Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online

Whenever a group of guys saw a beautiful woman who was obviously out of their reach, they comforted themselves by saying she was no doubt a bitch—something no one, of course, really believed. It was, in fact, a spoof of their own feelings of inadequacy; a joke on themselves that no one tired of laughing at because they were all in the same boat and, worse, it was true. McCarthy was obviously a veteran of the jock bull sessions, and Hawker felt more comfortable with him because of it.
    Still grinning into his menu, Hawker played his part. “Yep, a bitch. No doubt about it: The blonde is probably a first-class bitch.”
    A shadow darkened his menu: The waitress had arrived to take their orders. Hawker looked up. Just as quickly, he looked back down.
    It wasn’t the waitress. It was the blonde. She stood behind him, a strained expression on her face. Her lips were tight and her eyes glittered. She had obviously overheard him.
    Hawker cleared his throat. He could hear Paul McCarthy laughing heavily behind his menu. Hawker shook his head and said to no one in particular, “What in the world could this be in my mouth?…. Why … it’s my very own shoe. Wait, I’ll get it out—”
    â€œDon’t trouble yourself,” the woman said.
    McCarthy’s face was scarlet, and he was waging a tremendous inner battle against the hysteria of laughter. Laughter, unfortunately, was winning. His whole body shook. “James Hawker,” he managed to say, “allow me to introduce Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock.”
    Hawker was stunned. “What?”
    McCarthy found the question hysterical. He buried his head in his arms and sobbed.
    â€œWhat?” Hawker repeated.
    â€œI’m Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock,” the woman said tersely. “I’m with the legal department of the Detroit Police Department.” She cast a look of disapproval at McCarthy. “I thought I was invited to discuss police matters. Instead I arrive just in time to hear a stranger discussing me in the basest and most offensive terms.”
    Hawker was still backpedaling. “Clara mae?” he asked, not sure anyone could possibly be named such a thing.
    â€œThat’s right,” the woman said in the same cold tone, “but I think you’d better call me Detective Riddock.”
    â€œClaramae!” McCarthy roared, settling into new spasms. “Oh, God.” He gasped. “Why isn’t someone writing this stuff down?”
    People at other tables were beginning to stare.
    Hawker stood. “Claramae—Detective Riddock, I’m very sorry. I mean that. I won’t try to explain what I said—”
    â€œPlease don’t.”
    â€œLook, my name is James Hawker. I’m a friend of Paul’s. Why don’t you sit down and we can talk?”
    â€œI really don’t see much sense in that, Mr. Hawker.” The look of being unsettled was quickly leaving her face, replaced by an attitude of disdain. “Frankly, I find such chauvinistic attitudes beyond my understanding and far beyond my bounds of sympathy. That you find it funny, Paul, I find particularly offensive.”
    Through streaming eyes, McCarthy looked up long enough to say, “Don’t blame me—he’s the one … he’s the one who called you a bitch.” The young detective was immediately swamped again by his own laughter. He was now holding his sides painfully.
    â€œThanks a lot, Paul,” Hawker said dryly. He drew out a chair for the woman, adding, “Look, I don’t know why Paul wanted you here, but I’m sure it was important. You caught us in the middle of a private joke—a joke that was in bad taste, I agree. But if your ego is so delicate that you can’t even be joked about, then maybe you have no business being a cop. Believe me, if you’re that sensitive, the case Paul has been talking about is way out of your