“Not to mention, he’s an arrogant smartass with an entitlement attitude,” Goode chimed in.

“Entitlement?” West let the word linger like a vapor trail in the rarified air of Carpe Diem, where high feminine powers met regularly. “So tell me, Jeannie, when was the last time you directed traffic?”

It was an odious job. Citizens did not take traffic cops seriously. Carbon monoxide levels got dangerously high, and the cardinal rule that one must never turn his back to traffic was irrelevant in four-way intersections. How could anyone face four directions simultaneously? Brazil had questioned this since the academy. Of course it made no sense, and added to the mix was a basic disrespect problem. Already, he’d had half a dozen teenagers, women, and businessmen make fun of him or offer gestures that he was not allowed to reciprocate. What was it about America? Citizens were all too aware of law enforcement officers such as himself, who wore no gun and seemed new at the job. They noticed. They commented.

“Hey, Star Trek,” a middle-aged woman yelled out her window. “Get a phaser,” she said as she gunned onto Enfield Road.

“Shooting blanks, are we, fairy queen?” screamed a dude in an Army-green Jeep with a basher bumper, sports rack, and safari doors.

Brazil directed the Jeep through with a hard stare and set jaw, halfway wishing the shithead would stop and demand a fight. Brazil was getting an itch. He wanted to deck someone and sensed it was only a matter of time before he busted another nose.

Sometimes, Hammer got so sick of her diet. But she remembered turning thirty-nine and getting a partial hysterectomy because her uterus had pretty much quit doing anything useful. She had gained fifteen pounds in three months, moving up from a size four to an eight, and doctors told her this was because she ate too much. Well, bullshit. Hormones were always to blame, and for good reason. They were the weather of female life. Hormones moved over the face of the female planet and decided whether it was balmy or frigid or time for the storm cellar. Hormones made things wet or dried them. They made one want to walk hand-in-hand in balmy moonlight or be alone.

“What does directing traffic have to do with anything?” Goode wanted to know.

“Point is, this guy works harder than most of your cops,” West replied to Goode. “And he’s just a volunteer. Doesn’t have to. Could have a real attitude problem but doesn’t.”

Hammer wondered if salt would hurt her much. Lord, how nice it would be to taste something and not end up looking like her husband.

“I’m in charge of patrol. That’s where he is right now,” Goode said, turning over lettuce leaves with her fork to see if anything good was left. Maybe a crouton or a walnut.

Brazil was sweating in his uniform and bright orange traffic vest. His feet were on fire as he blocked off a side street. He was turning cars around left and right, routing them the other way, blowing his whistle, and making crisp traffic motions. Horns were honking, and another driver began yelling rudely out the window for directions. Brazil trotted over to help, and was not appreciated or thanked. This was a terrible job, and he loved it for reasons he did not understand.