They all went back to the living room, and Cohen dropped onto the couch, her arms crossed over her chest, the classic female defensive position.
“You gotta admit, that’s not something you see every day,” Capslock said to Virgil.
“I had a case down in Trippton, a motorcycle guy hiring himself out to whip naked women. He had a pretty good client list,” Virgil said. “One of the women told me that it was therapeutic.”
“It certainly can be,” Cohen snapped. “It probably helped her with all kinds of repressive neuroses, both known and unknown.”
“I’m pretty sure it didn’t,” Virgil said.
“Oh, you’re a shrink now?” she sneered.
“No, but another guy shot her in the head. That was the end of her psychological problems. As far as we know.”
They all stared at each other for a moment, and then Capslock said, “Well, that was a conversation killer.”
—
Virgil pecked away with questions about Quill, but Cohen kept her arms crossed and simply shook her head and sometimes grunted. Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door.Virgil answered it, and Trane said, “Got here as fast as I could.” She looked at Cohen, and asked, “Is this the lady?”
“This is her,” Virgil said. “We can’t beat her up because her attorney is coming, and there’s a witness down the hall in the bedroom. You might want to introduce yourself.”
“Oh, fuck all of you,” Cohen said.
Trane went down the hall, looked in the bedroom, showed no reaction at all, came back and sat down with a straight face, then looked at Virgil, and asked, “What?”
Virgil shrugged, and said, “I dunno, I thought you’d... I dunno...”
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve never done that?” Trane asked. To Cohen she said, “He’s so straight he gives me a headache.”
“He’s an asshole,” Cohen said.
Virgil: “That’s the second or third time I’ve been called that in the last hour. I’m tired of it.”
“Then why don’t you leave?” Cohen said.
“Because he’s a dedicated law enforcement officer,” Trane said. To Capslock: “How are your hips, Del?”
“Still hurt when I get up in the morning, but Cheryl’s got me doing yoga stretches. That helps.”
To Cohen, Trane said, “Del got shot by some old people down on the Mexican border. Almost got killed.”
Cohen said, “Good.”
—
Time dragged. A half hour after Cohen called, her attorney showed up, was introduced as Larry Hardy, also known as “Call me Lare” on his ubiquitous billboards.
“I thought you did personal injury,” Trane said.
“I do a little of everything,” Hardy said. “Gotta make the monthly nut.”
“Speaking of nuts, you might want to take a look in that last bedroom down there,” Trane said.
Cohen: “Fuck all of you. Again.”
Hardy went to look, came back, and asked, “Is this a great country or what?” and then added, “Are you charging my client?”
“She’s going to be charged with something,” Trane said. “She left the scene of a crime, for one thing. A murder. If Piggy down there chokes on his gag, we’ll probably add manslaughter.”
