"If I did," the woman said, "I'd be with him instead of you. What do you want with a cop?"
"I've got to find one," Marc said anxiously. "It means everything."
By this time the woman had resigned herself to the unhappy fact that she was out for a spin with a raving lunatic. She nodded sagely, as though agreeing with this last remark entirely.
"Sure," she said, "sometimes I feel that way myself. Cops are everything. It just sweeps over me all of a heap."
"What sweeps over you?" Marc asked absently.
"Cops," the woman said.
"Do you think you ought to be making these little confessions to a total stranger?" Marc asked distastefully. "Or do you mean your husband is a cop?"
"Of course not," the woman said. "My husband is a butcher. What's that got to do with it? I was just saying that sometimes cops just seem to surge over me." She giggled with nervous desperation. "A sort of blue serge, you might say."
"Well," Marc said, "since you seem to know all these cops so well, you ought to be able to tell me where they hang out."
"I don't know all these cops," the woman said.