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Chapter 11 by Zingiber Zingiber

What is it with Witkowski?

Chemo

I find Witkowski leaning against the wall outside Pico di Bono, looking green.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Fucking chemo," she says.

"Tina," I say, and step up. She fends me off.

"Hands off, Clark," she says. "Or I might lose this nice dinner right down your shirt."

I step back. Her quick, shallow breathing slows and deepens. She mops her forehead with a handkerchief.

"Ah," she says. "Think I got it. Up to a walk?"

"Sure," I say.

She adjusts her police radio and clips it back on her belt. "Let me get my flashlight," she says. She fetches her six-cell police special from the cruiser.

I raise my eyebrows as she has her back turned, but refrain from teasing her about wanting to blind me again.

"By the river?" I ask. Pico di Bono is a few blocks from the river, but we're a couple miles away from the bridge where I picked up the crack on my head and jaw tonight.

She nods. She calls in to the dispatcher that she'll be a little longer coming back to check out, then zips up the car. A lonely little red light flashes inside as we walk toward the river.

"Feel like talking?" I say.

Anything I can do?

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