I came in tonight to find one Sergeant Bob Housemartin, New Jersey State Police, seated in my end of the diner. He's Dawn's older brother. Unlike Dawn, who's very short, Bob's quite tall. 6'3". He lives in my neighborhood, in fact. His wife's among my own's army of scrapbooking buddies. To top it off, he's an ex-Marine, a Gulf War vet. Tonight, he has no patience for such an annoyance as Don Don, who has tried repeatedly to engage him in a conversation about the high-powered spotlight just forward of the 'A' pillar on his cruiser. Sergeant Housemartin flicked him away like a fruitfly.
"I think someone dropped him on his head when he was a baby," he says, enjoying a Chicken Caesar Salad.
"Many times," Dawn adds.
"I read in the Trenton Times this morning," he says, "that they're trying to make it easier to get benefits for wounded Iraq/Afghan vets. Rob's eligible."
"I know, I read the same thing." Dawn sighs. Her face is very pale, and drawn. "I'm gonna be on the phone tomorrow. It's been a nightmare."
"I know," he says. "He's been very withdrawn."
"The only people he talks to are his buddies."
"Yep. That's how it is, Spank." Dawn's nickname, among her brothers (all law enforcement officers- five of them) is Spanky. As a little girl, she most resembled the Little Rascal, George McFarland, so it stuck. "No one who's never served in the Military can ever understand."
"That's right," I confirm.
"I've done my best trying to make the boys understand. They're actually doing pretty good with this." Every so often, Sergeant Housemartin's radio would blab bursts of unintelligable remarks. "Soon, though, they're gonna start acting out."
"Call me if that happens. I'll try to come over. Run interference." Dawn nodded, and headed back down the counter. "By the way," he says, turning to me, "Mindy's jealous."
"Of what?"
"Of Carolyn. It drives her nuts that someone could actually be better than she is at scrapbooking."
"I know. I've been to the crops with her, everyone comes up and ask for advice, it's like she's a celebrity."
He smiles. "Well, it keeps the girls out of trouble."
At this moment, Brenda Morabito comes in. She's wearing jeans, a Cabela's ballcap, and a tartan flannel shirt, as well as her brown, steel-toed work boots. The weather the past couple of days has been unseasonably mild, so she's absent her usual forest green down jacket. "Hello," she greets us.
"Hi," I say, involved in my French onion soup."
"Sergeant."
"Brenda." He pulls out a notepad from the inner pocket of his uniform. "This is for you. Case number."
"Lester Mallon?"
"Yep."
"What happened to Lester?" I ask. Lester Mallon's the crazy old coot who drives her cab during the daylight hours.
"Oh, don't even ask," she replies, accepting the torn notepad sheet from the Sergeant.
"We have a copy of the report at the barracks, but you can just as easily get it from Burlington City," he says, putting the notepad back in his pocket.
"Okay."
"What happened to Lester?" I repeat.
"He took off when the light turned green on 130 by the Burlington Diner, when the passenger in the back seat decided she wanted to get out."
"She got out of a moving car."
"Yep," Brenda says, eyeing the menu. "She's in the hospital, she's hurt bad, and she doesn't even know what planet she's on, and Lester's a basket case. Incredible."
"Well, he's a nut, anyway," Sergeant Housemartin mutters.
"Hey, Sergeant!" Don Don stands behind Brenda, who's eyes roll upward.
"Yes?"
"Mind if I go sit in your car?"
There's a silence. A pregnant pause, if you will. "I do mind. If it's not official business, my car's not a toy."
"I guess I can get a ride if I try to run away with the cash register, right?" Don Don then laughs. "Ha ha ha ha ha!"
Brenda turns around. "Donald, if you don't go away right now, I'm gonna drill a hole in your head and let the stupid run out!"
"Easy, Brenda," the Sergeant says. "Don, our conversation's over. Good night."
The sound in his voice and the look in his eyes made its impression; Don Don moves away. He heads back down the counter, and attempts to engage some high school girls in conversation.
"He's a nut, too," the Sergeant says, putting his fork down, and wiping his lips with a napkin.
"Yeah, one of the bigger ones," I say.
"First time I ever met him," Brenda says, popping the paper wrapper off of a straw, and putting it into her Coke, "he tried to pick me up."
"Really?" I'm imagining the scene in my head.
"Yeah, it was in here, too. Alan Adler told him that he'd be better off asking the fire hydrant outside for a date. He'd get better action."
I laugh. The Sergeant just shakes his head.
"He wouldn't stop, though, so I told him that if he said one more word, I was gonna use his head to clean the commodes in the bathroom. He got the message."
I looked up, and saw that Don Don headed somberly towards the door. He slowly opened it, and departed.
"Hmm," Brenda says, puckering her lips. "He struck out looking. Tsk tsk tsk...."
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