What was new: a twenty-two-year-old cop, female on top of that, taking out a freak that could shoot heat beams with not much more than a knife.
That knife. That knife of Eddi's…
There was absolutely nothing in the article about the MTacs' procedure, about how they took out the freak. It was in her head Soledad saw Eddi putting it down, solo, with her blade. And Soledad could hear, again in her head, she could hear Eddi chiding: How about that, Soledad? Chalked a freak and didn't even need your fancy little gun.
That knife of hers…
Undoubtedly, it'd been multiple clips emptied by all of the element into the freak that'd dropped it. But Soledad, her feelings of uselessness that had festered in her leg and were now infecting her imagination, couldn't help but score the victory to that knife.
And Soledad'd been worried about Eddi worshipping her? Why should Eddi? Probably, Eddi made a better MTac than Soledad.
What was that Soledad was feeling now? Obsolescence doing an insect's crawl on her
flesh?
Eyes.
It was eyes rolling over her, sensed so strongly they came to her as an actual feeling.
Beyond the doorway, in the corridor, the one-handed, one-hooked cop-that particular cop with one hand, one hook-was standing where he had a couple of weeks or so prior. Staring as he'd done previously.
And, same as before, Soledad: "Yeah?"
"O'Roark, right?"
"Yeah."
"People talk about you."
Soledad gave a shrug indicating how much- how little-she cared about other people's talk. "People are saying-"
"Whatever." Soledad had no interest in the conversation and aborted it before it was fully formed.
The one-handed, — hooked cop kept up his stare, kept it going. And Soledad returned one. She maintained her intensity, not mocking him or imitating the guy. She was actively staring him down.
Then the cop came into Soledad's space. "Tucker Raddatz." He held out his left hand, offering an awkward shake.
Soledad joined his left hand with her right hand, didn't bother with her name. Obviously, it was known to him.
Raddatz said: "Welcome to DMI."
Where a thank-you would've been fine Soledad said, too honest for her own good: "You've got to come around, stare at me twice, two weeks apart, just to offer a hello?"
"Wanted to be sure."
"Of?"
"That you'd still be working here in two weeks' time."
Another shrug from Soledad. "Here's where I want to be."
"Which is why you waited until you got your knee messed up before making the move from G Platoon to DMI. A temp transfer at that."
"If I'd known the cops here liked to stand outside office doors like peeping pervs, I would have been here years ago."
Not so much as a smile from Raddatz. "Some gave a lot to be here." Signifying. He was obviously talking about his lost hand. Maybe some other wounds unseen. Those of other DMI cops. "Hard to take the sort-of-injured coming around for a temporary visit."
"I don't know if I'm supposed to feel a certain way because you're disabled."
"I'm not disabled. One hand, and I can still do more than-"
"I don't know how I'm supposed to feel that you're a gimp; if I'm supposed to feel guilty, or sympathetic, or what. Mostly, I don't feel anything. Not for you guys. You got the way you are because you were messing with freaks. Mess with freaks, sooner or later you get messed up. So I don't feel anything because, same as the rest of us, you knew the risk and you took it. And I don't feel anything because, well, how would you take the sympathy of a stranger anyway? Not well at all."
"How would you know?"
"Because I wouldn't take it well. I wouldn't want it."
Their mutual stare remained in a locked loop. Stayed that way.
Raddatz said: "Want to get coffee?" Soledad said: "Sure."
Soledad felt better about Raddatz after he'd directed her to a Norms. Norms were diners. Oldschool. Trapped in a Googie era. Value-priced. Highlights of the menu: a patty melt and a fajita salad and a California Reuben sandwich and a chicken-fried steak that Soledad had never had- she had never had anything of the kind anywhere-but promised herself to try before her death. She didn't care about seeing the Eiffel Tower. She didn't care about going skydiving one time before she bit it. She just wanted to try the chicken-fried steak. Only, not today.
Norms's coffee, porcelain-cup-served, varied only by the cream and sugar the drinker dumped in it.
Raddatz, deftly, used a combo of hand and hook to rip open his sugar, his little packets of cream. How many years of practice did it take to get good at mixing coffee like a two-handed person?
Soledad had tea. Regular Lipton. Lot of milk. Lot of sugar.
Panama had nothing.
Raddatz had brought a tagalong with them. Another cop. Chuck Panama. About Raddatz's age. Not a bad-looking guy. Only, he knew he wasn't a bad-looking guy and it had probably gotten him a lot of play in his younger days. So now he slung around his "ain't I fine" attitude same as some high-trading currency that ought to automatically buy him something.
Bought him nothing from Soledad except instant contempt.
And he was nondisfigured. He had no visible defect. No limp. No scars that could be seen. For a DMI cop that was remarkable to the point of being unique. Soledad's neck alone owned a souvenir-a palm-shaped scar of burned flesh- of her very first call. Panama's flawlessness was a curiosity to Soledad.
For a minute the three talked, mostly Raddatz and Soledad doing the talking. Panama seemed slightly above engagement. The talk was about nothing. The way smog was making a comeback in the city, the way the Clippers weren't and probably never would. They spent time on insignificance, but their talk wasn't about the conversation. Their talk, seeing who stood their ground, who held their convictions over matters of little consequence, served the function of a couple of sparring partners going around and around the squared circle waiting for the other to demonstrate if things were going to be gentle or if there was some pugilism to be done. In the process Raddatz gave a little primer on himself. Married, a couple of kids. Boys. Was with West
LA MTac four years ago. Twenty-first call, eighth on point-and he remembered the exact number it was-a freak got the best of them. Got three of the operators, got his hand.
Three cops dead, one gimped.
And here was the kicker. As the cops were fighting for their lives-more rightly, as they were losing their lives in a slaughter-one of the cops squeezed off a round that: went stray and did a through-and-through to some guy a coupla blocks away. The guy died.
The LA Times ran an op-ed piece. Heavy-handed. Anticop, Anti-MTac. MTacs were offing innocent people in their cross fire. Israel Fernandez led a protest rally. Not even a hundred people showed up. But that was a start.
Three cops dead. And the Times, the liberals were saying the cops were out of control?
Raddatz did his hand/hook thing, put cream and sugar in some fresh coffee.
He took a sip, took in some of the brew. He let out nothing but bitterness.
Raddatz said: "That damn Fernandez."
Panama nodded to that.
Soledad got where that came from. Here Raddatz was with one hand, and other people with two good ones wanted to wrap them around the freaks and give them a big, sloppy, "oh, you poor victims" hug. And of them, of that bunch of freak fuckers, the worst had been "Damn Fernandez," Raddatz said again.