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of my coffee, made a couple more notes. “Red Honda,” Lawrence said. “Coming this way. Can’t see the wheels, not sure whether it’s the same one. Come here.”
    “Huh?” I said.
    “Just come here,” he said, pulling me toward him and slipping his arms around me in an embrace. His cheek was pressed up against mine, his lips just to the side of my own. He felt warm, and there was a scent of aftershave. Hesitantly at first, I raised my right arm and slipped it around his shoulder.
    As the Honda drove by, Lawrence casually moved his head around to give it a better look. Even with Lawrence’s head pressed up against mine, I could see that this car had simple hubcaps.
    “Not our car,” Lawrence said, freeing me from his embrace and leaning back up against his window. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get fresh. I was afraid, had it been the same car, he was going to make us. Two guys sitting in a car at night, that’s a surveillance. Two guys going at it, well, that’s something else. And congratulations on not freaking out.”
    “I’m fine,” I said.
    “Not to worry,” he said. “You’re not my type anyway.”
    I gave that a moment. “What do you mean, I’m not your type?”
    Lawrence glanced over. “I’m just saying, if you were gay, you wouldn’t be the kind of guy I’d go for.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “Nothing personal,” Lawrence said.
    “Of course not,” I said. As if it could be anything but.
    “You could dress a little better,” he said.
    We were both quiet for a moment. There was no traffic on the street. “So, let me try again,” I said. “Why’d you leave the force?”
    Lawrence breathed out, sounded tired. “This isn’t for your feature.”
    I slipped my pen through the metal spiral at the top of my notepad. “Go ahead.”
    “I’d made detective about eight, nine years ago, I guess, and towards the end, last year or so, I was partnered with this guy, Steve Trimble, the guy you met last night. Okay guy, knew him back when we were both in uniform. Married, had a kid who must be in college by now. Didn’t seem to have any hang-ups working with a guy who was not only black, but gay.”
    “The rest of the department, they knew?”
    “I’m not keeping any secrets, man. This is who I am. You don’t like it, you can kiss my ass. Trimble seemed okay with it, we got along well, I got to know his wife, I’d go over to his place sometimes, hang out.
    “We got a call one night. We’re plainclothes now, detectives, and we’re working some case, can’t remember what, but a call comes over, some sounds of gunfire in the west end, the warehouse district. We were a block away, I guess, so I thought maybe we should just take a stroll by, and Steve thinks okay, why not. So we turn off from this street of row houses, which is probably where the call came from, someone hearing shots, and we’re driving nice and slow, windows down, looking and listening for anything suspicious. And the thing is, it could be nothing, you know? Some old lady, hears a car backfire, she calls 911.
    “We’re driving down between these two big industrial buildings when suddenly this car comes screaming around the corner ahead of us, one of these low-slung rice machine jobs with the dark-tinted windows, and Steve slides a flashing red light onto the roof, pulls across the street to block his way. Might be nothing, right, but it is suspicious, so few cars down there, this one appearing out of nowhere.
    “So we try to flag him down, and he veers, going right up on the sidewalk and around, and by this time we’re out of the car, both of us, guns drawn, and Steve takes a shot, at the tires, because with the windows tinted you don’t know how many people are in the car, it’s just too risky. He doesn’t hit the car, but the driver’s losing control and hits a telephone pole a hundred yards up or so. The door opens and this white kid bails, starts running away from us, and Steve’s after him on foot and I go back for