done without women than he could have gone without food, but too much closeness threatened him. He'd thought he could go on forever—tasting, enjoying, and moving on when he sensed the time was right. Each parting had torn something from him, but something so subtly damaging that he'd never felt the wound. Jake Sorensen was his homicide partner—Old Jake, who at fifty-six was long since past voluntary retirement age. Jake hung on. Sam made him strong enough to get through the six-month evaluations. Sam made him look good. Together, they made a powerful team. Clinton-and-Sorensen, never referred to singularly and they wanted it
51
that way. They drew the more difficult cases, worked them deftly, only rarely bringing in a loser to molder in the unsolved file drawer. Jake just missed being a joke in his rumpled leisure suits dappled with cigar ashes, his gut bulging over his belt, and his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. He dithered and wasted time and energy, but with Sam he was transformed into something better, into a working dick with thirty years' experience. They filled in the chinks in each other's armor.
When Sam met Nina, she caught him to her before he could see the danger. The others had been young, so young that their personalities could not harm him. Nina was lost when he met her; she'd been lost for a long time, and yet he was drawn to her by the sheer strength of her mind.
The homicide dicks steered clear of Nina Armitage, wary of a brilliant woman, vaguely resentful of a woman in a business rightfully peopled by males. They brought cases to her in the prosecutor's office only because they had to. Nina had climbed to the position of chief criminal deputy, not through her charms—for she betrayed none—but because she was one hell of an attorney. She worked three times as hard as any man, driving her slender, awkward body beyond what seemed the point of endurance, and kept on going.
She considered all policemen, including the chief, dumb cops, and even in court, even when they were on her side, she questioned them in a patronizing way. Behind her back they called her "the titless wonder," and worse.
Still, Sam was enthralled by her presence in the courtroom, never giving ground or depending on her femaleness to curry favor with judge or jury. She was as caustic as lye, her voice so husky it seemed she fought consciously to keep any feminine modulation from it. Her long, straw-colored hair hung in her face as she bent over the yellow legal pads, scribbling constantly, and she tossed it back with the impatience that was an integral part of her. Her skin was pale and freckled. True, she appeared to have no breasts, but Sam thought her long legs were sensational.
When they carried their cases to her so carefully catalogued,
52
so neatly sprinkled with "probable causes" and good physical evidence, she got them their arrest warrants, their search warrants, and never seemed to differentiate one cop from another. They were all "Officer" to her—never "Detective." And, for her, they seemingly had no names at all.
Jake couldn't stand the woman. "Sammy," he muttered one afternoon after a, two-hour session in her crowded little office in the courthouse,
"you know how all blacks and Filipinos and Japs look alike to us? Well, all cops look alike to that skinny bitch. Put you and me and Cap and Little John and Big John in a line-up, and I'll bet you she couldn't tell one from another."
Sam laughed, but half agreed. He'd never seen her smile, and she never even looked up when he tried to banter with her.
"She never leaves that building," Jake said. "She just crawls into a file drawer at night and goes to sleep. You cut her and all you'll get is dust."
Sam had been as surprised to see her on a rainy Tuesday midnight in the back booth of the Golden Gavel as if he'd run across the mayor himself sitting there with four scotches lined up in front of him.
"Hey, you! Clinton! Have a seat," she called. "I'll
51
that way. They drew the more difficult cases, worked them deftly, only rarely bringing in a loser to molder in the unsolved file drawer. Jake just missed being a joke in his rumpled leisure suits dappled with cigar ashes, his gut bulging over his belt, and his eyes magnified behind thick glasses. He dithered and wasted time and energy, but with Sam he was transformed into something better, into a working dick with thirty years' experience. They filled in the chinks in each other's armor.
When Sam met Nina, she caught him to her before he could see the danger. The others had been young, so young that their personalities could not harm him. Nina was lost when he met her; she'd been lost for a long time, and yet he was drawn to her by the sheer strength of her mind.
The homicide dicks steered clear of Nina Armitage, wary of a brilliant woman, vaguely resentful of a woman in a business rightfully peopled by males. They brought cases to her in the prosecutor's office only because they had to. Nina had climbed to the position of chief criminal deputy, not through her charms—for she betrayed none—but because she was one hell of an attorney. She worked three times as hard as any man, driving her slender, awkward body beyond what seemed the point of endurance, and kept on going.
She considered all policemen, including the chief, dumb cops, and even in court, even when they were on her side, she questioned them in a patronizing way. Behind her back they called her "the titless wonder," and worse.
Still, Sam was enthralled by her presence in the courtroom, never giving ground or depending on her femaleness to curry favor with judge or jury. She was as caustic as lye, her voice so husky it seemed she fought consciously to keep any feminine modulation from it. Her long, straw-colored hair hung in her face as she bent over the yellow legal pads, scribbling constantly, and she tossed it back with the impatience that was an integral part of her. Her skin was pale and freckled. True, she appeared to have no breasts, but Sam thought her long legs were sensational.
When they carried their cases to her so carefully catalogued,
52
so neatly sprinkled with "probable causes" and good physical evidence, she got them their arrest warrants, their search warrants, and never seemed to differentiate one cop from another. They were all "Officer" to her—never "Detective." And, for her, they seemingly had no names at all.
Jake couldn't stand the woman. "Sammy," he muttered one afternoon after a, two-hour session in her crowded little office in the courthouse,
"you know how all blacks and Filipinos and Japs look alike to us? Well, all cops look alike to that skinny bitch. Put you and me and Cap and Little John and Big John in a line-up, and I'll bet you she couldn't tell one from another."
Sam laughed, but half agreed. He'd never seen her smile, and she never even looked up when he tried to banter with her.
"She never leaves that building," Jake said. "She just crawls into a file drawer at night and goes to sleep. You cut her and all you'll get is dust."
Sam had been as surprised to see her on a rainy Tuesday midnight in the back booth of the Golden Gavel as if he'd run across the mayor himself sitting there with four scotches lined up in front of him.
"Hey, you! Clinton! Have a seat," she called. "I'll
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