The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “Thank you, Mrs. M. I appreciate it.”

  “How are you doing, Marie?”

  The inquiry wasn’t casual, and Marie knew better than to lie. “I’ve been better. I’ve been worse, too. For the last couple of months, I feel like I’m back at the Degenerate Squad, except the biggest degenerate is the guy in charge.”

  “Joe Stackett? Really?”

  “Really, truly, Mrs. M. He shows up at my house. He calls my kids. Every day for months, he sent me love notes. I had to sit him down and set him straight.”

  “And then?”

  “He’s on the warpath. And he’s after my scalp.”

  “Did you save the notes? Were they . . . graphic?”

  “I have a bunch of them,” Marie replied, considering. “And they’re not really dirty. It’s like he’s a weird teenager writing in his diary. To Miss Universe of 1969.”

  “Oh, my! Well, we have something to work with, then. What can I do?”

  “Get me out.”

  “Where? When?”

  “Anywhere. Yesterday.”

  “I can put you somewhere next week. It won’t be what you deserve, but it will be familiar. I’ll call Peg Disco. I can’t say how long the Bureau will last, however.”

  “Oh.”

  “You understand me?”

  “I do.”

  Marie would blackmail her way back to the Policewomen’s Bureau, as she’d blackmailed her way out. It wasn’t where she wanted to be, but she had to go somewhere. Whatever it takes, as they used to say. She kissed Mrs. M. goodbye and went back inside. The moment of elation passed. She wasn’t surprised to see Sid. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore. She supposed it would be nice for Sandy to see him, but she wished he hadn’t brought a date. He wouldn’t stay long, she knew. Marie wouldn’t hide from him.

  As she returned to her seat, she saw Sid leave the line to shake Papa’s hand. Mama rose to embrace him. Marie wished she’d been spared the sight of that. Mama had wept bitterly at the news of the divorce. Papa had said nothing. And then the muffled hum of the mourners was broken by a wail, “My God, he was so young!”

  It was Carmen, who had collapsed at the side of the casket. She was a woman of deep feeling, Marie knew well. As Sid tried to hoist her to her feet, Marie started to laugh so hard that she began to cough. She covered her mouth and turned away, knowing what she would see in each face: murder in Dee’s eyes, tears in Sandy’s, Ann and Vera overtaken by the same madhouse hilarity. Better to step outside, to breathe freer air. In the lobby, she drank a paper cup of water from the cooler.

  Sid and Carmen appeared soon after. They held hands as they walked. When Carmen spied Marie, she dragged Sid behind like a tugboat pulling a barge. “I’m so sorry, Marie, I’m so sorry for your brother.”

  This wasn’t the first time that Carmen had failed to apprehend the particularities of Marie’s family tree, but it didn’t bear correction. Marie had nothing to say to her when they were sharing Sid; now they had nothing in common at all. Carmen awaited a reply that never came. When she realized that it wouldn’t, she pressed ahead. “I need you to let him go, Marie,” she said solemnly.

  Marie was confused. Had Sid told her they were still married? Did he expect Marie to play along, for old time’s sake? She looked at Sid, who wore a sullen expression. Carmen didn’t deserve a response, but Marie wanted to abbreviate this encounter rather than prolong it. “I have no idea what you are talking about. We have been divorced for years. I don’t see him, and I don’t want to.”

  “Oh, I know, and thank you. I thank you for finally giving in to the divorce. I know you are a very religious woman.”

  Marie glared at Sid. “It was nothing. De nada.”

  “It’s the money.”

  “What money?”

  Sid didn’t pay alimony, and she’d bought him out of his share of the house with a loan from Papa. That left the twenty-five dollars a week in child support. He wasn’t always punctual, but he paid. An honest cop could afford it, so it shouldn’t have been any problem for Sid. What was he telling this whore?

  “For the boy, I don’t think it’s really right, when we’re trying to start out—”

  “Shut up, Carmen,” Marie snapped. She knew that Carmen was about to tell her that Sid never wanted the baby, which was true, or maybe that Marie had tricked him into impregnating her. Fact or fantasy, Marie didn’t care to hear it. And then she had an idea: “Sid, if you swear that you’ll give up any claim you have on your son, forever, if you’ll sign a statement, I have no problem with it. Let’s go, let’s write it up right here, right now.”

  Marie led him to the office of the funeral director. As it happened, the man was a notary. He offered a sheet of stationery for Marie to type out her paragraph, and then she paused. Her voice was calm when she made her proposal. “Listen, Sid, you know what the judge said about support payments. If you had one kid, you’d owe twenty bucks a month, not twelve-fifty. That’s not a big difference. Think about this. You have to support Sandy for two more years, no matter what. Pay your share for her—all of it, up front, today—and we’ll put an end to this. Let’s call it an even two grand. You can still see Sandy, same as before. You won’t have to pay another penny for my son.”

  Marie watched his face darken, his chest tighten. The corner of his lip rose. “That’s nice of you. So, you’ll still let me see her every month?”

  “It’s every other weekend, Sid,” she replied, keeping all but the slightest hint of spite from her voice. “You just don’t show up half the time.”

  “Unbelievable. I swear to God, Marie, I swear to God . . .”

  Marie still didn’t know what he meant. The funeral director took a step back. There was a letter opener on the desk, and she’d plunge it into his neck if he raised a hand to her. She guessed he couldn’t fall into one of his rages while he was trying to do the math on the deal. She had done it already: a thousand dollars now, for the early buyout on Sandy, against a thousand a year, for thirteen years, for the sale of his son. It was too generous, she knew. Too good to pass up, she hoped. But if Sid signed, she’d finally be finished with him.

  “I swear to God, Marie . . .”

  Marie stopped typing and turned to face him. One hand remained by the letter opener. “Swear all you want. That’s why we have the notary. But I’m not arguing, Sid. Take it or leave it. Do you have a check with you?”

  Their eyes met one last time. Sid stared at her, waiting for her to flinch, to tremble. When she didn’t, he spat on the floor and reached for his wallet. “Yeah, but wait until next Monday to cash it.”

  23 YOU PUT A NICKEL IN THE SLOT

  “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

  “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

  “I don’t much care where—” said Alice.

  “Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

  “—so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.

  “Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

  —Lewis Carroll

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  SEPTEMBER 6, 1969

  1115 HOURS

  Marie was in her Salvation Army suit and gray wig, nursing her third cup of coffee and growing testier by the minute. Her partner was late. Marie had been at the Automat since ten, and it was after eleven. The new girl had made her feel ancient when they met the day before, and Marie had decided to roll with the notions of wisdom and arthritis in the character. Her hand still ached now and then from her last visit here, when the rookie cop had whacked her with his nightstick to foil a supposed kidnapping. For all she knew, he was a sergeant now, or even a detective, God forbid. What was the world coming to? Marie was getting old. North of forty, not that she’d admit it, not even if she was hit with a nightstick. Outside, the crowds of Times Square thronged past, the girls with long hair and short skirts, the men in suits wi
thout hats. She was a different woman now, in a different city.

  The Automats had become sadder, seedier in the intervening years. For the lunch rush, they still had their share of taxpayers, but there was plenty of opportunity to make cases during the off-hours. The Depression-era policy of not rousting loiterers was as out of date as the decor: the seats once filled by able-bodied men who’d rush out on the rumor of a job now held hustlers and sad sacks killing time. Marie kept an eye out for Three-Finger Jack. She had called Ed Lennon the night before, and he’d told her that Jack remained faithful in his rounds, a pillar of constancy in a changing world. Marie and Ed hadn’t talked in a while, but when they spoke, it was as if they’d just seen each other minutes before. They were on the phone for an hour.

  “You sound good, Marie.”

  “I’m not bad, Eddie.”

  “Let’s get together soon.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  It had been years since she’d been out in the street, longer since she’d done an undercover caper. She didn’t feel unready or unsteady, exactly, but she didn’t feel right. If she were with Ed and Al, she’d be raring to jump back in. Her second preference would have been to work alone. Where was the little idiot? She shouldn’t think that, she knew.

  How long should Marie wait for Policewoman Millie Cooper? Until noon? Midnight? Ticktock, ticktock. Millie might have less time then she thought. Marie, too. As Mrs. M. had said, the days of the Policewomen’s Bureau were numbered. Sooner or later—sooner, certainly—the courts or congress would end it. The opposition from the men to working in patrol cars with women was widespread and predictable, but the loudest protests came from cops’ wives. If their husbands spent eight hours a day elbow to elbow with a female, the old joke about cops being closer to their partners than their spouses wouldn’t be so funny anymore.

  Jealousy raised the temperature, but the main claim had to do with safety. Even if a policewoman could handle herself, it was said, there were perps out there who’d see her as vulnerable, an opportunity to attack. And men would make mistakes that they wouldn’t otherwise make. In a fight, some would be distracted, overprotective—chivalry wasn’t dead altogether—while others would be tempted to show off, taking foolish risks. As assaults on city cops had soared in the last few years, Marie had some sympathy for the doubters.

  For the most part, though, chivalry had nothing to do with it. In California, one chief claimed that monthly hormonal cycles made women unfit for street duty. In the Midwest, a male cop and his new female partner got into a gunfight over who would drive. Both were wounded, but both survived. The whole problem could have been avoided, Marie supposed, if the woman worked with Al O’Callahan. He’d have been delighted to have her take the wheel.

  Much of the debate was old hat to Marie. She wasn’t about to start pounding a beat at her age. She’d worked with Ed and Al for years without any issue. Sid didn’t need a policewoman in his car to have a robust, extracurricular sex life. But she’d also heard an earful about what Ralph Marino’s wife felt on the subject, and she shouldn’t have been taken aback by the reaction. There were pickets outside of headquarters, with wives and kids carrying signs, when Marie rejoined the women’s bureau. She remembered one: Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, If your Daddy Wore Blue, You’d Worry, Too! The poetry wasn’t impressive, but the passion was real.

  What was deflating was how many policewomen agreed with the wives. The department surveyed the three hundred-odd women about working with men on patrol. Eighteen expressed interest. Maybe Marie shouldn’t have been surprised. Guarding female prisoners wasn’t especially fulfilling, but most women didn’t expect fulfillment from a city job. A paycheck and a pension would be just fine, thank you. Matrons worked steady shifts, with steady days off. Patrolmen rotated through days, four-to-twelves, and midnights. For women with families, it couldn’t be managed. Some threatened to quit if the change came to pass. Most women worked for a living; they didn’t live to work. Just like the men, mostly, as far as Marie had seen.

  Marie didn’t live to work anymore. The Job wasn’t the refuge it once had been, but she was less in need of refuge. Still, she wanted to work like she used to, to come alive as she once had. She was good at this cop stuff, maybe better than good. She noticed things. She could read people. The costume party of undercover gigs never got old. But what she missed most were the moments when—how could she put it? She could be in hot pursuit, or watching a set, or running her mouth, but there were times when she was doing something, and she was what she did. She felt like her best self, and like someone else altogether.

  Marie didn’t say that when she met with Peg Disco. Peg had spent years undercover. In her spare time, Mrs. Disco raised five children and was a nationally ranked tennis champ. Well-rounded, you could say. But when Peg offered Marie an administrative job, she made it plain she wanted to be back in the game. The inspector was surprised, at first, and then she seemed pleased. “Anything you want, Marie. I thought I was doing you a favor, letting you put your feet up for a while.”

  “I appreciate it, but I did nothing but sit at Missing Persons. It’s been too long. I was looking at the funny bracelets in my jewelry box the other day for the longest time, before I remembered they were handcuffs. I’d like to get back in the street.”

  “Good for you, Marie. And there’s a new girl, who I think has a real future. I’d like you to take her out, show her how a real detective works.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  And so Marie was introduced to Millie Cooper. She seemed small, though they were more or less the same size. Pretty, with wide blue eyes and long, dark hair. She had to be at least twenty-one, didn’t she? It was the wideness of the eyes, the mouth that hung slightly open, that made her seem so childish, needy, and confident that her needs would be met. She spoke in a breathy trill. “Oh, Marie, I’m so happy you picked meee, when you could have picked anyone in the office, and it was meee. I want to be just like you, I really do. Ohh, things are going to be so, sooo good!”

  Millie took her by the hand as if they were about to go skipping down the street. Marie couldn’t bear the Kewpie-doll act, and she was dismayed that Peg seemed to be charmed by it. Had Peg gone soft, or had Marie grown old and mean, hard of heart? Once they left Peg’s office, Marie decided to be blunt. “Millie, do you really want to work with me?”

  “Oh, my goodness, do I! My God, I really—”

  “Then do me a favor, would you?”

  “Anything! Just ask!”

  “Cut the bullshit, all right?”

  Millie closed her mouth. She said nothing for a moment, and her voice dropped half an octave. “Fine. But you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.”

  Marie liked the idea that there was a toughness beneath the marshmallow exterior. She’d reserve judgment. How many cops had been quick to dismiss Marie as a lightweight, out of her league? Benefit of the doubt, and all that. Marie would do better by Millie, now that she had finally arrived in the Automat.

  Millie wore a bright red silk kerchief tied around her hair, and large, square sunglasses of the type that Jackie Kennedy favored, but Millie seemed to be seeking the attention the First Lady sought to avoid. Still, Marie was content that there was no mistaking her for a cop. She walked over to her and took her hand, as Millie had done to her, the day before. “Can you buy me a cup of coffee, Miss?”

  Millie yanked her hand away. “Buzz off, Granny.”

  “That’s no way to talk to your elders, Miss Cooper.”

  “What? Sorry, Marie, I didn’t recognize you!”

  “If you did, I’d buy the coffee. Now, it’s on you. Let’s sit down somewhere.”

  “My God, Marie, I’m amazed how you look, but the honest truth is, I wouldn’t . . . I don’t know how to say it—”

  “Give it a try.”

  “I would never go out looking like that. Not for all the money in the world.”

  Marie decided to save that discussion for later. “Well, you
’re late, but so is Three-Finger Jack. Let’s get something straight, Millie, I’m not your mother, I’m not your sister, I’m not your friend. I don’t know you yet. But we’re partners, so I have your back, and you have to have mine. We never worked together, so let’s go slow and easy, and see what happens.”

  The cafeteria began to fill up for lunch. Marie drank coffee, and Millie chewed through a pack of gum. At Marie’s direction, Millie didn’t stick close by, but one or the other kept the spot Marie had chosen, near the front, to watch the foot traffic. Millie flirted with the manager, she insisted, to keep them from being evicted from their seats. That he was a fetching young man—an aspiring actor who’d come this close to a part in Little Murders—must have made it nicer for Millie, but she got the job done.

  Marie was tired, though they hadn’t really begun. She closed her eyes and didn’t open them, even when she heard two men sit down beside her. One asked, “How much money do you got?”

  The other responded, “I can’t even count. Here, you look.”

  After a moment, the first announced the tally. “Nineteen. And I got a buck. So we’re good for four nickels. We just gotta find a guy.”

  Marie opened her eyes to take a sidelong measure of the pair. Both were young and white, with curly dark hair in need of cutting. That was the extent of their likeness. The first was burly, ruddy-cheeked, six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, more muscle than fat. She’d never have made him as a doper, and she doubted he’d been using long. His eyes were too bright, his movements too sure and steady. He wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt, and there were no track marks on his arms. There was no mistaking the other as anything but. He was as tall as the first but weighed sixty pounds less. He wore a dirty brown sweater, and his coffee cup clicked against the saucer like castanets when he tried to lift it. She felt silly at how excited they made her—Golly gee, junkies!—but she was impatient to begin.

  Once they left, Marie hustled to the door to check their direction—Uptown on Broadway—and collected Millie, disengaging her from conversation with the manager with some abruptness. “Did you see them, Millie? The two dopers, one obvious, the other healthy-looking, they’re on the move—”