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back on the street. He s waiting.
There was a strange took in his eyes and she didn t want to ask which he
Polchik meant. She was afraid he meant the metal thing out there. Onita, a
very nice person, didn t like strange, new things that waited under neon
streetlamps. She hastily wrote out a check and slid it across the plasteel to
him. He pulled change from a pocket, paid her, turned, seemed to remember
something, turned back, added a tip, then swiftly left the diner.
She watched through the glass as he went up to the metal thing. Then the two
of them walked away, Mike leading, the thing following.
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Onita made fresh. It was a good thing she had done it so many times she could
do it by reflex, without thinking. Hot coffee scalds are very painful.
At the corner, Polchik saw a car weaving toward the intersection. A Ford
Electric: convertible, four years old. Still looked flashy. Top down. He could
see a bunch of long-haired kids inside. He couldn t tell the girls from the
boys. It bothered him.
Polchik stopped. They weren t going fast, but the car was definitely weaving
as it approached the intersection.
The warrior-lizard, he thought. It was almost an unconscious directive. He d
been a cop long enough to react to the little hints, the flutters, the
inclinations. The hunches.
Polchik stepped out from the curb, unshipped his gumball from the bandolier
and flashed the red light at the driver. The car slowed even more; now it was
crawling.
Pull it over, kid! he shouted.
For a moment he thought they were ignoring him, that the driver might not have
heard him, that they d try and make a break for it...that they d speed up and
sideswipe him. But the driver eased the car to the curb and stopped.
Then he slid sidewise, pulled up his legs and crossed them neatly at the
ankles. On the top of the dashboard.
Polchik walked around to the driver s side. Turn it off. Everybody out.
There were six of them. None of them moved. The driver closed his eyes slowly,
then tipped his Irkutsk fur hat over his eyes till it rested on the bridge of
his nose. Polchik reached into the car and turned it off. He pulled the keys&
Hey! Whuzzis allabout? one of the kids in the back seat--a boy with terminal
acne--complained. His voice began and ended on a whine. Polchik re-stuck the
gumball.
The driver looked up from under the fur. Wasn t breaking any laws. He said
each word very slowly, very distinctly, as though each one was on a printout
And Polchik knew he d been right. They were on the lizard.
He opened the door, free hand hanging at the needler. Out. All of you, out.
Then he sensed Brillo lurking behind him, in the middle of the street. Good.
Hope a damned garbage truck hits him.
He was getting mad. That wasn t smart. Carefully, be said, Don t make me say
it again. Move it!
He lined them up on the sidewalk beside the car, in plain sight. Three girls,
three guys. Two of the guys with long, stringy hair and the third with a
scalplock. The three girls wearing tammy cuts. All six sullen-faced, drawn,
dark smudges under the eyes. The lizard. But good clothes, fairly new. He
couldn t just hustle them, he had to be careful.
Okay, one at a time, empty your pockets and pouches onto the hood of the
car.
Hey, we don t haveta do that just because...
Do it!
Don t argue with the pig, one of the girls said, lizardspacing her words
carefully. He s probably trigger happy.
Brillo rolled up to Polchik. It is necessary to have a probable cause
clearance from the precinct in order to search, sir.
Not on a stop n frisk, Polchik snapped, not taking his eyes off them. He had
no time for nonsense with the can of cogs. He kept his eyes on the growing
collection of chits, change, code-keys, combs, nail files, toke pipes and
miscellania being dumped on the Ford s hood.
There must be grounds for suspicion even in a spot search action, sir,
Brillo said.
There s grounds. Narcotics.
Nar...you must be outtayer mind, said the one boy who slurred his words. He
was working something other than the lizard.
That s a pig for you, said the girl who had made the trigger happy remark.
Look, Polchik said, you snots aren t from around here. Odds are good if I
run b&b tests on you, we ll find you re under the influence of the lizard.
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Heyyyy! the driver said. The what?
Warrior-lizard, Polchik said.
Oh, ain t he the jive thug, the smartmouth girl said. He s a word user.
I ll bet he knows all the current rage phrases. A philologist. I ll bet he
knows all the solecisms and colloquialisms, catch phrases, catachreses,
nicknames and vulgarisms. The warrior-lizard, indeed.
Damned college kids, Polchik fumed inwardly.
They always try to make you feel stupid; I coulda gone to college--if I didn t
have to work. Money, they probably always had money. The little bitch.
The driver giggled. Are you trying to tell me, Mella, my dear, that this
Peace Officer is accusing us of being under the influence of the illegal
Bolivian drug commonly called Guerrera-Tuera? He said it with pinpointed
scorn,
pronouncing the Spanish broadly: gwuh-rare-uh too-err-
uh.
Brillo said, Reviewing my semantic tapes, sir, I find no analogs for
Guerrera-Tuera as warrior-lizard. True, guerrero in Spanish means warrior,
but the closest spelling I find is the feminine noun guerra.
which translates as war.
Neither guerrera
nor tuera appear in the Spanish language. If tuera is a species of lizard, I
don t seem to find it--
Polchik had listened dumbly. The weight on his shoulders was monstrous. All of
them were on him. The kids, that lousy stinking robot--they were making fun,
such fun, such damned fun of him! Keep digging, he directed them. He was
surprised to hear his words emerge as a series of croaks.
And blood and breath tests must be administered, sir--
Stay the hell outta this!
We re on our way home from a party, said the boy with the scalplock, who had
been silent till then. We took a short-cut and got lost.
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