The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “That’s fine. Just don’t make it worse, because she didn’t help us as much as we wanted.” Marie didn’t want to be outside anymore. “And as long as we’re talking about special treatment, what’s next for me? Where do I go from here?”

  “If I was you, Marie, I’d go see Theresa Melchionne. You did good work here, everybody knows that. Whether you stay a little longer, or go back with the other women, I don’t know. Theresa has to talk to the big bosses, to Carey or maybe even Kennedy.”

  “A ‘little longer,’ Paulie? You’re the one who told me I did more in weeks here than most guys did in years. And who’s ‘everybody’? Nobody knows what I did. Your rotten partner told the papers that I was a stewardess. Did he put in for a medal for that one? Was my name included in the paperwork?”

  “If it was up to me . . .”

  Marie raced to headquarters and parked herself in Mrs. M.’s office. Calls were already being made, she guessed, and she wanted Mrs. M. to hear the story from her first. Once Emma granted her entry, Marie strained to remain calm as she recounted what had happened with Charlie—most of it, or much of it. She probably wasn’t as calm as she hoped. Mrs. M. waited a while before making any comment.

  “Your reputation is held in high regard among the powers that be, and I have a bit of capital I can try to invest here. You may not get everything you deserve, sadly. But tell me your primary concerns. I should be able to do something for you.”

  What did she want most? Marie couldn’t recall being asked an easier question, but she held her tongue. The gold shield would have to wait. “Well, the first thing is, I don’t want this girl killed. I liked her, even if she let me down. What she did was out of weakness. I’d like to get Narcotics off the warpath with her.”

  When Mrs. M. nodded, Marie pressed on. She hadn’t been asked for a wish list, but three was the customary number when they were offered. It couldn’t hurt to ask, could it? “One of the things that really bothered me was that the guys got all the credit for my work. I know why nobody could know about me, but still. I’d like to have something to show, for my family’s sake. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell my daughter half the things I’ve done here, but . . . The raise I’d get for being a detective is one thing—and I’d like it, for my family—but this was an investigation that I made happen. From nothing. And I should have been in charge. I have what it takes. Next time? Next case? I want to run it myself.”

  “Very well, Marie, I think I understand you. Go out and get some lunch. Come back in an hour, and I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  Marie passed the time in anxious perambulation, briefly escaping the cold in drug stores for half-cups of coffee that tested the limits of what her stomach could bear. When she returned, Mrs. M. was on the phone, but she signaled for her to come in. It appeared that the inspector wanted her to witness the drama from backstage: “Yes, Ed, I see . . . No, I wouldn’t quite put it that way . . . Certainly not. I do not count any members of the press as friends. I do not dine with them, or drink with them. There has never been a newspaper story about the Policewomen’s Bureau that the commissioner hasn’t approved. No leaks in this ship. Few can make the same claim.”

  Mrs. M. looked at Marie as a smile briefly passed her lips. Was that Inspector Carey? Had the jibe about press leaks referred to Paddy? Marie hoped so. She remained anxious, though Mrs. M. seemed pleased as she hung up the phone. “First things first. Your informant will not be troubled any further. Not by the police department, in any case, with any undue prejudice.”

  “Thank you!”

  “You will not continue your assignment with Narcotics, however. It was suggested that you became somewhat attached to this informant, sentimental about her. That she’s an immoral woman can’t be denied.”

  Marie was too indignant at being called a softy to dwell on the morals charge. “My job was to befriend her, Mrs. M. And I don’t think it’s sentimental to want to keep her from getting killed.”

  “I don’t doubt you, Marie, and I don’t believe any explanation they might concoct to find you unready, or unsuitable. As for the matter of your advancement, I have arranged a new investigative portfolio for the Policewomen’s Bureau. I don’t mean to diminish your past efforts, but we will not be pursuing lonely deviants or petty thieves. No one will be taking credit for our accomplishments. We will consult with the Homicide Division, as necessary, but the primary responsibility will be ours. Yours, if you choose. Are you interested?”

  Marie was very interested. She wasn’t sure if two wishes had been granted, or one and a half, but it was better than nothing. As she left, Mrs. M. had one last benediction to offer. “The next time you have to wear your uniform will be for your promotion. And you can tell Sid the same. He’s being transferred to plainclothes duty, in the Public Morals Division. It’s a step toward his detective shield. It was a bit of an effort—apparently, his record as a patrolman isn’t quite up to par—but his medal was of value. To be honest, it might not have been enough, without your recent endeavors. ‘Reflected glory’ is the expression, I think. He will rise to the occasion, I hope. It wasn’t all that I wanted for you, to be sure, but I did try to bear in mind how you took such pains to say that it was all for your family’s sake.”

  THREE

  THE CASE OF A LIFETIME

  9 YOU’RE ONLY AS YOUNG AS YOU FEEL

  When a bird loves a bird he can twitter,

  When a puppy falls in love he can yap.

  Every pigeon likes to coo when he says I love you,

  But a bear likes to say it with a slap.

  —“Say It With A Slap” Words and music by Buddy Kaye and Eliot Daniels

  MARCH 14, 1963

  0815 HOURS

  The ingénue act was over for Marie. Not by any order, or for any formal reason, and certainly not because she couldn’t still carry it off, she insisted to herself. Circumstances just didn’t call for it, in her present assignment. Today was the debut of a new look. Marie had never spent as much time on her makeup as she’d done this morning. She ventured a few expressions in the mirror: Woe-is-Me, Check; Happy Old Bat, Check; Absolute Bewilderment, with a Side of Tremors, Check. She felt like she was in a silent movie, but she wasn’t a character today; she was scenery. All of this toil had been undertaken to make sure she wouldn’t be noticed. Vanity of vanities, to think she could make herself into nothing at all. Still, she’d done well. She looked nearly as bad as she felt, with aches and shakes unfeigned.

  At the door of the bedroom, Sandy squawked, “Mommy! You look horrible!”

  That was the vote of confidence she needed. Marie cackled, “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest one of all?”

  “Not you, by a long shot.”

  No argument there. Marie wore a wig of long gray hair in a loose bun, with stray bobby pins dropping like pine needles from a Christmas tree in January. Her eyebrows were silvered. Putty, powder, and liner gave her bumps and furrows, and purple eye shadow around the lips made her look like a cardiac case. Seventy-five cents at the Salvation Army bought her shabby black wool suit, five sizes too big. Ace bandages were wrapped around her knees. Her clunky black uniform shoes completed the outfit. “Want Mommy to walk you to school?”

  “No!”

  “Want to kiss Mommy goodbye?”

  Sandy shook her head. Marie didn’t want to press the joke too far. She was proud of her technique, but there was no need to inflict any more distress. Sandy was nine years old now. Who knew what she knew? Theirs was a house that operated under wartime censorship, with subjects avoided, opinions suppressed. Blackout curtains were drawn daily at dusk, so no signs of habitation were visible to hostile outsiders. As if outsiders were ever the threat.

  “Not when you look like that.”

  Marie would have made Sandy come close, made her see through the costume, but her ribs ached, and she’d wince if they hugged. The bruise on her cheek was real. She’d iced it to limit the swelling and slept with a beefsteak on her face. What she
couldn’t hide she might as well deploy. Cheap shoes and a shiner, that was the contribution from the real Marie, lending authenticity to the performance. “All right, honey. But you know, this is just make-believe, pretending for work. And it means you’ll have to give me extra hugs and kisses later.”

  “Okay. When will you be home? For dinner?”

  “Maybe. I hope so, but I’m not sure.”

  “What about Daddy?”

  “He may be working late, too. You and Katie will have to figure out what to have for dinner. Can you get her, can you have her come up?”

  Sandy bellowed, “Katie! Mom wants ya!”

  “Sandy, I could have yelled myself. Go downstairs and ask. Or I’ll kiss you and walk you to school and make your friends think your mama is the oldest and craziest strega there is.”

  Marie rose and held out her hands, and Sandy ran, fake-shrieking, to get Katie. Marie had turned again to the mirror when the young woman arrived at the door, announcing herself with a horrified intake of breath. “My dear Lord, ma’am! You should have . . . I nearly spanked Sandy for telling me how awful you looked this morning!”

  Katie was a twenty-year-old Londoner who had been with them for a year. She was an unmixed blessing, one of the few good choices Marie had made in her domestic affairs. She was determined to spare herself the agita of the incessant last-minute babysitting rearrangements, and she wanted stability for Sandy. That Sid had been passed like a hot potato among grudging aunts may have also figured in the calculations. Just look how he turned out. Few were the days when Marie didn’t spend either breakfast or dinner with Sandy, but Katie was adored as the sister she very sensibly never expected to have.

  “Thanks for sticking up for me, Katie, but the kid’s telling the truth. The question isn’t if I’m pretty. It’s ‘Am I real?’ What do you think?”

  Katie swiveled her head owlishly from side to side. She was barely five feet and thin as a mop handle, with brown hair in bangs and a ponytail. She had an ordinary kind of prettiness that was made beautiful by her invincible cheer. Katie stared judiciously as she stepped close and then reversed her paces until she was back at the threshold of the room. “It’s good, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad, I thought—”

  “Only . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Only the hands. They’re your own. I don’t know if anyone will be studying you so close, but for me, they do stand out.”

  “Ah, Katie,” said Marie, picking up a pair of tatty black cotton gloves from the dresser. “I am in agreement with you once again. I wondered if I should cut off the fingertips.”

  “You’d have to ruin your nails.”

  “True. Since my daughter won’t be seen with me, would you take her to school?”

  “I’d planned to. Right away, I think. There’s a woman at the front door.”

  Marie held her breath. Only strangers used the front door, but she’d bet that the visitor wasn’t unfamiliar altogether. “Did Sandy see? What did she look like?”

  “No, Sandy was upstairs. The lady was young and dressed up. Too nervous to be selling anything. I told her to wait and closed the door.”

  “Thanks a million, Katie. You’d better go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marie turned back to the mirror and closed her eyes, so she could think without seeing anything. Who should she be? At first, Marie thought about stripping off the mask. She’d descend the staircase in an evening gown, hair up like it was Jiffy-Popped, spackled with diamonds. As if she were the host of a variety show, and a celebrity guest surprised her on stage to sing a duet.

  “Oh, Carmen, you shouldn’t have! I didn’t expect to see you here! Ladies and gentlemen, this is Carmen, a lady I’ve known about for a while, but I’ve never met. What a special surprise to have her here! Carmen is a Puerto Rican whore from the Bronx. What are we going to sing tonight, Carmen? ‘Please Release Me,’ that’s just too perfect. Maestro?”

  No, that song wouldn’t do, Marie thought, opening her eyes to see the sad old woman in the mirror. They already sang that one last night on the phone. Marie and Sid were in bed. Both were asleep, until the phone rang at midnight.

  “Is this Marie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Marie, who’s married to Sid?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Carmen, and me and Sid are in love. I know this must be hard for you, as a woman, but I’m begging you to let him have a divorce.”

  Marie first thought she was dreaming. Late-night calls filled her with dread; good news could always wait until the morning. Long ago, when she was a newlywed, she feared that such a call would bring news of Sid’s death in the line of duty. They wouldn’t call, she knew now; the message was delivered in person.

  “Okay,” said Marie.

  “What did you say?”

  “Honey, he’s yours for the taking. I’m not kidding. Have fun and good luck. Pick him up in the next hour, and I’ll give you a free toaster.”

  “You shouldn’t joke. I know you love him, too, in your way.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You shouldn’t joke.”

  “You shouldn’t call. Ever, let alone this late.”

  Marie shoved Sid’s shoulder from across the bed. He slept on his back, arms splayed. She dropped the phone on him and sat up. “It’s for you. Why don’t you take it downstairs? Downstairs, outside, just go.”

  Sid took the phone and said, “Unbelievable, you are just unbelievable . . . ”

  For once, she agreed with him. But he broke the phone after. There had been occasions when he’d taken pains to avoid hitting her in the face. Not last night. He left an hour later.

  Marie had been thinking about doing the old lady getup for a while. This morning, the war paint did double duty as camouflage. Staring into the mirror, she tried on the Happy-Old-Bat expression again. “How convenient! I didn’t want to be pretty today!”

  When she heard the back door slam, she was grateful. Carmen spoke as if there were procedures for off-loading a secondhand husband, like the rigmarole of buying a house. Did they have to set up an escrow account, until Sid was inspected for termites? Sign here, initial here. Hadn’t Marie agreed to be rid of him last night? Nothing made sense. There was no point in avoiding Carmen now, and there was reason to make clear that she was never to come here again. Marie removed the wig, but she’d taken far too much trouble with her makeup to do it over again. She lumbered downstairs, her legs stiff, her tread leaden. “Coming! Coming down! Shut up, you!”

  Carmen couldn’t hear her, but Marie was already easing into character. When she realized she’d forgotten her gloves, she didn’t go back upstairs; she’d already started down, and the show was live. Marie opened the door but left the chain on, leaving three inches of space for Carmen to see inside. “What do you want?”

  “Marie?”

  Carmen was in silhouette, the early light behind her, in a dark suit and broad-brimmed hat. She had spent time putting herself together, maybe as much as Marie. Was she pretty? Marie didn’t care. She didn’t see her as a rival, or even a woman, but mud on Sid’s shoes that he’d dragged to her doorstep. “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “There is nothing to talk about.”

  “There is, though, I need for you to hear me, I need—”

  “You need to go home.”

  “I need for you to let Sid go, we are so happy, we—”

  “You need to shut up and get the hell out of here. I told you last night, the bastard is yours, take him.”

  “We want to have children!”

  Marie unchained the door, so she was thrown into bright relief. “I don’t care if you have kittens. Take him! Good riddance, and go to hell, the both of you. Listen to me, you idiot, I do not love him. He’s all yours. But if you ever show up here again, if you ever disturb me or my family, I will kill you.”

  Carmen took two stunned steps back, and then a third. Mar
ie couldn’t guess what Carmen had been told, aside from that Sid was the poor prisoner of a sham marriage, when he had so much love to give. Having said her piece, Marie noticed the woman for the first time. Her suit was conservative and well-cut, dark gray, the kind worn for a job interview or a funeral. Her figure was voluptuous, her bust and behind full and round. Young, no more than twenty-five. Pretty, too, though it looked like she’d been crying. She’d also taken pains to cover being smacked around last night. Not much in common between them, aside from Sid and bruises. And yet this one wanted so much more of him. Didn’t she know that the bruises were part of the package? “I’m laying it out straight. I don’t want him. Is there anything else?”

  “Oh, my God, you’re prettier than he said!”

  Carmen began to cry. She turned and stumbled down the narrow steps, nearly falling before she reached the street. Marie slammed the door.

  Did that tramp really say that Marie looked better than Sid had said? That son of a bitch! Marie hadn’t lied when she said that she was finished with him. This time, she’d call a lawyer. This time, the resolve wouldn’t melt with the passage of time, the bonds and burdens of tradition and reputation, church and family. She’d been ready to make the move for a while, but Sid had failed to supply a persuasive reason since . . . when? Had it been two years since the last beating? They saw each other infrequently, given their schedules, and their lack of effort to do otherwise. Having Katie helped, to be sure. Still, they’d been cordial, even warm lately, and coexistence had begun to seem oddly agreeable. Did Marie dare to dream it, that marriage could feel no worse than a pebble in her shoe? That Sid might have grown more devious, rather than more decent, hadn’t occurred to her. She’d thought he’d settled down. Apparently, he had.

  Part of it had to do with an improvement in finances, since Sid went from patrol to a gambling squad. Clearly, there were men in headquarters with an eye for talent! Half of Sid’s childhood friends from Hell’s Kitchen were hoodlums. He could have made a dozen major bookie cases from guests at the wedding. Marie didn’t approve, but she was in no position to object. She was content to open the newspaper and not read Sid’s name in it. Years had passed since the last major corruption scandal. Were they overdue? A scrapbook of clips about Sid could become thicker than hers in no time, and it wouldn’t be good for either of them. Not that Marie asked, or Sid would ever say. He could have been a grocer or a test pilot for all the shoptalk that passed the dinner table. Work was one of the richer strains of the unspoken in the many silences of their marriage.