Free The Snowfly by Joseph Heywood Page A

Fistrip, the would-be cop and officer, a practicing thief.
    Spruce Graham smelled of fresh lilacs and was so close I felt cocooned by her perfume.
    â€œHow’s your husband?” I asked.
    â€œNot here,” she whispered.
    The alarms sounded in my head again. I was shaking. “He’s not Superman.”
    â€œNot hardly,” she said. “He can’t see through cinder-block walls.”
    I could barely hear her.
    â€œAlone at last, but we can’t smoke,” I said, trying to make a joke.
    She didn’t say anything. We were both tense with anticipation and lightheaded. I needed words, the right words.
    â€œMaybe there’s something we could do here that we couldn’t do in the car.”
    â€œCould be,” she said. “Were you thinking of something in particular?”
    You learn by experience. With some women, it’s the man’s job to make the first move.
    I put my finger under her chin and lifted gently.
    Our kiss was soft and sweet and long. When it was finished, she put her hands on my chest and pushed me gently away.
    â€œSorry,” I said. A programmed response.
    She touched her finger to my lips. “Hush,” she said. “I never cheated before.”
    I felt a surge of guilt and tried to apologize again, but she stopped me. “It’s not like it feels like a sin or anything. I just don’t want to get caught. Can you understand that?”
    I understood her husband was trained in the use of weapons. I didn’t want to get caught either.
    â€œBowie, my husband hasn’t touched me since last June. Do you think I’m ugly?”
    â€œNo way.”
    â€œAll he thinks about is school and becomin’ an officer. Here it is New Year’s Eve and he’s studyin’. Dammit, I’ve got needs, Bowie. Big needs. It’s healthy to have needs. Maybe when school’s finished, things’ll be better for him and me, but right now I’ve just got these-here needs and he’s studyin’. Y’all understand?
    â€œI got this girlfriend,” she went on. “Julianna? Her hubby’s also a Bootstrapper and she’s goin’ through the same thing so she took her a boyfriend on the side? She keeps tellin’ me go ahead and do it, but I just don’t want to get caught.”
    â€œWell, if you’re not sure,” I muttered, stepping back. What was I supposed to say?
    â€œGeez, Bowie.” She let out a loud sigh. “You’re thick as cold chicken fat.”
    Which was her final comment of the evening. I had blown it. She retreated a few steps and tripped the circuit breaker so that the warehouse was bathed in light. She went back to her inventory and I went off to patrol the floors with rubber legs and a pounding heart.
    Nash returned three days later and invited me over to his house on Friday night to eat some redfish he had brought back with him. I went to the Collection Room to retrieve the white flies. I looked at the hiding area and it looked undisturbed, but when I dug down into the pile, I could not find the wooden box. At first I thought I’d misplaced them, but that couldn’t be. I tried to remain calm and began moving everything in sight, but the flies were gone. I had Nash’s key. As far as I knew, only the janitor had another key. There was no other conclusion: Somebody had broken in and stolen the fly box.
    When I got to Doc Nash’s house I was in a lousy mood. I should have stolen the white flies. At least I would still have them.
    Nash grilled the redfish and told me about fishing he’d done in Florida. “Bonefish,” he said. “Talk about energy and efficiency. Like catching an artillery shell.”
    This was as lyrical as I’d ever heard him on the subject of fishing. He was peeling from sunburn and his hair seemed whiter.
    I told him about the white flies.
    â€œWhat species?”
    â€œNot specimens, trout flies. Huge