I'm betwixt and between, trying to nab a crazy who's carving up hookers while keeping the peace with my partner, Sarah.
She thinks I'm either having an affair with a young streetwalker named Flo, or I'm deluded into thinking the girl's totally innocent and a victim of circumstances.
Neither is true. I don’t expect hookers to have hearts of gold, but I also expect my partner to have my back or at least give me the benefit of the doubt.
Back in the unmarked, Sarah’s ballistic. “What the hell’s the matter with ya, Brett—ya gotta death wish? Them whores carry shivs.”
“Yeah, I know. I got it under control.”
A sedan pulls up to the doorway where the girls are huddled and Flo’s two friends chat back and forth with this Asian guy, before getting’ in and drivin’ off with him.
Sarah watches it unfold. “Safety in numbers,” she snickers. “I feel sorry for the john who steps outa line with those two.”
As soon as the sedan pulls away, a BMW swings in and stops at the curb. I watch Flo chattin’ up the driver and then see her walk over and get in.
“What the hell,” I shout.
The BMW swings out and passes us. Flo gives me a pointed look as the car sweeps by.
I start the motor, tromp the gas, hangin’ back just enough to keep the car in sight. Sarah’s on the radio arrangin’ back up.
“Stupid, Kid—Damn!” I slam my fist against the steering wheel.
Sarah’s eyes widen, but she says nothing.
Sure enough, the car heads for the piers and the docklands. I’m sweatin’, white knucklin’ the wheel and Sarah’s checkin’ her gun.
A thousand different images run through my mind and I’m picturing Flo like my kid sister or somethin, trapped in that car.
All of a sudden, the BMW veers and zig zags cross the road and careens up a weed-covered embankment.’
I’m outta the car, up the hill, gun out and heart poundin’ in my ears. I pull open the driver’s door and the guy rolls out, covered with blood and clutchin’ his side.
“He’s the guy, Henie—he’s got Shawna’s necklace danglin’ from his mirror.”
I flip the guy over onto his back and rip open his shirt. He’s got a stab wound in his side, but I’ve seen worse—he’ll live.
Already I hear sirens from emergency vehicles and the first couple of cruisers arrive.
I leave Sarah to watch the perp while I take Flo aside and make sure she’s all right.
“Are you crazy—Why’d you get in the car with him?”
“You needed a collar—How the hell else did ya think ya’d get him?”
“I told ya—Don’ be a hero.”
“And I told you—I can take care of myself,” she shouts, offended I could think otherwise.
I take a good look at Flo up close. I see the hardness—the roughness.
This is no angel with a dirty face—this is a streetwise whore, but a whore with good intentions.
I shake my head at my stupidity.
A cop comes and puts her in the back of a squad car. I watch her cold expression through the rear window as the car drives away.
Maybe I am naïve—romanticize a bit—attribute things to Flo, she doesn’t have.
All I know is, I’m not dirty—just a little tarnished maybe—Flo too.
Funny thing about tarnish though—when it darkens on metals like exposed copper it makes a nice patina. Actually forms a barrier to protect the finish underneath—sorta like Flo’s hardness.
The way I see it, when you’re out on the streets, you’re gonna get rained on.
And a little tarnish ain’t a bad thing.