrist. “Come along, Benjamin. My patience is
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