The cop’s mouth fell slightly open.
“And he’s missing at least two front teeth.” Jack smiled cheekily.
Chandler lowered his eyes and rubbed his forehead.
“What?” Jack shrugged. “He knocked down that old lady.”
“How did you remember all that?” Denby asked.
“I’m studying to be a cop.”
Denby radioed in the enhanced description of the junkie, then nodded toward the weapon on the ground. “Is this the knife the guy had on him?” He took a plastic evidence bag from his pocket.
“Yes, sir, it is.”
Chandler pointed to Jack’s side. “Did you tear your shirt?”
“Crud,” Jack muttered as he stuck a finger through the slice in his t-shirt. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Chandler grabbed Jack’s shirt and examined it. “Did he stab you?”
“No.” Jack pulled back. “It’s a scratch.”
“A guy almost slices you up and you’re more worried about your t-shirt.”
“I looked really good in it.”
Chandler shook his head. “That’s why you call the cops. Simple math. Bad guys have knives. Cops have guns.”
“I got the handbag.”
“You don’t get it,” Chandler said. “Nothing’s worth getting killed over, Jack. What would your father say?”
Jack ran his hand through his thick brown hair. “Don’t bring my dad into it. That’s crossing the line.”
“Ha!” Chandler said. “Your dad would flip out and he’d be right.”
“Whatever. I got the purse back.”
“You pull any of that hero stuff in the Army and I’ll shoot you myself.” Chandler shook his head, but he grinned.
Denby picked up the purse. “You boys enlist?”
Jack nodded. “Yes, sir. We go to basic in three months. Serve two years. Pay for college with a GI bill, and then off to the Police Academy.”
“I went through Fort Benning.”
“We don’t know where they’re sending us yet,” Chandler said.
A police cruiser stopped at the end of the alley, and the old woman peered out of the window.
Denby handed the purse to Jack. “I think you can do the honors.”
Chandler nudged him forward, and Jack walked over to the car.
The woman opened the window and leaned out, her hands gripping the frame. Her deep brown eyes searched Jack’s face.
Jack held out the purse. “Here you go, ma’am.”
“Oh, thank you.” Her bruised hand trembled as she took it. She zipped it open, checked that the pharmacy bag was still inside, then clutched it to her chest. “Thank you. Thank you, young man.” She reached out for Jack’s arm. Her frail hand, as light as a bird, patted him.
“It was our pleasure, ma’am.” Jack nodded toward Chandler and the cop.
She waved them closer, then reached out and squeezed Chandler’s hand too. “You boys are my heroes.”
“We’re just happy to help, ma’am.” Chandler tipped his head to the woman, then to Denby, and he and Jack headed down the street.
When they were out of earshot, Jack swaggered like a cowboy and in his best John Wayne Texan drawl said, “We’re just happy to help, little lady,” as he tipped an imaginary ten-gallon hat.
Chandler punched his arm. “Shut up. You’re making me sound corny.”
“You are.” Jack laughed.
“Whatever!” Chandler waved him off. “That cop was right—you should have called the police.”
“What was I going to do? Did you see her? All scared and helpless. I had to do something. Anyways, her stuff would be as good as gone if I hadn’t.”
Chandler grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him to stop. “Seriously. I know you’ve had a hard life, Jack, and you want to help others. But you can’t help everyone.”
“I’m not. She was different. Believe me, I stick my neck out for nobody.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I mean it. Nobody.” Jack walked on.
“You say that, except you keep doing just that,” Chandler said, catching up. “Someday you’re going to find someone you can’t help, Jack. Not everyone can be saved.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jack said, but as he walked on a pit began to grow in his stomach.
2
A Bright Future
Stacy sat in her stiff office chair and listened to the quiet. All was silent around her little cubicle; the last of her coworkers had gone home over an hour ago. But to be sure, she raised herself up on the arms of her chair to peek over the cubicle wall at the maze of cubbies that surrounded hers. Only when she was certain she was alone did she dare to break one of the standing rules at H.T. Wells Financial: she slipped her aching feet out of their high-heeled prisons. Wiggling her toes, she settled back in her chair and let herself enjoy her mini-rebellion.