The Cop And The Chorus Girl. Nancy Martin

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      One

      “Every cabdriver in New York must think he’s a jet pilot,” muttered Patrick Flynn, after swerving his vintage Harley-Davidson to avoid the taxi that came roaring onto Fifth Avenue like a guided missile. “Hey, buddy,” he shouted at the driver, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

      But it was Flynn who intended to commit murder if anyone so much as scratched his precious motorcycle. He’d spent four years rebuilding this beauty in the living room of his West Side apartment, and he didn’t plan on seeing his labor of love get the slightest bump on her maiden voyage around the streets of Manhattan.

      “Take it easy, will ya?” he bellowed after the cab.

      “Aw, take the bus, pal!”

      Grumbling about the deterioration of mankind’s appreciation for quality machinery, Flynn pulled over to the curb and let the rest of the traffic thunder by. It was at that moment that he thought he heard a distinct ping in the Harley’s engine. Quickly, Flynn set both boots down on the pavement, then removed his helmet and leaned down to listen more carefully.

      Or rather, he pretended to listen.

      To any unsuspecting passerby, he probably looked like an average guy innocently listening to his motorcycle.

      In reality, Flynn was a cop on surveillance. Within a two-block radius, he noted two additional plainclothesmen in a nondescript sedan, one more posing as a panhandler on the corner, and a woman pretending to window-shop across the street. Flynn feigned concern for his bike.

      But the Harley’s matchless engine purred in perfect synchronization, causing the frame of the bike to throb with delicious power just waiting to be tapped. Hiding a grin, Flynn decided that he’d never heard a more beautiful sound than a perfectly tuned motorcycle engine. The fact that he had tuned that machinery with his own loving hands—well, with a little help from his brother, Sean—gave Flynn enormous pleasure.

      Then a scream shattered his perfect moment.

      “What the—” Flynn looked up in time to see one hysterical woman fling herself out the doorway of a nearby church. She spun around and promptly began struggling to slam the massive oak doors closed behind herself.

      “Help!” she cried. “Somebody help me!”

      All the cops froze in horror. Here was an unexpected development.

      “Help!”

      She was dressed in a gaudy white bridal gown—complete with at least five pounds of pearls and a satin train that dragged behind her like the tail of a slightly drunken peacock. Her lace veil hung crookedly from—yes, it was a sparkly white cowboy hat. Flynn squinted to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. A cowboy bride? She carried an armload of bluebonnets and staggered on a pair of white cowboy boots with pointed toes. New Yorkers get accustomed to seeing almost anything on the streets, but this was definitely something new to Flynn.

      “Help!” she shouted again, much to the amazement of all the cops plus two passing joggers and one homeless woman pushing a wobbly shopping cart. “Please, somebody help!”

      She looked like a country-western singer on her way to the Grand Ole Opry to marry an Elvis impersonator. Even for New York, she looked unusual. So nobody made a move to help the woman.

      By herself, she managed to yank her massive train through the church doors, then slam them hard. Her veil tilted sideways, unleashing a haystack of long blond hair from beneath the Stetson. Then she flattened herself against the doors to keep them closed, breathing hard and shoving her hair aside. “For cryin’ out loud, somebody help me!”

      The joggers picked up their pace and ran away. All the cops pretended hearing loss.

      With a frustrated howl, the bride threw down the flowers and hopped on one foot while yanking off one boot. She wedged the boot between the two door handles to hold the doors shut just as someone began pounding on the door from inside.

      “Hey,” the homeless woman called up the church steps. “Are you crazy, girl?”

      “No,” snapped the bride. “At least not as crazy as they think I am!”

      With that, she left her boot between the door handles and hobbled hastily down the stone steps of the church. Snatching off her cowboy hat, she looked up and down the street and began to wave it frantically. “Taxi! Taxi! Why can’t I ever get a cab in this godforsaken city?” she wailed. “Taxi! Hey, I— Oh, damnation!”

      She laid eyes on Flynn and made a beeline in his direction. “What the hell are you?” she demanded. “An inner-city biker?”

      “What the hell are you?” he retorted, not exactly coming up with brilliant repartee.

      “Don’t go asking a bunch of dumb Yankee questions,” she ordered with exasperation, still hobbling with one boot on and one boot off. “Just get me out of here! And hurry! He’s going to kill me!”

      She had a gigantic mane of corn yellow hair and eyes bluer than a prairie sky. Her skin was milky white beneath a breathless blush, and her lips were a luscious shade of red. Too red, perhaps. And her breasts threatened to overflow her dress at any second. She looked like a riverboat gambler’s shady lady encased in all that snug white satin. Voluptuous was a word that sprang to Flynn’s momentarily stunned mind. Her eyelashes were like velvet, her earrings were huge globs of glittery rhinestone. Her wedding dress looked like a cartoonist’s idea of a fairy-tale gown—all sparkly and poufed and exaggerated.

      “You hearing me, sugar?” she demanded, СКАЧАТЬ