I started to laugh too. “Yes, I would, matter of fact. Jamilla plays it close to her chest. I think she was knocked about somewhere along the line. Maybe the first husband. She doesn't want to talk about it yet.”

“I think she has your number, man.”

“Maybe she does. You'll like her. Everybody does.”

John started to laugh again. “You do find nice ladies. I'll give you that much.” He switched subjects. “Nana Mama is some kind of piece of work, isn't she?”

“Yeah, she is. Eighty-two. You'd never know it. I came home the other day. She was shimmying a refrigerator down the back stairs of the house on an oil cloth. Wouldn't wait for me to get home to help her.”

“You remember that time we got caught lifting records at Specter's Vinyl?”

“Yeah, I remember. She loves to tell that story.”

John continued to laugh. "I can still see the two of us sitting in that store manager's crummy little office. He's threatening us with everything but the death penalty for stealing his crummy forty-five records, but we are so cool. We're almost laughing in his face.

“Nana shows up at the record store, and she starts hitting both of us. She hit me in the face, bloodied my lip. She was like some kind of mad woman on a rampage, a mission from God.”

“She had this warning: ”Don't cross me. Don't ever, ever cross me, ever.“ I can still hear the way she would say it,” I said.

“Then she let that police officer haul our asses down to the station. She wouldn't even bring us home. I said, ”They were only records, Nana.“ I thought she was going to kill me. ”I'm already bleeding!“ I said. ”You're gonna bleed more!“ she yelled in my face.”

I found myself smiling at the distant memory. Interesting how some things that weren't real funny at the time suddenly get that way. "Maybe that's why we became big,

bad cops. That afternoon in the record store. Nana's vengeful wrath."