“Some of the writers here are Reds. At least they pretend to be. Most of them read The Wall Street Journal every morning. You know any Communists?”
“In Bogalusa, Louisiana?”
“That’s what I thought. Good for you. You and your husband are busted up?”
“Pardon?”
“That’s what Roy said. Maybe I got it wrong. There he comes now, on the edge of the pond in the golf course, splashing his trouser cuffs. That’s what I call a different sort of guy. A war hero blasting Japs out of the sky, more money than King Farouk, a face that melts the ladies’ hearts, and not one friend he didn’t have to buy.”
“Say that again?”
Moe got up from the table and squeezed her hand. “Be nice to each other,” he said. “But be nice to yourself first. Out here, people don’t die. After they’re used up and don’t have any box office value, they get jobs as doorstops.”
FOR HER BIRTHDAY, I gave Rosita a customized 1946 cherry-red Ford convertible, one with whitewall tires and a starch-white top. She loved her car and found every excuse to drive it. One Friday while I was at the office, she drove out to South Main to visit the library at Rice University. On the way home, she stopped at Bill Williams’s drive-in restaurant, right across the boulevard from the university. Just before turning off South Main, she saw a Houston police cruiser in her rearview mirror. The cruiser turned with her and parked und
er the canvas awning, six spaces down. She thought nothing of it.
She ordered a box of fried chicken and a carton of French fries and a carton of coleslaw to go. Thanksgiving was one week away. A marching band was practicing somewhere across the boulevard, the bass drum booming behind the hedges and live oaks on the Rice campus. The sky was a flawless blue, the sunlight in the trees like gold dust sprinkled in the branches, the wind balmy, the awning flapping above her head. The jukebox was playing Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” through the loudspeaker on a silver pole that supported the canopy. She flashed her lights to get the carhop’s attention and ordered a bottle of Lone Star to drink while she waited on the chicken.
After she finished the beer, she set the bottle on the metal tray the carhop had placed on her window. The policeman got out of his vehicle and went to a pay phone attached to the side of the restaurant and made a call. He seemed to be looking at her from behind his shades, the receiver small in his hand. He pulled a cigarette from a package of Pall Malls with his lips.
After she paid for her order, she started the convertible and drove back onto South Main. Within seconds she saw the police cruiser in her rearview mirror. She turned off the boulevard and went through a residential neighborhood and entered Hermann Park. The cruiser followed. The park was shaded by pines and live oaks and landscaped with dales and small hills and wildlife trails; it was curiously empty. She knew she had made a mistake leaving the boulevard. She looked again in the mirror. The cruiser was ten yards from her bumper. She pulled off the asphalt onto the grass and got out. The cruiser stopped also. The patrolman cut his engine, flipped away his cigarette, and opened his door. “Get back in your vehicle,” he said.
“Why are you following me?” she said.
He was standing behind the open door of the cruiser. His sleeves were rolled, the tops of his arms covered with swirls of dark hair, his brow furrowed, like that of a man whose temper and passions were on a short leash. His eyes moved up and down her body, seeming to take note of her slacks and rayon shirt and the bandana tied in her hair, as though he were looking at an alien or an aberration. “Get in your car and stay there, with your hands on the steering wheel.”
“Not until you answer my question.”
He closed the door to his cruiser and walked toward her. She could see her reflection in his shades, trapped, small, insignificant. “You’ll either get in your car or be arrested,” he said.
“What is the matter with you? Why are you doing this?”
He stepped closer, his body blocking out the sun. “Put your hands on the fender.”
“Do you have me mixed up with someone else?”
He fitted his hands on her shoulders and turned her sideways. “Lean on the car.”
“No.”
He slid his right hand down her spine, flattening his fingers on her shirt, pressing it against the sweat that peppered her back, moving her forward. “Now spread your legs,” he said.
“What?”
“Do as you’re told. Spread your legs.”
“I will not. You will not treat me like this.”
The thumb and index finger of his left hand tightened on her shoulder bone. “Are you carrying any weapons?”
“No. You’re hurting me.”
“Lean against the car.”
The pain traveled along her shoulder into her neck, causing her left side to wilt. She felt her eyes watering. “Let go of me,” she said. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else. I haven’t broken any law.”
“You made an illegal lane change. You went through a red light. You smell like you’ve been drinking.”