Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Stacy Moore had come in one summer day to introduce herself, and Craig couldn’t remember much of what he said to her, for he was struck by how beautiful she was. She had on tight jeans, a white knit sleeveless shirt that was unbuttoned far enough to show a fair amount of cleavage, and her blond hair was tied back in a simple ponytail. She said she had taken over the lease next-door, was opening up a hair salon — “Stacy’s Hair Design” — and could he do her a favor?

Absolutely, had been his reply. She had needed power — “Damn Public Service is late in coming by” — and would he mind if she ran a power cord from his store to her place?

Thinking about that request had taken about a second or two.

Not a problem, he had said. He had even helped her bring in some supplies, admiring the way she filled out her clothes, admiring her laugh, and when he was through moving things and hooking up things, she had blushed slightly and said, Well, I wish I could pay you back for your help.

He had laughed. My pleasure, he had said. Really.

She had folded her arms, exposing even more of her cleavage, and said, Well, how about a free haircut?

And in a matter of moments he had been seated in one of the chairs, warm water cascading over his head, her strong fingers working at his scalp, working in the shampoo, and he looked up at her figure and her smile, and he knew without a doubt that he was falling in love.

Outside, he joined the dozen or so cops, nodding at all the Porter cops he knew, and even Dirk managed another smile in his direction. The training officer lined everyone up — except, of course, for Craig and the young woman dispatcher named Sarah — and started referring to a clipboard held in his hand.

“All right, let’s get a move on, we’ve only got a few hours to work with,” he said. “You know the drill, you know the scenarios. Now it’s time for a safety check. Everybody check your weapons, check your belongings. No live rounds. No edged weapons. This is just training. Leave the real stuff behind.”

Before the line of cops were two long folding tables, and on the tables were plastic ammo boxes, opened up, showing round after round of simulated ammunition. Craig wandered over and examined one of the bullets, recalling when he had first seen these little bundles of power. They had the same brass jacket as any other semiautomatic 9mm. round, but the amount of powder inside the cartridge was smaller than for a regular bullet, and the slug at the top was a type of paintball. It stung and left a brief red splotch of paint, and that was that. Every cop here today would load their weapons with these fake rounds, and while they stung some, it sure beat the hell out of the real thing. And it helped with the training, especially with two “bad guys” — him and Sarah — deep within the rooms, waiting in ambush for the squads of SWAT members to come barreling through.

He put the fake round down and then, almost absent-mindedly, he put his hand in his pants pocket where he felt something small and hard and metallic.

Another 9mm. round, just like the ones on the tables.

Except this one was the real thing.

He smiled, went back, and joined the cops.

Craig had been thrilled and thankful when Stacy had agreed to go out with him, and soon they were a couple. It had been so easy at first, with her working right next-door to him, and he had made a habit of popping in and out during the day, bringing over drinks and sandwiches at lunch, and sometimes they had managed to have lunch out on the sidewalk, watching the people of Porter go by. He would check with her as she closed up, making sure she could get to the bank all right with her deposits — the block they were on could be rough at certain times of the night during certain times of the year — and he would juggle the schedules of his workers so he could have at least one night a week with her.

She was from Dover, the next city over, and was a high-school grad who just wanted to have her own business using the only skills she really had, as a hairdresser. After a while, when she had learned about his business-school experience, she had shyly asked him to examine her books. He had made a dreadful joke about having already examined other personal parts of her, and her books would be relatively easy, but he stopped laughing when he looked at her piles of receipts and bills.

Stacy’s Hair Design was in debt, was sinking faster than the Titanic, and unless something drastic happened, and soon, she would be facing personal and business bankruptcy.

After telling her this, and after seeing the tears erupt, he had offered something drastic: marriage.

And happiest of days, she had said yes.

With the briefing over, the training officer came over and handed him a revolver. “Still know how to use this, Craig?”

“Without a doubt,” he said.

“Sorry we only have one spare,” he said. “Looks like you and Sarah will have to share.”

“Not a problem.”