Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  A bony, wet tomcat slunk from beneath a parked car and Brian watched him forage expertly through an unpromising garbage can. The cat dropped to the sidewalk, raised his quivering tail and sprayed the can before he disappeared into an alleyway.

  Dampness penetrated his bones. His uniform smelled of wet wool. There wasn’t a goddamn spot in the whole sector where he could creep in and get warm. He checked a few doorways, entered a hallway briefly and ducked out just as quickly. It smelled of cat piss and worse. There were a few lights up and down the row of tenements. Brian didn’t envy any of those occupants their warmth. He had grown familiar with the inside of those houses and understood why the people took to the streets at the first sign of good weather. They were crowded and bug-infested and reeked with a special aura that spoke of time and place.

  He dug inside the bulky coat and carefully slid a cigarette from the pack, cupped his hands against the wind and lit it. He held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, hidden within the palm of his hand against the wind. Shit.

  The sergeant seemed to have a way of timing his periodic “look.” Brian carefully squeezed the lit end of his cigarette and hastily stepped on the bright embers as they hit the sidewalk. He put the remains into his coat pocket.

  Sergeant Horan was a tense man who leaped out of the patrol car almost before it halted completely. He expected, constantly, to come upon evidence of some grossly irremediable dereliction of duty not just from the newer men, but from all of the men who worked under him. He saw his mission as one of tremendous responsibility not only to the Department, but toward the men who must be protected from their own shortcomings.

  “Well, O’Malley,” Sergeant Horan sniffed suspiciously, “how’s things?”

  “Quiet, Sergeant. Just me and some stray cats on the street tonight.”

  Horan scanned the street, then examined Brian. “Where are your gloves, officer?”

  Brian dug in his coat pocket and pulled on the heavy woolen gloves. “I took them off a few minutes ago, Sergeant. When I made my ring.”

  The sergeant consulted his memo book and looked up puzzled. “But you made a ring twenty minutes ago.”

  Brian answered innocently, “Is that a fact? Boy, time sure flies.”

  Horan leaned closer, wrinkled his nose. “You’ve been smoking, Patrolman O’Malley.”

  “Since I was thirteen years old, Sergeant.”

  Horan shook his head impatiently. “No, no. What I mean is, you’ve been smoking recently. I didn’t see you do it, O’Malley, but I can smell it on your breath. I assure you, O’Malley, if I did see you with a cigarette on your post, I’d write you up. It would be a violation. It wouldn’t look right for a citizen to see a police officer smoking while in uniform.”

  O’Malley was about to ask exactly what citizens the sergeant was talking about, but decided he’d better keep his mouth shut.

  “So you watch yourself, O’Malley, because I might be back; you never know how many looks you might get. Let’s have your memo book, so’s I can sign it.”

  He criticized a few of the routine entries before signing his name and the time of his inspection. As soon as Sergeant Horan’s patrol car turned the corner, Brian hunched over the butt and inhaled it back to life. He flipped it quickly behind the garbage cans immediately; the patrol car had merely circled the block. Brian saluted the car as it drove past him; a surly Sergeant Horan hadn’t caught him.

  Shithead, Brian mouthed as the car continued down the street for as long as he could see it. When it finally turned off, Brian glanced around, then went over to the garbage cans and discreetly splattered them with the same disdain the alley cat had shown when he relieved himself.

  It started to rain again, hard, long frosty slashes of rain which iced the streets and beat against storefront windows. Brian leaned into the recessed doorway of a dirty-windowed button store and miserably looked at his wristwatch. A half hour until meal relief. The all-night greasy spoon on Delancey Street was no bargain but at least Jake, the owner, kept a pot of soup hot. Probably kept it hot from the end of one week to the beginning of the next, but what the hell.

  He stared at the heavy bursts of rain, intermingled with large, shapeless snowflakes as they fell within the yellow glare of the street light. His eyes ranged the black expanse beyond the light. Absently, he counted windows, left to right, top to bottom, six across, four down, cellar windows not counted.

  Fire escapes were illegally blocked, cluttered with bottles of milk and cartons of food and other nondescript items. Things. What the hell was that on the third-floor fire escape?

  It was a man, hunched down, face to window, back to street. Brian kept his eyes on the figure and moved carefully and silently, though noise wouldn’t have mattered. The wind covered all sound. The guy wasn’t cautious at all; never looked around, never checked the street, just leaned his face against the window.

  Housebreaker? Housebreakers were cautious, quick-moving, alert.

  Jesus, was it just a bundle of old clothes or newspapers, after all?

  The dark, shapeless figure shifted slightly. Brian caught a flash of lightness; the guy’s hands emerged from the sleeves of his dark coat, then he settled again and concentrated at the window.

  Brian entered the building, took the stairs two at a time. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his ears, a hard thumping sound which he didn’t even feel in his chest. The metal door on the roof flew open at the touch of his palm, caught by a gust of wind. Brian closed it carefully, walked across the roof and peered down among the maze of fire escapes. He saw the figure, squatting and motionless on the third-floor landing, oblivious to anything but whatever he watched inside the window.

  Resolutely, Brian lowered himself over the side of the roof. He felt the slippery rungs of the ladder against the heavy leather soles of his shoes and his gloved hands grasped the pipelike ladder which led to the uppermost fire escape. His foot missed one of the rungs; he slid, scraped his uniform coat, felt a button twist off; he grasped frantically to keep from falling.

  In spite of a few near slips, his descent had been almost silent He considered himself very lucky to reach the fire escape without having been detected; he felt clumsy and inept and wondered how the hell firemen could go up and down those damn iron staircases with people over their shoulders. As he reached the fire escape where the suspect was crouched, his nightstick swung loose and hit the railing. He quickly retrieved it, reached out and grabbed the suspect, who turned a stunned, rain-dripping, pale face to him. For about three seconds, the man’s long white hands continued to masturbate, but the naked flesh went limp and he hastily tried to cover the front of his body. Brian yanked him to his feet and the man’s trousers fell down around his ankles.

  “Jesus,” Brian said, “pull them up. Now button them. What the hell were you looking at in there?”

  The white face was blank and expressionless. Brian had a good grasp; his fingers clung to the leather belt around the man’s trousers. He leaned toward the window. Inside the tiny bedroom, two small girls slept, their innocent faces illuminated by a night lamp. The one nearest the window was eight or nine years old; she was partly uncovered, exposed from thigh to ankle. An inch or so of cotton underpants showed beneath her nightgown as she moved in sleep. The smaller child, about five or six, was on her back, one small hand thrown over her forehead.

  “You fucking bastard,” Brian whispered. “Don’t make a sound. You wake them up and I’ll drop you to the sidewalk.”

  The descent was tricky. Brian put handcuffs on the prisoner and descended first, his hand making contact with the man’s foot. He hoped at each step the guy wouldn’t kick out at him. At the first-floor landing, Brian had to unhook the ladder and lower it to the sidewalk. His prisoner didn’t make a sound. He slipped a few times, lost his footing, his ankle turned when he hit the sidewalk, but he went down in a silent heap and Brian stood back and let him get up without touching him.

  “Stand there,” Brian instruct
ed. He pointed to the wall of the building. “Face the wall; just stay there while I get this ladder back in place.”

  The saliva began to flow again. Brian directed the prisoner to walk alongside of him. At the corner call box, he notified the sergeant that he was bringing in a degenerate. When the desk sergeant asked if he wanted a squad car, Brian declined. This guy wasn’t any trouble at all.

  They went half a block when the man stopped and said, “I want to go home now.”

  He was a well-built man, about Brian’s height. His voice had an odd, flat, persistent quality. His eyeglasses were beaded with water and he peered dully over the rims.

  “Can you see without those glasses?” Brian asked solicitously.

  “I can’t see without my glasses.” The answer came in a singsong cadence.

  Brian took out a handkerchief. “Give them here a minute. I’ll wipe ’em off for you.”

  The man handed Brian his eyeglasses and Brian wrapped them up in the handkerchief and put them in his coat pocket. The prisoner’s head swung around and his hands came up as though he was preparing for a fall.

  “Hey, I can’t see. I can’t see nothing.”

  Brian released his breath. “Good. You’ll get these back at the station house.” He took a firm grip on the prisoner’s right arm and felt a little more in command of the situation.

  As they entered the station house, the man mumbled something which Brian couldn’t understand.

  “Go and stand in front of the desk,” he instructed the prisoner.

  Detectives Kelly and Meehan leaned against the iron railing which separated the high desk from the rest of the hollow, high-ceilinged room.

  “This the bum likes to play with it and look at little girls?” Kelly asked conversationally.

  “Yeah,” Brian said, “this is him.”

  Kelly sauntered over to the prisoner and thrust his face up, close to the blank, unseeing eyes. “What’s the matter, buster, ain’t it big enough for real women?”

  The prisoner mumbled something, then said calmly, “I want to go home now.”

  “Why?” Meehan asked. “You got some little girls at home to play with?”

  The prisoner shook his head, then said to Sergeant O’Connor, whose long horse face peered down disapprovingly, “My brother is a captain.”

  “Yeah? Of what? A shithouse?” Sergeant O’Connor asked.

  “No,” the prisoner told him reasonably. “My brother is a captain. In the Police Department. My brother is a captain in the New York City Police Department. Can I go home now? I’m very tired.”

  Captain Peter Toomey came within the hour; within another thirty minutes it was all straightened out.

  Captain Toomey reached for Brian’s hand for a hard, man-to-man grasp, told Brian he “had a friend” and “wouldn’t be forgotten.” He was a tense, soft-spoken man who exuded an air of complete self-confidence based largely on his complete confidence that everyone would do exactly as he expected him to do.

  “I’ll take care of Michael,” he assured Brian. “He won’t be involved in anything like this again.” The captain turned to his brother. “Michael, where are your eyeglasses?”

  Brian reached into his overcoat pocket, pressed each lens within the folds of his handkerchief until he could feel glass break and shatter between his thumb and index finger. Some glass pierced his finger and he sucked the blood quickly.

  Captain Toomey reached for the glasses, frowned, held them up to the fight. “What happened to his glasses, O’Malley?”

  Brian’s face was expressionless and his voice was polite and official. “They were like that when I collared him, Captain. That’s why I took them away from him. Figured he might get blinded or something.”

  Captain Toomey studied Brian for a moment, nodded slightly with a slightly harder acknowledgment. “I see. Yes, very thoughtful of you. Come on, Michael. Let’s get you home.”

  When he worked the four-to-twelve tour, it seemed to Brian that the entire day was a steady, relentless preparation for the moment when, at three-thirty, he reported to the precinct. If he had a collar the previous night, he spent the morning hours waiting in holding pens, complaint rooms or court corridors, gossiping, griping, exchanging rumors and good-natured insults with other policemen.

  If he hadn’t made a collar, he had a half day to kill one way or another.

  Brian heard the kids getting ready for school; he yelled at Kevin to pipe down and stop slamming bureau drawers and doors. He fell asleep again and woke several hours later, slowly, lazily.

  He heard his mother moving around the living room and his grandmother in the kitchen. He heard Roseanne, her voice sharp and edgy as she spoke to her son Billy, barely two years old, then crooning as she tried to settle the baby, Tommy.

  His mother’s voice was low and gentle as she spoke to Billy. “Oh, that’s a fine big boy, Billy. Would you like your grandma to give you a nice carrot? I bet Nana has one for you in the kitchen. Roseanne, you shouldn’t give him the chewing gum; his teeth will rot. I’m surprised at you.”

  “It keeps him quiet,” Roseanne said sharply. “I think I’d give him poison if it would just keep him quiet.”

  Brian rolled onto his stomach and held the pillow over his head. He didn’t want to hear what would follow. He knew it by heart: the same old story...

  “Roseanne, Roseanne, how can you say such a terrible thing? God forgive you, they’re just innocent babies, of course they cry. What children don’t?”

  Roseanne, voice ragged and harsh and stretched an inch short of breaking, said, “But they never shut up, Mom. God Almighty, if I could just have one night, just one night, to sleep through, but so help me, Ma, they never stop. It’s one or the other. Billy, get your hands off your little brother. Billy!”

  Smack. Crying.

  “Oh, he’s just a baby himself, Roseanne. He doesn’t know he’s hurt little Tommy. Come on, Billy, let me show you how to scramble some nice eggs.”

  “Ma. Ma, I think I’m pregnant again. Damn it, Ma, I don’t want any more!”

  Silence. Silence. Silence.

  “Well, well, it’s God’s will after all, darling. It’s what we were meant for, isn’t it? Maybe you’ll have a little girl...”

  “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not you I should say that to, not to you.”

  Firmly: “Not to anyone, Roseanne, least of all, not to your husband.”

  “Ma, he doesn’t come home some nights. I don’t know what he’s up to, Ma, and I get so scared and I worry all the time. I ask him about the job he’s on and he tells me to just shut up and mind my own business.”

  Beneath the pillow, Brian heard it all. A broken record, and predictable too. Roseanne and her pregnancies; Billy Delaney, the man of many mysterious jobs, the self-proclaimed truck driver.

  Uh-huh. For hijackers, thieves, crooks, Christ knows what. A matter of time; Brian knew; a matter of time and Billy Delaney would be in-like-Flynn, no key to the iron door, no way out. And he’d be saddled with Roseanne and her crying, screaming, snot-nosed Billy-Delaney-faced little brats.

  He wanted to get up but he waited. He knew Roseanne would be persuaded to leave the little ones with their grandma and take herself off for a nice poke around Fordham Road to look in the store windows or take in a movie, just get off by herself a bit.

  “Roseanne, will you look at the storybook Billy’s found? I used to read that to Kit when she was just a tiny wee thing. Come to Grandma, Billy. God love you, but it’s a big boy and just turned two years old.”

  He moved the palm of his hand along the sheet and thought of Rita: guiltily but languidly. His mother’s voice crooned and whispered and the petulant, whining voice of the child turned sweet as she eased him from his bad mood.

  Rita, tongue and lips and firm breasts; tongue and wetness, warmth and chill; pull the covers up quick, I got goose humps. All down the long stretch of torso, skin tight over ribs, tiny humps of cold, Rita.

  He took a long hot shower
, let the water run hot on the base of his neck. The hell with the cold-shower routine; he enjoyed heat, body hotness to penetrate his skin and circulate through his bloodstream; steamy water hotness to remind him. Brian stepped back to shake water from his eyes and stepped on something sharp and pointed. He cursed softly and bent to rub his wounded heel and to see what had caused the injury.

  It was a small metal warship. Swirls of blue water color ran between his toes. Kit and her collection. Damn it, that kid and her junk. Brian examined it briefly, decided it wouldn’t clog the toilet, reached from behind the shower curtain and tossed it into the bowl. So much for that particular warship: down to the deep-blue sea. A few drops of blood from his heel mingled with the pale tint of blue and he moved his foot around until the water came clean.

  He shaved and dressed and told his mother not to bother with breakfast, it was nearly lunchtime. He settled into the easy chair by the window, feet on hassock, Daily News opened to the sports pages. Margaret stood in the doorway, grandson in her arms. She jiggled the boy up and down as she spoke.

  “Did you hear about your cousin Billy O’Malley? Fell off the training ladder and they think he’s broken his shoulder.”

  Billy O’Malley had been appointed to the Fire Department last month after waiting on the list for three years.

  “I ran into Uncle Gene last night at Night Court and he told me. Hey, maybe I’ll run over and see him. He’s at Fordham Hospital, right?”

  “Yes, but he’ll be home tomorrow. I’d wait until then, Brian, for Ellen said he wasn’t well just now. There, there, now, Billy, that’s your Uncle Brian over there. Don’t you want to say hello? Brian, look up and smile at him.”

  “Every time I see that kid, he bursts out crying, Mom. There, look at his puss.”

  “It’s just a stage they go through, Brian, and you’re always glowering at him so. Give him a pleasant smile and a nice hello. You’ll see him smile back.”