Croker was neither well groomed nor a good housekeeper. I doubt that she’d have let me in if she hadn’t liked my outfit. We sat in her living room with the television playing, amid a litter of magazines, dishes, and overflowing ashtrays, to which she added liberally in the time I was there. “So you’re with the motorcycle cops? That don’t look like any cop clothes I ever saw.” Without offering me one, she fixed herself a bourbon and water. Perhaps she’d been offended when I refused a cigarette. “These are my civvies,” I said, hoping that was the term for a police person’s off-duty clothes. “Mighta known. If they had uniforms like that, I mighta joined myself. I always liked motorcycles. What kinda bike you ride?” she asked. “A Harley,” I replied because I was unable to name any brand but Sam’s. “You don’t look like you could keep one a them big bikes from fallin’ on you. An’ aren’t you a little old for the bike patrol?” “My sergeant doesn’t think so,”
