"Normally I'd start with why you're interested in police work," he said. "In your case I'm asking why not."
"Seriously? Nobody likes cops, unless we're dialing nine-one-one, and even then things could go either way." I told him working here would be strictly a day job, until I hit the lottery, became famous for starring in anything other than a sex tape, or married well and moved to the Hills, whichever came first. "Too much information?" I added.
Concealing a little smile he wasn't about to offer again free of charge, he opened a manila folder, browsing my job application. "I see you worked as a housekeeper for an Arab sheik. Care to elaborate on that?"
"Not really," I said.
He shut the folder and looked at me over his glasses. Turns out he has really nice eyes. Softer than you'd think. Maybe a little too tired, considering our work day had just begun. I wondered if anyone had made him breakfast. "Police records may not sound all that exciting to a young girl like you, but you're going to have access to some very sensitive information. If you've got a few problems in your past, we might be able to work with that -- but only if you're willing to come clean up front."
"So my old boss might have been a terrorist!" I blurted out. "That perv had more porn stashed under his bed than Saddam Hussein. Did you ever hear he was internet stalking Darryl Hannah? True story. Or maybe that was Castro." He gave in to a fit of uncontrolled laughter, growing more annoyed with every undignified snort. "Who are you?" he finally managed.
"Who are you?" I was dying to reply. Typical cop, the guy wouldn't tip his hand if you reached over and broke it in half. Awards and commendations obscured his walls, stamped with the official seal of one government tool or another. A glass case held some kind of military medal (Army? Air Force? Marines?), alongside a stainless steel yo-yo inscribed "Jeremy, 7-15-03" (Date of birth? Date of death? Dating a guy named Jeremy?).A silver desk frame sat empty behind the glass (I mean, seriously?) -- while a platinum ring (Wedding? Fraternity? Spy decoder?) had been set on its side as though defied to roll off and disappear at any time. I couldn't quite make out the engraving without squinting, and I wasn't about to give him the pleasure of catching me doing it.
"Captain," he corrected me. "I'm only Chuck when the lights are out." He shot me a knowing look, and might even have tossed in a wink, though it's entirely possible I imagined both.
"I'm Cherry all the time," I shot back, totally the victor in our little game of cat and captain. I picked up his pencil and gave it a good hard nibble to remember me by. "Am I going to get my own desk?"
