The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  Marie shook her head and placed a hand on Charlie’s, where it held her wrist. “My husband? He makes Gino look good. I wish I had half your guts, Charlie, getting out, getting back at him. Can we go now, please?”

  And so they ran into the ladies’ room together. Thankfully, there were no other women inside. Marie felt an immense sense of calm, an ease so deep she could have dozed off in the stall. She didn’t know if she’d made a terrible mistake in telling her secret, but she didn’t care. And she didn’t care that the criminal who had fallen for her might have been a better match than the one she’d made with a cop. She didn’t think she was suicidal, but maybe Charlie was wrong about her not being cracked. It was crazy for her to be here. For tonight, at least, Marie might as well let it all go and enjoy herself. After washing their hands, they touched up their faces.

  “Charlie, what I said, it’s just between us, right?”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “For what it’s worth, at least you know where you’re going with Gino, you know what you want. With the guy I have . . .”

  “Your husband?”

  “Him, too. But he’s tomorrow’s problem. Nunzi is who I’m here for, tonight. He’s tight as a clam. I could be married to him for twenty years, he’d never tell me about his business.”

  Marie watched Charlie pucker her flawless lips and bat her flawless eyes in the mirror. As they walked down the hall, Charlie took her arm again. “I think you might find Nunzi a little more chatty from here on in. A lot of men loosen up after a couple of cocktails.”

  “Even if these drinks are stronger than they seem, I don’t see—”

  “Just you wait, just you watch. You didn’t notice? The secret ingredient to blue drinks is red pills. At least for him. Nunzi ain’t gonna sleep until next week.”

  Marie was stunned. “You can’t—”

  “I can’t drug a drug dealer? Really, Marie, you have to fight fire with fire, and you weren’t getting anywhere with him. My days as a chaperone are numbered. ‘Whatever it takes,’ remember?”

  They were back at the table before Marie could think of anything else to say. Nunzi rose to meet her, and he extended a hand toward the dance floor. Marie curtsied and smiled, gazing deeply into his eyes to see if his pupils had begun to dilate. He mistook the look for infatuation. His cheeks were damp with sweat. As he led her onto the dance floor for a rhumba, his rhythm was a little ahead of the band.

  “I hope you don’t feel I’m being forward, Marie, but I care for you. When I saw you, I had a strong feeling, and now? Now, I think I could pick you up in my arms and run from here to Yankee Stadium.”

  Marie felt his perspiration pour down, but she was afraid to push him away. She should be demure, she supposed. “Well, we’re not even at first base yet, are we?”

  Nunzi stopped short, his voice dropping an octave. “That’s not sex talk, is it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Marie was alarmed by the change, but the injured innocence of her reaction assuaged him. She wondered how many pills Charlie had dumped in his drink. He held her close again, and they resumed their dance. Bésame, bésame mucho—

  “I’m sorry, Marie. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that. My first fiancée, she wasn’t pure. It was almost too late, before I found out.”

  “I’m sorry, Nunzi. That must have been terrible for you.”

  “I’m glad you’re understanding. You seem like the understanding type. I’m not. With me, I take sides, I make decisions. You’re everything to me, or you’re nothing. But opposites attract, don’t they?”

  “They do, I really think they do.”

  “What would you want in a husband, Marie? I mean, what qualities should he have? Personal qualities, his character.”

  “Well, let me see . . .” Marie knew he wanted to some version of the self-portrait he’d painted for her, as a man of power and tradition. She’d give him that. More, too, though she wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or hers. “I can’t say I’ve never thought about it, but I don’t know if I’ve ever put it into words. Strength, of course. A husband, a father has to be strong. I’d like him to be old-fashioned, I guess, because I think of honesty and good manners as old-fashioned. And he’d have to be kind.”

  “Kind? Why? How do you mean?”

  “I think kindness in a man is a beautiful thing. In a strong man, especially, because he doesn’t need to be kind to get his way. Someone who helps you when he doesn’t have to. Someone who doesn’t hurt you just because he can.”

  Marie hadn’t wanted Sid to be so much on her mind as she spoke. She was afraid she sounded pitiful, damaged. How had Nunzi taken it? Some time passed, and then he lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes. “Is it too soon to meet your father?”

  So, the speech had gone over well. Marie hesitated before she replied. She tried not to cower as she danced with him. She could feel his body heat through his dinner jacket, the strength with which he held her in her arms. His breath steamed on her neck. No one had held her with such hunger, such heartbreaking need, since—when? It didn’t matter. Marie wasn’t a kid anymore; she was a cop on a job. This would be her last dance with Nunzi. She wasn’t leaving with him, and she wasn’t giving him her phone number. She did want his, for a wiretap. She nuzzled her forehead on his shoulder.

  “I’m honored you think of me this way, Nunzi. And Papa, he’d be proud to have a son-in-law like you. I know it! But he’s very old-fashioned. He lives in America, but his mind is still in Bari. Sai com’è.”

  “Lo so, e io lo rispetto.”

  “I’m the baby of the family. I’m Papa’s baby girl. He’ll want to know how you’ll support me, if you’re good enough. ‘You’ll have my name, until you meet a man with a better one.’ Sometimes, he acts like I’m Grace Kelly. Only a prince is good enough for me.”

  Marie felt Nunzi’s chin jab against her neck like a jackhammer. “I want to meet him. Can we go there now?”

  “No, it’s too late. He gets up at four in the morning. But I want you to talk to him, soon. You want me to tell you what he’ll ask?”

  “Please!”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I own five apartment buildings, six laundries, a restaurant.”

  “My father would tell you he respects your accomplishment. He’s a businessman himself. Coal and oil, but he owns some property, too. He’d tell you, these businesses can take as much cash as they give out. They can make you poor just as quick as they make you rich.”

  Nunzi looked at Marie with even greater appetite. “Marie! I always knew our kids would be beautiful, but now I see, they’ll be brilliant, too. Three days from now, I’ll have more money than I know what to do with.”

  Marie nestled her head against his chest. She felt a quiver in the muscles of his back. He would tell her more, she knew. Three days.

  “I speculate on the stock market. I have a very good tip.”

  “My father says the stock market is like gambling. He lost some money on some tips before. It’s always some friend of a friend, who knows some inside deal in Canada. He learned his lesson. From now on, it’s General Electric, General Motors, U.S. Steel. Slow and steady. But you, I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

  Where had Marie picked up that line? What did she know about stocks? And then she remembered it was Paddy’s, at Flegenheimer’s luncheonette. She’d never thank him for it.

  “You’re so right! You’re right, and he’s right. I really want to meet your father, Marie. I have to laugh, I have cousins in Montreal, that gave me the tip. But I won’t talk about Canada or the stock market with him, I promise!”

  “Please don’t! I don’t know what to say, Nunzi. Three days is Monday? You want to come over on Monday night?”

  “No, I meet my cousins at seven.”

  “No, of course, nobody has company on Monday. You can’t come on Sunday?”

  “Lemme think. After is better. I really want to make the right impression. I fee
l a little light-headed. Best to wait. We can’t go now, to see your parents?”

  “No, it’s too late to visit with Mama and Papa. Would you mind if we sat down? I’m a little flushed.”

  “I could sit.”

  Marie could feel the sweat pouring off him as they rejoined Charlie and Gino, where a round of rum and cokes awaited them. When Charlie took pains to hand a particular glass to Nunzi, Marie glared at her, but Nunzi drained it to the bottom. He dozed off soon after, waking suddenly to vomit into the bamboo. Marie was relieved that Charlie’s concoctions wouldn’t remain in his stomach. As Gino fanned Nunzi with the menu, he looked pleadingly at Marie. “I wish—I thought this was going so good. Nunzi, he really likes you, Marie. I’ve never seen him get like this. I gotta get him home. Would you mind taking Charlie back uptown? I swear to God, I’ll make it up to you.”

  8 YOU’RE A BIG GIRL NOW

  31. Q. What is a mystery?

  A. A mystery is a truth which we cannot fully understand.

  —Baltimore Catechism

  JANUARY 7, 1960

  1210 HOURS

  The scraps of information Marie had gleaned had been put to use. She thought them slim pickings when she reported them to Paulie, but he was delighted.

  “Are you kidding me? Yeah, it’d be nice to have the passport numbers of the guys coming down, but telling me that Nunzi from Mulberry Street is doing a deal with Canadians at seven o’clock, Monday night? Guys around here work for years, without getting close to a guy like that. You land him practically overnight!”

  Nunzi was arrested that Monday evening, with two men from Montreal and ten kilos of heroin. They really were his cousins, it turned out.

  What a whirlwind romance it had been! More whirlwind than romance, she supposed, although now that it was over, Marie could admit, at least to herself, that it had been a date. She didn’t have to admit anything to anyone else. They’d always have Hawaii, she and Nunzi.

  When Inspector Carey called her in to his office, he was long on compliments, short on questions; Inspector Melchionne had asked only if Marie was happy with her assignment, and if she thought it might suit her to remain at Narcotics, once the business with this informant was concluded. Marie nodded with vigor. “Definitely. It doesn’t seem like I’ve even gotten started. I want to do the regular work everybody else does, making buys, making cases. Right now, I don’t feel like I’m a police officer. They’re handling me like I’m an informant they don’t trust. No matter what happens from here on in, I think I’ve earned my place there.”

  “Let me know when this investigation concludes. I’ll see what I can do.” The inspector looked at her carefully. “Remember, call me at home if you need to, any time, night or day.”

  That Marie wasn’t altogether satisfied with how things had gone at the Hawaii Kai didn’t bear mentioning. She had no desire to return to Gino’s social rotation. She doubted she’d meet another heroin dealer as important as Nunzi, or as gentlemanly. She hadn’t told Paulie that it wasn’t only her charms that had inspired Nunzi to be so forthcoming about his affairs, but a generous dose of amphetamines. Had she told him, she didn’t know whether he’d scream, “You could go to jail for that!” Or if he’d shrug and say, “Oh, we do that all the time.” And she wasn’t sure which reaction would trouble her more.

  No one had troubled Marie with anything for the past weeks. She was the Employee of the Month—so she was told, over and over—but it felt like she’d been fired. She called in, and she called out. Charlie was in a sulk after the dinner, keeping Gino at arm’s length, punishing him for his inattention: He loves to dance, but he wanted us to wait at the table until you and Nunzi got back. She was distinctly unreceptive to lectures about the impropriety of playing Lucrezia Borgia with little red pills. And Marie was less than pleased that it was Charlie who informed her of Nunzi’s arrest.

  When Paulie finally called, two days later, he began with more migraine-inducing advice: “From here on in, I want you to keep on getting closer to Charlie. Real close! But not too close. Always keep pushing her. You gotta wring her dry, because they always have more. But never tell her anything about yourself, not anything personal, because these people, they’re animals. I’m glad you’ve been patient. It’s been hell with that partner of mine, holding him back through this. He wanted to lock up all the small-timers your snitch gave up, at the newsstands and whatever. You’ve been a big help, though, and I got some great news—”

  “If it’s about Nunzi, I already heard,” Marie interrupted. She’d been defrosting the freezer when the phone rang, and she’d just banged her elbow trying to chop out a pack of frozen peas with a screwdriver. “Not from you guys, though. Tell you what, Paulie, give me your address, so I can mail you a check for ten cents. That way, in case anything big happens, you won’t be out a dime for the phone call.”

  Marie was afraid that she sounded as snitty as Charlie had, complaining about Gino not asking her to dance, but it rankled that when Paulie referred to his partner, he wasn’t talking about her. What was she again? “A big help.” What had she done for him, packed his lunchbox?

  “You know, Marie,” he began, exasperated, before catching himself. “What can I say? You’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but you’re right. It was a crazy couple of days after that collar, but I should have called. Without going into detail, we have other sources, and we picked up stuff about what happened that night. The first story was that Nunzi got food poisoning from the bad chop suey. Gino bragged about how he saved Nunzi’s life. How he brought Nunzi home, and him and Nunzi’s mother stayed up all night holding his head over the toilet, giving him ginger ale. ‘Anything for Nunzi!’ That’s Gino’s national anthem. After Nunzi gets locked up, Gino changes his tune. Fingers are pointed, the guys are starting to sniff around. They smell a rat.”

  “Really, Paulie? They didn’t say anything about Charlie, did they?”

  “Nah, nah, nah. Are you serious? These guys, the way they think? Nobody would ever pay attention to a broad. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank God!”

  “That’s when Gino starts spreading the word about how drunk Nunzi was. ‘And you know how drunks talk.’ And then he goes on about how funny it is, how he picks out this fruity chink place, for dinner. ‘What’s wrong with a goddam steak?’ And how he doesn’t lay a hand on you, but he gives Gino the mal’occhio when he talks about tits. ‘What’s the matter with that guy? Thirty years old, and he still lives with his mother—’”

  “That’s just wrong, Paulie. Nunzi might be a criminal, but—”

  “Yeah, I know. And Gino knows, too, he could get killed for saying it, if it ever got back to Nunzi. He should be more careful, running his mouth. I’d like for him to stay alive, long enough for me to lock him up. Maybe him and Nunzi, they’ll be cellmates, and they can figure out who the real man is.”

  Marie laughed. “You know, Paulie, Charlie said the same thing that night.”

  Paulie didn’t laugh. It wasn’t the kind of joke a woman should make. “She should know better, Marie. Call a man a fanook, he can’t let that go. She should be more careful, too.”

  “Yeah, Paulie, I know. I know, and you know, and Charlie knows. Everybody knows, but some people, they go ahead, anyway. The careful ones, they don’t get involved with all this, do they?”

  THREE WEEKS LATER, Marie was at Charlie’s apartment again, picking up lingerie. Charlie was primping for their lunch date, and though her daylight beauty regimen required no more than half an hour, she tended not to get out of bed before eleven. Marie had visited several times since, and the room was always slovenly. The issue of Modern Bride was new, but the same dinner-for-one dishes were in the sink, the same lonely sundries in the icebox. This time, the champagne hadn’t been opened, and there were a dozen decrepit roses to throw away, sent by way of apology by Nunzi the Monday after their dinner. They’d held up longer than expected, since Marie had told Charlie to put a little bleach in the water. Marie couldn’t give him he
r address, for obvious reasons, and she didn’t have to worry about where to divert subsequent gifts of flowers or candy or singing telegrams.

  As Marie bundled up the roses for the trash bin, she decided to have a serious talk with Charlie about what they should do, where they should go from here. She caught herself: They? Both had decisions to make, but they wouldn’t be together much longer, either as Charlie and Marie, or Policewoman Carrara and Charlie Ida Charlie. Marie had imagined two ledgers when this started, separate books for cop ambition and human obligation. The accounts had become commingled. They weren’t really friends, she’d think, and then she’d wonder. They could spend hours together in small talk; they’d entrusted each other with their most awful secrets. Marie didn’t regret her confession outside the powder room, and she ached with admiration for how Charlie was standing up to Gino, how she was fighting back, even in its backdoor form. Marie didn’t care if Gino was caught, as long as Charlie escaped. That wasn’t how a cop was supposed to think, but Marie didn’t care about that, either.

  The careful ones, they didn’t get involved in these things, did they? Marie had begun to doubt Charlie was as in control of her emotions as she claimed. She tried to persuade her to take Gino’s calls in the days after the double date. Charlie had been almost persuasive in her explanation why she wouldn’t: “Sorry, honey. He was a jerk, and he has to pay. Like you told me, I have to act the same as always. Natural and normal, just another day, la-di-da. So I gotta crush him like a bug, make him come crawling. Not because I want to, but because he’d get suspicious if I didn’t. It’s the only way I can get him back.”

  “You mean, ‘Get back at him,’ don’t you, Charlie?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  Marie was relieved that all of it would be over, soon enough, when Paulie and Paddy moved on Gino. Even if they hit the jackpot, with pounds and pounds of dope in the package, Gino probably wouldn’t flip—no man like him ever had. And if he decided to make history by cooperating, neither woman would remain with the case. Gino couldn’t know who’d betrayed him, for his sanity and Charlie’s safety. Besides, Marie wanted to begin again in Narcotics, with partners who thought of her as a partner. She was going to suggest a fresh start for Charlie as well. There were nightclubs in every city, from Hawaii to Havana, and men with money to back her in all of them. Maybe even some without wives. Wasn’t that kind of planning what made a bride modern?