The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Yeah, she came home to pose for a statue,” Sid sneered, picking up his hat. “I’m outta here. Unbelievable!”

  Sandy rushed to embrace her mother, and Marie scooped her up into her lap. Neither said anything until they heard the car start. “What’s for dinner, Mommy?”

  “You know what? It’s a special night.”

  “I know! Daddy won a medal.”

  “That’s right! Daddy won a very important medal, for being a hero.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He saved a man from drowning.”

  Sandy furrowed her brow. Not out of suspicion, as Dee had done, but out of the practical challenge of making sense of things. “Daddy never goes swimming.”

  “That’s what makes it so special. Whaddaya say—Wanna go out for pizza?”

  And so the prospect of spending several days at home, on “special assignment,” had less appeal than when it was first proposed. On Saturday, Marie took Sandy into the city to see two movies, and then to FAO Schwartz to shop for toys; on Sunday, after church, they spent the day at the Bronx Zoo. On Monday, she cleaned the house from top to bottom, and then she went to the beauty parlor to have her hair set. On Tuesday morning, she called Inspector Carey, who couldn’t be reached. Nor could Mrs. M. Unsure what to do, she drove down to the First, to present herself for duty. When she ran into Paulie outside of the precinct, she was glad to see him, until he started shouting. “Are you kidding me, Marie?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Why were you there? Didn’t they say to lay low? Who told you to come in?”

  “They pay me to work, Paulie,” she replied, managing to maintain her temper. “They don’t pay me when I don’t.”

  “There’s a whole big book of rules for this police department, Marie, and on top of that, there’s seniority, meaning you should listen to people who have been doing this for more than a day. Weren’t you told to stay away?”

  “Yeah, for a day or two, and then nobody said anything.”

  “You should have asked me!”

  “I don’t know how to find you, Paulie. There might be a big book of rules, but your phone number isn’t in it.”

  “All right, that one’s on me,” he said, calming down slightly. “We have our own switchboard, I call in five times a day. But listen, this is a chance for something big. Shipments like Charlie talked about, the president himself would tell you, they’re a matter of national security. I don’t know if your girl’s ever gonna deliver half as big as she talks, but we’ll give her a run for her money. And we’re gonna do it right. That means that nobody knows about you or her. Stay in touch with her. Stay on top of her. And stay away from the office. We’re making a play against people who have a lot of power, a lot of money, a lot of friends where they shouldn’t have friends. Do you know how many guys in the office I trust?”

  “None of them?”

  “No! Why would you ever say a thing like that?” he cried, exasperated again. “Jeez, Marie, you can be cynical. I trust all of ’em! They’re great guys! Some I know better than others, and some I like better than others, but I’d trust any of ’em with my life, and they’d do the same for me.”

  “Oh,” said Marie, entirely at a loss.

  Paulie went on, “But I only got to be wrong once. And, between me and you, if this case goes bad, if somebody on our side spills something to somebody on theirs, it looks twice as bad for you and me. A couple of Italians blow a case against Italians, some people are gonna draw their own conclusions. You follow me?”

  “But that’s not fair, nobody could—”

  “They could and they would. And who told you life was fair?”

  And so, Marie found herself at home for much of the next month. She found it difficult to reconcile the urgent sense of mission Paulie inspired—they’d march into battle together, upholding not just the Stars and Stripes, but the Italian tricolor—with the fact that he hadn’t bothered to let her know anything. It was important enough to call her at home, to tell her that he’d found her crummy old shoes. With the fate of nations at stake, not a peep?

  Every morning, Marie called in to the switchboard, reporting on duty, special assignment, as per Inspector Carey; every afternoon, she called off duty, special assignment, as per Inspector Carey. There were no messages for her. She repainted Sandy’s room, and, after much discussion with her daughter, she agreed to do the ceiling in a deep blue shade. They cut out stars from gold foil, pasted them to paper backing, and borrowed a step-ladder from a neighbor to tape them up to make a night sky. The next morning, she borrowed a different ladder, from another neighbor, and she cleaned the gutters. She hated to think of her dilemma as a contest between her patience and her patriotism, but at least she was home to put her daughter to bed every night.

  Once Marie was back in touch with Charlie again, they’d spend an hour or two in the afternoon together, talking about things, getting comfortable with each other. There wasn’t much more that Marie could do. When Gino resumed his deliveries, they were episodic; if there had been a routine, Charlie hadn’t noticed. Every couple of days, Gino would call to say that he’d be there in twenty minutes; Charlie would call Narcotics to leave messages for Marie and Paulie, but even if they had been waiting by the phone, they wouldn’t have made it there in time. Marie offered to wait outside of Charlie’s apartment in her car, but Paulie decided against it. For the time being, it was resolved that Charlie would keep a diary of times, dates, license plates, and destinations, to see if a pattern could be discerned. The detectives wanted to nab Gino with one of the heavy packages, not the two-bit side trade he had with newsies and bellhops. That made sense, Marie supposed, but her workweek dwindled from fifty-odd hours to a couple of lunch dates.

  Charlie went on about Gino, with roundabout sentimental reminiscences—Once we took a drive in the country—that tended to end in hard landings: Turned out to be a stolen car. Marie couldn’t trade complaints in quite the same way, much as she was tempted. I’m just an old married lady, there’s nothing much to tell. Talking about marriage would have strained her ability to dissemble, and telling too many cop stories made the relationship seem purely practical. She did regale Charlie with an incident from the past summer, in which she’d found herself in a high-speed chase after a drunk smashed into her car as she drove home. Several gunshots were required to make him pull over.

  “My God, I wish I could have been there with you, blasting away!”

  The intimacies Marie was willing to share were about growing up in the Bronx with her sisters. “Weeknights, we wouldn’t eat until Papa got home, at eight or nine, and he plopped himself down in his chair for one of us to untie his old-timey shoes, laced tight as a football. We were half-starved, half-asleep . . .”

  Charlie never tired of these childhood tales. She rarely mentioned her family, beyond sour and glancing references to coal towns in Pennsylvania. “I wish I had your sisters, Marie. I had one, and she was a bitch. My father always went on about how he always wanted a son.”

  “My father always said the same thing.”

  “Did he? Oh, honey, I knew I liked you. Did you ever want to go back home, show them what you became, what you were?”

  “I never went too far away. What was fun was when I was on TV, on a quiz show. Treasure Hunt. It’s silly, and I don’t even know if it’s on anymore, but I won prizes—furniture, a new car. I don’t—”

  “I know that show! It had the ‘mystery boxes,’ right? I’m so jealous! I’d love to be famous. Just for a minute. It would be so exciting.”

  “And your life isn’t, Charlie? Are you kidding me? You’re a secret agent working behind enemy lines, getting messages to the underground. Like ‘Voice of America,’ or ‘Radio Liberty’ behind the Iron Curtain. You’re the star. More! You’re the whole station. It’s ‘Radio Free Charlie.’”

  Charlie laughed and squeezed her hand, a little hard. Had Marie overdone it? She hadn’t lied. Charlie looked at her intently, and he
r grip was unforgiving.

  “When they make the movie, Marlene Dietrich is much too old to play me,” Charlie said, and then she smiled as she let go. “I do like to be noticed, but I don’t let people get close. You’re pretty much the only one now. You and Gino. Me and Gino, our first date, we went to the Copa. A bunch of the Yankees—Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford—got in a fight with guys who were heckling Sammy Davis. Made all the newspapers, and me and Gino both threw a few punches, but we got out before the cops came. That’s Gino, always in in the middle, in the mix. If we went to the fights, we were ringside. After, it was Toots Shor’s, or Jilly Rizzo’s, where we’d meet Mister Sinatra, or Mister Gleason. First class, all the way. Romantic as the movies. Crazy fun, at first, and then regular crazy, after.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Even so, Marie, you have to admit—isn’t getting killed by someone you love so much better than if it was some stranger off the streets?”

  “Are you—What? Are you out of your mind?”

  Marie was aghast, and then Charlie laughed. Marie shook her finger as Mama would have, with much less provocation. “Don’t scare me like that, Charlie.”

  “Well, I don’t think you scare too easy. ‘Whatever it takes,’ right?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  Marie became less bored over the weeks. It wasn’t part-time work, no matter when she punched in and out. For every hour spent with Charlie, Marie spent eight going over what had happened, and what it might mean. Charlie went on wild emotional flights as she talked about Gino, but she’d always boomerang back, and talk of romance always circled round to talk of revenge. Marie was confident Charlie could be depended on to remain faithful to their conspiracy.

  As November turned to December, Marie had one other distraction that took her out of the house. The Detectives’ Endowment Association had an annual Christmas gala at one of the hotels, and policewomen were a traditional part of the pageant, dancing on the stage. In the past, Marie hadn’t had time for the twice-weekly rehearsals. She’d felt overlooked lately, and she was eager to see the inspector for a holiday helping of praise. And she wanted to be among detectives. The dinner was also a legendarily good time, with politicians aplenty in the crowd, and celebrities popping up on stage. It wasn’t a surprise when Sid asked her if he could come with her, though his courtesy was of a degree she’d rarely seen since they married. “Honey, you know what? I think I can get off for the thing next month.”

  “What thing?”

  “The Christmas party. With the detectives. You’re involved, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  They were in the kitchen, just before dinner. Marie was at the sink, washing lettuce for the salad. He stepped behind her and slipped an arm tenderly around her waist. She turned and saw Sandy at the door, staring at them, beaming.

  “Well, unless you got another date,” Sid went on, “I’d be happy to escort you.”

  Sid kissed her cheek, and Sandy stood, staring. This was a moment that the child would cherish, and Marie wouldn’t spoil it for her. She turned around and kissed him. It shamed her to be so grateful for such small mercies, but it guaranteed his decency through the night of the party. He couldn’t even think about hitting her until after. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The day before the dance, Marie and Charlie had an appointment at the beauty parlor. They really did get their hair done together, and Paulie had insisted that the receipts be submitted for reimbursement. Whatever it takes, as they said. Outside of the salon, Charlie was pacing on the sidewalk, and she rushed over as soon as she spotted Marie, breathlessly unburdening herself of the news: Gino had set up a double date. A blind date, for Marie. In two days.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, believe me, I—”

  “Who does he think—”

  “I know, I know!”

  “Where are we—”

  “He’ll pick us up at my place. We’ll go from there.”

  Charlie had nothing more to tell her. She’d done everything she could to pry it out of him, she swore, but Gino was adamant that her beau would be a surprise. “For what it’s worth, Marie, Gino’s acting like the cat who got the canary. He’s very, very happy with himself. He thinks you’re gonna fall head over heels for this guy. Not that he said it, but I can tell. He’s got friends who blow their noses in their neckties. This isn’t one of them. Gino, he’s showing you off, and he’s showing off to the guy he’s bringing. Believe me, I know him.”

  Charlie opened her purse for a cigarette and then closed it. Her voice lowered and slowed. “He’s a romantic, in his way.” And then she crowed, “He thinks you’re a catch, honey. That’s what I love about this gimmick! Because he’s the one who’s gonna get caught.”

  To say that Marie was rattled was an understatement. What did Gino think her type was? How dare he presume? And what should she wear? Marie collected herself: This was not a real date. She was an officer on an unconventional assignment, just like Mary Sullivan spending three weeks in jail to catch a killer. But the department would have the same questions as Mama: Who is this guy? Where were they going? What did she think would happen? What would she do, if things went wrong? Paulie couldn’t know until the last minute. If she decided not to go, it would be her choice. Charlie couldn’t see her losing her nerve. She marched inside the beauty parlor and took slow control of herself as her hair was washed, combed, clipped, and curled, but she almost lost it again when she overheard a conversation between the women next to her.

  “It’s just like that episode of Decoy when she had to go undercover at the Coney Island boardwalk, as a shimmy dancer. And the guy who falls for her, his name was Willie, she thought he gave her a stolen necklace, but it turned out to be from his mother, and—”

  “Don’t spoil it!”

  “I might as well tell you, because—”

  “Don’t!”

  “Why not? The show’s over.”

  “Why?”

  “I dunno. It was canceled. People didn’t watch.”

  Marie was grateful when the hair dryer blocked out the sound. Her blood pressure was almost normal by the time it was done. As the blue gray steel bonnet was adjusted back on its armature, freeing her curlers from the jets of hot air, Charlie was in a pensive mood. “So. Whaddaya think?”

  Charlie’s bonnet had been lifted a moment before, and she waved her hands to cool her curlers before the manicurist took them from her. There was no need for Marie to ask, “About what?”

  “About me and him. What I’m doing.”

  Marie didn’t want to have this conversation in public, no matter how obliquely they spoke. Another manicurist had seized control of Charlie’s hands.

  “Well, you know, you made a decision,” Marie opined. “It’s the right decision, if you ask me, and now you have to follow through. You’ve got your life to live.”

  Marie’s woman harrumphed in assent. Charlie’s was much younger, squat and pale, sweet-faced but with a determined set to her jaw, like Dorothy when she upbraided the Cowardly Lion for frightening her dog. It seemed that they had disagreed over the subject of men before.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Charlie. “I’m not saying I’m getting cold feet. I’m still in, like I told you. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I thought different, honey.”

  “It’s just that I wonder when I should have known, what I always knew. You know? If I had half a brain, so much could have been different.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It wasn’t like it wasn’t always there, right in front of me. Plain as the ring on his finger. After a while, you can’t blame him for trying. You gotta blame yourself, for not trying. Know what I mean?”

  Marie understood better than she could admit. It took effort to find the right cliché to deaden the depth of her feeling: “‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.’”

  “Still, if you didn’t pretend a little, pre
tend things were a little better than they were, or that they’d get better, how could you get up in the morning?”

  “Oh, please!”

  Despite the vehemence of her interjection, the older woman didn’t miss a stroke as she applied the chosen color—orangey-pinkish, “Georgia Peach”—to Marie’s nails. Charlie waited a moment before pressing on, yanking her hands back in irritation from her own girl, whose hands shook so that Charlie’s cuticles were dabbed with vivid crimson. Charlie cast a wary glance at the older woman, and then a catty one at the younger, who began to sputter in protest, “Just because nobody loves you, you—you don’t have to hate whoever is in love, even if . . . even if . . . ”

  Marie saw the corner of Charlie’s mouth rise, unkindly; tired of her old role as plaintiff, she assigned herself to be the judge in this new proceeding. “‘Even if?’ And what do we have here? Callow youth against hard-won wisdom? Do tell!”

  “My fiancé, he—”

  “He’s in the Navy,” interrupted the older one, whose hands remained steady on Marie’s. “Always has been, always will be. This one, she’ll never learn. Hasn’t heard from him in months.”

  “You don’t know anything, you never—”

  Charlie cut off the young woman’s outburst. “How wonderful! And what a coincidence! Marie has a fiancé in the Navy, too. Maybe they know each other.”

  The woman looked pleadingly at Marie. She saw the blue eyes well with tears, and she tried to take in her figure, to see if she was starting to show around the belly. Marie couldn’t tell. She didn’t want to know. “Um, well, it’s a very big Navy, isn’t it? Ah . . . what ship is he on?”

  “The USS Abraham Lincoln.”

  In the second she took to think before she replied, Marie reckoned that whether the girl had a good life or not was out of her hands, but she had it in her power to grant her a day, a few days—weeks, maybe—without pain. “Really! My fiancé, he’s on the same ship. I’ll have to write him, to see if he knows him. Not that I got any letters lately. They’re on some kind of top-secret mission, and they can’t write stateside, because it might give away their position. ‘Loose lips,’ you know. Maybe your fiancé has a stack of letters ready to go, just waiting for the ‘All Clear.’”