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one of the
     district police surgeons who worked for two and a half hours every day of the week at staggered times specified by the department
     and familiar to every member of the force. The district surgeon conducted a thorough
physical
examination, and then determined whether the officer should be allowed to stay out sick—with full pay, of course—or be put
     on limited-capacity duty for ninety days, after which the officer was expected to return to active duty unless he was
still
sick. It was up to the district surgeons and ultimately the deputy chief surgeon to determine whether a cop was really ill
     or simply malingering. Any cop who was out sick for more than a year was brought before the Retirement Boad under Article
     IV, and requested either to return to full duty or else leave the job. There was no alternative. It was all or nothing at
     all.
    The black man sitting in a straight-backed metal chair alongside Sharyn’s desk had been out sick for a hundred and twenty-two
     days now. Part of that time, he’d been flat on his back in bed at home. The rest of the time, he’d worked on and off at restricted-duty
     desk jobs in precincts here and there throughout the city. His name was Randall Garrod. He was thirty-four years old and had
     been a member of the force for thirteen years. Before he began developing severe chest pains, he had worked as an undercover
     out of a narcotics unit in Riverhead.
    “How are the pains now?” Sharyn asked.
    “Same,” he said.
    “I see you’ve had an electrocardiogram… ”
    “Yeah.”
    “… and a stress test… ”
    “Yeah.”
    “…
and
a thallium stress test, all of them normal.”
    “That’s what they say. But I still have the pains.”
    “Gastroenterologist took X rays, did an endoscopy, found nothing.”
    “Mm.”
    “I see you’ve even had an echocardiogram. No indication of a mitral valve prolapse, everything normal. So what’s wrong with
     you, Detective Garrod?”
    “You’re the doctor,” he said.
    “Take off your shirt for me, will you?”
    He was a hit shorter than she was, five-seven or -eight, Sharyn guessed, a small wiry man who stood now and unbuttoned his
     shirt and then draped it neatly over the back of the metal chair. His chest, arms, and abdomen were well-muscled, he obviously
     worked out regularly. His skin was the color of a coconut shell.
    She thought suddenly of Bert Kling. Stethoscope to Garrod’s chest, she listened.
    That color is good for you.
    Referring to her suit. The blue of her suit. The smoky blue that matched her eye shadow.
    “Deep breath,” she said. “And hold it.”
    Listening.
    Sinatra was singing “Kiss” for the ten thousand, two hundred and twenty-eighth time.
    —So hold me tight and whisper
    —Words of
    —Love against my eyes.
    —And kiss me sweet and promise
    —Me your
    —Kisses won’t be lies…
    “Another one, please. And hold it.”
    —That color is good for you.
    But what had he
really
been saying, this blond, hazel-eyed honkie sitting opposite her, twirling linguini on a fork, what had he
really
been saying about color? Or
trying
to say. How come he hadn’t until that very moment noticed or remarked upon the very obvious fact that she was black and he
     was white?
That color
is
good for you, sistuh
, and then moving on fast to comment pithily on a dumb song featuring a drunk in a saloon pouring out his heart to a jaded
     bartender who kept setting them up, Joe, when all
she
wanted to know …
    —Is it because I’m black?
    —Is what because you’re black?
    —That you asked me out.
    —No, I don’t think so. Is it because
I’m
white? That you accepted?
    —Maybe.
    —Well … do you want to talk about it?
    —No. Not now.
    —When?
    —Maybe never.
    —Okay.
    Which, of course, had been the end of all conversation until it calve time to say Gee, you know, Bert, I don’t think we have
     time to catch that movie, really, and besides we’ve both got to be up early tomorrow morning, and