Urban Shaman. C.E. Murphy

and knees, then sat back on my heels.

      “Don’t do it, Joanie!” someone bellowed, loud enough to be heard through the window. “The job ain’t worth it!”

      It took several seconds for my position, relative to Morrison’s, to sink in. Then I turned a dull crimson, too tired to even get up a really brilliant shade of red. Morrison glared over his shoulder and stomped around the desk to take his seat, all without ceasing to scowl at me. I climbed to my feet in a series of small movements, using the desk to push myself up incrementally. Eventually I got turned around and met Morrison’s frown.

      “You look like hell,” he said, which wasn’t what I expected, so I blinked at him. He waved at the chair. “Siddown.”

      I sat. Not, thankfully, right where I was standing: I had the presence of mind to stagger the couple of steps to the chair. Morrison watched me. He was in his late thirties and looked just like a police captain ought to: a big guy, a little bit fleshy, with cool investigating eyes and strong hands that had blunt, well-shaped fingernails. He was good-looking in a superhero-going-to-seed kind of way, which is probably one of those things you’re not supposed to notice about your boss. I sank into the chair and closed my eyes.

      Morrison leaned back in his chair. It creaked, a high shriek that made hairs stand up on my arms. “You overextended your personal leave by three months, Walker.”

      “I know.”

      “I hired your replacement ten weeks ago.”

      “I know.” Damn, but I was a stunning conversationalist. My eyes were glued shut. I rubbed at them, and the sticky contacts suddenly made tears flood through my lashes.

      “Jesus,” Morrison said in mystified horror, “don’t tell me you’re crying.”

      “It’s my contacts,” I snarled.

      “Thank God. You never struck me as the weepy sort.” Morrison was quiet a moment. I didn’t have the energy to look up at him. “It seems like half the department’s been by to make googly eyes on your behalf.”

      I snorted into my palms, undignified laughter. “Googly eyes?”

      “Googly eyes,” Morrison said firmly. “For some reason they like you.”

      “I fix their cars.” It was true. On particularly bad days—of which this was one—I thought it was because I had no way to relate to other people except through cars. On better days, I acknowledged that I just loved the job, and the fact that I’d made friends because of it was a bonus. “Come on, Morrison, give me the ritual ‘I divorce thee’ three times, and let me go home and get some sleep.” I pushed a hand back through my hair. Morrison winced. “God, do I look that bad?” I hadn’t checked a mirror. Maybe I should have.

      “You look like you got hit by a truck. What happened?” Morrison actually sounded curious.

      “I got into a fight.” I dredged up a little smile. “But you should see the other guy.”

      Morrison snorted and stood up, coming around his desk to lean on the edge of it, arms folded as he looked down at me. I checked the impulse to get to my feet. Morrison and I were exactly the same height. I’d been known to wear heels sheerly for the pleasure of looking down on him. He was looming on purpose. “I’m moving you to the street beat.” He sounded alarmingly pleasant.

      I stared at him for a long time. “What?”

      “I’m moving you to the street beat,” he repeated. “Corner cop duty.”

      “You’re supposed to fire me,” I blurted. I’d never done time as a cop. I didn’t really want to. Morrison grinned, and pushed away from his desk to get himself a cup of coffee.

      “The chief wouldn’t let me. You’re a woman, you’re an Indian, you’re a cop, all you’ve done wrong is not show up to work for a few months, and that was because of a personal family emergency. It’s not enough to fire you for. Not in this quota-happy age.” He opened a fridge under the coffeemaker table and poured milk into his coffee.

      My eyebrows shot up. No one had ever actually mentioned quotas out loud. It was just one of those silent givens that nobody talked about. Morrison turned back, lifting his mug of coffee. “Want some?”

      “Sure,” I said dazedly.

      Morrison poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to me. I took a sip, burned my tongue, and clutched the cup with both hands, watching Morrison nervously.

      “So I’m putting you on the street.”

      “Why?” My voice rose and broke. Morrison beamed at me. I’d never seen him smile so broadly before. It was unnerving.

      “Because I figure you’ll quit. You’re a mechanic, not a cop. You haven’t got the stuff. Want to save us both time and do it now?” Morrison didn’t burn his tongue when he sipped his coffee. The bastard.

      I ground my teeth together so hard it hurt. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it. Not in the face of that grin. I couldn’t prove him right, especially by quitting before I’d even tried.

      “No,” I said through my teeth, standing up and putting the coffee cup aside. “No, I don’t think I do. Sir.”

      It took every ounce of will I had available to close the door gently on my way out.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      No fewer than eight cops—all of whose cars I tinkered with regularly—lingered outside Morrison’s office, ostentatiously reading files or exchanging stories over their desks. Every one of them fell silent as I carefully closed Morrison’s door and stepped away from the office. Bruce, a thin blonde who had no business being away from the front desk, put on a mournful smile. “Well?”

      “The son of a bitch fired you,” Billy guessed before I had time to draw breath. An uproar met his speculation, a wall of outrage entirely on my behalf. Rex, short and stout as his name, flung his hat on someone’s desk and stalked toward me. I backed up into Morrison’s door, alarmed. The doorknob hit me in the butt.

      “Get out of the way, Joanie.” Rex sounded like a bulldog, low-voiced and growly. “I’m gonna give that bastard a piece of my mind. He can’t do this to you! You were on family leave, for Christ’s sake!”

      I edged to the side. “Um, actually…”

      Rex stormed past me and flung Morrison’s door open, banging it closed behind him again. Around me, furious cops swore and waved their hands and lined up, God help me, actually lined up to be the next one to take on Morrison.

      “Actually,” I mumbled, “he didn’t fire me.”

      Nobody listened. I rubbed my hand over my eyes, setting my contacts to tearing again, and sighed. Bruce appeared at my elbow and guided me to a desk to sit down. “It’ll be okay, Joanie,” he promised. “You’re a fantastic mechanic. You’ll get a job in no time. Heck, you could probably keep yourself busy just fixing our cars, huh guys?”

      “I fix your cars anyway,” I pointed out. “Nobody pays me for it.” Bruce had exactly one hobby: running. His wife’s car, a 1987 Eagle station wagon with a manual transmission, broke down more often than soap opera stars. I wasn’t sure he knew how to drive it, much less fix it. “Look, Bruce, I’m—”

      Bruce patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Elise wants you to come over for dinner Friday. She’s going to raise holy living hell about you getting fired.”

      Elise made the best tamales I’d ever had, and was convinced I was killing myself eating macaroni and cheese for every meal. “Elise is an angel,” I said, “but—”

      Rex burst out of Morrison’s office, cheeks bright red with exertion. Billy marched through the still-open door. Even over the general noise I could hear Morrison’s, “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” A moment later Billy backed out of the office, herded by Morrison, who stopped at the