First Avenue by Lowen Clausen

’s face took on a strange, blank expression, and he folded his arms across his chest. The boy didn’t come to the counter. He stood at the window and looked out to the street.
    “I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
    Pierre turned his blank face toward her. “Knock loud. If I’m in the back, I don’t hear it.” His voice, mechanical and cold, made her feel quite certain there would be no cookies on Saturday morning.
    Outside she walked away from the Donut Shop in no particular direction with the feeling that his narrow eyes would be following her. Until she came to the first corner, she had not thought about where she was going. She would have to start paying attention. Her mother had always been obsessed with knowing her directions. “Which way is north?” she would ask.
Maria
stood on the corner and looked toward the north.
    She would be able to call her father now. He would not be happy to hear about the job. They had not talked about a job. He would feel better, perhaps, when she told him it was only temporary. Still he would not like it. Had she seen
Mr.
Wright
, he would ask at last.
Mr.
Wright
was the name her father called him. She would not repeat the name because she had no name for him yet. No, she would say, but soon. Then it would end as it had ended every other time. Her father would offer to join her, to call
Mr.
Wright
for her, to send her the ticket to return to Anchorage , and she would say no to each of his offerings. She could see his face in her mind as clearly as if he were with her. She could see the disappointment, then the resentment, and finally, the resignation.
    “No good will come from it,” her father had predicted. “You should forget about him.”
    When the traffic light changed, a swarm of people from both sides of the street surged into it and met halfway.
    Forget about him? No one in her family had ever forgotten.

Chapter 5
     
    At eight o’clock, Sam told Radio to log him out to the station. He parked on G deck and took the back stairs up to the fifth floor. He walked past the Chief’s office, an office he had never been inside, and down the hall to Homicide and Robbery.
    The detectives sat behind rows of metal desks in swivel chairs that rocked back easily. There was a slow-starting, easygoing atmosphere in the room—much different than the crisp roll calls that began his day. Maybe he ought to think about working here, put on a white shirt, leave the monkey suit in the locker until it no longer fit, work a decent shift and sleep at four in the morning. Detective Wright? Not likely. He would have to buy a white shirt for that.
    He scanned the big, undivided room and looked for
Markowitz
. Not finding him, he looked for any familiar face behind newspapers and coffee cups. His business with the detectives was usually on the street, and he seldom ventured into their territory.
    “Hello,
Sam
. Up here about the
Sanchez
case?”
    He turned around and saw
Markowitz
. He was the only detective who was not parked at a desk.
    “Yes.”
    “Come on over.”
    A few detectives nodded to him as he passed. Newspapers came down, followed by a sort of straightening-up that always happened whenever he entered a room of strangers. He thought it was strange that it would happen here. He sat down in the straight-back chair Markowitz pushed over for him while Markowitz flipped through pages of the newly created file.
    “So what about this mother?”
Markowitz
asked. “How well did you know her?”
    “She started working at the Donut Shop a couple months ago. I saw her there. It was after she had the baby. I don’t remember seeing her before.”
    “Class joint, that place.”
    “One of the best,”
Sam
said. “She didn’t seem to fit in. Too decent, if you know what I mean?”
    “So how come she was there?”
    “I don’t know. I guess I should have asked her.”
    “Maybe.”
    “I take it you haven’t found Alberta ?”
Sam
asked.
    “No. I got her hospital records