Page 4 of Two Marlboros

“Well, there was a loud bang. At first, I thought it was a firecracker, but under the circumstances...”

Officer Scottfield continued to scribble my words in his notebook. “And about the robbers would you know anything about them?”

“They were pretty high, let’s say,” and I raised my hand using it as a unit of measurement until I stopped it at about the tip of Officer Scottfield’s hair, which reached just above mine, “...like this, here.”

He flinched from my hand, annoyed, and I could not help but snort.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No, no, I apologize.”

It was amazing how he did not realize how out of place his coolness was in that situation, but his colleague’s restrained laughter made me realize that this was nothing new.

“In fact, though, there is another thing I noticed,” I added.

Officer Scottfield raised his eyes to me and immediately lowered them again, too engrossed in his notebook to even feign any empathy.

“I’m pretty sure it was two men. I didn’t pay much attention at first, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that they were two.”

He jotted everything down, until finally he closed the damn notebook and rummaged through his shirt pocket.

“Alright, thank you. This is my business card,” he handed it to me in a hurry, “if you think of anything else call me or come to the station. Goodbye.”

That greeting was little more than a whisper, then he began to walk away.

His colleague, on the other hand, stood there, watching at me, then him, with a smirk he was struggling to hide. He walked over and patted me on the shoulder a few times.

“It’s okay, don’t worry. He’s having a bit of a hard time. Or at least I hope so.”

“I hope so for you.”

I immediately bit my tongue. Why had I been so inappropriate? He, however, seemed not to mind.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “It must have been quite a shock.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” I replied in a rush, thinking he was referring to his partner’s coldness, only to realize in that same instant that he was talking about the robbery.

“I’m sorry you got caught in the middle,” he continued, “but I assure you those two won’t be on the loose for very long.”

“Ah, I don’t doubt it.”

Officer Stoner had a proud expression. His dark eyes managed to reassure me and, at the same time, conveyed such determination that I thought his words were more than just lip service.

“Have you been with the NYPD for long?”, I asked.

“A little over six months. Alan and I went in together.”

We both shifted our gaze to his colleague, intent on gathering more testimony, with his inseparable notebook in hand. Seen from a distance, he looked quite meticulous.

“I like this job,” he added, and went back to looking at me, “but being with him is not so easy. For one thing, the other day I tried to make small talk about a pretty good band, and he literally ignored me.”

The last sentence piqued my curiosity. “What band?”

“Wit Matrix, I don’t know if you know them.”

In previous days I had noticed a few billboards on the subway screens, perhaps in anticipation of some concert. And occasionally they would play them on the radio at the mini mart.

“I’ve heard a little bit, although I’m more for pop.”

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