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'I should've had them put a T on the end,' she said. 'For Trust.'

'Sharyn

'You don't trust me, Bert. Maybe it's because you don't love me . . .'

'I love you with all my

'. . . or maybe it's because I'm black . . .'

'Sharyn, Sharyn

'But whatever it is, the T's missing, Bert. It should've been SHLEPT. Maybe that's what it should be now,' she said, and took the pillow from his hands. 'SHLEPT. Past tense.'

He looked at her.

'Should it?' he said.

'I don't know,' she said. 'Should it?'

FOR EILEEN AND Willis, this was still the beginning, and this was still Saturday, the start of a weekend off for both of them, and so they were still in bed together.

'What do you think?' he asked.

'About?'

'Us?'

'Oh.'

'You. Me.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Does that mean "Uh-huh, I think this will last forever, we'll get married one day, and have kids, and . . .'"

'Uh-huh.'

'Or does it mean "Uh-huh, I understand your question, and I'm thinking about it"?'

'It means "We'll see,"' she said. 'But meanwhile,' she said, and rolled over into his arms, and kissed him on the mouth.

Under her lips, Willis grinned.

OLLIE SAW HER coming up the street in her tailored blues, the nine on her right hip, the weight of it giving her a sort of lopsided gait, long black hair tucked up under her cap, silver shield pinned just above her left breast, eyes casually checking out the perimeter as she came sailing toward the diner, good cop, he thought, beautiful girl, he thought, woman. Her name tag, white letters on black plastic, read: P. GOMEZ. Who'd have thunk it? he thought. Gomez.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him, who'd have thunk that, either? The sun was shining, her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Beautiful brown eyes. Patricia Gomez. He almost shook his head in wonder.

'Hey, Oll!' she said. 'What're you doing here?'

Oll, he thought. Only person in the universe who calls me Oll. Not even my sister calls me Oll. Not even my mother called me Oll, may she rest in peace. Oll.

'Thought we could have a late afternoon snack together, ah yes,' he said.

'Hey, that's terrific!' she said.

He knew she'd just been relieved on post. Knew that before she headed back in to change out of uniform, she usually stopped for a cup of coffee either here or in the coffee shop up the street. He knew all this. He prided himself on being a good cop.

She opened the door to the diner, holding it open for

him to follow her inside. The proprietor knew her, of course, made a big fuss out of showing Officer Gomez to a fine booth in the corner. She took off her cap, hung it on one of the racks flanking the booth. Her hair was all pinned up, like.

'Well, this is a nice surprise,' she said.

'I was hoping you'd be here,' he said. 'I'm glad I caught you.'

'Me, too.'

'How's it going today?'

'Quiet. How about you?'

'I'm off today. Put in a long week, though.'

'You working something big?'

'Yeah, some pimp got aced.'

'Lucky you,' she said.

Yeah. All day yesterday, I was sitting in that pocket park off River Place, you know the one?'

'Sure. Gleason Park.'

'Waiting for this girl to show up, but she never did. This woman.'

'That's too bad, Oll'

Yeah.'

'Kinda sad, these girls,' he said.

She looked at him.

'Which girls is that, Oll?'

'These hookers, you know. I spent a lot of time in Ho Alley, too. These hookers. Standing out there, you know. Half naked.'

She kept looking at him.

'Raining, too,' he said.

She put down the menu.

You okay, Oll?' she asked. You seem kind of. . .'

Yeah, I'm fine,' he said.

'Oll?'

He nodded. Waited a long time. Then he said, 'Patricia, I have to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the God's honest truth.'

You're scaring me, Oll.' 'No, no. I. . .' 'Oil?'

'Patricia . . . am I a person to be comforted and helped?'

'You need a little comfort and help, Oll?' she asked, and smiled faintly. 'Is that it, honey?'

'Am I a person to be . . . pitied?' he asked. 'Pitied?' she said. 'No. What are you talking about, Oil? Pitied?' She almost reached across the table to grab both his hands, but then she remembered she was in uniform, and reached across with her eyes, instead, her eyes fastening to his. 'What is it, Oll?' she asked. 'For God's sake, what is it?' He shook his head. 'Oll, Ollie, please,' she said. Am I a sorry fucked-up piece of shit?' he asked. 'Ollie, Jesus, don't say such Am I a fat person?' he asked.

She reached across the table, anyway, the hell with the uniform. Took both his hands in her own. Held them tight. 'Tell me the truth,' he said.

She almost said, No, you're not fat, who's been telling you that, Oll? She almost said, You're a good dancer, Oll, very light on your feet.

Yes,' she said. You're fat.' He nodded.

'But that's just eating,' she said. He nodded again.

'Cut back a little,' she said, and tried a smile. 'Don't order four burgers for an afternoon snack.'

'How many are you going to have?' he asked.

'You folks decided yet?' a waitress asked.

'Just a glass of skim milk,' Patricia said.

Ollie hadn't even looked at the menu yet.

'I'll have what the lady's having,' he said.

'Thank you, folks,' the waitress said, and swiveled off in her pink uniform.

'Remember that movie?' Patricia asked. 'Where Meg Ryan fakes the orgasm? And the woman across the room says, 'I'll have whatever ...'?'

'Yeah, that was funny,' Ollie said. He was silently thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, 'I never tasted skim milk in my life.'

'You'll like it,' Patricia said.

'I doubt it,' he said glumly.

'But you know, Oil,' she said, 'fat, thin, who cares? I don't mind, really.'

You like going out with a fat person, huh?'

'I like going out with you,' she said.

'Wanna go out tonight?' he asked.

'Yep.'

'Why?'

'Because I like you,' she said. 'I find you creative, and . . .'

'Creative? No, Patri . . .'

'Yes, Oll! You wrote a book!'

'Well

'How many people can write a book? I can't write a book!'

'Well

He almost said, 'I caught the faggot spic hump who stole it,' but he didn't say that out loud because Patricia probably'd had lots of people calling her a spic in her lifetime, and he didn't think she'd appreciate the word com-

ing from his mouth, although it probably was short for Hispanic, what writers called an elision, he supposed.

'I caught the guy who stole it,' he said.

'Get out!'

'I did. He recited the whole thing for me. I taped it. I can start all over again, Patricia. I can listen to it, and find out what's good or bad, and make it really work this time.'

'You see what I mean? That's so creative, Oll, and inquisitive, and . . .'

'Come on, you'll make me blush.'

'So blush,' she said. 'I'll bet blushing burns calories. And lively and . . . and . . . yes, you are a good dancer!'

"Who said I wasn't?'

'Well. . . nobody.'

'So are you, Patricia.'

'Thank you, Oll. I really do like the way we dance together, don't you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Maybe we can go dancing again tonight. Burn some more calories.'

'Better than exercise, that's for sure,' he said.

'But it is exercise. Dancing. You know what else you should do, Oll?'

'No what?'

'You should think about going down the police gym, run the track, lift some weights. Be good for you.'

'I'd have a heart attack.'

'Nah, come on, a heart attack! What's the matter with you? A little exercise? Come on!'