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you probably never looked at it.”
    “I did too. And it says right on it we don’t have to memorize nothing unless it’s in bold, and the India thing and what happened next ain’t in bold.”
    “Oh really?” Mr. Pretty got haughty. “And how can you remember whether something was in bold or not if you don’t remember anything in the first place?”
    “I remember when something’s in bold!” Weed raised his voice, as if he were suddenly talking in bold.
    “No you don’t!”
    “Yes I do!”
    Mr. Pretty angrily grabbed a ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket. He began scribbling words on the Hall Duty passes and no passes sheet.
    “All right, smarty pants,” said Mr. Pretty as self-control slipped further out of reach. “I’ve written down ten words, some in bold, some not. You get one minute to look them over.”
    He handed the list to Weed: forfend, effigy, pogrom, Versailles, mead, Fabergé, Fabian, Waterloo, edict, pact. Not one word was familiar. Mr. Pretty snatched back the list.
    “Which words were in bold?” Mr. Pretty demanded.
    “I can’t pronunciate them.”
    “Versailles,” Mr. Pretty prodded him.
    Weed looked at the list in his head and located the only word that began with a V.
    “Fourth one, not in bold,” he said.
    “Pogrom!”
    “Third, not in bold.”
    “Fabian!” Mr. Pretty fired back.
    “He’s four before last. Not in bold, either.”
    “Effigy!” Mr. Pretty blurted out, his attractive face distorted by anger.
    “It’s in bold,” Weed said. “Just like five and ten are.”
    “Oh really?” Mr. Pretty was beside himself. “And just what are five and ten since you think you know so much?”
    Weed saw mead and pact in his head and pronounced them his own special way. “Med and paced.”
    “What do they mean!”
    Mr. Pretty was talking loudly and Mrs. Fan cracked open her door, out of concern, to check on things.
    “Shhhhhhhhh!” she said.
    “What do they mean, Weed?” Mr. Pretty lowered his scornful voice.
    Weed did the best he could.
    “Med is what you feel when someone disses you. And paced is what we use in art class,” he guessed.
     
    Officer Fling was guessing, too. He had gone to the next layer control, then hit function 3 for thematic display, and selected remove to get rid of the latest pie, and brought up priority one, two and three calls for fourth precinct, which was not what anyone was interested in at the moment.
    Hammer flipped on the overhead lights. The presentation was never supposed to run over an hour and it was well past the limit. She was discouraged and frustrated and determined not to let it show.
    “I realize we’re all new at this,” she said reasonably. “I understand that things don’t happen overnight. We’re going to leave computer mapping until Friday morning at seven hundred hours, by which time I’m sure we will be well versed in it?”
    No one responded.
    “Officer Fling?” she said.
    His hands were lifeless on the keyboard. He looked dejected and defeated.
    “Do you think you will be able to make this work by Friday’s COMSTAT presentation?” Hammer persisted.
    “No, ma’am.” Fling was honest about it.
    The door opened and West returned to the room and took her seat.
    “Okay, Officer Fling, that’s fair enough,” Hammer said in a positive tone. “Is there anybody else who might want to learn how to work this program? It’s really very user-friendly. The point was not to design it for programmers and engineers, but for police.”
    No one spoke.
    “Officer Brazil, help me out here,” Hammer said.
    “Sure,” he said dubiously.
    “Maybe for now you’d better pitch in,” Hammer said. “Deputy Chief West? You’re also very familiar with the software. See if the two of you can’t work to get this thing up and running. I expect smooth sailing by our next COMSTAT presentation.”
    “Who’s willing to learn?” West asked, looking around the table. “Come on guys, show some guts.”
    Lieutenant Audrey Ponzi