“So Mel was cowering in the corner, Leslie waving around her big old frying pan, telling him if he’s late again, she’s gonna bash his damn brains in with it. He tried to explain—you know Mel, always got an excuse. So she swings that pan and he puts his arms up and, wham. He starts screaming about breaking his arm and you know what she says?”

The other officer answered in a falsetto. “Keep it up and I’ll bust the other one.”

The two guffawed, and the receptionist chimed in with creaky titters.

“You know what would make that story even funnier?” I said. “If it was the other way around, and ol’ Mel was whaling on his wife with the frying pan.”

The older cop scowled at me. “That wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“Kinda my point.”

They all continued to stare. I reminded myself that ignorance is not idiocy. Or so I’m told.

“I don’t get it,” the younger cop finally said.

I was tempted to explain. Damn tempted. But mocking them probably wasn’t the best way to make a good first impression. “I’d like to speak to Chief Bruyn.”

“He’s not here,” the receptionist said.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“He went out.”

“Can I make an appointment for later?”

“He’s not here.”

Sometimes you’ve got to figure that small-town people pull the rube routine just for us city folks, a passive-aggressive way of telling us to go fuck ourselves.

“Can you give him my card then?” I asked. “I’d like to speak to him as soon as he gets a chance.”

The receptionist took it and laid it facedown on her desk, where I was sure it would accidentally slide into the trash the moment I left. The younger cop picked it up. He looked at me. Read it, lips moving, then pursing.