“Oh, no, no, he never,” Mr. Lenihan said quietly. “We was better trained than that.” He reached into his jacket and came up with a long yellow pencil. “We knew how to handle evidence, for Christ’s sake. We was detectives, weren’t we? Jim took out his pencil and placed it, eraser end down, into the empty glass, just as you’re supposed to and nice as you’d please.” As he spoke, he carefully put the pencil into the glass, deftly twisted his wrist and turned the impaled glass upside down without touching it. “Now, there’s the proper way to handle evidence.” Mr. Lenihan stepped back from the bar and they moved back, giving him room. “Well, sir, Jimmy Clarke was as pleased with himself as a man can be to have this rare opportunity to demonstrate to the Chief of Detectives himself what a fine clever fella he was and him just new to the division and all, and off he starts toward the boss.”
Mr. Lenihan moved slowly, his eyes on the evidence. Suddenly, he stumbled over an imaginary obstacle. They all watched, horrified, as the glass hit the floor and shattered into splinters.
Mr. Lenihan regarded the broken glass for a moment, then turned and pointed to the floor. “The damned woman corpse got in his way and poor James stepped on her arm and lost his footing. He was so damned concerned with the evidence he didn’t look where he was going.”
“My God,” Francis Kelly said. “What happened then, Mr. Lenihan?”
“Well, James Clarke turned old right before my eyes. I had an absolute clear preview of what he’d look like when he was an old, old man. And I remember, God forgive me, but all I could think was ‘Oh, Jasus, I’m glad it was him and not me.’” He reached into his back pocket, took out a handkerchief, squatted over the broken glass and looked up at them so they knew the story was not quite over.
Carefully, with his fingertips, Mr. Lenihan placed the delicate slivers of glass into the handkerchief and then stood up and extended the broken glass at arm’s length. “Would these be of any use to anybody?’ Jimmy Clarke asked the Chief of Detectives!”
They all burst into nervous, sympathetic, understanding laughter, which grew louder and more relaxed.
Mr. Lenihan smiled, took a long swallow from his drink and waited for the laughter to subside.
“You know what, lads? Now I’ll tell you something. That is exactly, exactly what happened that night. The Chief laughed first and then the squad commander and then the Homicide guys and then I joined in finally and then poor Jim himself. The two witnesses laughed hysterically, as though they feared we’d all gone mad and they’d better play along with it. I swear to God, I believe that if the poor bloody corpses could have joined in, they would have laughed too.” Mr. Lenihan shrugged, held his hands out before him and said reasonably, “After all, what the hell else was there we could have done?”
On the morning of the examination, Brian woke up from a terrible dream: He had gotten into the wrong room, had lost his pencil, time ticked by, his examination paper was blank. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and tried to put the dream from his mind. While he was shaving, he developed a tic in his right eye.
Martin was fully dressed and looked as though he’d been up for a long time. He placed a cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of his brother.
“Hey, thanks, Martin.” He sipped the coffee, added some sugar and stirred. “Hey, what are you doing up so early on a Saturday morning anyway? What time is it?” He turned and squinted at the wall clock. It was six-thirty.
Martin shrugged but didn’t answer.
Brian regarded his younger brother curiously. “You been to Mass this morning?”
Martin nodded.
“A little early, isn’t it?” The soft eyes met his, then blinked. A slow, deep flush of color traveled up Martin’s cheeks and Brian, puzzled at first, suddenly realized Martin had attended six o’clock Mass to pray for Brian’s intention. Brian swallowed hard. Jesus, he was a funny kid; never had much to say for himself. As far as Brian knew, Martin wasn’t even aware of the examination date, let alone how much it meant to Brian. They’d never discussed it. They’d never discussed much of anything. Brian studied the round, freckled face. “Hey, Martin, thanks.”
Martin shook his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying. He frowned and looked unutterably sad and clenched his hands.
“What’s the matter, Martin?”
Martin turned his face away. “I don’t know. I guess I can’t seem to do things right.” Then, to answer Brian’s puzzlement, he added, “You weren’t supposed to know.”
“Hey, kid, that doesn’t spoil it for you, does it?”
Helplessly, Martin turned his hands palm up. “It’s not supposed to be something for me. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. But I wish you luck, Brian. You’ll do fine.”
Brian rubbed at his eye. “Damn it, if I’m able to see maybe.”
“I think it’s just because you’re tensed up, Bri. It’ll probably stop in a while. You’re up pretty early too, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Well, I couldn’t sleep. Kept having this stupid dream. God, I’ll be glad when this whole thing is over.” Impulsively he turned to his younger brother. “Hey, Martin? I’ll probably do pretty good, don’t you think?”
Martin’s grin was broad and mocking; his sadness slipped away and he jutted his chin at Brian and asked, “How can you miss? You’re Brian O’Malley, right?”
Brian punched him lightly on the shoulder with the side of his fist. “You’re damn right,” he said, and somehow they convinced each other.
Francis Kelly inhaled deeply on the stub end of his Chesterfield, then dropped the butt and stepped on it. “Sure is a big school, huh, Brian?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been in a public school before, have you?”
Smoke curled from Francis’ nose. “Now what would I be doin’ in a public school?” he asked abruptly. “Jesus, there’s an awful lot of guys here.”
Brian poked him. “Come on, Kelly. You and me, kid, we’re gonna ram it home to them, right?”
Francis Kelly nodded weakly. They met Tom Gaffney, smoked more cigarettes, met other guys they knew, exchanged rumors, tried for false courage, then filed into the building to find assigned rooms. Floor monitors sent them all in different directions.
Francis Kelly shook Brian’s hand one final time and said, “Gaffney’s in bad shape, isn’t he, Bri? Well, buddy, we’ll show ’em a thing or two, right?”
“You betcha, kid, luck.”
The room monitor checked Brian’s admission card, compared his signature on the card to the one he’d just signed and assigned him to the last seat in the last row by the window. Brian was glad he could gaze away from all the tense guys shifting around in the tight seats. Jesus, all of them competing for the job he wanted more than he could understand. He’d never even thought of doing anything else with his life; it was always there, just waiting for him to grow up: the Department.
The silence in the room, when the monitor called for it, was stark and unnatural, as though they were all trying to make good impressions. Brian closed his eyes, didn’t hear anything the room monitor told them in his flat emotionless voice. He didn’t look at the exam booklet or the separate answer sheet; he just let them he unseen on the surface of the desk, waiting for the signal.
There was a shifting of bodies, movement of feet, stifled coughs, soft sighs, clearing of throats, flexing of shoulders, touching of good luck charms. Brian slipped his fingers to the chain around his neck and discreetly slid the Miraculous Medal to his lips, then dropped it back inside his shirt.
A tall, thin woman entered the room: an additional monitor. She took a piece of chalk in her hand, consulted her stop watch. At exactly the moment when the school bell rang, signaling the start of the exam, she wrote the time on the blackboard with a screech of chalk: 9 A.M.
As he opened the examination booklet, Brian realized for the first time that the throbbing in his right eye had stopped.
EIGHTEEN
BRIAN BRUSHED HIS FINGERTIPS along the side of the revi
ew stands which had been erected outside the Loew’s Paradise for the Memorial Day parade to be held the next day. The sky was black and the stars looked exactly like the fake stars in the ceiling of the movie house: bright, piercing little lights which seemed to flash on and off as he stared at them. He stopped at the newsstand on the corner of 184th Street and the Grand Concourse, as he did every night, and picked up his copy of the Daily News.
“Ah, that’s Brian O’Malley, yes?” The blind newsman, Mr. Samuels, pocketed the two pennies.
“How’s things, Mr. Samuels?”
A shrug, smile, noncommittal. “How could it be? A nice night, Brian. Tomorrow should be a good day for the parade.”
Brian yawned, leaned his head back. Christ, he was tired. It had been a long day; late show. He turned down 182nd Street and went to Ryer Avenue. As he approached the police station at the corner of 181st Street, he noticed Mr. Gallegher, the tall, thin clerical man he’d known all his life. Gallegher had broken in with his father.
“Hey, Brian, see you a minute?”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Gallegher. Yeah, sure. Nice night, huh?”
Instead of making some small talk, Gallegher came down the five steps and it suddenly occurred to him: Gallegher had been standing there, in front of the precinct house, waiting for him. Gallegher’s face was sad and weary, as though he’d spent a lifetime telling people things they’d rather not hear. Light from the green lanterns and from the yellow streetlamp bounced off his bald head and his mouth turned down at the corners. He pulled at his loosened navy-blue tie and rocked back on his heels.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Gallegher?” Nameless panic twisted deep inside his stomach.
“Well, Bri, see, we’ve got your cousin John O’Malley in the house,” he said and jerked a thumb toward the police station to make sure Brian understood.
“You’ve got John inside?” Brian asked, bewildered.
“You know Danny Dunne?”
Everyone in the neighborhood knew Danny Dunne. He was one of the toughest detectives in the precinct and he prided himself on the fact that when he told the neighborhood kids to move their ball game away from the precinct house, he punctuated his requests with a couple of well-aimed kicks in the backside. Brian had been the recipient of a few of Danny Dunne’s quick forays when he was a younger boy.
“What about him?”
“Well, Danny spotted poor Johnnie in there with a carton of flags he’d taken from Kruger’s candy store. The thing is, I doubt very much that the whole thing was John’s idea, Brian.”
Brian lit a cigarette, turned away from Mr. Gallegher for a moment, then turned back and asked tersely, “My brother Kevin around?”
Gallegher spread his palms and shrugged. “You know John. The two lads are always together. Dunne said there were two boys on the scene and one ran off.”
Brian rubbed the back of his neck roughly. “And left John?”
“He’s a good lad, Bri. Wouldn’t open his mouth. And I think Danny gave him a bit of a bad time. I kept my eyes on him, but all in all, it might be just as well for Johnnie. Got scared enough I think to stay out of trouble. It could have been bad, though, Brian, if they’d been in another precinct, if you understand me.”
Brian nodded. He felt the sweat on his forehead and down his back.
“Well, come on inside a moment. Dunne wants to have a word with you. Don’t let him throw you, Bri. Just take it nice and easy, all right? And then you take your Johnnie off home.” He held Brian’s arm for a moment. “And I’d have a word with Kevin, if I were you.”
Brian nodded. “I’ll have a word with Kevin, all right.”
John O’Malley sat, elbows resting on the long gray table in front of the bench, a resigned if worried expression on his face. He had finished the comic books Mr. Gallegher had given him and when he looked up and saw Brian he grinned widely.
“Hey, Brian. Boy, I’m glad you’re here. Can I go home now, Mr. Gallegher?”
“Just sit there until I come back for you,” Brian said.
“Oh. Okay, Brian. I will.”
Danny Dunne was a tightly built, compact man, with high cheekbones, a fair complexion and beads of glare for eyes. He hardly opened his mouth when he spoke; he forced the words from him grudgingly. “That’s a cute cousin you got in there,” Dunne said. There was an edge of laughter in his voice, mocking and cruel. “Oh, he’s a real beaut.”
Dunne pushed his hat over his brow, leaned back in his swivel chair and placed his feet on his desk. Carefully, deliberately, he lit his cigar and filled the air in front of him with billows of acrid smoke.
“Here’s the facts of the case,” he said. “I was cruising and pulled over to the curb at 183rd Street and Webster Avenue at ten-thirty tonight. I seen a coupla figures movin’ in the vestibule of Kruger’s store. I know Kruger closes early on Wednesday night, see.” He tapped his forehead. “Ya gotta keep this kinda information on tap, so’s you know when somethin’ ain’t kosher, ya know?”
Mr. Gallegher interrupted. “Listen, Danny, why don’t you just give the lad the facts and not give us instruction in how to become a detective?”
Danny turned a glazed stare on Gallegher and then on Brian. Brian realized that if it was up to Dunne, poor John would be in very big trouble.
“Mr. Dunne,” he said carefully, “I would appreciate it if you tell me what happened.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’d appreciate it. All right, then, as I approached, the ‘other kid,’” Dunne said slowly, sitting up, staring hard at Brian, as though there was a guilty secret between them, “the anonymous other culprit, ran like the thief he is and left the big boob out there holding the goods. See, Kruger’s nephew delivered this box of flags from Jersey. For the parade tomorrow. Kruger left the door to the store open; the nephew put the box inside and I guess forgot to snap the lock. So along comes rube-the-boob in there, and another person unknown, and in they go.” He held his index finger up. “Breaking and entering, right? And out they come”—he held a second finger up—“lugging the box of flags with them: larceny-felony.”
He sat there and waited; let Brian feel it for the full weight. Finally, he said, “Now lucky for your cousin there that Mike Gallegher persuaded me not to book him. And I don’t mind tellin’ you right now, kid, given five minutes in the right setting, like downstairs, I’d a’ made him tell me who the other kid was. Not that we don’t just among us have a pretty good idea.”
Brian yanked the unlit cigarette from between his lips and said to Danny Dunne, “My cousin might be a little simple, but he wouldn’t have told you balls.”
Danny pulled his feet from the desk, but Gallegher moved quickly and pulled Brian toward the door. Dunne’s face was pale and he flicked a quick look to Gallegher. “Dumb seems to run in the family, don’t it? Get them all the hell outta here. Tell junior here you’re supposed to say thanks when somebody’s doin’ you a favor.”
Brian shook himself free of Gallegher’s hold. “Thanks, Dunne,” he said tightly. “Thanks a lot.”
Dunne pointed toward the door. “Now get your ass the fuck outta here before I change my mind.”
Gallegher’s hand was steady and strong as he led Brian from the room. Dunne called out again. “Hey, O’Malley? Are you aware of the fact that if it was your brother, I mean, if it just happened to have been your brother, and if he’d a’ got himself booked for breaking and entering and grand larceny, why”—Dunne made a fist, popped his thumb up, then turned it over—“you’d be kicked off the P.D. list so fast it would make your head spin?”
Brian’s lungs seemed too tight and hard to expand for the oxygen he needed. He walked past John with just a quick nod for John to follow him, then turned to shake Gallegher’s hand. “God, Mr. Gallegher. Jesus, thanks.”
“Okay, son, now you take it easy.” He motioned to John O’Malley. “Go down the steps and wait for your cousin, there’s a good boy. Now listen, Brian...oh, hell, boys are boys, these things happen.”
“If you had
n’t been here...”
“Well, it was no more than any of us would’ve done, lad. Just that Danny Dunne being such a bastard. Your dad did many a favor for many a man in his day, Brian. You go on home now and take it easy.”
Brian nodded and took the stairs in two bounds and walked past John, who followed close behind him.
“Hey, Brian, you mad at me? Gee, Brian, I’m real sorry. Don’t he mad at me. Gee, Bri, why don’t you say something? You’re mad at me, I can tell.”
Brian’s hands curled into fists and he moved down the street with John’s worried voice pursuing him. They reached the alleyway which led to the courtyard, the “O’Malley courtyard.” For the first time, Brian spoke to John.
“We'll go in this way, through the bedroom window. I don’t want us to wake Mom.”
John bounded ahead of him, walking backwards so that he could face Brian. “I didn’t tell them anything, Brian, if that’s what you’re mad about, honest. Gee, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. You gonna hit me, Brian? It’s okay if you wanna hit me, but just don’t be mad.”
“I’m not gonna hit you, John,” Brian said softly. “Look, I want you to do something for me, okay?”
John nodded, eager to placate his cousin. “Sure, Brian, anything you say, sure. Gee, I’m glad you’re not mad at me. That Mr. Dunne, he said you’d probably beat me up real bad. I’m glad you’re not mad.”
“Okay, now look. Go over there and wait in the next alleyway until I tell you.” He pointed across the courtyard to the next alley. “And don’t make a sound.”
John’s mouth hung open. “Over there? Don’t you want I should go through the window, Bri? Gee, I’m awful tired.”
“In a little while. I want to get Kevin out here for a minute, see? When I get Kev out, then you can go to bed. But you stay over there and don’t make a sound. Come on, I’ll go over with you.” They crossed the yard into the next alleyway. Brian looked up at the dim bulb inside the little wire cage. He took out his handkerchief, opened the cage and unscrewed the bulb and waited for a moment until his eyes became accustomed to the dark. “Now just stay quiet and wait here for us, okay?”
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