A/N: Sorry about the cliffhanger last time. I didn't realize how flipped out everyone would be about who Amanda chose... I guess because I already knew? lol, Anyway, here's the answer. Also, there's a little cameo of sorts for a not-so-beloved character in this chapter. I couldn't resist. Have a good weekend.
CHAPTER 26: Angel on My Shoulder
. . .
"Keep the change," Daphne said, handing the bills across the backseat to the man up front. He hadn't spoken a word since she got into the cab, which was usually how she liked it—there was nothing more obnoxious than a talkative driver—but the sporadic glances they had exchanged in the rearview mirror and the silence that spanned all the way from her apartment to Queens were making her anxious.
She didn't travel alone at night anymore. Not since the Catskills. Not since Meredith. Putting herself in a dark car with a strange man filled her with terror, now that she knew how it felt to be run down by such a thing. (She couldn't actually recall the impact from the Mercedes that tossed her through the air like a deer on the highway, breaking both of her legs, but she remembered the end results vividly. She was still living with them every time she took a step.)
Per Amanda and Olivia's advice, she had given up Lyft and Uber in favor of good old Yellow Cab. The policewomen claimed it was safer, and Daphne wasn't about to argue. She listened to all of their tips on personal safety and self-defense, as a matter of fact. She couldn't bring herself to carry a handgun—it hadn't saved Meredith—but she had allowed Amanda to gift her with a stun gun on her birthday. Honestly, the thing was kind of cute: it looked like a handheld tape recorder in bright cherry red, with a built-in flashlight and speaker on one side that emitted a piercing alarm. After sounding the alarm and scaring the hell out of everyone at the birthday party, Amanda had joked that the stun gun might be tiny but it packed a big punch, just like Daphne.
She had it in her purse, which she'd kept securely in her lap for the entire cab ride. If not for Amanda's phone call, she wouldn't have broken so many of her own rules tonight, but it had been obvious just by the sound of her friend's voice that something was wrong.
For one thing, Amanda had no business being out at some casino while she was recovering from a gunshot wound. For another, where the hell was Olivia? Whenever she and Amanda weren't at work, they were damn near inseparable—Daphne should know, perpetual third wheel that she was. She'd considered calling Olivia to ask if everything was okay, but truth be told, in spite of her shameless flirting, she was still a little intimidated by the extremely powerful, extremely sexy older woman. Plus, she couldn't rat on Amanda, who had been her friend first.
Securing the cane at her side, Daphne swung the car door shut, relieved when the taxi took off before she even cleared the curb. She left the cane at home as much as possible, but for outings like this, when she didn't know the terrain or how far she would be required to walk, she kept it handy. "Or footy," she said out loud, for her own amusement. Lame joke or not, it made her laugh. Laughter kept her sane.
She got another chuckle when the twenty-something girl at the casino entrance took one look at her cane, another at her incongruously young appearance (her makeup and clothing were the only reasons she didn't get mistaken for a child more often), and visibly panicked, awkwardly asking to see some I.D. Unfazed, Daphne handed over her license, and when the girl was satisfied she was over twenty-one, she made her way into the main lobby.
Beyond, she heard the muted cacophony of hundreds of electronic beeps, whistles, and zings, but nothing could have prepared her for the noisy explosion when she opened the glass double doors. The casino was a sprawling landscape of flashing lights (ching-ching!), hundreds of occupied diamond-backed chairs (brrrippp!), and a carpet as hideously bright and busy as the rest of the room (plink plink plink!).
Just as Daphne was wondering how she would ever find Amanda in this mess—of which there were three floors—and started to search for the cell phone in her purse, she heard her name ring out above all the other noise: "Daphne! Hey, Daph, over here."
Amanda had quite the bellow, and several nearby heads turned to look at the same time, cueing Daphne in on which direction the sound had come from. In the old days, she would have moseyed over to her friend at the craps table, not concerned in the least about being watched. But she suddenly felt as though every eye in the place was on her, and she hastened forward as quickly as the cane and her stiff leg could carry her.
The first thing she noticed upon reaching the big octagon-shaped table, reminiscent of a flying saucer in an old back and white film, was that Amanda was drunk. She had sounded tipsy on the phone, and though Daphne had seen her worse off once or twice, she'd clearly tied a few on. The second thing Daphne noticed, besides the strange man that lingered behind the detective's chair, watching over her shoulder as she studied the monitor in front of her, was that Amanda reeked of cigarettes. Other than the joint they passed around at the lodge earlier that year, Daphne hadn't known her friend to be a smoker. She hadn't known her to be a gambler, either.
"Hey there . . . you," she said, not wanting to use Amanda's name in earshot of the weirdo behind her. That was another trick of the trade she'd picked up from her favorite cop duo, although she had already learned it years earlier in the bar scene—it was useful both for women who couldn't take a hint and straight guys trolling for lesbians to turn. They couldn't track you down if they didn't even know your name.
She sank into the seat beside Amanda and scooted it away from the playerless screen, which displayed a craps table identical to all the other monitors on each side of the octagon. In the center of the table, a large dome housing two oversized red dice sat like the little bubble on a Trouble playing board. And just as the thought occurred to Daphne, the dome began to shake, agitating the dice, while a computerized and annoyingly enthusiastic female voice cheered players to "push the button!" Someone finally heeded her advice, and a hiss-pop inside the dome catapulted the dice in the air, simulating a roll. When they tumbled back into place, Amanda whooped loudly.
"Did you win?" Daphne asked, leaning in to study the screen by which Amanda was so riveted. She had barely glanced up from it to greet Daphne, and she seemed almost unaware of the male presence at her back. (That was especially strange. Amanda was the most alert and observant person Daphne had ever met.)
"Pass line," Amanda replied, pushing a complicated sequence of buttons before grinning up at Daphne. "Shooter rolled a natural."
Whatever that meant. Daphne hadn't the slightest idea how to play craps or any other table game in a casino. When Amanda had invited her to "come gamble," she assumed they would be playing slot machines. Pull a lever, win some cash—or more than likely not. She had envisioned big plastic cups full of coins, and she and her friend screeching over a jackpot like a couple of old biddies. Instead, Amanda was so absorbed in the turf-green display she hunched over, Daphne might as well not have been there at all. She might as well have been the creep standing behind Amanda's chair.
"Excuse me, who are you?" she asked before she could stop herself. She avoided confrontation at all cost, preferring to joke her way out of tense situations, or hoping to skate by unnoticed altogether (not that difficult at just shy of five-foot-two). But even though she had grown up primarily in smalltown Connecticut, she'd been a New Yorker long enough to adopt the attitude when necessary. And with men, it was always necessary.
She ignored his dopey explanation—"Name's Al," he said, thrusting out his hand—and mouthed a silent, incredulous "Al?" to Amanda. "Dude, who is this clown?" she asked out loud, hitching a thumb in his direction, but not taking her eyes off the detective.
"He bought me a drink," Amanda said with a distracted wave at the tumbler, empty save for some dwindling ice chips, in the cup holder beside her. She never looked away from the jiggling dice straight ahead. ("Push the button," goaded the announcer. "Push the button.") Another cannonlike burst of air tossed the dice inside the dome, and she slapped her palms together, rubbing vigorously when both cubes turned up threes.
"See, I'm her good luck charm." Al gestured at the game station with his own glass—it was half full of a clear liquid, though whether it contained water or vodka was hard to tell—and rested his opposite hand on Amanda's shoulder. She was wearing a white button-up shirt, a black quilted coat draped across her lap, but he touched her like she was clad in something strapless and slinky. "Right, sweetie?"
Amanda shrugged his hand off and sat forward in her chair, elbows on the display that projected from the table, her forearms framing the screen. Below, the heels of her boots were hooked over the crossbar between chair legs, her knees jouncing so vigorously the coat began to slide from her lap. "I make my own luck. Get lost."
Finally, Amanda sounded a little more like herself. Daphne knew the detective had dated men in the past—hell, she had a kid that was conceived by traditional methods—but she sometimes forgot Amanda didn't identify as lesbian. Except for the lone date she'd extorted from the blonde, she had only ever seen Amanda show interest in Olivia.
It was disconcerting enough watching a man try to hit on her friend, but even more so to find out the woman had already accepted a drink from him. Daphne hadn't needed Amanda or Olivia to tell her not to take drinks from strangers when you were out by yourself.
"Now, is that any way to treat the guy who's been cheering you on for the past twenty minutes?" Al asked, pretending to be hurt by the brush off, though his smarmy smile stayed in place. He spoke to the back of Amanda's head, and when she didn't turn around, he looked to Daphne. "Aren't you going to introduce your little friend?"
"Her 'little friend' is a big fat lesbian," Daphne said in a monotone, and used the diamond-shaped handle of her cane to point out Amanda's engagement ring. "And she's married, so go find some straight, single trees to bark up, why don't you?"
Sleazebag that he was, Al only appeared more intrigued by the announcements. He eyed Daphne from top to bottom, cane included, over the brim of his glass as he took a sip. "I don't see her husband anywhere around," he said casually, then crunched an ice chip with his back teeth. He was definitely drinking vodka; no way would someone so repugnant drink plain ice water. "And you are way too pretty to be a lesbian."
Ah, that old chestnut. It was a personal favorite of Daphne's, right up there with "What a waste" and "You just haven't met the right man yet." She was contemplating using her cane like a pool stick and his scrotum like a pair of cue balls, but Amanda suddenly rounded on him in her chair, rising onto her knees to be at his eye level. "My wife's at home with our kids and our guns," she spat, features twisted into the angriest sneer Daphne had ever seen from her. "So back the hell off, or I'll give her a call. Tell her to come on down and introduce herself to Doctor Al."
"All right, all right." Al put up his hand and his glass in surrender, backing away like he had encountered a furious bear. There were hints of amusement in his eyes and in the smug, twitching corners of his mouth. He was humoring Amanda not because he was intimidated, but because he found her outburst charming. "I'll be over at the bar if you change your mind," he said, giving them both a wink before sauntering off in that direction.
"What a douche nozzle." Daphne watched to make sure the man went where he claimed he was going, then turned her attention to Amanda, who was already settling back into her chair, preparing for the next round of craps. "Why don't rich, narcissistic female doctors ever accost me like that?"
"Pro'ly because you say things like 'go find some straight, single trees to bark up.'" Amanda snorted, busy making selections on the monitor again. She was always a little preoccupied, something which Daphne attributed to her desire for Olivia—at the start of their friendship, it had been painfully obvious to Daphne that the detective was in love with her boss; and even after the relationship began, Amanda was more attentive and devoted to Olivia than any girlfriend Daphne ever had—but this bordered on obsessive. "And because you wave your cane in people's faces."
"I panicked. You know I avoid interacting with men as much as possible." Daphne jabbed at Amanda's shoulder with the cane handle. "If you don't like it, you can get off my lawn, little missy."
That drew a genuine smile from Amanda, and she looked up from the game to truly acknowledge Daphne's presence for the first time since her arrival. She was kind of a mess, her clothes and hair disheveled, her eyes red and bleary from smoke and drink. Her skin, although generally very pale, was now a waxy shade that concerned Daphne. Even her lips were bloodless and barely distinguishable from the surrounding flesh. "How ya been, Daph? Have a good Christmas?"
"Yeah, it was nice. Hammie and I visited my parents in Connecticut. And yeah, I know, Christmas in Connecticut, yuk yuk." Daphne cupped a hand to her armpit and flapped the opposite arm, suggestive of a corny comedian telling a real stinker. Above, the disembodied announcer was screaming for someone to Push the button!, and Daphne raised her voice to be heard over the computer-woman's demands. "What about you? How'd you and Liv fare with your mom? Was it as awful as you thought it would be?"
Amanda's sneer momentarily returned, first at the question and then at the dice that had landed on a seven. "Worse," she said, and slumped back in her chair with a sigh. "I threw her out after she slapped Liv. We made the best of it for the kids, but it was hard after that."
"Whoa, wait." Daphne dropped her cane between her knees, letting the end thump against the floor, and made a rewinding gesture with both hands. "She slapped Olivia? Sweet, kind, gentle Olivia, who is also a five-foot-nine beautiful but scary goddess? That Liv?"
"That's the one."
Daphne leaned forward, as if proximity determined understanding. She honestly could not imagine anyone having the guts or the audacity to raise a hand to the captain. Even after witnessing Orion's mistreatment of Olivia—at least the verbal parts—and realizing that more had probably happened with the Mangler than she or Amanda ever let on, Daphne still couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to hurt such an amazing woman. "Why the hell did she do that? Is Liv okay?"
"It's a long story, but basically she did it to spite me. That, and she's a jealous bitch." Amanda shrugged, like it was normal for one's mother to slap one's fiancée for petty reasons, and went on entering numbers on the game screen.
"But Liv's okay?" Daphne pressed, surprised that part had gone unanswered. Amanda was usually eager to talk about her fiancée, even if she was a bit guarded about certain aspects of their relationship. Their sex life, for example, was completely off the table, much to Daphne's bitter disappointment. But Olivia's well-being had always been a popular topic.
Amanda postponed her answer through several iterations of "push the button," her shoulders drooping at the resultant roll of the dice. "Physically, she's fine," she said in a clipped tone that was unfamiliar to Daphne. She knew Amanda had a slight temper, and she'd heard tales of the detective's ferocity on the job, but in two years of friendship, Daphne had never seen her truly angry. She had a feeling that was all about to change.
"Just physically?" Daphne draped her arm alongside the interface that captivated Amanda, leaning into view like a cat seeking attention from its owner while she was on the laptop. If Daphne turned over on her back and purred, the likeness would be uncanny. She tilted her head instead, trying to get Amanda to look up. Right then she missed her long hair, which would have flowed across the screen most distractingly, had she not cut it. "What about morally, ethically, and spiritually?"
"Huh?"
Daphne sighed. "From The Wizard of Oz, Mandy Lou. What is with you? I totally just quoted a munchkin, with the voice and everything, and you're not even cracking wise about my height."
"Oh," said Amanda, shooing Daphne's hand away when it waved back and forth in front of the screen. She treated it with the halfhearted annoyance of someone swatting a gnat that hovered above their picnic spread. "What's with you and that movie? Were you an extra in the Munchkinland scene or something?"
Okay, coaxed or not, that sounded a little more like her Mandy Lou; but Daphne would not be deterred. Jokes aside, she really was concerned about her friend—both of them. She couldn't put her finger on why it bothered her so much to see them apart (she was all for independence in relationships), she just knew she didn't like it. "Seriously, though, is everything okay? Don't take this the wrong way, but you look a little . . . rough. Should you even be out this soon after getting shot? Why isn't Liv with you?"
"Jesus Criminy, you sound just like her," Amanda snapped, sitting back heavily in her chair, arms folded tight across her chest. She only lasted a second before sitting forward again and plunking away at the monitor, one-handed, the other hand holding her side. "In case y'all forgot, I'm a grown-ass woman, and I did things on my own long before y'all were ever around. I called you 'cause I thought you'd stay off my case, but if you're just gonna sit there and scold me—"
Struggling to sit up from the awkward position she'd been leaning in (cats made it look so easy, the little assholes), Daphne signaled for her friend to slow down. "Hey, whoa. Mand— Amanda, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scold you. I'm just concerned, is all. Last time I saw you guys, Liv was a wreck and you were a half-dead wreck. Not to mention high as a kite. And now you're here alone, and she's home with the kids and guns? You gotta admit, it's weird."
"I ain't alone. You're here." Amanda tore her gaze away from the game and tried to focus on Daphne. Something was off about her eyes, and it took Daphne a moment to realize the detective's pupils were dilated, almost fully engulfing the light blue irises. She looked like one of those creepy paintings of big-eyed children that Amy Adams did a movie about years ago. "Was Liv really a wreck?" she asked, her tone oddly hopeful.
Daphne gaped in disbelief, nodding slowly and deliberately, the way she did when members of the public wandered into her office to ask bizarre—or just plain dumb—questions. One time, a mother about to lose custody of her six kids had ducked into the clerk station and asked Daphne to hide a dime bag of coke for her until after the hearing. That was how Daphne looked at Amanda now.
"Um, duh. I've never seen her that devastated before. Not even that night with . . . well, you know." Daphne rarely spoke Orion's name out loud. And it broke her heart to admit, but she'd started to forget Meredith. She would always remember the hair, though—before and after, when it was scattered on the ground like wind-tossed sheaves of wheat. The hair and the eyes. "I think she really thought you were going to die. She was blaming herself for not protecting you better. And because of some argument you guys had. She could barely hold it together. That woman loves you like crazy, Mandy Lou."
It didn't seem possible for Amanda to get any paler than she already was, and yet she blanched a few shades lighter at the revelation. The dice popped loudly inside their dome, causing her to start and grab for her abdomen, cringing. When she opened her eyes again, they were watery but more cognizant. She stared at the craps table and the rest of her surroundings like she didn't remember how she'd gotten there. "Shit, Daph, I screwed up. I screwed up so bad."
"What?" Daphne furrowed her brow, trying hard to follow along. Because of her off-color sense of humor and tendency to lighten the mood with a laugh, she was usually delegated the role of fun friend, rather than confidante. But she could be serious when it counted—and Amanda looked as if she needed someone to listen right then, not make jokes. "Honey, what do you mean? How'd you screw up?"
"I—"
Amanda had visibly struggled to get that much out, but before she could find the right words to follow it up with, a waitress appeared beside them, two tumblers of amber-colored liquid balanced on a tray she practically held under their noses. "Compliments of the gentleman at the bar," she explained, pointing over her shoulder at the sleazebag from earlier, who was indeed seated on one of the barstools. He grinned and waggled his fingers at them, trying for boyish and cute, and falling short at annoying and gross.
"Tell him the lesbians at the craps table said no thanks," Daphne said, turning her nose up at the bourbon she'd just caught a whiff of. Not her drink. She preferred mixed drinks, with lots of sweet ingredients to mask the flavor of the alcohol. And she preferred receiving them from gay women—the sweetest ingredient of all—not straight men who couldn't take a hint.
But Amanda had other ideas. She scooped up both glasses from the tray, nodded thanks to the departing waitress, and took a long pull at one of the bourbons. Her cheeks were still bulging with liquid when she offered the other drink to Daphne, switching the tumbler back and forth enticingly. "You sure? It's free booze," she said, crunching on the mouthful of ice chips that remained after her labored gulp.
"I'm good. And . . . you might wanna slow it down just a skosh yourself." Giving it a second thought, Daphne intercepted the drink and set it aside before Amanda started in on that one too. She'd been drunk and stoned in front of the other woman; she couldn't exactly lecture Amanda on moderation. But she could play keep away. "If Al sees you over here guzzling his drinks like a big gay fish, he's going to take it as an invitation."
The warning came too late. No more than three seconds after the words left her mouth, Al casually strolled over to stand behind both of them, one hand resting on the back of Daphne's chair, the other—still cradling his vodka—on the back of Amanda's. "Glad to see you girls are enjoying my peace offering," he announced to anyone within earshot, then added an aside to Daphne: "I took the liberty of choosing for you, I hope you don't mind. Seems you two have similar . . . tastes, so I figured you for a bourbon girl as well."
The innuendo in his voice at the mention of their similar tastes made Daphne feel ill. That was the voice men used when they were about to say something completely inappropriate and offensive. Or in this guy's case, even more inappropriate and offensive. "Actually, I think it tastes like ass. Here, you look like you'd enjoy it." She plucked up the tumbler from the game station and offered it over.
Amanda let out an appreciative chuckle at the insult, munching some more ice as she watched the scene unfold like she was parked in front of a television. It only held her interest for so long, though; she kept glancing over her shoulder to check on the progress of the game. She was so preoccupied, she barely noticed when Al's hand and the glass of vodka came to rest on her shoulder again.
"My friend seems to like it," he said in such a slimy voice, Daphne wanted to gag. She had a low threshold for tolerating men as it was, and this so-called Dr. Al had already gone way beyond the limit. He flashed what he no doubt considered a charming smile. "Why don't you give it to her? How's about it, friend? You want little cutie pie here to give it to you?"
The alcohol had put some color in Amanda's wan cheeks and she was squinting more than usual, like everyone and everything were suspect, but thankfully she wasn't too drunk to catch his insinuation. "Man, get your hands off me and leave us the hell alone." She reached up and pushed the glass away, Al's hand going with it. He lost his grip for a moment, the glass tipping and spilling a stream of vodka down Amanda's sleeve. She jerked back her arm as if it were acid instead of alcohol soaking into her shirt.
"Dammit," said Al, holding the dripping glass away from his own clothes and shaking the moisture from his fingers. (Push the button! cried the machine.) Before he got himself under control, the man looked up with such anger blazing in his eyes, Daphne shrank back in fear. Amanda shoved her chair in reverse as well, but she was still reacting to the spilled drink and hadn't seen that dark, deadly flash. By the time she pushed her chair sideways and glared up at him, the fire had been snuffed out.
"I am really sorry about that." Al felt around at the pockets of his sport coat and jeans, as if he might have a spare handkerchief stored away somewhere. Of course he didn't. No one did that anymore. He shrugged sheepishly—whoops, this isn't 1956!—and glanced around until he spotted the waitress who had brought the drinks. "Can we get some napkins over here?" he called, snapping his fingers at her.
"It's fine. Just . . . don't worry about it." Amanda threw her hand up impatiently to silence his continued apologies. Heaving a sigh, she pinched the wet sleeve away from her skin and tried to flap the material dry.
"You wanna go to the bathroom and dry it under the hand blower thing?" Daphne suggested, just as eager to get away from Al as to help Amanda clean up. She held a hand out to her friend. "Come on."
"Or," said Al, taking a step forward, until he was practically standing between them. "I've got a room at the Hilton, right next to JFK. Take us ten minutes to get there, tops. If you're still, uh, wet by then, you're more than welcome to take off your shirt. Both of you, as a matter of fact."
"Gross," Daphne muttered.
"The fuck you just say to me?" Amanda gaped up at him like he had suggested she strip naked right there at the craps table. And judging by the gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down—and then Daphne—he was picturing something quite similar.
"Don't be shy. I'll take mine off too." Al winked at Amanda and downed what was left of his vodka. He must not have been a bourbon man either, because he left the tumbler Daphne had returned to him untouched, using it merely as a prop to gesture with as he added, "Gotta keep it even. In fact, three's an odd number. Why don't you go ahead and give your wife a call, blondie? If she's anywhere near as gorgeous as you two, I'd like to meet her. Tell her Doctor Al can fix her right up."
Although Daphne didn't know exactly what was going on with Amanda tonight, she knew for a fact that Dr. Al-Schmal had just signed his own death warrant. She'd been on enough double dates with Amanda and her fiancée—and more often than not, tagged along as the perpetually single but adorable and quirky best friend—to realize no one got away with speaking out of turn about Olivia. Even just eyeing the captain or breathing in her general direction was frowned upon by the blonde at her side. Daphne got away with it because her flirting was done in jest (most of the time) and she would never dream of encroaching on her friends' relationship, but God help anyone else who tried to put the moves on Captain Benson.
Daphne had always thought the jealousy and fierce protectiveness was cute. Romantic, even. She'd pined for someone who felt that strongly about her. But as she watched Amanda spring up from her seat and slug Al in the face, she began to reconsider her stance. It happened so quickly, she couldn't process what she was seeing at first: Amanda's fist smashing into the guy's nose ("Push the button!"); the subsequent crunch, the spurt of blood and of bourbon as it was flung out of his hand; his faltering steps as he staggered backward in surprise, clutching his nose and cursing ("You bitch! You fucking crazy—").
And then the retaliation. He came at Amanda hard and fast. If she hadn't already been injured, hadn't been doubled forward holding her stomach, the other hand on her knee for balance, she probably could have eluded him. Daphne clambered up and tried to block his path, only to be knocked back into her seat as he shoved past and punched Amanda in the face. Daphne cried out, but the detective didn't make a sound as she stumbled back against the craps table, a hand clamped over her eye, and sank to the floor.
"Oh my God, oh God." Daphne scooted off her chair and dropped to her knees beside Amanda, peering into the visible half of the woman's dazed face. She had no idea what she should look for, other than to make sure everything was still intact. The side she could see appeared normal enough, though twisted in pain. "Amanda honey, are you okay? I can't believe he hit you. I can't believe you hit her, you fucking asshole! She just got shot a couple weeks ago, what the hell is wrong with you?"
"She hit me first," Al shouted back in a flat, nasal tone. He was pinching his nostrils together, cutting off the blood that flowed freely from either side and down his chin in macabre red streaks.
He turned a murderous glare on Daphne, looking frighteningly like a zombie right out of one of her nightmares, with the blood oozing across his lips and staining the front of his blue button-down shirt. She grabbed for her cane, prepared to take out his kneecap or maybe his balls when he moved towards her. But he was focused on Amanda now, a contrite expression—or at least a less psychotic one—crossing his features when he registered her ashen skin and agonized face.
"I just want to see if she's all right," he said, putting up his free hand defensively.
"Of course she's not all right." Daphne lowered the cane, but kept a tight grip on it just in case. She had once joked with Amanda about getting a swordstick, one of those antique walking sticks with a hidden blade sheathed inside. Her friend had laughed and called her Daphne: Warrior Princess. Now it didn't seem like such a silly idea after all. "You punched her in the face, you dick. She's, like, half your size."
"M'okay," Amanda said thickly, struggling to sit forward from the panel she was slumped against, below the table. She grunted and cradled her belly as Daphne helped guide her upright. When Al tried to approach again, she kicked out lamely at him. "Don't fuckin' touch me, you sonuvabitch."
By then, a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the craps table, and a very large man in a very large Hawaiian shirt and Birkenstocks stepped up to block Al's path. He stood a full head taller than the doctor and he gave his gigantic mane of bushy curls a discouraging shake as Al made to sidestep him. "Uh-uh," he said, and grabbed a fistful of Al's sport coat, holding it by the shoulder until the security guard arrived.
The security guard was young—no one who worked in this place looked over twenty-five—but he listened soberly to Al's version of events, an eyebrow raised in Amanda and Daphne's direction while the Hawaiian shirt guy helped them to their feet. He placed Daphne's cane in her hands like he was presenting a toothpick to a mouse, and he kept a hand under Amanda's elbow until she was steady on her feet. Meanwhile, Al pointed at them, raising his voice above all the electronic noise, and said, "The blonde one attacked me, so I defended myself. Look at what she did to my nose."
His pinched nostrils had provided him with a lisp, and the last part sounded like "nothes." A few of the onlookers laughed aloud, whether at the pronunciation or the idea of him needing to defend himself against someone as harmless-looking as Amanda. Even the security guard appeared to be suppressing a smile. He kept glancing down at his shoes, head lowered, lips drawn into a firm line. "Sir, I understand, but I still have to ask you to leave. Fighting is prohibited on casino grounds—"
"What about sexual harassment, is that prohibited too?" Daphne demanded, unable to hold back her anger as she listened to the guard's polite, detached tone. She didn't care if Amanda had swung first or not—there was no excusing Al's behavior, and someone should call him out on it. If it had to be her, then so be it. "Because that pig propositioned us and made lewd comments, despite our asking that he leave us alone. Not to mention he assaulted a police officer who was recently wounded in the line of duty."
She'd embellished a little there at the end, but it was worth it to see the mood of the crowd shift from mildly entertained to homicidal. A murmur of displeasure went up around the table ("Push the button," suggested the computer generated voice above), and the security guard immediately became more invested, his gaze darting to Amanda as he straightened his posture and hitched up his belt.
"Daph," Amanda said quietly, giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She was still covering her left eye, but the right one glared daggers at Daphne, stormy blue in color, with red lightning zigzagging through the white.
Apparently Daphne had said too much yet again—it seemed to be a recurring theme for her—although she wasn't sure if it had been revealing Amanda's profession or mentioning her injury that did it. Probably the former, since they were about to be escorted from a casino, for disorderly conduct. Way to go, Daphne Marie.
"You're a cop?" Al asked in disbelief. He had finally let go of his nose, which was now noticeably off center, reminding Daphne of a cartoon villain who had walked into a brick wall and flattened his schnoz. At least it added some character to a face otherwise as bland as oatmeal.
Not to be outdone, Amanda lowered her hand as well, exposing her puffy pink eyelids, already so swollen only a sliver of blue iris remained visible between them. She was going to have one hell of a shiner tomorrow. "Yeah, NYPD," she said gruffly, her stance stiff and unnatural, like an awkwardly constructed department store mannequin. She tried relaxing her arm from the side she was favoring, and winced. "What of it, you wanna press charges? 'Cause I think I have a pretty good defense."
"And a witness," Daphne chimed in, rapping her cane on the floor. She seldom used her disability to get special treatment—she hadn't even accepted her doctor's offer of a handicap placard for parking—but if it made Al look like more of a heel for harassing the lady with the cane, it was worth it.
"Witnesses," said the big guy in the Hawaiian shirt. He nodded in solidarity when Daphne cast a grateful glance up (and up) at him.
Al scoffed at the claims, but a sidelong glimpse of the crowd—some of whom had lost interest and disbanded, the ones who remained eyeing him with disapproval—reinforced that he was alone in this fight. He heaved a disgusted sigh and threw a dismissive wave at Amanda. "Screw it. And screw you both. I don't need this," he said, and jerked his arm free when the guard tried to lead him away. With that, he turned and went on his own, ignoring the smattering of applause that accompanied his departure.
"Are you all right, officer?" asked the security guard, approaching with caution, as if he expected Amanda to lash out like a wounded animal. Poor kid didn't know how to handle an injured woman or a roughed up superior officer.
"It's Detective," Daphne corrected flatly. She didn't feel that sorry for him.
"Sorry. Sorry, ma'am." The kid bent down to collect the tumblers Al had dropped when Amanda's right hook made its debut. He gestured with one in each hand as he stood. "Sorry, Detective. Is there anything I can do? You want some ice for that eye? Or should I call—"
"I'm fine. I don't need anything, thanks." Amanda turned towards the chair she'd been sitting in and tried to pick up her coat from the floor, where it had landed after falling from her lap. But she cringed and held onto her hip like a runner with a stitch in her side, unable to move that way. Giving a brief nod of thanks to their friend in the Hawaiian shirt, who plucked up the coat and offered it to her—it looked doll-sized in his grizzly bear hands—she faced Daphne again and said, "Let's get outta here."
"That's not necessary, ma'am. You're welcome to stay and finish your game."
From the eye not swollen shut, Amanda tossed a sharp look in the guard's direction, then another over her shoulder at the craps table. The second glance lasted much longer, only concluding when the electronic announcer bawled out, "Push the button!" Amid further protests, she gathered Daphne by the arm—though she needed more support than Daphne did, at the moment—and led them towards the exit doors.
. . .