The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  Marie let loose a wicked-witch cackle as the door opened, and a bony arm yanked her in. Before the door slammed shut, she yelled back, “Mind your own business, lady!”

  Once inside, Ed and Marie didn’t talk much. Neither hotel nor police management was likely to allow them to go on much longer. They played hearts for an hour, and then Ed poked his head outside, where he saw the stooped woman down the hall. Marie danced out, giggling, seemingly nude but for her fur again, back to her room next door. Her purse remained on Ed’s dresser, as if she’d forgotten it, with five twenty-dollar bills dusted with the chemical inside. In fifteen minutes, he left hurriedly, his hat pulled low. Maid service was requested with a sign on the doorknob. Marie had coffee sent up, and then she dressed and departed, also leaving the sign on the door. Maid, Please Rob Room!

  After lunch, Marie was crestfallen when the Sorrell collection was untouched, but her heart leapt when she heard Ed pounding his fist on the wall. When she ran to his room, he crowed, “She bit on the cash!” They shouted with delight, again full of newlywed joy, and jumped on the bed. Ed called the manager and told him to gather the eight shady ladies in the kitchen. From the beginning of the case, Marie knew exactly what she’d say now, what she’d do. When the pots and pans stopped clanging, she could almost hear a director call “Action!”

  “I am Policewoman Marie Carrara from the New York City Police Department, and this is my partner, Detective Lennon. You may wonder why you were all brought here.”

  As the maids stood in line, Marie walked slowly past and met their eyes, one after the other. She pictured the room going dark as she was about to name the suspect, a shot ringing out. Ed carried a portable fingerprint kit with him; Marie wished she’d brought a magnifying glass. She knew how silly it looked, how trite she sounded, but she didn’t care. The cooks and busboys were spellbound, and waiters lingered at the door. Her career as a cop resembled a mystery movie about as much as her marriage did a romance. This was her Hollywood moment, and she was going to milk it for all it was worth. “One of you here is a thief,” she went on. “And once you wash your hands, we will take your fingerprints. Whoever cleaned room #636 will be coming with us to the precinct to discuss the situation. It will be useless to deny that you were in the room. Follow me, please.”

  Marie went to the sink and turned on the tap. The ladies looked at each other nervously. A few tried to drift out of line, but Ed ushered them back in formation. As it was, all of them had left prints in the room over the past week. Marie just needed them to wet their hands; the chemical powder on the jewelry and cash reacted to water. She studied their reactions as they rinsed their hands, shaking them dry as instructed, but all were fretful, jittery. Last came the older woman who had glared at Marie. She glared again; apparently, she didn’t like cops any more than she liked hookers. Marie would have bet a week’s pay she was guilty when a cry went up from one of the others. Her hands were a deep orange-brown, as if she’d dipped them in iodine. “Poison! They poisoned me!”

  Cut and print! The other women gasped, and the kitchen staff applauded, and the manager stammered his thanks, swearing he’d write a letter of appreciation to the police commissioner. The reviews were ecstatic: One paper told of “Mrs. Edwards, a well-heeled but wide-eyed housewife, who traipsed off innocently in her mink stole,”—they invented the mink for the story—“leaving her husband to the temptations of the fleshpots of the city. However, both housewife and harlot were one and the same . . .” After the maid was arrested, it emerged that she had convictions for prostitution, theft, and even a homicide for stabbing a john. She’d been told of Sorrell’s visit to the Edwards room—the old glarer had gossiped but hadn’t otherwise played a part—and judged that the straying husband wouldn’t make a stink. She confessed to taking jewelry worth twice as much as the hotel had estimated and was hurt to learn she’d been robbed as well: pawnbroker receipts showed $175 for a ten-thousand-dollar watch, seventy-five dollars for a seven-thousand-dollar ring. Marie was tempted to recommend her to Three-Fingered Jack when she got out of prison.

  Ed and Marie spent the night at the precinct, the morning in court. Ed had spelled her for a quick trip home for a shower and breakfast with Sandy, and she handled the arraignment. It was midday when she returned to the SLATS office, haggard but light of heart, where she was greeted by a ten-man shouting match that threatened to spill into a brawl. Another unmarked car had been left with an empty gas tank, and a borrowed typewriter had been returned with a stuck cylinder. Another sandwich had been stolen from the refrigerator. Steak, well-done, as it happened. Murtagh lumbered around the room, murder in his eyes. The inspector mustn’t have been around, as the language would have made a saint’s statue weep. She intended to stay out of the fracas and was chagrined to see the Farmer shared her instinct, cowering in the corner. When Ed had a quick word with him, the Farmer touched his face and went into the bathroom. The significance of the act escaped her, but she didn’t have time to think about it. Ed strode up to Murtagh and bellowed, “Listen, you big stiff, I’m so goddamned sick of you! I’ve got more time on this Job than you, and more time on this earth, and if you think I’m gonna stand around and do nothing when you accuse—”

  Repartee was never Murtagh’s strength. He lifted Ed by the lapels and carried him to a window, as if to deposit him on the sidewalk, seven floors below. Men charged in to stop him, but a few threw a cheap elbow or two in the scrum. Marie was sick to see it, and she jumped in, shrieking, “What’s the matter with you! Are you all a pack of kids?”

  She slapped Murtagh, but she was just as angry with Ed for becoming embroiled in the foolishness. She grabbed him by the ear and dragged him away. Ed yelped, and Murtagh began to laugh until Marie turned to him, shaking a finger in his face. “Don’t you go anywhere! I’ll deal with you in a minute, you wooden Indian. Lay a hand on my partner again, and you’ll be the one going out the window!”

  For a moment, the room was silent. Ed removed his earlobe from Marie’s grip. He was pale and damp with sweat, short of breath. He straightened his tie and made a dazed examination of his new suit, making sure it hadn’t been torn. Looking around the room, his eyes moved in challenge from face to face, but there was no escaping his humiliation at the hands of a larger man and a smaller woman. It distressed Marie deeply, but she didn’t know what else she could have done. None of it made any sense. It made no sense when Ed smiled, and even less when he turned to Murtagh, jabbing a thumb toward the entrance of the office. “Look, Vinnie. Have a look. Am I right, or am I right?”

  Murtagh turned his head as directed. Though his lips curled up over his teeth, his expression didn’t seem joyful. All turned to see the Farmer where he stood at the door. He had the same dimly squinting expression he customarily wore, and his skin had, for the most part, the same Spam-pink tint, but he was otherwise a different man. Around his mouth and on his hands, he was stained an intense coppery shade. There was a blotch over his eye, and both nostrils were rimmed in brown.

  Murtagh grunted. Ed grinned. The Farmer looked down at his hands, and then he turned and ran. Murtagh extended a hand for Ed to shake before taking off in hot pursuit. Casper began to clap, and then the rest of the men joined in the applause. Marie grabbed Ed’s earlobe again. “And you couldn’t let me in on it? You son of a . . . But that chemical stuff, didn’t they say at the lab that we have to be real careful? That it might cause cancer, if it gets inside you?”

  “I know! I must have spilled half the bottle on that sandwich!”

  All the men in the office roared and wept, and Marie nearly fell down laughing herself. She left her reports for the next day. At home, she wore rubber gloves as she cleaned the jewelry in alcohol and bleach, several times over. When she finished wiping down her engagement ring, she decided not to put it back on.

  THERE HAD BEEN some interesting developments on the domestic front in recent months. When she told Sid she’d leave him unless they went to a marriage counselor, he didn’t erupt or storm ou
t. He seemed worried, almost, and said he didn’t see the harm. Though he missed the appointment, even pretending to care was a change for him. When he agreed to see a psychiatrist, she was astonished, and then she was embarrassed for having believed him. She wouldn’t go to the department chaplain. She’d heard of wives who sought counsel about unfaithful cop husbands, and he’d had the men fired. Cops could be fired for adultery, and a few were, every year. Marie couldn’t think of many ways to make her marriage worse, but taking away Sid’s paycheck was a good place to start. Still, she wanted to talk to a priest about it. Even if she were ignored or dismissed, or told to offer it up, she knew she had to try. And St. Anthony hadn’t let her down yet.

  On the last Sunday in November, when she went to church at Annunciation, Mass was said in English. It hadn’t been a secret, but it was still a shock. With parents from Bari, Latin wasn’t an altogether alien tongue, but she was still unready to hear the Word of God in a Bronx accent. Monsignor Brosnan had a thickset build, like an old boxer, and he was known for his decency. After Mass, she asked if she might meet with him. In the rectory, she’d barely worked her way through half of Sid’s major felonies before he burst out, “Divorce him! Run from the bum! Listen, Marie, the Catholic Church has plenty of martyrs already. Your children need you alive. Besides, strictly speaking, we don’t forbid divorce. You just can’t get remarried.”

  Her faith remained firm when the captain called her in to his office the next day. It had only been four months since he’d tried to yank away the welcome mat before she set foot on it. Their interim conversations had been few and formal. He began awkwardly. “Sit down, Marie. I want to tell you that I’ve been watching you. I mean—well, you know what I mean. This is new to me. Do you understand?”

  Marie thought she might, but there was no benefit to guessing. If the captain was going to apologize, he ought to come right out with it. To be a man about it, as the saying went. Of course, maybe he wasn’t going to apologize, in which case she had no interest in making things easier for him. She didn’t want to appear anxious, or indignant, or eager for approval, though she was all three. She nodded in reply.

  “Well,” he went on. “When we first met, you might recall that I told you that I would request the transfer of the policewomen assigned here.”

  Yes, she did remember that. The captain didn’t want women here, the inspector didn’t want Italians. She was still guilty on both counts.

  “I still don’t believe they belong here,” he went on. “With one exception. I’m aware of the work you’ve done, and the men—my men—have spoken without exception of how highly they think of you. I misjudged you.”

  Marie tried not to fixate on the qualifier, “my men.” Did it mean that chumps like Macken had tried to sabotage her? Or that the Farmer pointed one of his thick, brown-stained fingers in accusation? She allowed herself a smile. She couldn’t have stopped herself. Was the captain still jabbering on about how wrong he was about her? How wonderful she was? Yes, that was it. Please, Captain, do go on.

  “I would like you to stay here. The other women will move on to other assignments. Move on, or move back. I don’t know and I don’t care. Most of the burglary squads will go back to borough commands. Not your team. Lennon and O’Callahan will stay as well. Would you be kind enough to tell them for me?”

  Even though Marie felt that the captain might have indulged her girlish glee, just then, and even though she felt it in abundance, she stood quickly and was brief in her response. “I will. Thank you, Captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  What a year, 1964! First church, then state—both were on her side. And even after the boys finally welcomed her aboard, the girls embraced her as one of their own. Mrs. M. suggested that Marie run for the board of the Policewomen’s Endowment Association. She won, handily, against a first-grade detective from the Pickpocket and Confidence Squad named Marilyn Bering. Bering had a reputation as a party girl, always one of the last to leave a racket, singing “Mother Machree” at the bar with the tipsier bosses. She had an uncle who was a judge, and a brother who was a vice president in the electricians’ union. Marie was happy to win, but Mrs. M. was overjoyed, taking particular pride in informing her that the final vote count had been a landslide. Mrs. M. had played no part in Detective Bering’s professional rise.

  “Be patient, my dear. It will come.”

  Marie hadn’t asked about her promotion, but Mrs. M. didn’t need to hear the question. They were back at the Hotel Astor, at the Christmas party for the Detectives’ Endowment Association. Marie wasn’t dancing at the gala this year. She wouldn’t have come at all, except that she was obliged to attend—the PEA board had to go to the DEA party, and vice versa, as did all of the department sects and factions in the round robin of social events. “You know, my sister Dee got her shield, earlier in the summer.”

  “I know, I sent her a note. The district attorney lobbied on her behalf.”

  There were over two thousand detectives in the department, but the gold shields allotted to women were few and fixed in number: thirty-seven for third grade detectives; nine for second grade, four for first. No woman would be promoted unless another retired, died, or was fired. A second-grader made sergeant’s pay, a first-grader that of a lieutenant, but the prestige mattered more than the money. Marie had been in the Detective Division for a year and a half without promotion. Al O’Callahan got his shield after a few months. Ed had made second grade after three years, first grade after seven. A man in the Detective Division got his gold shield in short order, or he was sent packing.

  “It’s just . . . to read the list of promotions, month after month,” Marie said. “Well, enough about that. What a wonderful night!” She stuck close to her old mentor as she was corralled into introduction after introduction, with boss after boss. It gratified her that all seemed to know her, but the recognition never seemed to translate into the true coin of respect. She felt like an aging orphan shopped around to childless couples in her last cute year.

  “It’s different for women,” Sid offered, scooping Marie into his arms after sneaking up behind her. She flinched; he’d surprised her. As in past years, he’d been good to her in the weeks before the dance, and he’d be a charmer throughout the night. He kissed her and then stepped back, holding her hand. “Hello, Inspector. Merry Christmas,” he said brightly. “But I’m sure you’ll make it, honey. Now, you even got lady sergeants. Who’d have believed? Me, I’m all for it.”

  That was an overreach. He was referring to the recent court decision that allowed two policewomen to take the test for sergeant. Mrs. M. was polite to him, but not warm. Marie had never seen that before. Did Mrs. M. know something? The three stood in pained silence until Sid excused himself. Marie felt sorry for him when he left. Checking her watch, she saw that it was after ten, and she was tired. She bid goodnight to Mrs. M., and she was nearly at the coat check when she was intercepted by Casper, who was so cockeyed with holiday cheer that she felt half-sloshed at the sight of him. His pallid cheeks blazed, and he smiled like he’d just heard Santa’s sleigh on the roof. “Merry Christmas, Marie! You look terrific! Isn’t this always a great party, isn’t this always the greatest night?”

  Marie made a worried face and felt his forehead, as if for fever. “Are you okay, Casper? Try to cheer up, would you? It’s Christmas!”

  Casper was confused for a moment, and then he blushed, further enflaming his cheeks. He made as if to punch her, playfully, as he would if she were one of the boys, but he caught himself before he connected. “You got me, Marie. You really did! I’m so glad you’re staying at SLATS. You are, right? The captain talked to you?”

  “He did, and I am. Me, Ed, and Al.”

  “I talked to the captain, Marie. A bunch of us did. Even Vinnie Murtagh.”

  “I didn’t know he could talk.”

  “Of course he—Hey, that’s funny. He’s a straight shooter, Vinnie. Everything’s black-and-white with him. I shouldn’t say, but . . . w
ell, why not? You know what made him change his mind about you?”

  Marie knew he intended a compliment, but he put her in mind of an airplane with its engine sputtering, the runway lights nowhere in sight. She braced herself for a rough landing. “What was it, Casper?”

  “The tuna sandwich.”

  “What?”

  “That you didn’t want room service. You weren’t looking for a free lunch, or dinner, or whatever.”

  Marie laughed. Here they were, safe on the ground, with nothing on fire. Murtagh was an honest cop, and now he believed Marie was, too. That was how it sounded, and she was relieved to hear it. Still, she might as well make sure nothing else was implied. She’d likely get more out of Casper now, in his whiskeyed magnanimity, than she ever would again. “Thanks, Casper. I appreciate you speaking up for me, and I can promise you, I won’t let you down. And now your partner knows, not every Italian is in the Mafia.”

  Casper hiccupped, and Marie patted him on the back. He raised a hand, collecting his breath, and spoke quickly. “Oh, it isn’t that. His wife is Italian.”

  That was a perfectly satisfactory reply. No prejudice for Murtagh, just a wariness about unproven partners. Good, she thought. Better than good. Not just not-bad, but careful, principled, correct. “What is it then?”

  “He used to work in the Bronx. In the Four-Four. He knows your husband.”

  Marie didn’t answer. Casper inhaled briefly and hiccupped again. “Sid.”

  Marie knew her husband’s name. She said nothing.