I look at her. “What do you mean, ‘What?’”

“You just smiled.”

“Didn’t realize.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Just strange. Outta nowhere, this image of Jeffrey pops into my head. It was during that time just after Aunt Linda’s divorce, when he was five years old. I gave him his first black eye. We were playing catch, and the softball tipped off his mitt. Smacked him hard in the right eye. Told him a bit later that it was a nice shiner. Didn’t even cry until he looked in the mirror and saw his puffed-up purplish black eye. Aunt Linda got real pissed, but we laughed about it later, ’cause after all the crying, Jeffrey seemed proud of it. Fuck.”

Leslie rubs my back.

“He was a good boy. I shouldn’t have taken the surveillance as far as I did. Once I knew what he was into I shoulda just talked to him.”

“When was the last time you two talked?”

“Couple years before I retired, so maybe seven years? Drove there for Thanksgiving. He was fourteen.”

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

I can’t reply to that, ’cause I think it is.

We sit quietly, and her hand caressing my shoulder almost takes me away from these thoughts.

I notice a guy walking on the other side of the street.

“Dude walking this way across the street is looking for a car to hit,” I say, trying to keep my mind from going back there.

“Oh, really? Based on your years of experience or just profiling?”

“Obviously both.”

“Looks like a normal man walking home to me.”

“You’ve lost your cop sense. Watch him.”

She does while sipping her Pinot.

“Look how he’s walking close to the curb, head turning ever so slightly to look inside the cars as he passes.”

When the man gets closer, he notices us on the steps.

“See? Now it’s blown for him. Not looking in the cars anymore, just trying to walk normally.”

He passes, but it’s too dark to get a good view, so I can’t make out if he looks like a crackhead.

“Go on, now, move on outta here, find another block to hit,” I say too low for him to hear.

Leslie shakes it off.

“What about that woman over there?” she asks.

A woman appears at the corner, talking on her phone. She crosses the street to our side, walking our way.

“Clueless. Not aware of her surroundings. She’s a victim.”

“I talk on my cell when I’m walking. A lot. I’ve never been robbed.”

“Two things. You walk like you belong, and you can take care of yourself. Same way I know a bad guy when I see him.”

The young lady walks past, gives us a nice smile.

We both smile back, and Leslie adds a wave.

“Victim,” I say.