Law and Order

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  Exhaustion slipped away; the long hours of hanging around, repeating the same things endlessly, listening to the others, the theories, the anger, the grief, all of it disappeared and was replaced by a surge of energy and expectation. Without moving, Brian asked quietly, “You know who gave it to the old man?”

  DiSantini’s voice was hoarse, and before he answered, he tossed his head back, bit his fingernail, looked around. “Yeah, but look, when the train comes, could we maybe ride up a few stations, separate, you know, and then we’ll get off and talk there. Jeez, you know how it is, Mr. O’Malley.”

  They rode up three stations when the train came, Brian in one car, Angelo in another. They got off and walked toward each other. Angelo walked on the balls of his feet, as though ready for instant flight.

  “Okay,” Brian said, “wanna go for some coffee? Or you wanna talk here or what?”

  “Naw, here’s fine.” He hunched his shoulders up and jammed his hands into the pockets of his dungarees. “Hell, I ain’t never done nothing like this before, but this is different. This whole thing. I mean, shit, the old guy was almost a hundred years old, you know, almost like a neighborhood landmark. They had no right to kill no old man almost a hundred years old.” Angelo scuffed his sneaker along the platform; his hands fingered the rivets on the dark-green iron pillar as he spoke. “See, nobody in the neighborhood would ever mess with an old man like that. My pals, well, I guess you might say we’re kind of rough in some ways. Hell, we don’t deserve no medals or nothing, but hell, nothing like that. We got respect for a man like that, know what I mean?”

  Brian gave the kid a cigarette. He tried to conceal the growing elation with a calm, slightly impatient exterior. Okay, Angelo, so you and your buddies are clean. Talk to me.”

  Angelo took two quick drags on the cigarette, inhaling as though the nicotine were oxygen. “See, there are a coupla real bums, not from the neighborhood. They started hanging around about a coupla weeks ago. Strong-arm types, coupla hustlers, eighteen, nineteen years old. Well, they just show up, see, start hanging around, telling stories about what big men they are and all. And they started messin’ with the girls. Not just kiddin’ around, but some strong-arm stuff, you know. Like they like to hurt people. They think it’s funny.” Angelo shook his head, then looked directly at Brian. “Jeez, I can’t believe it’s me here like this, Mr. O’Malley, but, well, you were real fair to me that time. You seen what the score was and you were fair, but I know you coulda really let me have it and you didn’t.”

  “Okay,” Brian said, “but we’re talking about the murder of the old man. So talk.”

  Angelo nodded. “They done it, these two guys. Not that they’re around bragging about it or nothing, but, you know, everyone was talking about it, you know, feeling real bad. And these two guys, shit, you just gotta look at them. At their faces, like they are grinning at each other and making remarks. I don’t know, but you put your hands on these guys and you got the old man’s killers.”

  Brian flipped his cigarette to the tracks and straightened to his full height. “Okay, Angelo. Tell me where they are.”

  They were holed up like two rats in the basement of a deserted tenement, exactly where Angelo DiSantini said they would be.

  Brian caught them totally off guard, and when one of them tried frantically to diminish the oil lamp that provided them with an uncertain, eerie light, he kicked the murderer’s temple with absolutely no compunction.

  “Move again,” Brian said softly, “and I’ll put a bullet where my foot was.”

  They believed him and sat in frozen, watchful silence. He searched them quickly, took the heavy knives from their pockets and told them to sit on the floor.

  “How much money did you get from the old man?” he asked.

  They looked at each other, then shrugged wordlessly. Brian slid his finger off the trigger of his gun, held the revolver flat in the palm of his hand and brought it down hard on the forehead of the one he had kicked. It made a dull thud of a sound, followed by a harsh gasp from the man.

  “Jeez, Jeez, you don’t hafta do that. There wuz onny two fuckin’ dollars was all. And the box of needles there and that’s all, swear to God, that’s all.”

  In the flickering light, he couldn’t see them clearly but they were both husky, muscular guys with tough broken faces. The one he pushed around seemed a little simple. He kept touching the stream of blood with his fingertips and examining it with a slight smile. Brian wasn’t worried about that one.

  The other guy seemed a little brighter and he was too big for comfort. For the first time, Brian realized it was not as easy as just finding these two. The station house was only three blocks away, but he had only a come-along, the chain link that went around the prisoner’s wrist while you held it. There sure as hell wasn’t any telephone nearby.

  The bigger guy kept watching him with sharp little eyes that moved ferretlike from Brian’s face to the doorway. He wasn’t as bright as Brian thought. His quick furtive glances gave him away. He lunged past Brian for the door. Brian smashed the butt of the gun against the base of the man’s skull. The blow landed as hard and solid as a baseball bat against cement. The man landed face down, dead weight

  Christ, Brian thought, the guy’ll have a double concussion, front and back. He groaned, rolled onto his back and one hand went to his split forehead.

  For sheer size, he was still a dangerous son of a bitch and the only thing to do was to render him as helpless as possible.

  Brian clenched his teeth, steeled himself for what he had to do. He didn’t think of the terrible, sick, gut-wrenching pain; he did what was necessary. He kicked the big bastard as hard as he could in the groin.

  After that, the murderers came along as docile as children.

  “Jesus Christ Almighty,” the sergeant said, surprised to see him back at the station house. “What the hell have you got here, O’Malley, the walking wounded?”

  “What I got here, Sergeant,” Brian said, “are the two bums who murdered Old Man Moses.”

  The Chief of Detectives thought it would be a good idea to give the kid a gold shield. Everything fell into place. The collar was made less than twenty-four hours after the hunky bastards butchered the old man. He got them cold with the goods. There were two signed confessions and two corroborating re-enactments. Murder one, from here straight to the chair.

  The newspapers, every single rag in the city, had a chance for just two editions. The first announced and described the crime; the second answered the demand made in the first: the criminals were brought to justice.

  It just happened that there was a vacancy in third grade. The kid, O’Malley, seemed tailor-made. He checked out with a good background; his father was killed on the job, Honor Legion. The kid’s own record with the Department, in such a short time, was damn good. Generally, the Chief wasn’t too enthused about headline promotions but this one looked good. Even the Commissioner thought so. The day before.

  The Chief of Detectives held his hand over the burning ulcer pain along his right side. He’d long ago learned when to ask and when to keep shut. The Commissioner had his reasons for his change of heart. Whatever the hell they were.

  He picked up the memorandum addressed to him, at his direction, by the captain of Patrolman Brian O’Malley’s precinct. It was a recommendation that Patrolman O’Malley be awarded a Class A commendation for effecting the arrest of the two murderers. The Chief of Detectives scrawled his name across the bottom of the page under the word “Approved.”

  The Police Commissioner of the City of New York leaned back in his swivel chair and wondered what the hell Pat Crowley had against this young patrolman, Brian O’Malley.

  The telephone conversation, short and sweet, had been right to the point.

  “Well now, Johnnie, it’s Pat here. How’re the wife and kiddies? Ah, fine, fine. Say, that’s a fine lad you’ve got there, been getting all them favorable headlines for the Department and himself. Good work, fine job.”

/>   “Thanks, Pat. Well, yes, it was a damn fine piece of work for that was a dirty bit of business.”

  “Ah, yes, yes, damn shame. Well, well, now I’ve read something confusing, too.”

  “What was that?”

  “Well, knowing how opposed you are to headline promotions, I was surprised to learn—at least the newspapers quoted you, but then damned to them, the liars, they never get it straight—but seems to me it said you was planning on giving the boy a gold shield? Was that my understanding?”

  Warily, warily, “Well, that announcement was premature. We’re turning some alternatives over. It was mentioned there was a vacancy. You know how the public loves to see a hero rewarded, Pat.”

  “And deserves to be, indeed, a fine job. But it’s been my feeling, you know, Johnnie, that it’s good for the young fellas to season a bit, if you take my meaning. Well, that young O’Malley seems a fine young lad and could make do with a Class A commendation, if it was me had the decision. But listen, Johnnie, you know me. I tend on the conservative side.”

  “No sense in rushing them, Pat. Plenty of opportunity in the future.”

  “Ah, sure. And how did you say your dear Maureen was feeling?”

  Francis Kelly commiserated with Brian over a glass of beer. “Well, at least, Bri, they didn’t take the pinch away from you altogether.”

  “Don’t think they didn’t try, the lousy bastards.” Brian wrapped his hands around the heavy, sweating glass mug. His head was beginning to feel heavy. “Everyone from the desk sergeant to the clerical man wanted a share. Jesus, they pinned every unsolved homicide for the past ten years on those two sons a’ bitches. That would have made them murderers at nine years old. Shit, do you know that Horowitz and his partner got two collars apiece out of it? How about that, they made out better than me.”

  “Ah, screw ’em, Brian. The hell with it.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He drained the glass, then let his head fall. Then he looked up, filling again with the sense of anger and frustration he had carried around all day. “They can take their Class A commendation and shove it. Jesus, Francis, the captain told me himself I had third grade. He told me he got it right from the Chief of Detectives; they were going to give me the gold shield. Bastards.” He turned slowly to study Francis Kelly, then brightened. “Hey, shit, I didn’t come out to play crybaby. Screw ’em is right, pal.” With elaborate care, because the room seemed to be slowly tipping, Brian faced the bartender. “Hey, Charlie, did you know Francis is getting married in a few weeks, huh? Give us some real drinks, we’re celebrating. On me, Francis, on me. Some whiskey to drink to Francis Kelly.”

  Francis Kelly had been matching Brian beer for beer and now started matching whiskey for whiskey. It was a slow and careful process. “Hey, Brian, I just thought of something that just occurred to me. You and me will be related, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, Marylou is Billy’s sister and Billy is your sister’s husband. What does that make us, Brian?”

  Brian flung an arm around Francis Kelly’s shoulder and said, “That makes us fucking cousins, right?”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They had two boilermakers each before they swayed, arms around each other, from the bar. Older men watched them good-naturedly, toasted the bridegroom-to-be, winked, grinned.

  Francis Kelly carefully extracted himself from Brian, pulled himself upright and forced his eyes wide. “Holy Christ, Brian, you know what I just remembered?”

  “What did you just remember, pal?”

  “I gotta work a midnight tonight. I forgot that I gotta work a midnight tonight. Brian, how the hell can I work a midnight, Brian? The goddamn sidewalk is as soft as oatmeal. And I gotta work a fucking midnight.”

  Francis Kelly carefully sat down on the curb, dropped his head between his knees and began to groan.

  “Got to get it outta you, Francis. It’s the only way,” Brian decided. “Come on, buddy, gonna take you home and get all the booze outta you.”

  Kit stood in the middle of the kitchen and asked, “Hey, Ma, how come Francis Kelly is being sick in our bathroom?”

  Margaret turned her daughter toward her bedroom. “You go back to bed now and mind your business.”

  It was rare that Margaret O’Malley’s face wore a pinched, tight-lipped, angry expression but there was no question in anyone’s mind that she was not to be argued with at such times. She marched after Kit and pulled the bedroom door closed, went back to the kitchen and poured two cups of hot black coffee. The sounds from the bathroom were awful.

  “Brian,” she called out, “you come in here now.”

  Her son looked at the cups of coffee he’d asked for and nodded. “Good, Ma, that’s good and strong. But we’ve got to clean him out a little more. I need another big glass of hot soapy water.”

  Margaret placed herself firmly in front of the sink. “Brian, you’ll not be forcing poor Francis to drink any more of that soapy water. For the love of God, what are you trying to do to him?”

  Brian’s face was flushed and damp and his eyes were glazed, but beneath the slightly thick speech and confusion, some glint of mischief came through. He caught her in a playful hug and lifted her from her post onto a kitchen chair. When he leaned over her, his mother caught the heavy whiskey fumes.

  “ ’Tis trying to save the lad his job I am, Ma. Sure you’ll not want our Francis Kelly tossed off the job because he can’t perform his tour of duty.”

  He was quick and she couldn’t stop him from taking another glass of hot soapy water into the bathroom. The sounds were terrible; Brian’s voice encouraging and insistent; Francis Kelly’s, gasping and groaning; then the awful retching which the flushing of the toilet didn’t altogether hide. Finally it was quiet in the bathroom; their voices became low. Then the shower was turned on.

  After some fifteen minutes, Brian and Francis came into the kitchen. Francis wore a clean shirt of Brian’s and he brushed tentatively at his trousers, which weren’t any too clean.

  “Hello, Mrs. O’Malley,” Francis said sheepishly. His face was white as death and his fair hair was wet and plastered slickly over his forehead.

  Margaret shook her head and clicked her tongue over the two of them. She poured two cups of fresh coffee, then put a plate of sandwiches in front of them.

  Francis Kelly closed his eyes as he ate a few bites and Brian prodded him to eat more.

  “Come on now, boy, line your stomach with something. There you go. You’ll be as good as new.” He looked at the wall clock. “Well, I sobered you up in thirty minutes. You still got an hour to get to work.”

  Margaret folded her arms over her chest and glared at them. “Where did you learn such goings on, the two of you? What kind of way is that to act in your own home, Brian?”

  Francis apologized. “Gee, Mrs. O’Malley, it was my fault. I got to thinking about my wedding and Brian and me were toasting each other. I forgot I had to work a midnight. Gee, sometimes it gets a little confusing, even now, what shift I got.”

  “Ah, you’re as bad as he is, Francis Kelly. The two of you should be ashamed. At least I’m glad your mother didn’t see you in that condition. You had sense enough to bring him here,” she added to Brian.

  “I’d do the same for Brian, Mrs. O’Malley.”

  “Ah, for the love of God, you’d better not have to. That’s all I’ll say about it.” She shook her head over the two of them. “All that terrible hot soapy water. How could you even swallow it down?”

  Francis Kelly’s hand clamped over his mouth and he swallowed the flood of saliva before he could speak in a low, muffled voice. “Please, Mrs. O’Malley, don’t mention that right now. I can still taste it.”

  “A guy on the job told me about the hot-soapy-water treatment,” Brian said. “You know, I thought the guy was just kidding me, but it really does work. You’ll be fine, Francis.”

  “I’d like to take some soap to your mouth, Brian, coming home and carrying on that way, and yo
ung children in the house to be set a bad example.”

  Brian put his finger over his lips, winked at his mother, tiptoed to the hallway where he caught Kit. “Hey, look at the spy I found.” He lifted her high, then seated her unceremoniously on the kitchen table.

  Kit leaned forward and stared at Francis Kelly.

  “Hey, Francis, you look terrible. What was Brian doing to make you sick? You sounded like you were gagging to death.”

  “Katherine O’Malley, you get yourself to bed this minute, because if I see your face once more tonight, you’re goin’ to feel the sting of that paddle!”

  Even Brian was finally convinced of the intensity of his mother’s anger. Her voice went tight and thin but her eyes glared and her chin went up with determination. Kit went back to bed without a sound.

  “Hey, Ma,” Brian said, “I’m just gonna walk Francis to the subway and then I’ll come back and clean up in the bathroom. Look, don’t you go in there. I’ll be back in five minutes and clean it up, okay?”

  Margaret gathered dishes together and finally said, “Don’t you be telling me what to do in my own home. You should be ashamed, both of you.”

  “Good-by, Mrs. O’Malley. Gee, I’m real sorry,” Francis Kelly offered, but she shook her head and dismissed the two of them as bad business.

  They walked along the Grand Concourse down to Burnside Avenue, then along Burnside to Jerome Avenue. At the foot of the Jerome Avenue el, Francis told Brian, “Don’t come up to the platform, for Chrissake. I’m okay. I hope I didn’t cause you any trouble at home.”

  Brian shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. Well, bud, how do you feel?”

  “I feel like shit but at least I’ll get through the tour.” He gave Brian a clumsy punch on the arm. “It was a helluva cure, but thanks.” He started up the long iron staircase, then turned and came back to the sidewalk with a silly grin on his face. “Hey, Brian, in a few weeks, huh? I’ll be getting married. I mean, Christ, me. Married. Jesus.”

  Francis Kelly bolted up the stairs two at a time and they called wild insults back and forth at each other, the way they used to when they were ten years old.