Page 25 of Dodge

When she heard his words, she laughed loud. And gave him an answer.

Then they disconnected.

She plugged her phone in to charge and snapped the lights out. She lay down in bed and stared at the bumpy ceiling, hoping for sleep, though guessing it would be some time in coming.

“I’m aching.”

Marlowe points out: “You just ran ten miles this morning.”

The women are in Stanley’s Restaurant off Route 44, one in a beige uniform, one in jeans and a leather jacket and scuffed boots. They are the same age, though Marlowe seems older. Maybe that’s because of the rugged outfit. Maybe because of the gray eyes, which are burdened. This is true even when her lips arc into a smile. This is rare.

Vandalia County Deputy Cynthia Hooper waves for two more beers. Stanley’s chills the mugs Antarctic, so that the first several sips require a napkin around the icy handle. They arrive and the women wrap and clink for a second time tonight.

Drinking is fine; they’re off duty.

Marlowe is impressed with her friend’s prowess at long-distance running. She herself now allows: “I run. But only when I’m being chased. Or chasing.”

Hooper offers: “But now I know if it’s chased or chasing, I can make it a full ten miles.”

Marlowe nods in concession to the logic.

Hooper then says, “So there’s something I want to bring up.”

Sounding serious.

Marlowe sips and waits. She’s not good with solemn conversations. Avoids them like hornets.

“I’d really like it if you’d be my daughter’s or son’s godmother.”

“Well, you know I will.” Marlowe tilts her head. “Is there some news you want to share?”

“Oh, my Lord no. Not yet.”

“So, what about the middle step?”

“A man? I’m working on it. That position is still help-wanted. But you know? Last week I lit up Bernie Fromm. Speeding. He’s got a nice smile. And that guy is built, I’ll tell you. He told me a joke while I wrote him up.”

“What was it?”

“The joke? Okay.” Hooper sips and sets her palms flat on the table, as if the gag might escape if she doesn’t hold on. “You have to ask me two questions. The first is ‘What do you do for a living?’ The second is ‘What’s the hardest part about it?’ Go ahead.”

Marlowe frowns. “I’m supposed to ask you?”

“Right, go ahead.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Hooper replies, “I’m a comedian.”

“And what’s the hardest—”

“Timing.”

Marlowe, surprising herself, laughs hard. “Anybody telling a joke getting cited, he goes straight to the top of the datable list.” She then asks, “You sure you want your kid to have a godmother that’s a cop?”

“Oh, cops’re a dime a dozen. I want her to have a godmother who’s a badass.”

Which requires another mug clink.

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