“But you’re still a college grad. Me? I majored in pool and beer.”

“Bet you got straight As in that.”

“You’d better believe it, sister, I’m a card-carrying member of the Sigma Beta Tau. We threw the best parties west of the Mississippi, east of the Ohio, and anywhere else in between.”

“That’s everywhere.”

“That’s right! No one gave parties like Sigma Beta Tau.”

The car grew silent as Oliver fell into a blue funk. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we had parties. Unfortunately, chucking your cookies in rhythm to ‘Stayin’ Alive’ didn’t turn out to be a marketable skill.”

Marge smiled. “Did you actually attend any classes?”

“A few.” Oliver ran tapered fingers through thick, black hair. “I think I even took a sociology course. Something like Group Thinking.”

“That sounds like sociology.”

“Yeah, I thought it was.”

“I think I had the same course,” Marge said. “Only we called it Group Analysis. At the onset, the class was given a number of questions and asked to find solutions. First, we were told to solve the problems by ourselves. Then we divided up into teams, and were told to seek resolutions to the same problems.”

“Then compare the results?”

“Exactly. I told you it was the same class.”

“God, this brings back some Kodaks. The minute we started up in teams, everything got bogged down—”

“All these slow people dragging their asses—”

“Stupid people,” Oliver said. “Got so mired in procedure—”

“Future LAPD brass,” Marge said.

They both laughed.

“Everyone had to have a turn,” Oliver expounded. “Whether they had something to say or not. Especially these touchy-feely broads.”

“Yeah, we had a couple of those,” Marge said. “I kept saying, fuck the feelings and let’s get on with the task. I made this one girl cry. Her friend chewed me out, said…get this…‘You don’t have to be so brutal!’”

Oliver gave Marge a wide grin. “I love it when women are brutal.”

Marge dropped her smile, then looked away.

They rode the next few minutes without conversation.

Oliver muttered, “Talk about touchy-feely.”

Marge didn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ, Dunn, I was just making a joke.”

“I know.”

“So what are you getting so pissed about?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Dunn, I know when a woman is pissed. And you’re pissed.”

“Oliver, I want a partner I don’t have to worry about, okay.”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, lady. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

“Good.”

“Just trying to stroke your ego—”

“My ego doesn’t need stroking.”

“Funny. Everyone else’s does.”

Marge stared at him. “You want to stroke my ego, tell me I’m a good cop.”

Oliver spoke quietly. “You’re a good cop.”

Marge paused. “Thank you.” Again, she hesitated. “So are you.”

Oliver pushed hair off his forehead. “Thanks.”