by JoAnna Carl
So, for whatever reason, Mike Svenson had come back to his hometown. In one sense he was a conquering hero—a hometown boy who had made good in the big city. In another sense, he was an interloper. Before he even had his electricity turned on, I was getting calls about him.
He’s a spy for Jameson, the patrol cops told me.
His job was to infiltrate the union, the detectives said.
The TAC team members, the people some cities call a SWAT team, were sure they were the target for Jameson’s plan. Mike Svenson, they told me, was being brought in to feed Jameson information on what that division—a notoriously independent crew—was up to.
“And just what are you up to?” I asked.
“Not a thing!” they said. “We’re innocent little lambs.”
Heaven knows what other tales went around. I began to feel a certain sympathy for Mike Svenson. And I felt a certain curiosity. It wasn’t only his news value which made me ask Coy-the-Cop to set up an interview with him the first week he was on duty. I wanted to meet the subject of all this gossip.
Mike did the interview during a break from rookie school, so he was wearing his solid navy blue patrolman’s uniform. A big, redheaded guy with a slightly off-center nose and a wary look around the eyes. Brown eyes, I noticed, very close in color to his mahogany hair. No freckles.
Mike Svenson turned out to be the reporter’s nightmare—a guy who answers all questions smoothly, bland with a capital B but says nothing. He wouldn’t talk about his background. He just gave me a one-page resumé. He shrugged off his decorations for heroism. “Just lucky,” he said.
Why was he back in Grantham? “I wanted to start work on my masters in public administration, and Grantham State has a good program. Besides, I got tired of smog and snow. Until you’ve pulled midnight-to-eight surveillance in subzero temperatures, you don’t know how good the weather can look on the southern plains.”
He was Mr. Cautious. Dull, duller, dullest.
So finally I went outrageous. “Of course, everybody gossips about a thirty-year-old guy who’s still a bachelor,” I said. “Do you have a girlfriend? A fiancée? A special friend?”
I’d never met a cop I couldn’t get a rise out of by a slur on his masculinity, and for a minute I thought Mike Svenson was going to say what he thought without mapping it out first. His eyes widened, and he took a deep breath.
Coy-the-Cop, who was sitting in on the interview at Mike’s request, cleared his throat. “Now, Nell, that question is a little out of line. What relevance—”
But Mike silenced Coy with a gesture. “It’s okay, Coy,” he said. “She’s just trying to get a rise out of me. That’s her job.”
Then he spoke seriously. “I’m sorry if I’m hard to interview, Ms. Matthews. I’m not as colorful as my dad was. If your readers are really interested in my personal life, you can put me down as a practicing heterosexual.”
I left that out of the story, of course. Coy was right. It wasn’t relevant. The word “single,” inserted early in the story, was all that was needed. And I hadn’t seriously suspected Mike Svenson was anything but a practicing heterosexual. In fact, something in his self-assured air hinted that he’d had quite a lot of practice being heterosexual.
But I was glad I’d asked. I didn’t learn anything about Mike Svenson’s sex life, but I found out that he could shut up Coy-the-Cop with a wave of his hand. Many’s the time I’d wished I had that knack.
Mike and I had crossed paths fairly often during the eighteen months since that interview. Once the photog and I ran on a four-car smash-up on Plains Parkway, with two dead, and Mike was directing traffic around the scene. He handled a semi with the same aplomb he’d used on Coy-the-Cop.
The fall after Mike had returned, a year before Bo Jenkins holed up in the Grantham Central PD station, I’d decided it was time to drop the guy who talked me into moving to Grantham, the one I’d begun to call “Professor Tenure.” I think he was tired of me, too. At any rate, we called off the rather vague plans we’d had for a wedding, and for the past year I had concentrated on the violence beat. I’d even begun to eat breakfast in Guy Unitas’s booth at the Main Street Grill once a week or so.
Guy’s big corner booth is the place to find out what rank-and-file cops really think about the world. No bosses ever join that group, so it gave me a new slant on the violence beat, different from the official word I got from Coy-the-Cop Blakely, the department spokesman.
Mike also turned up there sometimes. It was interesting to see him work the higher-ranking cops—some of them were younger than he was, of course. He could use a deferential tone without seeming servile. And he never mentioned Chicago, no matter how well it would fit into the conversation.
That’s when I began to see how intelligent he was—intelligent as in crafty.
After a year Mike moved from probationary to full patrolman’s status, and he was driving one of the first cars to reach the scene of the Coffee Cup killings. That turned into the most grisly crime story I’ve ever covered—a holdup gone wrong that left four waitresses dead and a cook in the hospital. As one of the first officers on the scene, Mike was the guy who secured the item which turned out to be the key evidence—a blue jeans jacket dropped in the gutter halfway down the block—and Jim Hammond, the senior detective in charge of the case, pulled him onto the investigative team as a uniformed gofer. He just happened to be the one sat down for coffee and chitchat with one of the suspects after the guy had had a session with Hammond. I’ve listened to the tape, and it was an amazing performance. Mike kept begging the guy not to tell him anything, kept repeating that he should have his lawyer present. And the guy kept talking. Talked himself right onto death row.
That’s when I really began to see how subtle Mike’s intelligence could be. He played the guy like a harp. And all perfectly legal.
The Coffee Cup killings turned out to be a turning point for me, too. My interview with the mother of the waitress whose boyfriend had dropped the jacket made the national wire and won an award at the state Associated Press convention. It also gave me the nerve to write more personally, when the situation called for it. There’s more to journalism than the five W’s and an H—“who, what, where, why, and how.”
After that case Mike had been pretty well accepted in the Grantham PD, and very few had griped when he had been named the chief negotiator for hostage situations just three months earlier. He’d handled only a few suicide threats until Bo Jenkins erupted into the news. The standoff at the Grantham Police Department had been his first big negotiation, and it had ended so well we were all celebrating at the Fifth Precinct.
Now I realized Mike was sliding into the booth beside me.
“Does this place have food?” I asked. “I never got any dinner.”
“They have hamburgers,” he said. He waved a hand, and a waitress appeared. Those gestures of his were magic. “Can you bring a menu?”
“Never mind,” I said, yelling over the noise in the joint. “I’ll have a hamburger and a side of fries.”
The waitress nodded. “What do you want on the hamburger?”
“What comes on it?”
“Pickles, mustard, onion, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise.”
“Pickles and mustard only, please.”
“That’s a Number two. Pickles, mustard, and onions.”
“No! No onions! Hold the onions!”
I yelped the request out loudly. Then I felt like a fool. I gulped my beer and tried to assure myself that the crowd at that table had no way of knowing I normally ate onions on my hamburgers. They couldn’t tell that sitting beside Mike Svenson made me want to avoid onion-breath at all costs.
You’re a complete idiot, I told myself. You may be hot for Mike Svenson, but he hasn’t indicated that he’s all that interested in you. The elevator incident may have been your imagination, and that eye contact may have been me
aningless. And that jostle in the crowd could well have been an accident.
Then Mike scooted over slightly. The length of his thigh pressed against mine. His leg moved slightly. He looked directly at me. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m about to fall on the floor.”
Well. That changed matters. We were sitting cheek to cheek. His meaning was hard to mistake.
I had to make a decision. Quick, Nell! Are you serious about going to bed with this guy? I looked directly into his eyes. He looked directly back. My pelvic muscles did their little exercise again. I took a deep breath and made up my mind.
“Here,” I said, “I’ll try to give you some more room.” I wriggled in my seat.
My shoulders may have moved away from Mike. But I didn’t move my leg. We were still sitting thigh to thigh.
He put his arm along the back of the booth, and he touched my shoulder as he did it. I moved infinitesimally closer to his rib cage. His thigh pressed harder.
Then I looked across at Coy-the-Cop. Was he noticing this? To my relief, he was standing with his back to us, talking to the state cop. He hadn’t been looking at us.
Coy motioned to Mike then, and Mike got up again. I began to talk to the dispatcher. How long have you been on the force? Are you from Grantham? Why did you want to go into law enforcement? It’s a poor reporter who can’t make conversation.
Mike was up and down, and I was interrupted quite a bit while I wolfed my hamburger. He slid in and out of the booth, and we rubbed knees and thighs. As I was chomping on the final few fries, he sat down one more time, and we were once more sitting cheek to cheek. His face remained completely innocent.
“Still hungry?” he said.
“No,” I said.
“Thirsty?”
I tapped the bottle on the table. “Somebody bought another round.” I tried to look as innocent as he did. “If I need anything, it’s quiet. This place is pretty noisy.”
Mike’s hand dropped casually onto my shoulder. “I’ve had about all the celebration I can stand.”
“Me, too.”
“Do you need a ride home?”
“My car’s at the Gazette.”
“I could give you a lift.”
“Thanks. I accept.”
We looked at each other, and Mike began to move out of the booth. He held his hand out toward me.
“Wait,” I said. “I guess I should speak to Coy before I leave. You go ahead.”
Mike frowned, then nodded. “Not a bad idea. I’ll wait at the corner. A black pickup, with a camper shell.”
He walked across to one of the detectives, and I busied myself with saying good-bye to the people in the booth. Both couples were involved in their own dialogues. None of them had seemed to notice Mike and me. I assured them I had a ride. I didn’t say who was giving it to me.
Then I had to make my way across the room. I know a lot of cops, and they all seemed to be there. They all wanted me to stop and talk. Mike went on out the door, and I got more and more impatient, ready to get out of there.
By the time I tapped Coy on the shoulder, I was definitely in a hurry. Walking across the room had taken me so long that I was afraid Mike might lose interest. Or I might lose my nerve.
“Coy, thanks for arresting me and making me socialize with cops,” I said. It was still loud in there. I was almost yelling.
“Hey, Nellie!” He’d gotten way ahead of me in the beer department, I deduced. “You’re not leaving?”
“Yeah. It’s been a long day.”
“I’ll take you.”
I laughed. “No way. I’ve got a ride. You’d better not even drive yourself.”
Coy giggled and pointed at a big cop named, believe it or not, Clancy. He was sitting near the door.
“Clancy’s our designated driver,” he said. “He’s a teetotaler.” He put his arm around me and gave me a big hug. “It’s been a hellova day, Nell. Hey, Joe Simpson told me you spoke to Bo Jenkins as they were taking him away.”
“We accidentally wound up nose to nose. I couldn’t pretend we hadn’t met.” I pulled away from Coy. Funny, Mike put his arm around me, and it was terrific. Coy did it, and I had an impulse to stomp on his instep.
He gripped me more tightly. “What did Bo have to say?”
“Just muttered his usual gibberish,” I said. Mike was waiting for me. Why wouldn’t Coy let me go?”
“Joe said you told him you’d interview him.”
All I could think of was Mike. I elbowed Coy in the ribs and pulled away. “Coy, once he’s detoxed, he won’t want to be interviewed.”
“Would you really interview that kook?”
“I wouldn’t want to break my word, Coy. Listen, I’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you Monday.”
I escaped his grasp and waved good-bye. I reached the door with only a few more greetings and a couple of beery kisses. I nodded to Clancy, the designated driver. He did not insist on running a Breath-a-lyzer on me.
I shoved the door open, went out, and looked left.
Lights flashed off and on, and I saw the black pickup, with camper shell, up the block. I conquered the impulse to run. I forced myself to walk toward it calmly.
Mike got out and came around to open the passenger’s door. I could have told a cop owned the truck. The inside lights had been disconnected. Mike handed me in as politely as a teenager at his senior prom, then he leaned in after me, sliding his left hand around the back of my neck.
The kiss nearly melted my teeth. It went on for quite a while, involving creative tongue action and inspiring heavy breathing from both of us.
When Mike stood up again, he left his hand on the back of my neck.
He sighed deeply, and the sigh had a tremor to it. He looked directly at me. I wasn’t ready for the question he asked.
“How much have you had to drink?”
I laughed. “One beer.”
“You’re sure you’re not under the influence?”
“Not of beer. Euphoria, maybe. Why? Do you usually have to get girls drunk before they’ll accept rides from you?”
He grinned then, and I remembered that his grin could be nearly as stimulating as the kiss.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re sober. So that’s your last excuse for escaping the ultra-deluxe, A-number-one, wide-screen, supercolossal effort to get you in bed.”
“Shut up and drive,” I said.
Chapter 5
I guess suave is in the eye of the beholder, but Mike met my personal test. He got in the truck, then leaned against me, and pulled my seat belt over.
“Buckle up,” he said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you before we get to my house.”
Buckling up, of course, involved a bit of touching. And another lengthy kiss.
He drove a couple of blocks, then he looked over at me. “Is my house okay? I’m flexible.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“It sounds better than my place. I share a house with three other people, and one of our rules is no boyfriends.”
“No boyfriends?”
“Not overnight. Not after the time one refused to leave for a month. Two of us didn’t like sharing a bathroom with him.”
Mike laughed. He put his right hand on my knee. I turned sideways in the seat and ran my forefinger around his ear. He seemed to like that.
“On the other hand,” I said, “how well-equipped is your house?”
“I’ve got plumbing. A coffeepot. A kingsize bed. Maybe some beer in the icebox. What do you want?”
“I’m not too particular about the size of the bed, but I quit taking the pill nearly a year ago.”
“Oh. I’m not sure—” He swung into a convenience store at the next corner. “Just be a minute.”
Like I say, suave is in the eye of the beholder. If he’d had
condoms in his wallet, I might have gotten out and called a cab. A guy who’s ready to get lucky at all times turns me off. I figure a guy like that isn’t too particular about whom he gets lucky with. And what does that make me?
Mike was cool about buying condoms. He didn’t sneak in or look around guiltily. In fact, he bought several other items—I could see him walking up and down the aisles. When he came out, he put a sack behind his seat. “I got some orange juice and a toothbrush,” he said, “in case you decide to stay over.”
Like I say, suave.
After that the party began to get exciting. Seat belts don’t have to be too confining. Besides, Mike lived in an older neighborhood of Grantham, just ten minutes away from the Central Station. It’s probably lucky that it wasn’t any farther.
I discovered that he liked the hand on the knee business as well as I did, particularly when I let my fingers walk up his thigh, toward the groin. Then I’d back off, pull away, and fold my hands together.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you from your driving.”
He laughed. “I didn’t know you’d turn out to be a tease.”
“Do you mind?”
He stroked the inside of my thigh. “Nope.”
All this fooling around had quite an effect on Mike, but I can’t say it was because I’m particularly tantalizing. He was in the mood. I was in the mood. We’d shared an awful day, but it had ended right. Adrenaline was coursing through our bodies and leaving us both feeling euphoric. Teasing and exciting each other was the entertainment for the evening. By the time he punched the garage door opener on his sun visor, we were both in a state of high sexual excitement.
Once we were in the garage, I flipped my seat belt off and reached for him. But he pushed me away.
“No! I don’t dare,” he said.
“What! Have you brought me clear over here under false pretenses? I thought I was going to get sex.”
“You can have it, but not in a truck. I may not be the coolest guy in the world, but I don’t make out in vehicles. Especially vehicles that don’t even have a backseat.”