Blue Collar, White Collar, No Collar

by Richard Ford

  “You know what running does?” he asked.

  I chose not to answer. It was obviously a trap. I almost said, Well, running got my buddy up and over the snowbank so he didn’t have to get pinned by you in the snow, but I resisted.

  “What running does, my friend, is that it makes you look like a real criminal,” he said. “My guess is that you’re not a real criminal. Why would you want me to think you’re a real criminal?”

  I suppose I didn’t want to look like a criminal but I was annoyed that my jean jacket, black wool hat, and steel-toed boots didn’t speak danger. Belliveau obviously didn’t know the half of it.

  “There are a lot of things you could have been doing back there,” he said. “For all I know, you could have been using a controlled substance. I could go right down the list. Assault, vandalism, kidnapping, arson. The people who run away are the people who are doing the worst things. That makes sense to you, doesn’t it, son?”

  “Of course, sir,” I said. But I was thinking: Right, Officer Friendly, okay, you’re an idiot. That guy who got over the snowbank? I was kidnapping him, and now he’s gotten away.

  “What’s your name, son?” he asked. There were dark stains under his arms and down the middle of his chest. He switched the heat to defrost. He’d done his share of good cop, now he’d go to bad cop. I knew the whole shtick.

  “Charlie . . . Pinkie,” I said.

  “Pinkie. Huh. Haven’t heard that name. Maybe you have some identification, Mr. Pinkie? Curious how you spell ‘Pinkie.’ If it’s with a y or an i-e or e-y. Or is it double e?

  Officer Friendly was getting cute on me. I didn’t like that. It was common, though, among Point Allison cops. Ziegler and I would walk across the snowpack in front of the high school late at night and the cops would roll by slowly, then turn around even slower, so you could hear the squeal of the power steering and ice snapping under their tires. We loved it when they used the cruiser’s loudspeaker. “HEY, YOU, UP BY THE SCHOOL.”

  This always made me shiver, in the good way—like when I saw myself on TV for the first time, Channel Six sports highlights, the Lewiston game. I was skating up the boards, and I was only on for a flash, but it was definitely me, in the blue helmet, right there on Channel Six.

  “COME OVER HERE,” they’d say into the loudspeaker, or better yet, “DROP TO THE GROUND.”

  They lowered their windows electronically; they clicked on their mag lights and shined them in our eyes. And all of them, every one, used that cute tone. Even Officer Friendly: full-guns cute.

  “I don’t have my wallet with me,” I said.

  “Mr. Pinkie doesn’t have his wallet,” he said, staring straight ahead. He adjusted himself. “What do you say I recognize you? That I know you play hockey with my son? I can make one quick call to dispatch. I find out exactly who you are. Find out exactly who your folks are. How about if I call them up? Tell them where you’re at, that you’re sitting here with me?”

  So Belliveau had some moves. But I could call his bluff. There was no Belliveau on my hockey team. “Edward McFrance,” I said. “My friends call me Eddie.”

  He picked up his police radio and said, “Joyce, patch me through to home, will you? Thanks.”

  The sound of a phone ringing came over the radio, and then someone picked up.

  “Hello?” said the voice.

  “Johnny, who’s that kid on your team with the bad attitude, the one who scored the second goal on Sunday—he was in the crease but the ref didn’t see it—you know, he put up his arms like he had just won the gold medal?”

  “Jake Ritchie,” the voice said.

  “And who’s his buddy?”

  “Travis Ziegler.”

  “Okay, thanks, Johnny.”

  Johnny fucking Anderson. Damn. His mom marries a cop, and just like that he’s an informant. Coach had a drill and Johnny fucking Anderson always had it in for me. Coach called the drill “battle chops.” He’d select one of us to be the “war dog” and another to be the “gunner.” Then he’d pick up a puck and throw it to the far corner of the ice, where it would slap and bounce its way to the boards. With a nod, Coach would send out the war dog, wait a few beats, and with a second nod, send in the gunner. Johnny Anderson always seemed to be my gunner. He’d catch me with his stick right under the shoulder blades, and when I bent over from the hit, he’d spear me in the gut. But Ziegler was Johnny’s gunner once, and he dropped Johnny to the ice with a knee to the kidneys. I thought it was great. In fact, I laughed my ass off.

  Belliveau took a small notepad from his chest pocket and clicked his pen against it. “Mr. Jake Ritchie, now I’ve got your name. And your friend Travis. You guys are on my list. You know about my list?”

  I looked over and saw that he had spelled my name wrong and butchered Ziegler’s. We were the only two names on the page. Then he wrote, in parentheses: Charlie Pinkie, Eddie McFrance.

  “No, sir, I don’t, sir,” I said.

  “Mr. Ritchie, don’t be smart with me. Fleeing the scene, false impersonation. You deserve more than being on my list, not that being on my list is any small shake. This list goes to all the other cops, and if they catch you doing anything stupid—which is a long shot, right?—you’ll be talking to me again, and it won’t be anything like this.”

  Then he gave me more silence. There were no cars on the street. Where there wasn’t snow, there was sand and ice. I looked down the street, toward Stegger’s package store—Stegger had closed up hours ago, but he kept his fluorescents on. I looked back up the other way and saw an old man, stooped over, in a full-length trench coat. His movement down the sidewalk was so slow that it was barely noticeable.

  Belliveau watched the old man as he neared the cruiser’s headlights. I’ll agree that the guy was something worth staring at. Every step he took was hesitant, like a robot, and he was hunched so far over and had his hat pulled so far down that you couldn’t see his face. He was shaking everywhere. He looked about a hundred years old. He must have really needed to get to Stegger’s, and he must not have known that Stegger’s was closed. It was 1 a.m. and well below freezing.

  We were parked close enough to the sidewalk so that when the old man got in the beam of the headlights—and these were amped-up cop headlights—he moved like he was in strobe. He stopped in the lights and shook there, and when he took his next step, his feet went out from under him and he landed with a thud on his back.

  “Wait here,” said Belliveau. He got out of the cruiser and went to the old man, who was crumpled in a ball on his side.

  It was obvious Belliveau didn’t quite know how to approach the situation. He seemed the kind of cop comfortable breaking up pot parties or patrolling the ice rink during hockey games, drinking hot chocolate and nodding and smirking at the moms who had been in his high school class. He crouched down next to the old man and rested a hand on his crumpled trench coat. The old man was still shaking, but then he turned and with great force the old man yelled “FREEZE!” and I saw that it was not an old man at all; it was Ziegler.

  Belliveau leapt back, but only seemed startled for a second: then I saw his face blazing in the headlights. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open and he went after Ziegler with his hands up like a linebacker. Ziegler sprung up and raced across the lot. Belliveau was after him. This was not much of a contest. Ziegler was a streak to the dumpsters, leaving Belliveau alone in the orange fluorescent lights, galloping, black uniform cast against the snowpack. I’ll give it to Officer Friendly: he had a long stride and put in an admirable effort. He was just fat and slow.

  At the dumpsters, again Belliveau was outmatched. We knew those dumpsters well. There was a crawl space underneath the middle one, and that’s where Ziegler was hiding. I could see his breath coming out from below. Ziegler could have just sprinted over the snowbank again, but he wanted to mess with Belliveau, so just as Belliveau went looking behind the dumpsters, Ziegler shot out from the crawl space and was sprinting back across the lot. He was coming t
oward me, yelling, “Fuckface! Get out of the car!” Belliveau was still kicking like hell, and just as he sputtered a breathless “Freeze!” he belly-flopped on the snowpack.

  Ziegler got to the cruiser and screamed, “Let’s go!”

  I pointed back in the direction of Belliveau. He was facedown, arms spread, legs spread, as though he had been dropped from the sky.

  I got out of the cruiser and stood next to Ziegler and we stared back at Belliveau. He started moving his arms awkwardly, like he was trying to make a snow angel, but only in a lazy kind of way.

  The first steps we took toward Belliveau felt wrong. Then we ran, and when we got to him, we could hear him moaning. Steam rose from his back. We struggled to flip him over. He had a scratch on his forehead, spit pooling on his chin, and two slugs of snot coming from his nostrils. He said, “My pocket.” We just crouched there as he fumbled his hands around his belly. His eyes were wide and his face was red. He almost looked like a baby, jerking his arms without any real control. I put my hand in the rough pocket of his patrol pants but didn’t find anything. Ziegler had his hand in the other pocket and he took out a small tin. He handed it to Belliveau, but Belliveau dropped it in the snow. Ziegler picked it up and handed it back to Belliveau and Belliveau dropped it again. Then Ziegler opened up the lid and took a tiny white pill from the tin and placed it under Belliveau’s raised tongue. Belliveau closed his mouth, moaned again, held his chest, and rolled on his side.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Ziegler.

  “Let’s put him in the car,” I said.

  He could walk when the two of us flanked him, his arms around our shoulders. He was still wheezing but seemed better. He didn’t look at us. We laid him in the back of the cruiser. Then Ziegler got in the driver’s seat and picked up the part of the radio you talk into, stretching the curled cord. “Officer Friendly’s hurt. He’s at J.M. Biggies. We didn’t do it.”

  He dropped the radio and we ran across the parking lot, past the dumpsters, over the snowbank, and across the soccer field behind the high school. The snow was over our knees so we had to high-step. I thought Ziegler knew where he was going and he probably thought I knew where I was going. There were several fields linked up to the soccer field, most of them overgrown with crinkled milkweeds sticking up through the snow. We ran through a bunch of fields, too winded to talk. It was actually a pretty nice night, cold with lots of moonlight and no wind. I suspected we might he taking the fields in a round-about loop to Ziegler’s brother’s house. That was Wedge; he was a pothead who worked at Radio Shack and lived on his own. As we walked through the last field, I trudged in Ziegler’s tracks, and when we got to Hanover Street we sat on a snowbank to catch our breath. All the nearby houses were dark.

  “Johnny fucking Anderson,” I said.

  “What about him?” said Ziegler.

  “His mom married Officer Friendly.”

  “Shitty luck.”

  Ziegler kicked an ice ball into the street and watched breath steam from his mouth. Then he got up and I followed; we walked the two blocks to Wedge’s house. We could see from the light in the windows that his TV was on. We bounded up the stairs and through the front door. His living room was aglow with the show he was watching and Wedge was stretched out in his La-Z-Boy with a canister of potato chips. We jumped on his couch.

  “What’s up, boys,” said Wedge. It was his usual greeting.

  We were still winded, and my face burned from the heat of the room. My feet were numb. Wedge ate his chips and laughed at the TV.

  “Hey, Wedge,” said Ziegler. “We’re fucking heroes.”

  James Salter

  FOREIGN SHORES

  Mrs. Pence and her white shoes were gone. She had left two days before, and the room at the top of the stairs was empty, cosmetics no longer littering the dresser, the ironing board finally taken down. Only a few scattered hairpins and a dusting of talcum remained. The next day Truus came with two suitcases and splotched cheeks. It was March and cold. Christopher met her in the kitchen as if by accident. “Do you shoot people?” he asked.

  She was Dutch and had no work permit, it turned out. The house was a mess. “I can pay you $135 a week,” Gloria told her.

  Christopher didn’t like her at first, but soon the dishes piled on the counter were washed and put away, the floor was swept, and things were more or less returned to order—the cleaning girl came only once a week. Truus was slow but diligent. She did the laundry, which Mrs. Pence who was a registered nurse had always refused to do, shopped, cooked meals, and took care of Christopher. She was a hard worker, nineteen, and in sulky bloom. Gloria sent her to Elizabeth Arden’s in Southampton to get her complexion cleared up and gave her Mondays and one night a week off.

  Gradually Truus learned about things. The house, which was a large, converted carriage house, was rented. Gloria, who was twenty-nine, liked to sleep late, and burned spots sometimes appeared in the living room rug. Christopher’s father lived in California, and Gloria had a boyfriend named Ned. “That son of a bitch,” she often said, “might as well forget about seeing Christopher again until he pays me what he owes me.”

  “Absoutely,” Ned said.

  When the weather became warmer Truus could be seen in the village in one shop or another or walking along the street with Christopher in tow. She was somewhat drab. She had met another girl by then, a French girl, also an au pair, with whom she went to the movies. Beneath the trees with their new leaves the expensive cars glided along, more of them every week. Truus began taking Christopher to the beach. Gloria watched them go off. She was often still in her bathrobe. She waved and drank coffee. She was very lucky. All her friends told her and she knew it herself: Truus was a prize. She had made herself part of the family.

  “Truus knows where to get pet mices,” Christopher said.

  “To get what?”

  “Little mices.”

  “Mice,” Gloria said.

  He was watching her apply makeup, which fascinated him. Face nearly touching the mirror, intent, she stroked her long lashes upward. She had a great mass of blonde hair, a mole on her upper lip with a few untouched hairs growing from it, a small blemish on her forehead, but otherwise a beautiful face. Her first entrance was always stunning. Later you might notice the thin legs, aristocratic legs she called them, her mother had them, too. As the evening wore on her perfection diminished. The gloss disappeared from her lips, she misplaced earrings. The highway patrol all knew her. A few weeks before she had driven into a ditch on the way home from a party and walked down Georgica Road at three in the morning, breaking two panes of glass to get in the kitchen door.

  “Her friend knows where to get them,” Christopher said.

  “Which friend?”

  “Oh, just a friend,” Truus said.

  “We met him.”

  Gloria’s eyes shifted from their own reflection to rest for a moment on that of Truus who was watching no less absorbed.

  “Can I have some mices?” Christopher pleaded.

  “Hmm?”

  “Please.”

  “No, darling.”

  “Please!”

  “No, we have enough of our own as it is.”

  “Where?”

  “All over the house.”

  “Please!”

  “No. Now stop it.” To Truus she remarked casually, “Is it a boyfriend?”

  “It’s no one,” Truus said. “Just someone I met.”

  “Well, just remember you have to watch yourself. You never know who you’re meeting, you have to be careful.” She drew back slightly and examined her eyes, large and black-rimmed. “Just thank God you’re not in Italy,” she said.

  “Italy?”

  “You can’t even walk out on the street there. You can’t even buy a pair of shoes, they’re all over you, touching and pawing.”

  It happened outside Dean and Deluca’s when Christopher insisted on carrying the bag and just past the door had dropped it.

 
“Oh, look at that,” Truus said in irritation. “I told you not to drop it.”

  “I didn’t drop it. It slipped.”

  “Don’t touch it,” she warned. “There’s broken glass.”

  Christopher stared at the ground. He had a sturdy body, bobbed hair, and a cleft in his chin like his banished father’s. People were walking past them. Truus was annoyed. It was hot, the store was crowded, she would have to go back inside.

  “Looks like you had a little accident,” a voice said. “Here, what’d you break? That’s all right, they’ll exchange it. I know the cashier.”

  When he came out again a few moments later he said to Christopher, “Think you can hold it this time?”

  Christopher was silent.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Well, tell him,” Truus said. Then after a moment, “His name is Christopher.”

  “Too bad you weren’t with me this morning, Christopher. I went to a place where they had a lot of tame mice. Ever seen any?”

  “Where?” Christopher said.

  “They sit right in your hand.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You can’t have a mouse,” Truus said.

  “Yes, I can.” He continued to repeat it as they walked along. “I can have anything I want,” he said.

  “Be quiet.” They were talking above his head. Near the corner they stopped for a while. Christopher was silent as they went on talking. He felt his hair being tugged but did not look up.

  “Say good-bye, Christopher.”

  He said nothing. He refused to lift his head.

  In midafternoon the sun was like a furnace. Everything was dark against it, the horizon lost in haze. Far down the beach in front of one of the prominent houses a large flag was waving. With Christopher following her, Truus trudged through the sand. Finally she saw what she had been looking for. Up in the dunes a figure was sitting.

  “Where are we going?” Christopher asked.

  “Just up here.”

  Christopher soon saw where they were headed.

  “I have mices” was the first thing he said.