That hit my ears with the force of novelty. “Good cop” wasn’t a phrase in heavy rotation in Bordertown, and even Saquash used it as if he didn’t use it much.

“Good, how?” I asked.

He seemed momentarily baffled. “Well… you know. You do your job—once you figure out what it is. It’s not like there’s a police academy in B-town. And you stay straight.”

I wanted to tell him, no, I didn’t know, but we were interrupted. The front door swung wide on the newcomer in regulation silver. He wasn’t big, but the outline of him, on first glance, suggested he worked out. The second glance supplied a little softness around the belt and under the chin, but I still thought I wouldn’t want to hit him in either place. Over his brown hair he wore a black baseball cap with no insignia. The hair was tied up in a ponytail that poked through the opening at the back of the cap. His face was sunburned.

“It was a tree branch,” he said, in a tone of deep disgust. “Jesus Christ.”

“Well, you gotta check,” said Saquash.

“Hell with I gotta check. Let them check once. Practically hidin’ under the counter with that goddamn empty shotgun when I got there.”

“If they were that scared, you oughta be glad it was empty. They might have shot you otherwise.”

“Probably would’ve shot themselves. And good riddance.”

That was when he noticed me. A quick flush came up under the sunburn, which produced a really impressive color on his nose. Then he gave me a harder look, and turned to Saquash. “You been out bustin’ ‘em, or did this one turn himself in?”

Saquash shot me an apologetic glance. He replied, “He’s working with Rico on her drug shake.”

The sunburned cop came over and squinted at me as if I were an illegible postcard. For want of anything else to do, I stared back. He had very pale blue eyes, and the shiny streak of a scar running from the right side of his nose to the corner of his mouth. He turned back to Saquash and asked, “Snitch?”

“Jeez, Vickie, mind your manners and get a brain. Informers don’t hang around at the police station.”

“Goddammit, don’t call me Vickie,” he said mildly, as if he’d had to do it a few times before this.

“Pleased to meet you,” I told the sunburned cop, in as neutral a voice as I could manage. “I’m Orient.”

His brows drew together. “Ori—wait a sec. You’re the mutant who finds stuff, right? How ‘bout finding me a blonde babe about 38-24—”