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transportation was not a car, but a big black-and-red 600 cc cycle parked at the curb.
    “It was this or a police car,” he shrugged. “The deal was one I couldn’t refuse at the showroom in town. They even took my old coupe in trade for this floor model.”
    Wondering if I had time to change, I clutched my skirt. “I’m not really dressed for a hog ride.” His blue eyes went soft with apology.
    “I know. I figured you for a sporty chick.”
    I watched him reach out to rub the handlebar as if he were consoling an insult to his cycle.
    “I could have borrowed a police car when off duty, but thought maybe you’d take that as… too much authority. ”
    Avoiding his look, I bit my lip and decided there was no alternative. “Do you know how to shift a beetle?”
    He handled my stick shift with ease. “Lots of pickup in this little car,” he said. “I could see it giving a precinct car a good chase.”
    I sucked in my breath. “Have you already had any, um, traffic chases here?”
    He shot me a sideways glance. “A couple. I’ve been told that’s about as exciting as it gets ’round here. Traffic violations and property thefts.” He noticed when I breathed a soft sigh of relief, but said nothing more until we arrived at the Fest.

Chapter Six
    Since I didn’t bring a pocketbook, I deferred holding onto the car keys.
    He slipped them into his jeans pocket after locking the car.
    Even remembering what the trunk held, I felt safe knowing there was no reason for him to search my locked trunk, and as long as we stuck together, I would know where the keys were.
    The benefit concert was well-attended. We sat in a section reserved for MFPD to the right of the bandstand. When we took our seats, Dallas tossed off a few friendly greetings to cops he knew, and we both waved to Captain Billington a few rows behind.
    Drummer Copeland was probably the equivalent of Ringo Starr, both of them from an era that predated both of us by decades. We discussed how bands of that era were enjoying a resurgence of popularity from old and new fans. Some of the vintage tour groups were still defying expiration. I could see a lot of gray heads in the audience, matching the color of Copeland’s cropped hair. The musician proved to be especially sardonic when introducing famous numbers and the history behind them.
    The crowd was engaged and equally enthused, quenching a thirsty demand for Milwaukee beer. The night air steamed around us like the inside of a local brewery. Dallas warmed to the music…and to me with each successive cup of beer. By the end of the concert, he had an arm locked firmly over my shoulders. Beer also had another notorious effect; I hit the rest rooms—twice.
    Though it was already July 22nd, the concert ended with ten minutes of spectacular fireworks competing with a medley of patriotic songs. “Do they have fireworks in Texas,” I asked during the grand finale.
    “Of course. All rumors aside, we haven’t seceded from the union yet. In fact, we also have fireworks on Texas Independence Day in March, and even for Lyndon B. Johnson’s birthday in August.” He looked beyond me with a slow smile. “My daddy used to tease me into believing we were related to the former President, and though we were never invited to any of his parties, we always celebrated the day anyway with one of Mom’s pecan cakes and a jug of Daddy’s home-brew.”
    “Very impressive.” I laughed. “I always heard Texas does things in a big way.” I playfully tapped his silver belt buckle with a fingernail.
    “Won that in a rodeo,” he snickered. “Nine seconds on a bull that nearly broke my arm. My hand was caught in the grip.”
    “Which hand?” I squeezed the one that held mine and took a deep breath when I felt his grip tighten. We threaded our way through a parking lot filled with cars idling toward the park exits. After locating my car, I noticed he had a little trouble getting the key in the door lock while still holding my