The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Yeah, Hollywood Sid,” Casper went on. “Didn’t like him in the Four-Four, wasn’t surprised when he went to plainclothes, to Public Morals. Public Morals!”

  Casper shook his head. Marie didn’t want to hear any more, but she felt neither willing nor able to stop him from talking. The plane hadn’t landed yet. She was still in free fall. Nothing to do except to say a prayer and hold on tight.

  “And for him to get kicked out! Back to the Bronx. What kind of crook to you have to be to get kicked out of that pack of crooks?”

  Casper hiccupped again and shook his head. His eyes shimmered with tender tears. “Anyway, Marie. You want a drink? No? Anyway. I just wanted you to know, how me and Vinnie thought the world of you, how you kept your hands clean, your head high. You’re you. Nobody else. No matter how bad it looks, you being with such a . . . Anyway. Merry Christmas!”

  Marie felt incredibly stupid she hadn’t known what had happened. Was Sid an especially big crook, or an especially bad one? She felt worse when she realized she was the last to know. Mrs. M. read the Personnel Orders like a stockbroker checked the tickertape. Ed and Vinnie Murtagh had become thick as thieves after they’d poisoned the Farmer, and whatever Murtagh told Ed, Ed would have told Al. She’d been so vigilant in keeping secrets that she’d guaranteed she’d be kept in the dark as well. She never brought up Sid in conversation. Even Al talked about his wife now and then, though he was a man of few words. Marie didn’t feel like an orphan anymore; she felt like an infant.

  Though she’d only had a glass of wine, she drove like a drunk, drifting from her lane. When she made it home, she didn’t fall asleep for a while. The baby woke her at three. She was glad to get out of bed. She wanted to ask Sid what happened. She wanted to ask when it had happened—a week ago? Six months? It explained why her demand to fix their marriage had provoked a sad, shifty, time-buying fib, instead of an automatic smack from the back of his hand. Sid needed her, and his need was flattering. It did her no good for him to become a professional liability as well as a personal tragedy, but the adjustment was refreshing, in its way. She wouldn’t kick him when he was down. She could live with this, at least for a while.

  20 YOU LIVE IN INTERESTING TIMES

  In the life of puppets, there is always a “but” that ruins everything.

  —Carlo Collodi

  The Adventures of Pinocchio

  JANUARY 15, 1965

  2215 HOURS

  All of it was coming together, now that it had finally fallen apart. Marie had told her partners she’d moved out, days before, but the subject of her marriage had still not been discussed. Late on a Friday night, as the temperature dipped into the teens, they conducted a private surveillance outside the Great Northern Hotel. The man who’d made her homelife a nightmare was meeting the man who tried to derail all of their careers. Sid and Lt. Macken were in parlay, illuminated beneath a streetlight, their lying breath forming silver plumes in the frigid air.

  “Jesus, Marie,” said Al. “If they started fighting, which one would you root for?”

  “Honest to God, Al, I can’t really say.”

  “It must be like Frankenstein versus the Wolfman for you.”

  “Or the Hitler-Stalin pact,” offered Ed, searching for a more solemn analogy.

  “I wish I could hear them,” she said. They were in an unmarked department car some thirty yards from their subjects. Marie had been driving, with Ed beside her, Al in the back. They cracked the windows so they wouldn’t fog. “Scratch that. I don’t care. Besides, I know what they’re saying.”

  Marie hadn’t seen Sid since Christmas, and she would never live with him again. The day before, she was promoted to detective. When Commissioner Murphy handed her the gold shield, she was giddy, and she posed for photographs with her parents, her sisters, with Sandy and the baby. With Mrs. M., of course, and Ed and Al. Al had worn a suit for the occasion that almost fit. Sid had been there, too, and she heard him bellow her name when it was called—Marriiieee!—as if she’d stepped up to the plate at Yankee Stadium. He just had time for a quick picture with her before he had to rush back to work: “Got a big case we’re working on, you know how it is, honey.” When Marie kissed him goodbye, she said she hoped to see him later. She wasn’t lying. She knew a good day when she saw one.

  Christmas Eve was at Dee’s. Each of the sisters made one of the dishes, and Mama made three, for the traditional repast of the Seven Fishes. Sid didn’t appear that night, but he was at the house early the next morning with a carload of presents. Though his demotion to patrol must have come at some cost, his gifts admitted of no thrift. She and Sandy got matching Persian lamb jackets with mink collars, gold lockets, and bags of clothes and accessories from Fifth Avenue stores. Some of the clothes were too grown-up for Sandy, who was only twelve, but Marie resolved to go through the outfits with Katie and figure out what ought to go up to the attic for another year, or six. What was the rush to grow up? Packs of kiddie cousins visited to see who’d gotten the most loot, and Marie was relieved to see Sandy join in roughneck fun with Anthony, Genevieve, Little Mikey, and the rest. Marie took out her shield to examine it, over and over, and she found herself half-consciously covering her left hand with her right, to hide the missing engagement ring. It felt like she’d traded one for the other. Sid left after an early dinner. All in all, it was the most joyous holiday ever.

  The next day wasn’t as wonderful. The baby began to cry after midnight, and Marie was with him through dawn, downstairs on the couch, so he wouldn’t wake the rest of the house. He felt a little feverish, but it was a Saturday; Marie was divided about calling the pediatrician, knowing she’d get an answering service. Katie had plans to go ice-skating with a beau, and though she offered to stay home, Marie wouldn’t hear of it. She was exhausted and distracted as she began to make breakfast, dropping a bottle of milk as she took it from the refrigerator. She slipped when she tried to catch it and found herself plopped on the floor beside the broken glass, milk soaking into her robe. Pancakes and bacon were a Saturday-morning tradition, and Marie hoped that Sandy wouldn’t make a stink when the menu was changed to bacon and eggs. Sandy was usually up by eight, but when Marie went to check on her, just after nine, she was greeted by a screech from the bathroom: “Privacy, please! I am coming! God! Would you please get off my back!”

  Marie was in a foul temper already, and Sandy had never talked back like that before. Was this dreadful noise a kind of reveille, announcing adolescence? At first, Marie was too surprised to react; after, she knew that if she said what was on her mind, she’d regret it. And so when she was summoned back downstairs by the baby’s screaming and the smell of burning toast, she retreated. The toast was dumped into the sink, the baby quieted, and the eggs went in one pan, the bacon another, when Marie heard footsteps clumping down the stairs. She took a breath. Are we calm? Yes. No shoes would be thrown. There would be a reasoned discussion of manners and respect. Good would come of this.

  And she was taken by how pretty Sandy looked. She wore the red sweater and yellow corduroys Katie had bought her, instead of the chancier, fancier duds from Sid. Still, she looked oddly grown-up as she stood at the edge of the kitchen, shyly smiling. “Sorry I talked back, Mom. Breakfast smells good.”

  “Come here, you.”

  Marie rushed over to hug her, touched by the apology. “Merry day-after-Christmas, my dearest Sandy! Your brother wasn’t feeling well last night, and so Mommy’s a little cranky this morning, but—”

  When Sandy peered up at her, Marie nearly choked. She wore powder, and lipstick, and eye shadow. “What the hell? What the hell is this crap all over your face? Get over here to the sink. Dammit, Sandy, I oughtta—”

  She dragged her across the kitchen, indifferent to cries of protest. They’d talked more than once about Mommy’s things, and what was off limits. With guns in the house, privacy had to be respected in absolute terms. They had played with cosmetics before, but the lightness of Sandy’s touch—the pink on the li
ps, the subtlety of blush on the cheeks—was damning evidence of practice. Twelve years old! Why did her goddamned father buy her such goddamned grown-up clothes? It was effing breakfast, dammit!

  “Mommy! Stop!”

  Marie fought to control herself. When she realized she was failing, she let Sandy go. “Fine! But you’re not going anywhere! You wash your face, right now.”

  Sandy began to blub, but she did as she was told. Once she finished washing, she tried to run away. Marie caught her, gently. This time, when Sandy looked up again, Marie felt her knees weaken. Her baby had a black eye, the blood vessels dark and broken. What kind of savage would punch a little girl in the face? Marie held her to keep from falling down. An electrical storm of agonized half-thoughts short-circuited her brain, and she struggled to make the words that left her mouth calm and clear. “What happened, honey?

  Sandy whimpered and looked away. If Sid did this, he’d better get his gun. Marie went on, “Mommy won’t be mad, I promise. No matter what.”

  She felt her daughter sob on her breast, and she strained not to sob with her. Was Sid at work? Was he at Carmen’s? What was her last name? Where did she live?

  “I’m sorry, Mommy, I just took the lipstick, and the foundation, I didn’t—”

  That asshole Sal, he’d know Carmen’s address. Let’s see how long he’ll keep it secret when I stick a gun in his mouth. What was Sandy talking about?

  “No, honey. Not about the makeup. I’m not mad about that. I mean, that’s—First, tell me about your black eye. What happened? How did you get hurt?”

  It pained her to leave the question open-ended, convinced as she was that she knew who was responsible. But she couldn’t put words in the child’s mouth. This was work now, and she knew not to lead a witness.

  “It was Little Mikey, with his hockey stick, but it was an accident, Mommy. We were in the basement. He didn’t mean it.”

  Sandy began to cry again, and Marie cried, too. She’d been so sure Sid had hurt her baby. She should have been relieved to learn that he was blameless. This should be banner-headline great news: The Germans have surrendered! The Yankees won! There was no crime here, no crisis. Just a couple of kids playing. Still, Marie began to wail, and she clutched Sandy so tightly she squirmed. Marie let her go. Sid wasn’t responsible, not for this.

  This was so much worse. He wasn’t the one who showed Sandy how to smile and lie and cover the bruises with pretty paints. That’s what Mommy had taught her. How to be a victim, how to hide the hurt.

  “The bacon smells like it’s ready, Mommy. Can I get it out of the pan?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  Marie looked around the kitchen. All her things, all her efforts. She remembered putting up the wallpaper. Yellow with pink peonies. The wallpaper was what made her decide to plant peonies in the garden.

  “I’ll take the eggs off the fire, Mommy.”

  Marie had made the curtains, too. They were lacy and white. The toast popped up from the toaster, golden-brown. Even when Sandy put a plate of bacon on the table in front of her, Marie still smelled the Christmas tree from the other room. She didn’t have to close her eyes to see the tinsel, the bright star on the top. She’d worked so hard to make this a real home.

  “I’m glad you made eggs, Mommy. I don’t know why, but I didn’t feel like pancakes today. Maybe later, we can go to Aunt Vera’s, so Little Mikey doesn’t get in trouble? It was an accident, and he felt bad.”

  “That’s a good idea, Sandy. We’ll do that. After we eat, we’ll go to Aunt Vera’s. And I think we’re gonna stay there a while.”

  After breakfast, she’d packed up her children and a few of her things. Her call to Vera was brief: “I’m leaving, this time for good.”Vera knew she meant it, because Marie wasn’t crying or bleeding when she arrived. Katie came later that afternoon, as soon as she found the note. Sid didn’t come across the letter Marie left him for three days. When he showed up at Vera’s that night, drunk and furious, he would have broken down the door if Guy hadn’t answered, unmoved and unafraid.

  “I’m here for my wife.”

  “She’s under my roof now. You can’t come in. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  Three weeks had passed since Marie had seen Sid. They’d spoken on the phone a couple of times, but he refused to agree to a divorce, or even to leave the house: “You’re the crazy one, if you expect me to see a shrink. Why do you want a divorce now, when everything’s going so good? Out of nowhere, when nothing bad happened!”

  From his point of view, what he said was simple as arithmetic and true as gospel. If only she’d tried to divorce him before, early and often, the marriage might have been worth saving. But since she wasn’t fighting for herself—or not just for herself—she wouldn’t lose her nerve. Sandy would learn no further lessons about how to lie when someone hurt her.

  IT HELPED MARIE to see her enemies allied, Hollywood Sid and Macken, together in the dark. What a pair they made. The day would come when she wouldn’t have to deal with either of them.

  That night, Ed, Al, and Marie were out on a pattern of nighttime loft break-ins in the garment district. It was a Friday, and they were on duty until eleven. They had the weekend off, and no one was looking to make an arrest. When the call came over the radio—“Come in, Car 235. Are you on the air?”—Ed picked up the microphone to reply. “235, on the air.”

  “10-1.”

  “10-4.”

  Marie pulled over to a pay phone for Ed to check in with the office. Seconds later, he waved Marie over. It was Murtagh, who said Sid had called. “He didn’t ask for you, Marie. He wanted to find out where Macken was. He didn’t remember me, and I didn’t remind him. Told him to call back in a few, after I raised the lieutenant on the radio. Macken’s outside the Great Northern. Seems like he got a tip about something big there, and he wants his boy the Farmer to make the grab. Sid’s meeting him there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Vinnie. Keep this under your hat, would you?”

  They spotted the lieutenant’s unmarked car on the first pass down 58th Street and settled in across the street just before Sid arrived in his mint-green Falcon. Ed rustled in the seat beside her. “What do you think he’s asking the idiot?

  “Sid’s making him an offer,” said Marie. “He doesn’t understand why I left him, finally. ‘For no reason.’ Called my babysitter last week and said he’d pay for a free trip to England if she had anything on me. I don’t know what he thinks he could get.”

  “I do,” said Al after a moment, uncomfortably. “He came to my house. Sorry, Marie, but I didn’t want to upset you. Last Friday, I come home, and he’s in the living room talking to my wife. Says he thinks you’re running around on him with another guy, and he’ll buy us a vacation to Puerto Rico, if I say who it is.”

  Marie turned to him, disbelieving. “And you wait this long? Damn it, Al, why didn’t you tell me? Of all people—if there’s anybody I depend on, it’s you and Ed—”

  Al glared at Ed, as if to demand that he intercede. The old Irishman patted her on the shoulder. He mumbled in preamble, “Well, the thing is—”

  “Spit it out, Lennon.”

  “Listen, Marie, it was me who told young Al here not to bring it up, for the time being. You didn’t tell us yourself until a couple of days ago. Tuesday?”

  Al growled from the back. “Wednesday. Two days ago, right before we went home. No questions allowed. And yesterday, you were at court the whole day. Not for nothing, Marie, but I caught hell from my wife, wanting to know what the story was with the ‘sex scandal’ at work. She wanted to know what else I was hiding.”

  Marie was chagrined. She had no right to be angry. Al wasn’t wrong about the abruptness of her announcement, or her refusal to entertain questions. How long had she imposed on them the same awful and absurd rules of not-seeing and not-saying that Sid imposed on her? “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  Marie had never met Al’s wife. She wondered whether she should send her s
omething—a card, candy? No, that would probably make it worse. Mrs. O’Callahan could start a club with Mrs. Marino, Police Wives Against Marie. The partners weren’t much given to chatter about their families. At work, they talked about work, mostly because it consumed them, but also from some superstitious wish to keep a distance between home, sweet home, and the dirt and danger of the city streets. So too with Marie, though the streets were often sweeter for her. As it was, her private hell wasn’t private anymore. She wasn’t surprised Sid had approached Katie, though he had no chance of winning her over. Al was unexpected; it told of desperation. Did Sid really think he could enlist her partner in his cause? Why not Ed? When Marie looked at him, he turned away. “Son of a gun!” she shouted. “What did he offer you?”

  “Easy! Easy there, Marie, you don’t want them to hear you!”

  They glanced outside, but Sid and the lieutenant hadn’t noticed any commotion. “I’m not mad at you, Ed,” she said, her voice low. “I’m mad at Sid. What was your offer? A visit to Ireland? He must have a new chippie in a travel agency.”

  “Actually, it was a new car. A Buick.”

  Now, Al was irate. He leaned forward from the back seat. “What? I get a lousy weekend in San Juan, and you get a new car?”

  “I’m the senior man, and a first-grade detective.”

  Marie started to laugh, but then she caught herself. Was Al really angry?

  “Well, I hope you insist on the latest model, with all the extras,” she said. “Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to be able to retire on what I get in alimony.”

  Al snarled from the back seat. “So, Ed, when do you pick up the car?”

  “Next Friday, Al. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  Al replied brightly, “Would you mind? The flight’s at six, and my wife, she always has so much luggage.”

  “That’s no problem. The new Buicks, they have plenty of room in the trunk.”

  Marie shoved both of them, but she was relieved they hadn’t thought her too much of an invalid to needle her. “I deserve that, I guess. But if you boys were really quick on your feet, you’d have told Sid I was having a mad, passionate affair with the lieutenant here. We wouldn’t be watching them haggle. Sid would pull out his .38 and put a couple of slugs in his fat head. You could have solved all our problems.”