"Sure you do."
On his way out: "Good luck to you, O'Roark. I'd miss you if you weren't around."
In the time he'd been her SLO, little as it was, Soledad had learned almost nothing about Bo, his civilian life. Cops tended to be private people. MTacs the most so. All Soledad'd learned about Bo came from watching the guy. Everybody knew to keep an eye on him because when you first hit the academy and people find out you wanted to put in for MTac, they'd tell you things. Things besides you're crazy and you'd better have good insurance. They'd tell you about certain BAMFs: cops you want to keep an eye on, learn from if you've got any desire to live past thirty. Bo had made it that far plus ten.
So Soledad looked for Bo, found him, watched him and got schooled.
She saw Bo on a target range, always sporting a Colt. 45. Always deadly accurate with it even at distances some would be off target with a scoped rifle. She learned: Take your time, don't rush a shot just to take a shot. Make every squeeze of the trigger count because with freaks, usually, one shot is all you get.
If.
She saw Bo with other officers: always cool, always in control. He projected authority. Easy to do when people looked up to you anyway; when the rest of the cops on the force think you're just shy of being a legend. But you don't get that kind of status for nothing. You buy it by putting down a total of twenty-three freaks. Putting them down and living to brag about it.
Except Bo didn't brag. He didn't much talk about the things he'd done. He was the polar opposite of Yarborough. Where Yar had a tale to tell about every call he'd ever been on, all Bo ever had to say in confirmation of any of his exploits was: "Well, now, I guess so."
And Soledad had seen Bo in action and under fire. Just once. Once was enough to confirm everything else she'd seen, heard about the man was real and true. He was strong and tough and confident. Just about impossible to kill. And he was there for Soledad when Soledad needed him the most. Life in the balance, she'd looked up and seen him standing with a smoking gun in his hand. A dead freak by her side.
She'd seen all that, but what she had not seen, what she never thought she would see-… when she followed a little sound—an odd, rapid, quivering breathing—to a corner by a towel Dumpster in the locker room, what she saw was Bo crying.
Bo looked up at Soledad. Three words he managed.
"Reese," Bo said,"is dead."
Just about the last person Ian expected to see when he opened his door—other than Elvis or Hitler—was Soledad. Since their antidate date they'd gone out a couple more times. Similar circumstances. Places where they could be together but not intimate. They'd talked on the phone. Infrequently. And rarely about anything specific to either of them. Only being very generous about things could they claim their relationship was moving—crawling— in a direction which could be considered forward.
Now here she was, just… showing up.
Not knowing what else to say, Ian said: "Hey."
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah. Come in."
Soledad did, then she and Ian stood around just inside the door of his apartment. Ian didn't press Soledad, he just let her stand there. Would've let her stand there until natural causes ended her life, if that's what she wanted. For Soledad, from Ian, anything.
When she was ready to talk, Soledad said: "A friend of mine died."
Ian delayed some, then said: "Oh."
Incredulous: "Oh? I tell you someone dies and you say 'Oh'?"
"I haven't seen you in how long? You show up, you tell me someone died. I don't know what this person—"
"She."
"I don't know what she," Ian adjusted,"means to you—"
"Meant. She's dead."
"Soledad!" A quick, exasperated flare, but exasperation would do
Ian no good. Patience. Compassion. As much of it as he could dig up: That's what he needed.
Taking Soledad by the hand, lightly, Ian led her into the living room and sat her down. A black leather couch, a big-screen TV, a coffee table that was used as a place to rest feet and beers. A drafting table where he did his… industrial design, Soledad made herself remember. Not much else. A very" guy" setup, if Soledad had been in a frame of mind to care.
Ian asked her if she wanted something to drink, water or stronger.
She shook her head.
Ian: "I don't know what to say. I know next to nothing about you. I know less about your friend. Why me? Why are you coming to me for…? Why not your friends, your parents?"
"I'm not much closer to my parents than I am to strangers. And… I don't have friends."
"Come on, you don't have—"
"People I know, acquaintances… I don't have friends."
Ian thought about their relationship to that point, about himself and how distant he liked to remain from people. Yeah. Probably Soledad didn't have friends.
"I've spent so much time pushing people off, there's no one left to let in."
"But the woman who died…"
"I looked up to her. I admired her. She saved my life, so I call her a friend."
"And me, I'm just around by default? I get to be your friend because no one else wants the job?"
"Because you'll sit and listen and won't ask questions, and maybe want to know more than I tell you, but won't press me to find out any more than just what I say. You care about me, Ian. You care enough to take what little I give you and leave the rest. I need someone like that in my life."
"What good is any of that for me?"
"You get someone who won't ask questions back. Much as you keep from me, isn't that how you want it?"
Ian felt as if he'd just been walked through a blueprint for disaster."It can't work. We can't make a relationship out of secrets."
"We might as well try. Other than that we're just two people keeping secrets alone."
It was Ian who needed the drink. The kitchen. All the liquor he had was some Jack Daniel's coolers. Two of them. He drank one, drank the other and he felt nothing more than a mild change in climate.
Ian went back to Soledad, sat with her. For a while they shared their special brand of nontalk.
A little way into that Ian said: "I've had a lot… not a lot, but too many friends who've died and most of them have died in not-too-nice ways."
He paused, gave Soledad the opportunity to ask about that; about his friends dying.
She didn't. She just accepted what he'd told her.
For Ian, how their relationship of don't ask/don't tell might work came into focus a little.
Continuing: "The last time it happened I had to… I went to a psychologist. I thought I needed some help."
"What'd he tell you?"
"Basically I had to get over it. I had to forget. You dwell on the loss, and you can never put it behind you. The best thing to do is just put it all out of your mind."
Soledad didn't even take time to consider the advice."Sounds like bullshit."
Ian laughed a little."Yeah. That's what I thought. One visit to the guy: That's all I bothered with."
"My dad never thought much of therapy. I'm from Wisconsin, you know."
"No. I didn't."
"I am. My dad said therapy was for screwed-up city people. And white people. Black people weren't allowed to whine. And in Wisconsin you got a problem, you go out, you do yard work, you come back in and you're too tired to have problems anymore."
Ian laughed again and Soledad laughed too. Weakly and mostly to keep from crying. She lifted a hand to rub a tear from where it was starting to run down her face. When she lowered her hand, it came to rest close to Ian's, touching it just barely.
Ian didn't try to move his hand, to hold Soledad's. He just let it lie there next to hers. Touching it just barely.
"So what'd you do?" Soledad asked."How'd you get over it; your friends dying?"
"I didn't in a way. In a way I didn't want to. Someone's dead you don't just forget about them like they never existed.