Mitchell Smith

by Daydreams

  “Sonia . . .” Ellie’s heart was giving quick little bumps in her chest. Bump, bump, bump. She took a deep breath.

  “And I was wondering-even though I hardly know the girl, whether there’d be any objection to my seeing her a few times. -I think I might make this dreadful thing a little easier for her to bear-reduce the trauma, if only slightly. It would give her someone to talk to.”

  Susan Margolies stroked her leather desktop lightly with the fingers of her left hand. “-I knew her mother, after all, and loved her. It seemed to me it would be proper to help Sally’s daughter, if I could.”

  “I don’t see why that would be a problem,” Ellie said.

  “I’ll ask her if she’d like to talk with you. -I don’t see that it would be a problem. . . .” The dentist’s bill popped into her head as if Tommy Nardone were lying on the floor beside her armchair, propped on his elbow, and had just pulled it from Sally Gaither’s shoe box, read it, and handed it up to her. “She’s still in Connecticut, I think-I don’t remember the name of the school. . . .”

  “St. Christopher’s,” Susan Margolies said.

  “That’s it.”

  “I can tell you it cost Sally a ton of money. One of those Episcopal places. Very preppy, very small classes, subtle breezes of social superiority. -A ton of money.

  Sally spent beans for herself. Every dime was saved for Sonia. Probably more than a kid would ever need.

  “Oh, God … oh, God, oh God . The Colonel, the night before, lying on the sofa in his suite, reading The New Yorker-had let the magazine fall.

  - - - (“Not what it was, Sergeant,” the Colonel had said the morning they checked in, tapping that issue . . . had also, then, downstairs, pointed out the place the Round Table had stood, and delivered a little lecture on that to Tucker as if Tucker were a Barbary ape, and had never heard of it, of Kaufman, Parker, and F.P.A.) -No lecture last night, however. All ears-except for the “Oh, God’s” and The New Yorker sliding off his lap.

  “How could that happen . . . how could that happen?”

  “An Oedipal thing, I suppose,” Tucker had said.

  “-And we surprised him.”

  The Colonel, sitting up in shirtsleeves, his tie tugged down for comfort-he’d come in from dinner only an hour before-had commenced to rock slowly back and forth, his hands folded at his chin. “Holy fucking cow,” he said. “-How could you let it happen?”

  “That cop wa very quick,” Tucker said. “-Doc Holliday couldn’t have stopped it from happening.”

  “A stupid unbelievable snafu like this. . . ” The wholesome ruddy then slowly drained from the Colonel’s face, the change quite evident in the floor lamp’s soft yellow light. Tucker assumed the Colonel had begun to consider consequences.

  “Washington the Colonel said. “Jesus H. Christ “It’s a problem, sir.”

  Tucker standing before the sofa at a relaxed at-ease.

  “A problem … ?”

  The sergeant felt, as he had anticipated while Budreau drove up and out of the project garage, that comfort he derived from observing authority in trouble. It was a sort of rich, ancient, martyred satisfaction, that he assumed many other black people (women, mainly) had accustomed themselves to when these fragile lords and masters suffered their frequent collapses. -He had supported the Colonel once before, in Central America, when forty-two thousand dollars worth of military equipment (radios, binoculars, night-sights, Grid computers) had been stolen and the Colonel signed off for it all. That difficulty had been made to disappear, with the empty shed, in a blast of plastic explosive, a few rounds fired at the tropic moon. -This “government attack”

  happily attested to by all, including a Contra captain who was no fool.

  Since that incident, Tucker had been amused to observe the Colonel’s efforts, constant, awkward . . . touching, to maintain his authority over his Master Sergeant-an authority certain as death, of course, in one way. But, in another, fragile as a consumptive Victorian child.

  “They’ll have no proof who did it, sir.”

  “A could-be is bad enough, Sergeant. A could-be is plenty bad enough!

  -What did you do with poor Bob?”

  “The Lieutenant is buried out in the Meadowlands, sir.

  We stripped him.”

  “Great God in Zion Washington’s going to love this! OX…. O.K.”-an odd and sudden expression of sorrow. “-What the hell am I going to tell his people?

  He was just a kid!”

  “Line of duty, sir—down in Central? Chopper accident?”

  “Goddamn son-of-a-bitch! -Just like that jackass to go get himself shot. I can’t believe it! -That goddamned Jew must have been crazy!”

  “It was a hasty reaction. Maybe we could have been better briefed.

  “That has to be the understatement of the year! Some fucking source …

  I suppose that fancy Dan could have planned it just to embarrass us. I wouldn’t put it past any of them.”

  “No, sir. That cop wasn’t expecting anything. -He just got the jump.”

  The Colonel had stood up, then, and commenced to pace from the sofa to the nearest window and back again.

  He was walking slightly hunched over. “How are the men taking this?”

  “Budreau’s all right. Mason was shook-the man almost killed him.”

  “Mason … Why in hell they don’t give me better material to work with

  . . .” He made his turn, headed back toward the window.

  “Would you want me to toss a little dust, sir?”

  “Hell, yes-we have to do something! You think those hoods in uniform won’t smell us in ts thing… ? But Tucker, for God’s sake, for the love of God—don’t overdo!” He’d completed his second circuit as he said that, and headed away again, back toward the window.

  “No, sir,” Tucker said. “—I surely won’t.”

  The Colonel had walked to the window, turned, paced back-still hunched over (like Quasimodo, Tucker thought) -then sat down on the sofa where he’d sat before.

  “—Bob didn’t suffer, did he?”

  “He knew what hit him-that’s about all.”

  co Let me tell you something, Sergeant-when they say mmand is no fucking joke, they sure as hell know what they’re talking about.”

  DAYDRE”S

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This is going to be a no-joy phone call.”

  “Well-it’s really a jeopardy mission, sir.”

  “That’s right,” the Colonel said. “—That’s right. Getting the job done is what counts on this one. -But Jesus Christ … it’s a hell of a bad start, Tuck.”

  Riding the elevator down two floors to his room, Sergeant Tucker had wondered if room service was still available so late in the evening.

  He’d had coconut cream pie the day before, for lunch in the dining room.

  If room service was still serving, he’d order two pieces of that pie and a steak sandwich. If they weren’t serving hot food so late, maybe have an egg-salad sandwich. Iced tea. -Get the Bobbsey Twins up for a little talk, before. Budreau carried a .38; that would do, through and through. . . .

  Mason could pack the Lieutenant’s gear, pay his room bill. The Colonel had taken the Lieutenant’s bye-bye hard. -It had been his habit in Central to be shaken at his people’s funerals-although the only troopers lost had been two idiots crashed flying in beer. Tucker supposed he equated his lost men with his honor in some addled way. An oddball and flake. —Certainly never assigned gular troop commands … not in Field Grade.

  re Tucker checked his telltale, then went into his room, locked the door, and called room service first thing. -They were good for the coconut pie (double order), and the steak sandwich.

  He undressed, put on his robe (a plain white terry cloth in extra-extra large), and called Mason and Budreau, who shared a room on the second floor. Then he unlocked his room door, went into the bathroom, and was taking a fine round shit when the men knocked and he called them into the room-and on into the c
an to be addressed-demonstrating one of the many advantages of a master’s degree in history through the University of Maryland’s extension courses. The Sun King had done such to display a majesty above shame. -Lyndon John son, too.

  One of the tough old men behind Zabar’s counter used a long slender-bladed knife to slice Ellie’s salmon nearly thin as paper. Then scooped her a half pound of chive cream cheese, a half pound of creamed herring. -Now, after watching Margolies eat so much, Ellie was hungry.

  She’d called the Squad from the corner booth, but Nardone’s phone had been busy. Then she’d called the AAPS and gotten an address and phone number for St. Christopher’s School, South Windham, Connecticut. The headmaster, a Reverend Peschek-sounding younger than she’d expected-listened to her, said, “Son-of-a-bitch-we don’t get the New York papers”-and then said he’d tell Sonia Gaither her mother was dead, adding, “-You were afraid I’d make you do it, weren’t you, Officer?”

  Ellie had said that was so.

  The old Zabar’s man tapped on the counter glass.

  “-Want anything else?”

  “No,” Ellie said, ‘-just bread.”

  “Over there,” the old man said, and Ellie took her lox and herring and cream cheese over to the bread department, asked for a seeded rye, sliced, and a raisin pumpernickel.

  On the street, she tried Nardone again from the same booth, and he answered. There was a lot of noise, talking, in the background.

  “I got some serious news over here, Tommy.”

  “Hi. -You and me both.”

  “Go ahead . . .”

  “No. -You first.”

  She told him, and Nardone said nothing. “It’s tough news,” Ellie said.

  “That poor kid,” said Nardone. “-They always get the shitty end of the stick in these fuckin’ things. You going’ up to tell her?”

  “No-I don’t have to, thank God. They’re going to tell her-“

  “How old is she-the kid?”

  “They said fifteen going on sixteen.”

  ” ‘Going’ on,’ huh? That’s great. -You going’ up there to talk to her?

  Poor kid might have something’ for us. -Any daddy in the picture?”

  “Nobody, according to Margolies. She has nobody.”

  “Shit,” Nardone said. “Anyway, you couldn’t go up today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Leahy wants us to go up to the Bronx and wait for this Internal guy, Johnson, to go see Cruz and come out with money. Supposed to be his payday. -That’s why not.”

  “That’s just ridiculous! They’re loading us up with all this crap. . .

  .”

  “Hey-I know it. I got the feelin’ they don’t want too much shit comin , out on Gaither just now-after that gamblin’ thing, and there was the black guy and the Mayor’s guy last year. . . .”

  “Well-if they don’t leave us alone, nothing’s what they’re going to get.”

  “Listen, where are you? -I’ll pick you up, we’ll go up to the Bronx and get it done.”

  “I’m at Eightieth and Broadway. I have some groceries here; I was going to go home before I drove up to Connecticut.”

  “Stuff we can eat?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “We’ll eat it for lunch up there. I’ll be up at Broadway for you in half an hour-I got one thing to clean up, here.”

  “Wait a minute-what was the big news? -We have to go up to the Bronx?”

  “No. It’s better I tell you when I see you.”

  “Tell me now-is it good or bad?”

  “It’s very bad. I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  “For God’s sake-will you just tell me?! I’m not going to fall down or something, Tommy.”

  Silence on the phone.

  “Tommy . - . ?”

  “See you less than half an hour.” Click.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ellie said, and hung the phone up hard. When she left the booth, she stepped out into bright sunshine. The morning’s high clouds had marched away over the Atlantic.

  Susan Margolies had been right. After tears—snot.

  Ellie used her Kleenex.

  “You O.K.? -Listen, this shit could happen to anybody. It was kind of an accident. -That’s all it was. I was worried you’d see the papers; they’re all comin’ out with it, now, late mornin’, making’ a big deal like a cop never got shot before.”

  They were in the Ford, heading uptown on Amsterdam -windows down, Nardone wheeling along with the traffic.

  “You could have just told me, Tommy. I wasn’t going to faint! I mean it-next time you have some bad news just tell me. -O.K.? Don’t play games with me. I’ve heard of cops getting killed before.” She felt her nose running slightly, and wanted to blow, but it seemed the wrong time.

  “Well … I knew you liked Morris. And he was on the Squad and all.

  “O.K. All right. Just don’t do it again, Tommy. O.K? -Who were they?”

  “Assholes . . . nobody! Who the hell knows who they were? -It was a B an’ E, or the old lady opened for ‘em, and Morris just walked in on it. It was bad luck, that’s all. Could happen to any citizen.”

  “Who’s going to take care of his mother?” Ellie blew her nose.

  “No need for that…. The old lady went out with her boy.”

  “They killed her?”

  “Probably an accident … you know; they bopped her. . . .”

  “This happened last night-why didn’t the Squad at least get a call? They could have done that goddamn much.” Ellie took out her compact to make sure she wasn’t a complete disaster, then closed it and put it away.

  “Because the precinct cars didn’t have the floor right. -They got two calls-no names, you bet-and one jerk mentioned a floor number, but the cars got it wrong, checked the wrong floor-and nothing. This morning, two detectives went over there-precinct got another call’How come the police weren’t doin’ their jobT-and this time they got the jerk made the call, lived right next door, and they went in and found out what happened.”

  “Why don’t we just go over there, right now?” -Because’-he made the right turn at 110th Street”because Leahy said the word was to keep our nose out of it. It’s West Division’s business-it’s not our business.

  The Major Crime people are not interested in any more shit from the Squad-was the way Leahy put it.”

  “And that’s that-one of our own?”

  “Well … I guess Samuelson is going’ to stick his nose in a little.

  Maybe we’ll stick our nose in a little, we hear something’. But it better be a little, or Fatty’s going’ to cut some noses off. Leahy’s not happy about this Gaither thing, for starters. -He doesn’t think we got any business messin’ with it.”

  “And Morris shot one?”

  “Shot the shit out of him, it looks like.” Nardone’s bulky right hand did a little finger-dance along the top of the steering wheel. “Denny Neil!‘s on West, and he called Samuelson and said there was a trail of blood all the way down to the garage. Morris nailed one of ‘em, all right. -Samuelson said Neill said the jerk next door saw one of ‘em through the peep when they took off, right after shots-fired. Caught a glimpse of just one of ‘em. The fucker was carryin’ the fuckin’ TV-you believe that?

  Kill a cop and an old lady-and waltz the fuck out with a fuckin’ TV! Big black guy with glasses, the jerk thinks. -you don’t see too good through those peeps.”

  “What a damn rotten thing. He was such a sad guy.

  . ‘I,’ He was always so quiet.”

  Ummm . . .”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He was a nice guy-but, let’s face it, he was a little wacky. He was going’ to get in some kind of trouble sometime.”

  “The hell he was! -What do you mean, Tommy? He’s a dead cop-he was shot in a crime!”

  Nardone turned left, up Third Avenue. “Hey-will you calm down? He was a nice guy-he was a good detective. God bless the guy, the way he went.

  But he w
as an unstable person-that’s all I’m sayin’. Someday somebody was going’ to say something’ wrong to him, and boom-there was going’ to be trouble.”

  “That’s a lot of shit. -I’m surprised at you, Tommy.

  He was a very sweet man!”

  “Yeah, that’s for sure. He was a nice guy.”

  “Yes,” Ellie said. “He was. -He didn’t suffer?”

  “Samuelson said Neill said ‘through the noggin.” He didn’t suffer. -What did you bring?”

  “I got some rye bread, some lox and cream cheese. I was going to take it right home.”

  “Here we go.” Nardone swung into 117th, drove halfway down the block, then backed in to parallel-park in front of an empanada stand. “This is great-it’ll take everybody about ten seconds flat to make us for cops.”

  “We could neck,” Ellie said. Nardone looked embarrassed.

  Across the street, farther east toward the corner, a narrow magazine stand stood open to business, three doors from a corner bodega. Some papers were stacked on the sidewalk there, two racks of magazines-most Spanish-language-a revolving display of picture postcards out front as well. This small store appeared to be taking only its proper share of passing customers. “There you go,” Nardone said, nodding toward it, then fished from the pocket of his blue polyester suit jacket a small square photograph, and handed it to Ellie. Officer Johnson, as a patrolman, had been a squirrel-cheeked, earnesteyed young man. Light brown hair.