Mabel said, “I never use that silly sewing room anymore, so that will be your bedroom. We’ll decorate it up real pretty for you. And it has a good closet. We’ll take you shopping and fill up that closet.”

Olive just kept looking at Mabel with eyes as quiet and devoted as a dog’s and said, “My own bedroom?”

“Certainly, dear,” Mabel said. “But of course we’ll always have to share the bathroom. You wouldn’t mind not having your own bathroom, would you?”

Olive started to say that in her whole life she’d never had her own bathroom. Or her own bedroom. But she was so overwhelmed she couldn’t speak. She just shook her head.

Mabel said, “I think we’ll buy a reliable car right away. You can drive, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Olive said. “I’m a good driver.”

“I think when we get our car, the first thing we’ll do is take a drive to Universal Studios and do the tour. Have you ever been to Universal Studios?”

“No,” Olive said.

“Neither have I,” Mabel said. “But we’ll need to buy one of those fold-up wheelchairs. I don’t believe I could manage the long walk. You wouldn’t mind pushing me in a wheelchair, would you?”

“I’ll do anything for you, Mabel,” Olive said.

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“No,” Olive said. “When I got arrested for DUI, they took mine away. But I know a real nice guy named Phil who makes them. They’re very expensive. Two hundred dollars.”

“All right, dear,” Mabel said. “We have plenty of money, so we’ll buy you one of those for now. But someday you should try to get a proper one.”

Thinking of the driver’s license, Mabel said, “Dear, I know your real name is not Olive Oyl.”

“No, that’s the name Farley gave me.”

“Yes, he would,” Mabel said. “What’s your real name?”

“Adeline Scully. But nobody knows it. When I got arrested I used a alias.”

“Adeline!” Mabel said. “Sweet Adeline. I used to sing that song when I was a girl. That’s the name that will go on the driver’s license. That’s who you are from this day forward. Adeline. What a lovely name.”

Just then Tillie, the striped tabby who was lying on the coffee table-a cat who had never heard a negative word spoken to her since Mabel rescued her-finished a can of tuna and slapped the empty can from the table in disgust.

“Oh, goodness,” Mabel said, “Tillie’s getting cross. We’ll have to open another can of tuna. After all, if it wasn’t for Tillie, we would never be able to have this new and wonderful life, would we?”

“No,” Adeline said, smiling at Tillie.

“And mum’s the word, Tillie,” Mabel said to the cat.

“I’m real happy, Mabel,” Adeline said.

Looking at her smile like that, Mabel said, “Adeline, you have such nice thick hair I’ll bet a stylist could give you a beautiful cut. Let’s both go get our hair done and a manicure. And I was wondering, would you like to have some teeth?”

“Oh, yes!” Adeline said. “I’d love to have some teeth.”

“That’s going to be something we tend to first thing,” Mabel said. “We’re going to buy you some nice new teeth!”

By the start of the new deployment period things were getting better insofar as car assignments were concerned. The Oracle liked the way Mag Takara was recovering and her vision was improving. He was thinking about putting her back on patrol.

Andi McCrea had been to Washington for a week, where she’d visited her son in Walter Reed every day. When she came back to Hollywood, she said she’d seen courage beyond words and that she’d never underestimate her son’s generation, not ever again.

There are no worse gossips in the world than cops, and few can keep a secret, so the word got around Hollywood Station that Andi McCrea and Brant Hinkle were getting married. Compassionate Charlie Gilford quickly offered his usual brand of commentary.

“Another double-handcuff ceremony,” he said to Viktor Chernenko. “Right now they’re calling each other darling babycakes and little buttercup. In another six months they’ll blow each other’s brains out. That’s the way it is in Hollywood.”

Viktor was especially happy, having learned that he’d been named Hollywood Station’s Detective of the Quarter, and paid no attention to Compassionate Charlie’s unromantic notions. He loved the sound of those terms of endearment.

That evening before going home, he phoned his wife and said, “I am so joyful, my darling babycakes. Would it be pleasing if I picked up some Big Macs and strawberry ice cream for my little buttertub?”

TWENTY-TWO

WITH THE JULY Fourth holiday approaching, the Oracle thought he had midwatch well sorted. When Fausto and Budgie brought in a report for signature, he said, “Fausto, it’s time we took code seven at that other new Mexican restaurant-what’s it called?”

“Hidalgo’s,” Fausto said.

“I’m buying.”

“You hit the lottery?”

“Time to celebrate. It’s summer in Hollywood,” the Oracle said. “I feel expansive in the summer.”

Fausto looked at the Oracle’s ample belly and said, “I see what you mean.”

“You should talk,” Budgie said to Fausto. Then turning to the Oracle she added, “I have him on a six-burrito diet. He’s already had five this week so he only gets one tonight.”

“Give us a few minutes,” Fausto said. “I gotta get a DR for a report.”

The Oracle was alone again when he started to feel pain in his upper stomach. That damn heartburn again. He was sweating for no reason and felt he needed some air. He walked out into the lobby, passing below the hanging photos of those slain officers whose names were outside on the Hollywood Station Walk of Fame.

The Oracle looked up at the full moon, a “Hollywood moon,” he always called it, and sucked in air through his nose, blowing it out his mouth. But he didn’t feel better. There was suddenly a dull ache in his shoulder and his back.

A woman was coming to the station to make a report on the theft of her son’s bicycle when a loud motorcycle roared by and she saw the Oracle grab his chest and fall to the pavement.

She ran into the station, screaming, “An officer’s been shot!”

Fausto almost knocked her down as he threw open the glass door and ran out, followed by Budgie and Mag Takara, who’d been working at the front desk.

Fausto turned the Oracle over onto his back and said, “He hasn’t been shot.”

Then he knelt beside him and started chest compressions. Budgie lifted the Oracle’s chin, pinched off his nostrils and started breathing into his mouth as Mag called the rescue ambulance. Several officers ran out of the station and watched.

“Come on, Merv!” Fausto said, counting compressions silently. “Come back to us!”

The RA arrived quickly, but it didn’t matter. Budgie and Mag were both crying when the paramedics loaded the Oracle into the ambulance. Fausto turned and pushed two night-watch cops out of his way and wandered alone into the darkness of the parking lot.

One week later at roll call, the lieutenant said to the midwatch, “There will not be the usual police funeral for the Oracle. His will was very specific and stated that he’d made other arrangements.”

“He should get a star on the Walk,” Flotsam said.

The lieutenant said, “Well, that’s for our Hollywood Division officers killed on duty.”

“He was killed on duty,” Hollywood Nate said. “Forty-six years around here? That’s what killed him.”

“How about a special star for the Oracle?” Mag Takara said.

The lieutenant said, “I’ll have to talk to the captain about this.”

“If anybody deserves a star,” Benny Brewster said, “that man does.”

Jetsam said, “No funeral? We gotta do something, Lieutenant.”

B.M. Driscoll said, “The Oracle always said he was staying on the job till his ex-wife died so she couldn’t get any of his pension. What about her? Did they have kids who might want a funeral?”