“His mother tried to abort him and didn’t quite pull it off,” West quietly told Brazil. “Or that’s the story.” She hummed open Brazil’s window. “He’s been out here forever.” She leaned across the front seat, and called out, “How goes it?”

He couldn’t speak any language that Brazil might recognize. He was gesturing wildly, making strange sounds that shot fear through Brazil. Brazil wished West would drive off quickly and get them out of here before this creature breathed or drooled on him. God, the guy smelled like dirty beer bottles and garbage, and Brazil pulled back from the window, leaning against West’s shoulder.

“You stink,” West said to him under her breath as she smiled at their visitor.

“It’s not me,” Brazil said.

“Yes it is.” To their visitor, she added, “What you doing out here?”

He gestured, getting more excited as he told the nice police lady everything he’d been up to, while she smiled and clearly enjoyed hearing about it. Her partner needed to lighten up a little.

Boy, as he had always been called, knew when cops were brand-new. Boy could tell by how tense they got, by the look on their faces, and this always invited Boy to have a little fun with them. He stared at Brazil and gave him his gummy, gaping grin, as if he were some exotic creature new to the planet. When Boy poked the rookie, the rookie flinched. This excited Boy more than ever, and he got louder, dancing around, poking the rookie again. West laughed, winking at her ride-along.

“Uh oh,” she said. “I think he’s sweet on you.”

She finally rolled up the window, and by now Brazil felt completely soiled. He had beer on his uniform and had been mauled by someone with no teeth who spent his life inside Dumpsters. Brazil thought he might throw up. He was indignant and hurt as West laughed and drove off, lighting a cigarette. Not only had she not prevented his degradation, she had made it happen and was savoring it. He fumed in silence as she headed out on West Boulevard, toward the airport.

She cut over on the Billy Graham Parkway, wondering what it would be like to have a major highway named after her. She wasn’t sure she would appreciate cars and trucks rolling over her day and night, leaving ratty recaps and skid marks, while drivers made obscene comments to other drivers and gave them the finger and pulled out guns. There was nothing Christian about a road, the more West thought about it, unless it was used in Biblical analogies, such as the road to hell and what it was paved with. The more she contemplated all this as she drove, the sorrier she felt for the Reverend Billy Graham, who had been born in Charlotte, in a house that against his will had been appropriated by a nearby religious theme park.

Brazil had no idea where they were going, except it was not where the action was, and it was apparent West had no intention of taking him someplace where he could clean up. He was riveted to the scanner, and things were popping in Charlie Two on Central Avenue. So why were they heading in the opposite direction on this parkway? He remembered his mother watching Billy Graham on TV all the time, no matter what else was on or what Brazil might want to see. He wondered how hard it might be to get a quote from the famous evangelist, maybe inquire about the Reverend Graham’s views on crime, one of these days.