The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Maybe! Yeah, that must be!”

  The younger woman snarled at the older, “See? There was a reason. You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

  The older woman didn’t believe a word that had been said, but she knew better than to argue with a customer. The rest of the beauty treatment was completed in silence. Marie remembered to take the receipts from the cashier, and she tipped both beauticians with guilty extravagance. One for believing her lies, the other for not believing them. She would never come back here. That ship had sailed, like the USS Abraham Lincoln. When Charlie parted from Marie outside, she hesitated, and then she hugged her, kissing her quickly on the cheek.

  “Marie, I honestly don’t know whether what you told that girl was the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, or the rottenest.”

  Marie laughed, a little. She didn’t know, either.

  “Listen, Marie, Gino might be a crook, a drug dealer, a liar, and a thief, but one thing he isn’t is cheap. Don’t dress like we’re meeting for rhubarb pie at the Automat. Put on your gladdest glad rags, we’ll be somewhere in café society. Another thing he isn’t is late. He’ll pick us up at my place, six-thirty sharp. See you Friday.”

  7 YOU BELONG TO ME

  3. There must be no love interest. The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice, not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

  —S.S. Van Dyne “Twenty Rules for Writing Detective Stories”

  DECEMBER 18, 1959

  1645 HOURS

  Marie kept reminding herself that the only remotely romantic aspect to the evening was that maybe, someday, this gentleman might persuade another gentleman to give her a gold shield. That was the jewelry she dreamed of at night, when her dreams were sweet. She didn’t have the jitters of a single gal, wondering if he’d like her, or she’d like him, but the mail-order bride’s dread of the postage due upon delivery. Marie had no idea what that felt like, but she couldn’t ask Mama at this point. Or any other. She’d been terrified from the moment Charlie had told her about the date. Not that it was a date.

  “Mommy, are you going out with Daddy?”

  Sandy had just arrived home from her after-school gymnastics program. Seeing her mother getting all dolled up—she’d opted for her turquoise chiffon—wasn’t such a rare event. There were weddings, cop affairs like last night’s, in which she and Sid took it upon themselves to attend in costume as a loving couple. But two nights in a row was unusual, and she was going out alone. The night before had gone so beautifully that she didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to jinx what lay ahead. How could tonight’s show match it?

  Last night, she was one of twenty girls playing showgirl on stage at the Hotel Astor for the Detectives’ Endowment Association Christmas Dinner Dance, feeling sexy as sin and holy as the holiday. Before the show, she’d peeked past the curtain to take in the mass of dark suits and pale faces in the ballroom, smelling the Brylcreem in slicked-back hair, the Old Spice and bay rum slapped on flushed cheeks. All the blather and gab, all the dirty jokes and war stories somehow harmonized into a sweetly muddled roar. A thousand detectives smoked a thousand cigarettes. Rival chiefs kibitzed with their wives at white-draped tables with bottles of rye in the center, all grudges buried for the occasion. When the curtain rose, the girls kicked and turned and pivoted in perfect unison, tight-tight-tight, and the applause filled the room in a soft percussive rush, as if it were part of the music. Afterward, Sid had a star turn, too, as the devoted husband. He swooped in just as Mrs. M. introduced her to Inspector Carey, her boss in Narcotics, who raved about how well she’d done so far. She couldn’t have asked for a better night. But she had to, didn’t she? Didn’t tonight matter more?

  “As a matter of fact,” Marie replied, pausing to finish her lipstick. She had no idea how to complete the sentence. She wiped off the rosy hue and then tried on the ruby, wiping it away as well. Any ideas yet? No.

  “Which color do you like better, Sandy?”

  “The red one.”

  Marie turned from the mirror to see if she could detect any irony in the response, but she couldn’t tell. Was six too young to be that kind of wiseass? Sandy had an intent look, half-smiling. She wore a blue jumper, a white blouse. Marie smiled and grabbed her. “How come you haven’t given me a kiss yet?”

  Sandy kissed her, stepping back quickly to resume her half-smiling scrutiny.

  “Mama?”

  Now, Marie was on guard. She’d always been “Mommy” until a few, very recent occasions, all of which involved special pleading for favors: a doll, a dress, a dog. All had been denied, though the dress had been acquired, last week, and the doll would come for Christmas. They weren’t getting a dog. Marie might have folded a bit quickly, though she didn’t see the harm in the occasional indulgence. Sandy had picked up Mama from Marie and her sisters—the intonation sounded barese—but what she intended to gain was obscure. Mama always said no, even if you asked her for the time: Who do you think you are? It’s time for you to mind your business, that’s what time it is. Where was Sandy going with this? “Yes, honey?”

  “Where are you going with Daddy?”

  Marie turned back to the mirror to work on her eyelashes. “I’m not going out with him, baby. I’m going to work.”

  “Don’t, Mama.”

  The anguish in her voice made Marie freeze, the mascara brush an inch from her eyes. She was going to try the zigzag Charlie told her about, to avoid the clumps. She placed it back in the bottle and turned again to her daughter. “Why not, baby?”

  “Just don’t.”

  Sandy bit her lip, and her eyes darkened with tears.

  “Why?”

  “Please, Mama?”

  “Come on, honey. You can tell me anything.”

  “Because when Daddy dresses up fancy to go to work, you get mad, and then he doesn’t come home for days and days.”

  Sandy fell into her arms, sobbing. Marie didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t tell Sandy that she was wrong, exactly, without telling her that she was stupid. Marie didn’t think that Sid’s disappearances troubled her as they once had, but they didn’t please her. Sandy wasn’t imagining a change in the indoor weather when her father put on his nightclub attire. Marie might have to lie to Sandy, but there was no point in lying to herself. She still didn’t know what to say. Not that “going to work” was just a figure of speech when Daddy said it, but not when Mommy did.

  When “Mama” said it. Was that what Sandy was after—the good old days, when Marie grew up with Nonna and Nonno? It was true that her parents hadn’t spent a night apart since they married, but . . . No, that was another conversation they wouldn’t have now. Mommy had to go to work. Yes, she was painted and perfumed, in her party frock, heading out for a dalliance with a lovelorn stranger at some chic boîte, but fun had nothing to do with it. One day, Marie would sit her down and explain it all. Maybe when Sandy was fifty. Or fifty-five.

  “I promise, honey. You’ll see me bright and early in the morning, just like always. And tomorrow, if you’re good for the babysitter, we’ll have a special day.”

  Sandy wasn’t entirely mollified. “Who? Bernadette? Aunt Ann?”

  “No, it’s Mae.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you like her?”

  “She’s all right, I guess. We watched The Battle of Bataan on TV last night. It was sad. That’s why Mae hates Japs.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll give Mae a rest for a while, after today. You be good, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Marie had plenty of time before the six-thirty pickup, but she had an errand to run beforehand. She drove to the precinct on the Upper East Side where she’d arrested Mr. Todd. He’d been in the news lately, too, when the FBI arrested him for producing pornography. And cocaine possession—ounces of the stuff, in the sugar dispenser. Marie felt foolish when she heard, remembering her fear it might turn her teeth black. What a rookie she’d been then, what a kid! She called the
squad from a pay phone and asked for Detective Marino. “Tell him, Marie’s on the corner . . . Marie who? Just give him the message. He’ll know.”

  Ralph Marino appeared presently, doffing his porkpie hat. He beamed at her, rushing forward but halting abruptly, like a nervous teenager unsure if he’d earned the right to more than a handshake. “Holy cow, Marie! Look at you! If I wasn’t married, I don’t know what—”

  Marie shook her head, smiling but wondering—Was this another one, who thought he was on a date? No, Ralph hadn’t asked for a date when they first met, and he wasn’t asking now. Couldn’t she take a compliment? He’d looked up to her when she barely had a year on the Job; now, she was a seasoned veteran, with well over two. She hugged him like a brother. “C’mere, Ralph. I appreciate this, I really do.”

  “Forget it. Are you kidding? After what you did for me? Did’ja know, we got three thousand bucks back from the old Gypsy? This is nothing. I’ll meet your snitch. She’ll know my pretty face, and she’ll have my number if she gets in a jam.”

  “Thanks, Ralph.”

  Marie wanted Charlie to have another police contact, if she or Paulie couldn’t be reached. Ralph knew that Marie was with Narcotics, and that her assignment was of some sensitivity. He stuck to small talk as he drove to Charlie’s apartment. His admiration was steadying; Ralph, for one, seemed to believe Marie knew what she was doing. It wasn’t true, but it was nice to hear. It had been a week since Marie had spoken to Paulie, but he’d called a dozen times today.

  “How do you know it’s not a regular guy? His cousin, his neighbor? You want us to spend the night on somebody who could be an insurance adjuster for Metropolitan Life, or the assistant principal at Evander Childs High School?”

  The prospect of a pleasant evening with a respectable man hadn’t figured in her nightmares. “I don’t know who the guy is, Paulie. I’m telling you what Charlie told me. She said Gino didn’t have any legit friends. Not that she’s met.”

  “That’s all you got, Marie? Don’t tell me—”

  “That’s all I got, Paulie. And I’m not asking for anything, or telling you what to do. But if I don’t take a chance with this, I really don’t see the point. Either Charlie can do something for me, or she can’t. I jump in, or I quit. Two choices. Which one would you pick?”

  “Come on, Marie! There’s ways of doing these things. We have rules. Me and Paddy, we’ve handled some complicated cases—”

  The mention of Paddy and rules in the same breath struck a nerve. “You can cover my back, or you can get off it.”

  Marie was proud of herself when she hung up the phone. She felt a little bad, too. Paulie’s concerns—aside from the fear of wasting time on a solid citizen—were ones she shared. There was no reason to expect anything to go right. She was relieved that he didn’t seem to be offended when he called back.

  “Remember, Marie, with an informant, you always gotta be in charge. What you say goes. If it’s a hundred degrees outside, and you say, ‘Looks like it’s gonna snow,’ your CI, he better start putting on mittens.”

  “Got it. Always in control. What’s a ‘CI’?”

  “Jeez, Marie! It’s an abbreviation. Short for ‘Confidential Informant.’ Didn’t anybody teach you anything? Anybody asks, pretend you already knew that.”

  “I will.”

  Ten minutes later, he called again. “Have you ever been inside there before, with the Charlie Ida?”

  “No, I haven’t. And it’s just ‘Charlie,’ not ‘Charlie Ida.’”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m not kidding you.”

  “’Charlie Ida’ is shorthand. Radio code, like in the Army. ‘Charlie’ for ‘C,’ ‘Ida’ for ‘I.’ Charlie Ida means CI, as in Confidential Informant.”

  “I wasn’t in the Army, Paulie.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that now. But when you’re inside, look at everything. If there’s letters on a desk, see who sent them. Any bills, how much and who from. Open the refrigerator. And even if you don’t have to go to the can, go to the can. Look in the medicine cabinet. Every pill, every drop and dram, you should write down.”

  That last advice was useful. Marie admired Paulie, and she knew she had much to learn from him, but the pattern of their relationship—extended periods of neglect, interrupted by moments of intense attention—reminded her too much of her marriage. Just before she left her house, there was a final call: “And don’t drive yourself crazy over all this stuff. Relax! You sound nervous. Don’t be nervous! Just act natural. Be your regular self. That’s the worst thing you could do is be nervous!”

  Marie was grateful that Ralph kept it light as they drove. “I don’t know how it is where you are, Marie, but my lieutenant, he lives and breathes how his kids do with the baseball, and the football, and every kind of running around. Five boys he has. You’d think he was managing the Yankees. The kids have a bad weekend, the squad guys have a bad Monday, and Tuesday, too. We follow how Bishop Loughlin High School does against Xaverian as if we got a grand riding on the point spread.

  “And here we are. You want me to stay in the car? Tell me how you want me to be. Tell you the truth, I never handled anything like this before. I got snitches, here and there. Rummies, mostly. Maybe they have a tip about who broke into one of the saloons on Second Avenue. Nothing like you got going, whatever it is . . . Anyway, what do I call your Charlie Ida?”

  “Just ‘Charlie.’”

  They parked around the corner from Charlie’s place. The neighborhood was middle-class, mostly German and Hungarian. Not the kind of place where people were wary of cops, but it was best not to be lackadaisical. When Marie called, Charlie sounded frazzled. “Marie, it isn’t even five yet! What are you doing here? Why don’t you just come up, I gave you the address.”

  “It’s five-thirty. And I told you, there’s a guy I want you to meet. Somebody local, who you can trust, in case you can’t get hold of me.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. Couldn’t we do it another day?”

  “Charlie, he’s here. I can’t send him away. I’ll bring him up.”

  “Don’t! The place is a mess!”

  “Come down then.”

  “I can’t! I haven’t put my face on yet, and my hair, it’s—”

  “Put on a kerchief, and come down. He doesn’t have to fall in love with you.”

  “Easy for you to say! Me, I’m gonna be in the market, soon enough. And why not try somebody from the right side of the tracks, for once?”

  “He’s married, Charlie.”

  “So?”

  “Stop. Try a single guy next, for a change. Come on downstairs, it’ll just take a second. Come over to Third, we’re in the blue sedan, east side of the street.”

  “Fine.”

  Paulie would have approved of how she handled that, Marie supposed, but the bickering rattled her. Women! Had she said that aloud? No. But she didn’t know what Charlie had to be skittish about. Marie was the one on a blind date. She returned to the car and stood beside it. Charlie appeared presently, in a white silk scarf that covered her hair like a nun’s wimple; fresh crimson lipstick made her seem less devout, as did her Riviera-style sunglasses. When Marie tapped the window, Marino got out of the car to meet her. “Detective Marino, this is Charlie.”

  “Marie, you didn’t tell me he was Italian,” Charlie purred, extending a gloved hand, as if she expected Ralph to bow and kiss it. The gesture reminded Marie of a dog offering its paw, but Ralph seemed smitten.

  “Nice to meet you, Charlie. You look out for my friend here, and I’ll look out for you.” He turned to Marie and said, “Nope. Not a bit like any of mine.”

  When the women went inside, Charlie disappeared into the bedroom to resume her beautification. The little dog came out to bark greetings before returning to its mistress. Marie had forgotten about the dog. Charlie hadn’t brought it out on any of their excursions, though it hadn’t outgrown her pocket. The sitting room was cheery, even in the winter dusk. T
here were Persian carpets, a couple of leather club chairs, and a French Empire settee. Though the pieces were handsome, the glamour of the tenant made them appear dated and dowdy. Marie supposed the apartment had come furnished. Charlie hadn’t lied about it being a mess—there were stockings and lingerie strewn about, a half-finished cup of coffee, a mostly finished plate of cake on an end table, and a toppled stack of magazines on the floor—but would take all of five minutes to tidy the place. Marie called out, “Honey, I’m going to clean up a little out here. Not because I think you’re a slob, but because I have to do something to take my mind off things.”

  “I have a French maid outfit, if you want to put it on.”

  “No thanks.”

  Marie started with the magazines. Vogue, Photoplay, and Quick, which she expected; Paris Match, which impressed her; Modern Bride, which saddened her. She checked the cover and saw that it was this month’s issue. A girl could dream, couldn’t she? Marie reflexively touched the ring finger of her left hand, double-checking—really, it must have been the tenth time—that she’d left her matrimonial knickknacks at home. She felt nosy, even when she reminded herself that she was under orders to snoop around.

  Marie collected the ashtray, the cup and plates, and brought them to the kitchen. There was a single plate in the sink, mottled with dried specks of gravy. Dinner for one. Marie pictured Charlie during her nights at home, opening a can of Dinty Moore beef stew as she browsed Modern Bride. Once the dishes were washed and set on the rack to dry, Marie checked the icebox. Bottles of milk and buttermilk; a carton of eggs—ten of them—half a loaf of Wonder bread, butter; elderly jars of capers, mustard, marmalade. A decaying head of lettuce in the vegetable drawer, which Marie threw out. In the freezer, there were ten ice trays, two frozen steaks. The only thing of interest was an open bottle of champagne, with a teaspoon dropped into the neck. It had an occult aspect, like a charm meant to ward off the evil eye. Marie brought it out into the living room, where she collected the scattered garments before approaching the bedroom. She knocked at the open door.