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cop. The white cop sat at a nearby table and began writing in a notebook.
    The black cop said, “Yes sir, I know the boy. His name is Tyrone Battles. He’s my sister’s son.”

FIVE
    While the boy applied ice to his cheek and the bartender finished his phone report to Malone, the black cop, Aimes, took Teach to a table near the front door. As he told the story and Aimes listened, Teach tried to read the man. All he got was an even temper, a solid self-confidence, and a concern for accuracy. Sometimes the cop challenged Teach. “The boy said, Give up your wallets? You sure that’s what he said?”
    Teach said, “I think so. Maybe he just said, Give it up, but we know what that means, don’t we?”
    The policeman didn’t nod or write it down. He just looked steadily at Teach and waited for more.
    When he could, Teach glanced at McLuster who was telling his version to the thin policeman. The wad of paper towels was gone and the urine stain was fading. Teach would bet the smell was as strong as ever. The poor cop. The things these guys had to do.
    The boy, Tyrone Battles, uncuffed now, holding an iced towel to his cheek, sat watching Teach like a boxer waiting to come out of his corner. Talking to Aimes, Teach was beginning to think the boy’s intentions were the least of his problems.
    After Aimes made him tell the story a second time, Teach said, “Look, I’ve told you everything I can remember. It happened fast. I was afraid the kid was going to pull the razor. There was no way out except through him, and that’s the way I went. Frankly, I think I saved two lives in there. I don’t know why we have to keep . . .”
    The detective raised his eyebrows as Teach unreeled his good-citizen speech, his voice rising with exasperation. Teach stopped talking when he realized he had just said, “I was afraid.” Afraid was a word Teach hadn’t used much. It changed things.
    Aimes lowered his gaze, spread his big hands on the table, examined his clean, trimmed fingernails. When he looked at Teach again, his eyes were tired. “Frankly, Mr. Teach, there are two ways to look at this. One is that you just assaulted my sister’s only son who’s an honor student and the star running-back on his high school football team. Frankly, you busted open the face of a nice-looking young man who’s never been in trouble a day in his life. That’s one way.”
    Teach closed his eyes and there in the darkness the boy’s surly face leaned into his as it had in a men’s room, and he had to stop himself from shoving past Aimes and out the door. He conquered his temper and calmed his violated sense of fairness and stayed in his chair. He opened his eyes, attempted a smile, and said, “Detective, I’m trying to help you here. I’ve given you all the information I have.” He glanced at his watch and a splash of bright stage lighting burst into his mind. Jesus, the ballet recital. When? Oh Christ, soon . He had to get out of here. The cop had said there were two ways to look at this.
    Aimes said, “Mr. Teach, you said there was a razor. Where is it? The boy doesn’t have it on him.”
    Teach massaged his eyes, tried to think. “It’s still in there. In the men’s room, I mean. I heard it hit the floor when I . . .”
    Aimes looked over at the table where McLuster was unburdening himself to the white cop. “Detective Delbert,” Aimes called in that low, burring baritone, “excuse yourself for a minute there and go into the men’s room and find me the weapon Mr. Teach says he saw.”
    Teach glanced at McLuster who watched Detective Delbert walk to the men’s room. He needed McLuster to look at him, give him even the smallest reassurance, but the man only stared bleakly at the place where the trouble had started.
    The thin policeman returned from the bathroom, his face composed, something dark and gleaming in his hand. As he came on, Teach thought, He found it.
    Detective Delbert put the object on the table between Teach and Aimes,