Booker said, "You mean like just the shit, but no way to blow it?"

"Yeah."

"Like they telling me look what could happen?"

"Maybe."

"Say I could just get up, was all bullshit what they made her say to me? On the phone?"

"That's possible," Chris said, "but I don't think I'd take the chance."

"You wouldn't, huh?"

"Let's see what my partner says, when he gets here."

Booker said, "Man, I got to go the toilet, bad."

Vhris watched Jerry Baker taking in the size of the house as he came up the walk, away from the uniforms and the blue Detroit Police radio cars blocking both sides of the boulevard. It was Jerry's day off. He wore a black poplin jacket and a Detroit Tigers baseball cap: a tall man, bigger and older than Chris, twenty-five years on the force, fifteen as a bomb tech. He remembered what day this was and said to Chris, "You shouldn't be here."

Standing inside the doorway, Chris told him about the green leather chair Booker was sitting in.

And Jerry said it again, looking at his watch.

"No, you shouldn't be here. Forty minutes, you'll be through."

He looked outside at the guy from Narcotics waiting on the porch, waved him over and told him to call for Fire and EMS and get everybody away from the house. The guy from Narcotics said, "Can't you guys handle this one?"

Jerry said, "You'll hear it if we can't." Walking down the hall to the Jacuzzi room he said to Chris, "If we save this asshole's life, you think he'll appreciate it?"

Chris said, "You mean will he say thank you? Wait'll you meet him."

They entered the room, Jerry gazing up at the green and-white tenting, and Booker said, "Finally, you motherfuckers decide you gonna do something?"

Chris and Jerry took time to look at each other. They didn't say anything. Jerry got down to inspect the sliced open seat cushion between Booker's muscular legs and said, "Hmmmmm."

Booker said, "Another one, goes hmmmmm. I'm sitting here on high explosives the motherfucker goes hmmmmm."

Jerry stood up, looking at Chris again.

"Well, he's cool. That's a good thing."

Chris said, "Yeah, he's cool."

As Jerry walked around to the back of the green leather chair, Booker, sitting upright, raised his head.

"Hey, I got to go the toilet, man, bad."

Jerry reached over the backrest to put his hand on Booker's shoulder.

"You better wait. I don't think you can make it."

"I'll tell you what I have to make. I mean it."

Jerry said, over Booker to Chris, "The boy looks fast."

"Used to run from the Narcs in his Pony joggers, one of those Pony Down delivery boys," Chris said.

"Yeah, I imagine he's fast."

Booker was still upright with his head raised.

"Wait now. What're we saying here if I'm fast? Bet to it, man, I'm fast."

Chris said, "We don't want you to get the idea you can dive out of your chair into your little swimming pool and make it."

Booker said, "In the Jacuze? I get in there I be safe?"

"I doubt it," Chris said.

"If what you're sitting on there, if it's wired and it's not one of your friends being funny…"

Jerry said, "Or if it's not a dud."

Booker said, "Yeah, what?"

Chris said, "If it's a practical joke-you know, or some kind of warning-then there's nothing to worry about. But if it's wired, you raise up and it goes…"

"I couldn't get in the Jacuze quick enough, huh?"

"I doubt it."

"His feet might stay on the floor," Jerry said, "remain in the house."

Chris agreed, nodding.

"Yeah, but his ass'd be sailing over Ohio."

Jerry moved from behind the chair to the French doors.

"We better talk about it some more."

Booker's head turned to follow Chris.

"Where you going? Hey, motherfucker, I'm talking to you!"

Chris stepped out and closed the door. He moved with Jerry to the far edge of the slate patio before looking back at the French doors in the afternoon sunlight. They could hear Booker in there, faintly. They crossed the yard, Jerry offering Chris a cigarette. He took one and Jerry gave him a light once they reached the driveway and were standing by the three-car garage, alone in the backyard. Jerry looked up at the elm trees. He said, "Well, they're finally starting to bud. I thought winter was gonna run through May."

Chris said, "That's my favorite kind of house. Sort of an English Tudor, before Booker got hold of it."

Jerry said, "Why don't you and Phyllis buy one?"

"She likes apartments. Goes with her career image."

"She must be jumping up and down, finally got her way."

Chris didn't say anything.

"I'm talking about your leaving the squad."

"I know what you meant. I haven't told her yet. I'm waiting till I get reassigned."

"Maybe Homicide, huh?"

"I wouldn't mind it."

"Yeah, but would Phyllis?"

Chris didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes and could hear fire equipment arriving. Jerry said, "Hey, I was kidding. Don't be so serious."

"I know what you're saying," Chris said.

"Phyllis is the kind of person that speaks out. Something bothers her, she tells you about it."

"I know," Jerry said.

"There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"I'm not saying anything against her."

"What it is, Phyllis says things even some guys would like to but don't have the nerve."

"Yeah, 'cause she's a woman," Jerry said, "she doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the mouth."

Chris shook his head.

"I don't mean putting anybody down or being insulting. Like we're at a restaurant, one of those trendy places the waiter introduces himself?

This twinkle comes up to the table, he goes, "Hi, I'm Wally, I'm gonna be your wait person this evening. Can I get you a cocktail?" Phyllis goes, "Wally, when we've finished dinner, you gonna take us out and introduce us to the dishwasher?"

She goes, "We really don't care what your name is as long as you're here when we want something."

" Jerry grinned, adjusting his Tiger baseball cap.

"That's good, I can appreciate that. Those guys kill me."

They drew on their cigarettes. Chris looked at his, about to say something, working the butt between his thumb and second finger to flick it away, and the French doors and some of the windows on this side of the house exploded out in a billow of gray smoke tinged yellow.

They stood looking at the shattered doorway, at the smoke and dust thinning, settling over glass and wood fragments, shreds of blackened green-and-white debris on the patio, silence ringing in their ears now.

After a few moments they started down the drive, let the people waiting in front know they were okay.

Chris said, "Yeah, the twink comes up to the table, says he's gonna be our wait person But you have to understand, Phyllis wasn't trying to be funny, she was serious. That's the way she is." 9 kip told Robin he had to blow up a car on the Belle Isle bridge either tomorrow or the next day if it didn't rain and then he'd be through. He said they called it the kush shot. The car would go flying off the bridge, explode in midair in this huge ball of fire, and when it hit the Detroit River it would go kushhhh and all this smoke would rise up.

Robin said, "Far out. You like your work, huh?"

Skip said, "Well, it's bullshit, you know, movies. But it's kinda fun.

It sure beats working as an extra, standing out in the sun all day while the director and the star shoot the shit."

"There was a story in today's paper made me think of you," Robin said.

"About the guy getting blown up?"

"Yeah, I saw it. Somebody slipped some dynamite under him. But it wasn't me, I was working." Skip grinned, eating a breadstick.

"I haven't shot off any dynamite in. well, it's been awhile."

"I bet you still know how."

Skip grinned at her again.