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and Teach saw the cops’ eyes meet for an instant in certainty, gravity, and without surprise. And he saw that the shiny black thing on the table was a comb. Teach stared at its black plastic handle, his eyes straining to turn it into what he was sure he had seen. The cop’s low, musical voice said, “That’s not a razor, Mr. Teach. It’s what the kids call a pick.”
    Teach searched the man’s obsidian eyes, hoping to find some favor in them for the mistake he had made when he’d had only seconds to make anything at all. Aimes rose and walked across the bar to the table where McLuster and Delbert sat. When Aimes put his hand on Delbert’s shoulder, Teach thought: That hand holds the power of the state. That hand takes away a man’s belt and shoelaces, handcuffs him, and leads him out of a courtroom to a holding cell, and from there to some godforsaken, sun-hammered prison where he eats beans and collards and waits for his time on the exercise yard, and watches, if he’s lucky, television programs that appeal to morons. Teach knew where a man went when that hand touched him.
    The two cops moved to the bar and stood there talking. McLuster looked everywhere but at Teach, and Tyrone Battles held the bloody towel to his cheek.
    When Aimes and Delbert finished, the white cop went back to sit with McLuster. Aimes approached Teach. “Mr. Teach, my colleague, Detective Delbert, tells me that Mr. McLuster over there says you just lost it in that men’s room. He doesn’t know why. A big overreaction thing is what he calls it.”
    Teach blinked, could think of nothing to say. Knew what his face must look like: some comic cartoon goof staring down in disbelief as the cliff crumbles under his feet and he begins the fall, thousands of feet to the canyon bottom. He shook his head, lifted a hand to massage his forehead. The bourbon, the wonderful, convivial bourbon, had left him with a hammering headache. He heard himself saying, “Jesus, I swear to you, I . . .” And then he knew he wasn’t saying it. Was only thinking it and was glad he had kept his mouth shut.
    Aimes went over to the table where McLuster sat with Delbert. He directed them to the table where the boy sat and said, “Mr. Teach . . .” and nodded at the only vacant chair.
    Like a child summoned to the front of the classroom, Teach walked over and sat with them. The boy stared at him with the bleakest hatred Teach had ever seen.
    Aimes cleared his throat. “I don’t know what happened in there. Only you three know, and you all tell it differently. Tyrone . . .”
    Teach watched closely as the two regarded each other. Would he see the family bond in their eyes? A recognition: that was all Teach could see.
    “Tyrone,” Aimes said, “if I take your word for what happened, I can arrest Mr. Teach here for assault.”
    The boy started to speak, his eyes fulminating. Aimes put his hand on Tyrone’s forearm. That power again.
    “Mr. Teach,” Aimes said, “if I take your word, I can arrest Tyrone for attempted robbery, take him away with me.”
    Teach tried not to let his eyes say what they preferred. Let this play itself out.
    Aimes continued, “Mr. McLuster here, he thinks maybe you overreacted, Mr. Teach, but mostly Mr. McLuster just wants to get out of here.” The detective glanced at the fading stains in McLuster’s crotch. McLuster nodded, sucking his lip to the side and biting it. “Soooo . . .” Aimes exhaled a long breath and looked at each of them in turn, his eyes stopping on Delbert. The two exchanged some tired message. “Soooo, I’m going to call this an altercation. An unfortunate encounter in a men’s room. Maybe some drinking went on here . . .” He looked at McLuster and Teach. “Maybe some words were passed that shouldn’t have been . . .” He looked at Tyrone who stared his rage at Teach. “I’m going to leave it there for now, with Detective Delbert’s concurrence, of course.” A firm nod from Delbert. “Now, what do you