Page 45 of Sunset Beach
Brice was still looking at Colleen. “Officer, maybe you could give him a police escort, say, to a friend’s house, where he can cool off for a few days.”
“That’s a really good idea,” Zee said, opening the motel room door and pushing the man outside. “Come on, dipshit. Let’s take a ride.”
“Thanks,” Colleen said, when her husband was gone. Through the cheap rayon drapes they saw the headlights of a car, backing out, and then the blue lights of Zilowicz’s unit following, and then both cars merged onto traffic on Ninth Street.
“You should have let us lock him up,” Brice said, staying by the window. “So, what now?”
She shrugged and the sheet slipped just a bit, for only a second, affording a glimpse of the top of her creamy breasts. She pointed at the empty scotch bottle. “I wish I had some of that. I could use a little liquid courage, you know?”
They found an empty booth near the back at Mastry’s, an old-school dive bar downtown on Central Avenue.
Colleen waved her hand at the plumes of cigarette smoke wafting from the next table. “I can’t believe people still come in here. All this smoke is so gross. You know, I used to sneak in here when we were in high school.”
Brice pretended to look shocked. “You? Miss Susie Sorority? Underage drinking?”
She sipped her Manhattan. “I wasn’t quite the Goody Two-shoes everybody thought I was back then.”
“Could have fooled me,” Brice said. He sat back in the booth. “How’d you end up with that loser from the motel?”
“The usual story,” she said. “We met when I was in college, he was cute and sweet. He had a nice car and came from a nice family.” She twisted her lips in a bitter smile. “Not so sweet now, huh?”
“Has he done this before? Hit you? Beat you up?”
She was drawing loops with the condensation from their drinks. Dipping a pink-tipped finger into the beaded-up water, drawing circles and whorls. He’d waited in his patrol cruiser, outside the motel room, while she showered and changed. Her hair fell past her shoulders, shiny and blonder than he remembered from high school. She’d applied a heavy layer of makeup to the bruises.
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“What do you want to talk about?” He sipped his Pabst Blue Ribbon.
“Let’s talk about you. You said you’re married? Do I know her? Is she nice?”
“Her name’s Sherri. She grew up in Tampa. Yeah, she’s great. Got a hellof a temper, though. Cubans, you know? We’re actually living in her parents’ house out at Sunset Beach, trying to save up to buy a place of our own.”
“Sunset Beach. Where all the old hippies end up. You know,” she added, tilting her head, “I never would have guessed somebody like you would become a cop.”
“And I never would have figured you for the kind of nice wholesome girl who’d get married and let some asshole beat the crap out of you.”
“People change,” she said. “You got drafted, right? Never went to college?”
“I went to Vietnam. Made it back home. I’ve been taking night classes at the junior college. I’m thinking maybe I’ll go to law school.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”
“Why do you stay married to him?” Brice asked.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
“No. You said you didn’t want to talk about him. I never agreed to not talk about him. What’s the douchebag’s name, by the way?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“So I can check for priors against him when I get back to the station.”
“You won’t find anything,” she said. “Allen is a model citizen.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Hicks.”
