The Administrator Read Online Free Page B

out a cigarette and lit it. Hot, satisfying smoke rushed down my throat. I held my breath as long as I could and exhaled slowly. Lazy smoke curled up over the table. “Because I’m hooked on caffeine, but who can afford the real stuff? And once a month, I treat myself to a pack of real cigarettes, whether I deserve it or not. What about you, Shelly? Don’t you have any vices?”
    “No. I’m perfect.” She laughed again.
    I liked her laugh. It was husky and strong, not like most women’s giggles. “Obviously, you do have one fault. You’re not real smart or you wouldn’t have joined the force.” I grinned my best boy to girl “just kidding” grin. “Why did you join the force, Shelly?”
    She pushed unruly, red curls away from her sky blue eyes exposing a too broad forehead hovering over thick eyebrows. Her square jaw and ski slope nose made her plain face seem pleasant. She was no raving beauty, but I’ve seen a lot of women with pretty faces who are much uglier.
    She was silent for a moment then said, “In the neighborhood where I grew up, a girl became a nun or she turned tricks on the street. I tried both. I didn’t like either option, so I went into rookie training. I figured they would stick me behind a desk somewhere answering 911 calls, but I guess the pretty girls get those jobs. So here I am. Patrolling the same streets I used to stroll looking for Johns.” She smiled. “It’s your turn, Gordy. Why did you become a cop?”
    “Beats the hell out of me why anyone does it, especially me. But what else is there? My father was a cop and his father before him. Family tradition I guess. Besides, I’m lazy. Being a policeman’s son made it easy. I already knew the rules. At least, I did until they changed them. Now, I’m not real sure exactly what the rules are.”
    “You mean rules like why we have to let that kid go back to the streets just because he’s a juvenile? So he can kill someone else?”
    “Yeah, like that.”
    “Like body selling?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Like criminal justice?”
    Slamming the cup on the table and adding another brown blotch to its dingy surface, I snapped, “What do you know about justice? Rookie school teaches you all the rights criminals have. Don’t hurt the little creeps. Don’t talk rough to them. Give them TV, soft beds, new shoes, telephones in their cells so they can talk to their lawyers, camping trips to the few forests still left for rehabilitation. The same forests that are closed to the public because the justice system needs them for poor misguided criminals. Yeah we know all the rules, but what about justice for the victims? What about justice for all the poor bastards who go to work everyday in the organ factories knowing they are killing themselves with the chemicals they use? And what happens to those organs? We give whatever the wealthy can’t use to prison inmates because they have rights too!”
    She frowned. “Hey, Gordy, I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot. Just making conversation. That’s all.” Her blue eyes were wide but not scared or surprised, kind of cool and maybe a little amused.
    Damn, I berated myself, I’m supposed to be the observer, the cool one. Why did I let her yank my chain like that? I summoned my ‘it was all a joke’ smile and said, “No sore spot. No more than any other cop. Except maybe for the Psyches. Tell me, Shelly, are you an undercover Psyche? Maybe checking out my sanity?”
    She chuckled. “Hey, I’m the rookie. Remember?”
    I felt a bit uneasy, but I didn’t know why. Later that night, after my fourth bourbon, it hit me. According to the rules, when you ask someone if they are an undercover shrink, they have to tell you if they are. Entrapment laws being what they are.
    She hadn’t said she was, but she didn’t exactly say she wasn’t either. I made a mental note to check her out. Certain members of the Justice League were not above having the watchers become the watched.
    The next morning, I pulled