The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Really? Which Nunzi?”

  “Nunzi Farts.”

  “No!”

  Marie was fascinated. What kind of woman could fall for a man called Farts? But she was as unimpressed as Paulie had been, years before, with the scarcity of facts a cop could act on, let alone what a court would allow. “To put that diary into evidence, you’d have to testify. It’s called corroboration. You’d have to swear in court that the diary is yours.”

  “I can swear to you right now.”

  “Come on, Charlie, you know it doesn’t work that way. Besides, if there’s no drugs, there’s nothing to corroborate. Gino couldn’t get arrested because of a story in a diary, let alone prosecuted. I mean, I’d love to have it, or somebody would. I’d sit down with you, and go through it. It could be helpful, down the line.”

  “Not now? Just down the line?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how much time would he get?”

  “I don’t know, Charlie.”

  “Are you still with Narcotics, Marie?”

  “No. I’m back in the Policewomen’s Bureau.”

  “Oh.” That painfully deflated vowel cost Charlie all the goodwill she’d just earned for making Sid look like an idiot. “I’m so sorry about that. Is it my fault? Are you still wearing that awful outfit, like you had on when we first met?”

  “No.”

  “What are you doing? You’re not back guarding perfume counters, are you? I’m so sorry, Marie, if—”

  “Listen, Charlie, I’m not getting into that with you right now. It’s pretty confidential stuff. But I deal with homicides, with bureau chiefs in DA offices, all over the city.”

  “Oh, Marie! That sounds so dangerous, so wonderful! I’m so relieved I didn’t ruin your career. I’m so proud of you! I was wondering how I could make it up to you, after how we left it. But you’ve gone so far already. You’re in Homicide now?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if, say, I had big-time evidence on Gino being involved in a murder?”

  Marie wouldn’t bite on this one. If Charlie couldn’t come up with a dime bag of heroin, she was unlikely to produce a corpse with Gino’s name on it. Marie didn’t have vast experience with informants—it was deep, but narrow—but she tended to believe that the subject of murder usually arose earlier in these conversations. She hadn’t lied about working in homicide, even if it felt like it, but she saw no reason to reopen the books with Charlie, as a source or as a friend. “Did he kill somebody, Charlie? Did you see it? Did he tell you?”

  The delay did no favors for Charlie’s credibility, nor did her eventual reply: “It’s a little hard to explain, Marie. I don’t want to get into it with you over the phone. And I don’t want to bicker about what the lawyers would say. Can’t me and you just talk? Can you come over?”

  “When?”

  “Now?”

  “No.”

  That was what Paulie would have said, but nothing rebelled in her conscience. She felt bad for Charlie, but she wasn’t sorry for refusing her. Charlie had been right about her toughening up since their last talk.

  “Remember the Hawaii Kai, Marie?”

  That just sounded sad, but Marie didn’t have an extra cent of sentiment in her pocket to spare. “Like it was yesterday. I remember what happened after. Paulie and Paddy—Remember them? I had to fight to keep them from locking you up.”

  “Did you? Oh, honey, I never knew. I never understood why they didn’t come for Gino. I didn’t drive the packages with him for a while after that, but he never got pinched. And then I figured, why not? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they found something bigger, maybe something easier. I got kicked out of Narcotics after. We didn’t stay in touch.”

  “I’m sorry, Marie, I really am. I spent so many nights wondering why I never got the call from jail.”

  Marie couldn’t keep the bitterness from her laughter. “You’re something else, Charlie! Every other fretful female stuck with a bad guy, she’s scared to death that call’s gonna come. But you? You’re waiting by the phone, fingers crossed it’s the bail bondsman. You’re one of a kind, honey. Unbelievable.”

  No rebuke that Charlie could ever deliver would have made Marie as ashamed as she was of herself just then. She’d picked up so many lines from so many people over the years, but she’d never used one of Sid’s. She wanted to wash her mouth out with soap. When Charlie seemed to take no offense, Marie’s gratitude was profound. Who was that patron saint of Not Getting the Joke? Whoever it was, she’d answered her prayer.

  “Oh, Marie, you got me there! I really miss talking to you. But I told you from the first how I hated long bus rides. I’m not tough, not like you. I needed you guys to get rid of Gino for me, and I let you down. But I think I can do it, finally. When I brought up the Hawaii Kai, it wasn’t because I want to go back for the spare ribs. They were good, though, weren’t they? It was because me and you, we figured it out together, right there on the spot. Remember?”

  “Yeah, but also, there were those pills—”

  “Come on, we got it done. Nobody asked how it happened. You found out what Nunzi was up to, and that was it. Let’s get the ball rolling, and you can tell me about the rules later.”

  “All right, Charlie, but I can’t run down there right away. It’s after five now. Seven-thirty is the earliest I’ll get there.”

  “Make it eight, sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Charlie hung up so abruptly that Marie considered not going. Who did Charlie think she was, giving orders like that? As if punctuality had ever been her strong suit. Almost three hours, she wanted. More than she needed to put herself together for an evening out. Was that what she had in mind? That wouldn’t be too terrible, Marie supposed. It might be just what she needed.

  After sitting down for a light and distracted supper with Sandy and Katie—Sid was dining elsewhere, it seemed—she picked out a silvery shift from the upper register of her of evening casuals, and a black cashmere sweater. She called the switchboard at Narcotics to leave word for Paulie about her appointment. She was inclined to leave a more detailed message but then decided against it. No matter what panned out with heroin or homicides, Marie very much looked forward to talking to Charlie. A glass of champagne would be lovely. Maybe more than one, since she was drinking for two. And Charlie was the kind of girl who might know someone who could help her change that.

  On the drive down to the city, Marie didn’t think much about Charlie. She tried not to get too far ahead of herself with what Sid had said about the weekend in Miami. If he really planned to kill her, the fishing trip should have been an offhand inspiration, once they were already there. Of course, that was how Marie would have played it, had she been plotting to kill him. Unlike her husband, she’d had some experience with the Homicide Bureau. And she knew how to swim. But what he’d said was disturbing nonetheless. He’d revealed more than he knew, proposing that the place to resolve their marital discord was far from shore. It showed the map of his mind, when it was wandering.

  As Marie parked her car, the satisfaction she’d taken with her discernment vanished. No feats of map reading or mind reading were necessary—Sid had put up color-coded traffic signs in abundance: Stop! Road closed! He’d said that she was stuck with him. He’d told her that if she left, he’d be the last thing she’d see. She could stay and die, or leave and live, or leave and die, or stay. Marie might be in need of something stronger than champagne. It was ten minutes before eight, but she was used to being kept waiting with Charlie. Marie walked up to the second floor and prepared to knock.

  And then she heard a noise from inside. A thudding sound, as if a piece of furniture had been knocked over. The door muted the volume. One of the club chairs? No shouts or yelling, she noted. Was Charlie having a fit, or a fight? Marie waited, but she didn’t hear anything else. Her gun was in her handbag. The bag was over her shoulder on a strap, at an awkward midpoint of her torso. She opened and closed the clasp, making sure
it wouldn’t stick. She opened it again, feeling for the gun, and then she closed it again. She tried the door, and it was unlocked. Gently, gently, she eased it open, inch by inch, and she peeked inside.

  There it was, the club chair on the floor. The coffee table toppled over beside it. In the other chair, facing the door, Gino sat, doubled over. His head was in his hands, and his body heaved with silent sobbing. When he looked up at her, his eyes were red, and his cheeks glistened with tears. “She’s gone.”

  Gino put his face back into his hands. There was only grief in his voice. No anger, or shame, or fear, or even any surprise at seeing Marie. Gone. Marie didn’t believe Charlie had left town, but Gino spoke as if no one had done anything, only that something had happened. It was as if the two of them were at a hospital, summoned by an urgent call about a long-ailing loved one who’d taken a turn for the worse. We’re sorry, we did everything we could.

  Marie took a few steps inside and unclasped her purse. Not knowing what had happened made it impossible to decide what to do, what to say. She wanted to rush into the bedroom, to see if Charlie could still be saved; she knew that she couldn’t let Gino leave. She wanted to demand answers, to order him to put his hands up. She needed to call the precinct, for reinforcements. Instead, she said nothing, did nothing. Gino sat up and lay back in the chair. His hair was mussed, and his necktie was loose, and he looked as if he’d slept in his suit. “It’s good to see you, Marie.” He didn’t open his eyes. “She made me do it. She finally made me do it.”

  Now, Marie didn’t have to go into the bedroom. Not just yet.

  “She told me she was working with the cops,” he went on. “Had been, almost the whole time we was together. She already told ’em everything.”

  Not quite everything. It appeared that there remained one last bit of news for Marie to break. He wasn’t thinking clearly, to be sure, but he wouldn’t confess to her if he knew she was a cop, too. That was to her advantage, she supposed. Was that the only one she had? Gino rolled his shoulders, forward and back, as if he were rousing himself from bed. When she saw the gun tucked in his waistband, a vain and vagrant notion crossed her mind about the danger of waking up sleepwalkers. It was followed by a more concrete conclusion regarding her advantages: gun-wise, they were even, but his was more readily at hand.

  “You look good,” Gino observed, with a punch-drunk smile. He rubbed his eyes and took in her form, up and down. “Did it work out for you? I guess it did.”

  Marie had no trouble mimicking the same addled tone. “Did what, Gino?”

  “That was one part I never got,” he went on, shaking his head. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a cigarette, and then he patted himself for a match. One hand touched his pants leg as the other touched his coat, and then the hands reversed. And then they reversed again, a hand up, a hand down. What was the wind-up toy he looked like? A bear that played the drum. “I never got why you needed me, Marie.”

  Marie didn’t interrupt him as he took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and replaced it with another. “I tried, I really gave it my best with you. And it seemed to go so good, didn’t it? At first? At first, I said to myself, ‘Kid, you really outdid yourself.’ I really did.” It seemed Gino had found the matches, because he was smoking. “But it all worked out for you in the end. I knew it would. I can see that. I got eyes in my head, don’t I? Tell, me, are you happy?”

  Marie was at a loss. When he talked about how she needed him, how he’d tried so hard with her, her best bad guess was that he’d snapped, that he believed she was Charlie. Again, she thought of sleepwalkers. “I don’t know. How do you mean, ‘happy,’ Gino?”

  “With your husband, dummy.”

  Again, his words couldn’t be clearer, his meaning more obscure, until he wiggled the fingers on his left hand. “I noticed the ring.”

  “Oh,” she replied. The rationality of his last point made his larger conversation no more reasonable. “We have our ups and downs, I guess.”

  “Same as everybody, huh?” Gino mused, his voice amiably drowsy. “Still, I really figured you and Nunzi for a couple of Romeos. That was some night, wasn’t it? Perfect, until the end. Like me and Charlie . . . Anyway, Nunzi, he’s getting out soon. Next month? Tell me if I’m outta line here—far be it from me, to get involved in your business—but if you want to maybe get a cup of coffee with him, for old time’s sake, I could set that up, no problem. I could see him turning up his nose at a married broad, but who’s he kidding? He’s an ex-con, he can’t be too picky.”

  At last, she took in what Gino meant. He was a romantic at heart, as Charlie had said. Love was on his mind, even now. What was on hers, she couldn’t say, because she didn’t react as she should have when Gino stood. She was the one who’d been sleepwalking. She reached into her purse, but he was on her at once. He knocked the purse from her grasp and held her around the waist so tightly she couldn’t get any air. The gun was pressed against her side.

  “What the hell am I talking about? Marie, have I lost my goddamned mind?”

  “Can’t . . . breathe . . .”

  When he relaxed his grip, just slightly, she sucked in a lungful of air and looked up at him as he contended with himself. His teary eyes were bright with menace, but his face was the picture of need, trembling with tics; one hand held the gun, while the other rubbed her lower back, as if they were dancing to a slow waltz. There were cold patches on his shirt where the sweat had cooled, and warm ones where the sweat was fresh. “I can’t leave you here, Marie. I’m so sorry, so sorry you had to be here. I hate . . . to even think . . . of hurting . . . Put yourself in my position.”

  Marie didn’t know if he was asking for her permission, or her help. She imagined this was how it ended for Charlie, with words of magnanimous regret: Let’s just say this was nobody’s choice, and nobody’s fault, but here we are, and what has to be, has to be. Maybe not. Maybe it was completely different. It had to end differently, she knew.

  “I just can’t see any other way.”

  Marie rested her head against his chest. It was an instinct more than an idea, as was her next move, extending a hand behind him to stroke his shoulders. The pistol dug in against her ribs and then withdrew, slightly. Despite the gravity and gross intimacy of the moment, she found herself slipping into a frame of mind much like Gino’s; she felt impassive, at an impersonal remove. What next? She couldn’t fight him. He was stronger, and he had a gun. She couldn’t reason with him, exactly, and it would be a waste of breath to promise not to tell. Something would come to her, she was sure. Or it wouldn’t. One way or another, this would be over soon.

  “I’m sorry, Marie.”

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  She felt Gino’s chin dip against her neck, and his left arm loosened from her waist. His left hand took hold of her right, and he stepped back, pulling her to the side. The move reminded her of dancing again, pivoting for a twirl, until she realized that he was turning her away, so he wouldn’t have to see her face. Gently, she resisted. Gently, gently, she caught his eyes and smiled, with a gentle sadness, as she heard the hammer click on the gun. “You were right about Nunzi, Gino. I really fell in love with him that night. You’re pretty amazing, honey, putting us together the way you did. You’ve got a sixth sense. It would have worked out between us, I really believe. But not now.”

  Gino couldn’t let her die without hearing the end of the story. “Why not?”

  “You didn’t notice? You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

  “What?

  “You don’t miss a thing, Gino. You’re just trying to flatter me.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m having a baby.”

  That was the last thing Marie remembered before everything went dark. She didn’t see anything, or hear anything, or even feel anything. She didn’t know how much time had passed before she became aware of the dunning pain in her head. An apprehension of light followed, punishing beyond her shuttered eyes, and then she f
elt the roughness of the rug against her cheek. She was still here. And that was all that mattered, for now. She had scant reason to be proud of herself, and none to be thankful to Gino, but both fleeting beliefs made her head hurt less. She’d been right, at least, in expecting to spend more time on girl talk than cop talk when she got here. She closed her eyes and lay quiet for a while, smiling.

  When she recalled that she had aspirin in her handbag, she began to stir, and then she rose with a jerk, once she realized what else it contained. She crawled across the floor and dumped out the purse, rejoicing when she saw the gun and shield bounce on the floor. She popped a few aspirin in her parched mouth and staggered into the kitchen, downing glass after glass of water. As the tap ran colder, she splashed her face. She wasn’t herself, just yet, but it was time to get to work.

  There was one thing she had to do before she called the precinct. At the bedroom door, she paused, as if she should knock, as once was her habit. The lipsticks and mascaras and bottles of scent were still upright. There hadn’t been a struggle, at least not here. Marie couldn’t quite bring herself to look at the bed, where a pale blue silk sheet covered the body. Gino wouldn’t let a woman watch him when he shot her. That much she knew.

  As Marie drew back the sheet, the loose tresses of red hair on the pillow had a tossed-back, windblown look; the eyes were closed, and the expression was untroubled; the makeup was perfect, as always, with subtle touches of color bringing out the lines and planes of her God-given face. Marie was about to mutter the old biddy-at-a-wake line—So peaceful, she could be sleeping—when she lowered the sheet farther, and it stuck, slightly, at a tacky spot on the chest. The bullet hole over the heart left a mark barely larger than if she’d been poked with a finger, and there wasn’t much blood; what stood out was the dress Charlie wore. Marie hadn’t seen it before, and it was stunning, rich black satin with a plunging neckline. Her first thought was that she’d have felt underdressed, had they gone out for cocktails together; her second was that Charlie had chosen it for her funeral.