Free The Fregoli Delusion by Michael J. McCann

his belt and drops onto the sidewalk behind him. Apparently
the holster was one of the swivel types. The swivel broke and the gun fell
right out. The guy never even noticed.”
    “Good lord,” Hank said.
    “I’m just getting started. A
little old lady is walking behind him. Short little thing with the long black
dress, big black shoes and a black kerchief over her head, big black purse on her
arm. Typical Italian grandmother. She bends down, picks up the gun, and starts
after the guy with it, holding it out in front of her.”
    “Oh, oh.”
    “You got it. The guy’s partner
comes out of the next store, sees this short person with a black robe and black
headdress trotting after his partner, holding out a gun, and he thinks he’s
suddenly in the middle of some kind of terrorist action.”
    “Shit.”
    “Now I’m thinking, Johnny’s gonna
tell me the partner drew his weapon and shot the old lady dead.” She shook her
head. “The guy tackles her from behind, down onto the sidewalk. Bam.”
    Hank smiled.
    “By this time Johnny Go’s dodging
traffic to get across the street. When he gets there the guy’s still lying on
top of her, and he’s trying to pull the gun out of her hand. She won’t let go,
and she’s yelling, “Is his , is his !”
    Hank started to laugh.
    “Johnny gets there and pulls them
both up. By this time, the first guy’s turned around and walking back, trying
to figure out what the hell’s going on. The old lady holds out the gun to him
and he stops dead, thinking that whatever it is, it ain’t over. So he reaches
for his sidearm and, what do you know, it ain’t there.
    “The old lady says, ‘Hey you, you
droppa you gun! Take it!’”
    Hank looked out the window,
laughing.
    “So the guy takes his gun and
Johnny says to the other guy, ‘Apologize to the lady for knocking her down.’ So
the guy apologizes. She hauls off and hits him right in the marbles with her
purse.”
    “Ouch.”
    “Johnny says to me, ‘Lesson Number
One, Stains, be aware of your firearm at all times. Lesson Number Two, make
sure your equipment never lets you down. Check it before and after every shift.’
And Lesson Number Three?”
    Hank looked at her.
    “Never judge by appearances.”
    Hank listened to the silence
between them for a block.
    “Most of the guys figured Peralta
was a lifer, but I knew better,” Karen said, throwing a glance over her
shoulder and changing lanes. “She was too quiet. Most guys, when they’re coming
down from the adrenaline high, they want to talk about it, tell jokes, make
some noise. Not her. She bottled it all up and pretended it wasn’t there.
People who take that route, they better be good at unplugging from the emotion
or it’s going to eat them alive. Peralta couldn’t unplug from it, no matter how
much she pretended she could.” They rocketed through an amber light. “Only a
matter of time, Lou.”
    “You may be right.”
    “I am.” She glanced over at him
again. “I know a lifer when I see one.”
    Hank pretended to be confused.
“What? Are you talking about me, now?”
    She grinned at him, but it was
gone almost as quickly as it had come. “We’ve got that much in common, my
friend. We’re both lifers.”
    Hank said nothing.
    “So let me get this straight.” She
braked for a red light at the corner of Bowley and Woodfern. “This country club
we’re going to doesn’t allow women?”
    “Correct.” Hank had made two calls
as they were leaving Jarrett Tower, the first to Richard Holland, who assured
him he’d wait in the grill room of the Woodfern Golf and Country Club until
Hank arrived, and the second to the general manager of the club, Tate
Bernhardt. Hank was well known to Bernhardt as a long-standing member of
Woodfern whose family had been prominent members for several generations. Just
the same, Bernhardt expressed strong misgivings when it was explained to him
that Hank would be accompanied into the club by a female detective. Karen