“Sorry,” he said to West.

“Do you have any idea how much I’m going to hate writing computer instructions?” she asked in an uneven, strained voice as she imagined Brazil’s wealthy, beautiful landlady. “And you’re not supposed to make personal calls at work!”

“I didn’t make it. She called me. And you’re not the one who has to do the writing. I am,” Brazil replied.

“Well, writing, after all is said and done, is the easy part.”

Brazil’s anger mounted.

“You don’t have any right to say it’s easy,” he said.

“I can say anything I want,” she replied.

“No you can’t.”

“Yes I can,” she asserted.

“Then you write it.”

“Fuck no,” she answered. “I’ve got enough to do.”

“Excuse me,” a voice behind them spoke up.

Fling was holding his schedule book, standing outside the door, afraid to walk in. West and Brazil stopped their bickering and stared at him.

“I’m out of here.” West left.

“Officer Brazil,” Fling said, “I just wanted to remind you of your 1:56 appointment at Godwin High School. I believe you’re speaking in the auditorium to all the students?”

“Dammit,” Brazil muttered as he checked the time. “Do you know how to get there from here?”

“No,” Fling said. “I didn’t go there.”

“Huh?” Brazil’s mind was racing.

“I went to Hermitage,” Fling said.

“Wait.” Brazil popped up from his desk. “Virginia, come back here!”

“On Hungary Springs Road.” Fling was warmed by the memories. “You know, Godwin isn’t the only good school around.”

West walked back into the office, defiant in a khaki suit that complemented the darkness of her eyes and deep red of her hair. Her body was far finer than she deserved for as little as she did to help it along.

“What?” she impatiently asked.

“You ought to go out to Hermitage, too. Talk with the students there, you know,” Fling was going on and on. “That’s the thing about doing one school. What about the others?”

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Brazil said to West as he tightened the laces of his Rocky boots, “you’re supposed to go with me to Godwin.”

“Shit,” she said.

5

MUSKRAT’S AUTO RESCUE was Bubba’s home away from home, and today especially, he was grateful. It didn’t matter that Officer Budget had let Bubba go with only a warning. Bubba was traumatized. The cop had called Bubba names. The cop had brought back old injuries and humiliations and then had been so unfair and ugly as to accuse Bubba of being the one with prejudices.

Muskrat’s shop was behind his brick rancher on several junk-scattered acres off Clopton Street, between Midlothian and Hull. The fence bordering Muskrat’s garage and its outbuildings was built of old railroad ties piled like Lincoln Logs. Transmissions littered the hard-packed dirt, tail housings covered with plastic quart oil bottles to keep out the rain. Cars, vans, pickups, a tractor trailer and an old fire truck used each year in the Azalea Parade were parked wherever Muskrat had left them last. Bubba pulled up to the shop’s open bay door, cut the engine and climbed out.