He jabbed at the floor with his finger, his expression grim. “Your lucky day.”
I looked down. Bill called it right, as usual. A single spent slug was imbedded in the wood. It must have traveled through Leon and ricocheted off a metal joist, grazing my temple. A half inch closer and I’d be getting my oatmeal spoon-fed by a nurse for the next 40 years.
As it was, I got a ride to the ER, four stitches, and a tube of ointment.
I emerged from the hospital an hour or so later. I inhaled deeply. The outside air smelled piercingly sweet. Bill rolled up in his new minivan and I climbed in and buckled up, like a good boy. We sat in silence for a moment.
“So,” I said.
“So,” he replied. “I sprained my ankle and you got shot. Not our best day.”
“I’m sorry, Bill,” I said. “I messed up, didn’t I?” Bill glanced over at me. After a moment, he clapped me on the knee.
“Nothing a cold draft beer won’t fix,” he said.
I know I’m supposed to practice nonattachment, but there are times the pull of an ice-cold pint of beer trumps the promise of a lifetime, maybe even two, of equanimity. I can attest that one of those times is right after somebody skins you with a speeding bullet. I’ve been shot at before, by people actually trying to kill me, but thankfully, they all missed. So it’s ironic that my one actual bullet wound in the line of duty came from a guy who was only trying to shoot himself. Never mind, though. Never mind that it was only a ricochet bullet and a four-stitch flesh wound. I’d been hit-come this close to losing my “precious human form.” My hands had stopped shaking, but my inner being hadn’t, and while a long meditation might calm me down, right now a beer sounded better.
We parked at the nearest watering hole and walked, or limped, in Bill’s case, into the cool of the semi-deserted bar. The barkeep set us up with two frosty glasses of ale on tap, and we paused for the Holy Moment of the First Sip. We took our swigs and sighed in unison as the spirit-reviving beverage gushed over our parched taste buds.
“Homework time,” I said. “Anything we can learn from all that?”
“Here we go.” Bill rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. After any kind of heat goes down, I like to think out loud, ask myself if there’s anything useful I can learn from the situation. Call it an old habit from my monastery days. The goal is not to assign blame, but to glean any learning that will help me handle it better next time.
Bill humors me, especially when I’m buying.
“Here’s one,” he said. “How about, ‘Wait for backup’?”
“Touche.” We each took another swallow. Bill said nothing as I sorted through the mix of reactions, giving them time to settle.
“There’s nothing like getting shot to make you start asking the big questions,” I finally said. “Even more so when you’re sitting in the ER as someone stitches up your temple-which is, by the way, the most fragile portal to your brain. You tend to wonder, ‘Why? What’s the point? What’s the real message here?’”
“And did you come up with anything?”
I focused on my glass, staring at the amber liquid.
“Yeah, I think I did. The way I see it, certain incidents are like cosmic alarm clocks, you know? They jolt us into awareness. ‘Wake up!’ they scream. ‘The time is ripe for your job karma to change!’ We ignore such moments at our peril.”
Bill was silent.
“The truth is,” I continued, “I’ve been ignoring too many mornings where I wake up filled with dread at the idea of going in to work. Wishing I had a cold, so I could call in sick. Taking unnecessary risks, once I got there. I’ve been pushing my luck, Bill, just like I used to do at the monastery. And today my luck almost ran out.”
“I don’t love where this conversation is heading,” Bill said.
I met Bill’s eyes.
“It’s time for me to move on. Like the cookie says, destiny is calling.”
“I don’t get it, Ten. It makes no sense. You’re already the best detective we’ve got and you’re barely thirty years old.”
“It’s not about that, Bill. It’s about the job moving in one direction and me moving in another.”
Bill dropped his head. A wave of sadness passed between us. After a moment, he looked up.
“Okay, then, partner. Okay. Better to get out now before this work starts killing off your brain cells.”
Regret laced his voice, and I realized it wasn’t just about me leaving. It was about me leaving and him staying. Bill’s put in almost 20 years on the job. A couple more years and his pension will kick in, big time. That’s important, especially since the twins came along six months ago. Twenty years of trying, and he and Martha finally got lucky with the in vitro. Enter Maude and Lola. Enter crazy babyland and over-the-moon parents. Bill, a lifelong Dodgers fan, immediately outfitted the tiny newborns in blue Dodgers caps with MAUDE and LOLA emblazoned across the fronts. I’m surprised he didn’t get them mitts.
My heart always twinges at the thought of those babies. The idea of parenthood does that to me, part longing, part terror. Mostly the latter.
Anyway, their family joy came with a price tag, just like everything else in this world. With each day that passed, I’d sensed the growing split in my partner between Bill-the-detective and Bill-the-dad. For months now, halfway through every shift, he’d started checking his wristwatch, as if already counting the minutes until he could get home. I don’t blame him for wanting to be with his beautiful family. But I also can’t help but notice he’s never the first guy through the door into the field anymore, and always the first to volunteer for assignments that keep him around the office. Bill’s heading for a desk job, and he knows it. He knows I know it, too, and it has cast a light pall over our partnership.
The truth is, I’d already lost my partner. My message came courtesy of a stray bullet, but maybe Bill’s twisted ankle carried a message of its own.
I set down my beer and turned to face him. “I’m putting in my papers first thing next week. I’m done.”
Bill held out his hand. I shook it.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I still don’t like it, but I think it’s the right move.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” I said, and meant it. “Anyway, rumor has it they’ll be promoting you to Detective Three before too long.”
“Yeah. But you and I both know what that means….” He trailed off, gloomily contemplating his desk-bound future.
I touched the bandage on my temple.
“Change is hard,” I said. “But inevitable.” I held up my glass. “To change.”
“To change.”
We clinked.
CHAPTER 2
“No way,” the Captain said. He’d paged through my reports, finally reaching my letter of resignation.
“So you effed up, Norbu. Don’t eff it up more by having a full-blown tantrum here.”
I shifted awkwardly, trying not to look down at him. He hadn’t asked me to take a seat yet, part of my reprimand.
“I just can’t hack the other stuff anymore, sir.”
The Captain snorted.
“Not good enough, Norbu. What are you, three years old?”
He pitched forward and glared hard at me across the mountain of files on his desk.
“You cannot quit, Ten,” he said. “Not now. Oh, Christ, take a seat, will you? You’re doing that monk-stare. Gives me the creeps.”
I sat down and softened my eyes-I guess I’d been focusing so intently I was forgetting to blink.
“You could run this place someday. You could be sitting right here. You know that, right?”
I felt the walls press closer and my heart rate accelerate, which was unfortunate. Panic does not lend itself to tactful responses.
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” I said.
The Captain’s skin acquired the hue of red brick. Oops. Looks like I pushed the wrong button on someone’s emotional dashboard. I scrambled to recover, pointing to the mound of paper on his desk.