The Policewomen's Bureau

by Edward Conlon

  “No, sorry, I—”

  “Listen, we got a couple of hot ones teamed up to score. Let’s call the big guy in the plaid short sleeve ‘Blue Shirt,’ and the bag of bones in the brown sweater, he’s ‘Brown Sweater.’ They’ll stick together, probably, but in case they split up, I’ll go with Blue Shirt because he has the money, and—”

  Millie put a hand on Marie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you just said. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Marie took a breath. It was smart of the girl to interrupt. “Sorry. Good for you. Better to stop and ask. This is how we make the play . . .”

  As Marie began to explain her plan, she saw Three-Finger Jack enter the restaurant. He could have been wearing the same mud-brown suit, the same sat-on-looking fedora as when she last saw him. He was heavier, and he hurried into the air-conditioning as if he were made of meat about to spoil. Last night, Ed told her he’d once rousted Jack on a lousy loitering charge, to check his ID and see what he had in his pockets. Five hundred dollars in his wallet, along with the business card of his lawyer, and voter registration. Independent, if he recalled correctly. Not a picture of a wife or kid, a dog or a goldfish. The address on the voter card was for a cheap hotel around the corner. No thief they’d ever collared had ever failed to find him, Sunday or Thanksgiving or New Year’s. He must have been a millionaire. What did he do with his money? What did he want it for? His habit must have been as joyless as any junkie’s.

  Seeing him now, she almost felt sorry for him. Was it that? She remembered the endless hours on counter stools and in corner booths tailing him, trying not to eat too much, trying not to attract notice. No, she’d have gladly collared him, but she didn’t want to waste her first day back waiting for him to make a mistake he’d never made before. Better to follow the fresh trail, the sure thing with the junkies. There was the new girl to consider. A pain in the neck, yes, but promising. Marie wondered if she’d be as critical if she were more at ease herself. She felt like a crotchety headmistress handing out merits for a proper curtsy, demerits for daydreaming in class. Was she trying to improve Millie or to impress her?

  Millie won a merit card for her follow-up question about how to follow the junkies. “Okay, I got you. How close should I get to them?”

  “Not close. And I want you to drop back when I catch up. I’ll tail them, and you tail me. Keep your distance, but keep me in sight. And take off your Red Riding Hood. It stands out.”

  “My what?”

  “The kerchief.”

  “Got it.”

  As Millie made for the exit, Jack whistled at her, and she turned to him, smiling, before she left. Double demerit! Millie should be looking for perps, not compliments, least of all from the likes of him. Marie recalled how her old friend Shep sought Jack after sticking a fork in an old lady’s chest. Maybe she’d stop by on her way out and have a word with him. What could be the harm? She was just an old woman, a shell of her old self. She shuffled over and smiled a cracked smile. She wasn’t sure why she reached for the cuffs in her pocket. Was it superstition? Nostalgia? “Don’t I know you from somewhere, young man?”

  “Piss off, bitch.”

  What moved through her mind then couldn’t be called a thought; it felt faraway and fleeting, like the passing shadow of a cloud. Her hand didn’t feel like her hand as it gripped the cuffs in a fist and punched him in the jaw. The connection was solid, and Jack slumped over the side of his chair. She was about to make a scene, yelling about how he had pinched her, but no one seemed to notice or care. She walked outside. Had she really done that? Yes. Maybe later, she’d be ashamed. Now, she felt young again. The sun was warm on her face.

  Marie saw Millie standing at the edge of Father Duffy Square. She hadn’t taken off her red kerchief. Demerit. Had she lost them already? Demerit. Marie was about to bark at her—Giddy up, girl!—when she saw the junkies on a bench. Withdrawn. Marie took a seat behind them. For some twenty minutes, their conversation wandered no more widely than they did.

  “Whaddaya think? Should we stay here? Is this good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How come nobody’s out then?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t check in with me.”

  “We might as well be in Salt Lake City for all the action going on.”

  “Why don’t you write a letter to the mayor? I’ll give you six cents for the stamp.”

  Marie had forgotten how dope fiends viewed the world. This was dullsville? She was sickened how Times Square had changed. The vagabond and seedy charms of the flea-circus-and-taxi-dance days had given way to an open sewer. The same forward-thinking judges who held that women could be captains of police also allowed them to be put on display rutting with strangers in mob-run hellholes. In front of her, a marquee announced, “The FILTHIEST Show in Town!” Marie had never been to Salt Lake, but she doubted it was so SEXtacular! SEXciting! and SEXsational! If she were back in the Degenerate Squad, she’d need a fleet of paddy wagons to haul off everyone she’d collar here. No, maybe not—Ed told her that the “bookstores” sold pornographic pictures of children, and there was nothing the cops could do about it. It wasn’t against the law. Blue Shirt and Brown Sweater couldn’t have cared less.

  “Think it might be better, closer to Eighth?

  “Why don’t you go and have a look.”

  “No thanks, I’ll stay right here by you, and my nineteen bucks. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”

  “No kidding. New babies, they have all the blood and shit washed off them. When’s the last time you did?”

  Blue Shirt wasn’t wrong about the stink. Marie plugged her nostrils with bits of tissue. She was glad Millie couldn’t see her latest facial adornment from where she loitered at the top of the square, by the side of the statue. One man after another stopped to chat her up, and Marie laughed when three in a row did the same tap-the-wrist gesture—My watch must have stopped, do you have the time?

  If Marie and Millie continued to work together, Marie resolved to school the girl on how to operate. The first lecture would be about being on time. But there was the business with the shorthand—Blue Shirt, Brown Sweater—that Ed had taught her, even if she wasn’t talking to anyone else, because it made things easier to remember. She realized that she’d offered little more guidance that she’d been given, when she was new. There ought to be more to swimming lessons than being pushed into the pool. Still, there was something lightweight about the girl, something entitled. Was it her age, or the times?

  As if to illustrate the point, three addicts meandered over to the two on the bench for a conference about local supply. Most of them bore a greater resemblance to Brown Sweater, and they didn’t show much gumption, even by junkie standards. “Hey man, anything out here?”

  “Nah, not that I seen. Where you been?”

  “Here, waiting to see what turns up. You?”

  “It’s dry, man. Sahara.”

  “I hear there’s this cat, he’s always there, in a bar, 50th and Tenth.”

  “Come on, man, that’s miles away. I dunno, you know?”

  Kids these days, they wouldn’t walk five blocks for their heroin. What was the matter with them? Did they expect old ladies to drop purses full of pension checks at their feet, and dealers to deliver like room service at the Plaza?

  “There’s gotta be something closer.”

  “There’s gotta be.”

  Blue Shirt asked, “Hey, man, why you wearing that black armband?”

  “Ho Chi Minh died, man.”

  “Get the hell out of here, you goddam Commie!”

  God Bless America, Marie supposed. The three newcomers drifted off. The laziness of the two mutts behind her was rewarded, soon enough, when another young man stopped to talk. He could have been a brother of Blue Shirt—tall and well-fed, fair and wavy-haired. Had Marie seen him somewhere else, she would have pegged him as a sparring partner at Gleason’s Gym instead of a gofer in the opium trade. Gleason
. He was Gleason. “You looking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What you got?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Let’s see it. All right, come on.”

  When both men rose from the bench, Gleason objected, “What is this, a parade? One of you. Only one. You.”

  As Blue Shirt knew, the only reason to prefer Brown Sweater was that he couldn’t put up a fight if the score turned into a scam. “Nope. If it’s just one, it’s me. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. My pal here, he needs his rest.”

  There was a delay before the ruling, but Gleason was amenable. “Fine by me. Your friend looks like he’s about to keel over, and I don’t need the attention. The place is crawling with cops.”

  Marie glanced over at Millie, who was engrossed in conversation with another gent who had forgotten to wind his watch. Marie shook her head but turned back when Brown Sweater called out to the departing men, “Hurry up, Harvey, I don’t feel so good.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike.”

  Mike and Harvey, check. Healthy Harvey, Shaky Mike. Mike had just caught a break, although he wouldn’t see it that way. Soon enough, he’d be shivering and puking through withdrawal, but he wouldn’t be shivering and puking in jail. She’d go for the buyer-seller pair, Harvey and Gleason. Marie hung back as they walked uptown, right past Millie and her suitor—Marie made him as an account exec with a seven-year itch—and Gleason whistled as he passed. Millie laughed, and she held back the exec by his sleeve when he stepped up to defend her honor. Gleason spat on the sidewalk but kept moving. So far, so good.

  Gleason led Harvey north on Broadway, cutting back and forth in slow diagonals, checking for surveillance. Marie looked up at the marquees: Goodbye, Columbus and Sweden: Heaven and Hell. She made her way through the toughs and the tourists, past the Brill Building and the Winter Garden, where Mame was playing. Gleason and Harvey stopped at 51st. She wasn’t getting impatient, exactly, but she didn’t know what was taking so long. Was this a dope deal or a date? And then she realized Gleason might have other concerns. A real junkie had scars to show by way of bona fides. Harvey was most likely still a skin-popper, shooting up in a thigh, a buttock, instead of mainlining a vein. He did look like a cop, in his way, as did Gleason. Would they wind up trying to arrest each other? She’d heard of collisions between undercovers on drug cases, with city cops bumping into federal cousins. At long last, Harvey and Gleason headed back downtown.

  Once they reached Duffy Square again, Marie saw the red scarf. Millie hadn’t taken it off. She was in the same place, gabbing away with the same man. Marie came to a halt. Millie wasn’t playing stupid now; she was being stupid. Or careless, or lazy, or whatever. Marie wanted to knock her pretty teeth out. The most backward opinions of the most backward cops rang in her ears. Why did they let these floozies on the Job? If Peg Disco thought Marie was going to work with this useless chick again, she better think twice.

  When Marie saw that another bag lady had taken her spot on the bench, she was only slightly mollified. They weren’t twins; the other crone had glasses, and a battered old chapeau with a spray of violets. As Marie passed by again, she gave Millie a thump with a shoulder and hissed, “Watch where you’re going, bright eyes!”

  “You watch yourself, lady!”

  Marie wasn’t convinced Millie recognized her, but she couldn’t stop to talk. Shaky Mike was within earshot, and Harvey and Gleason were almost out of sight. Marie followed them, muttering curses. On 45th Street, by Loew’s State—Bullitt, Bonnie and Clyde—they cut left and stopped in front of a fleabag hotel. When Gleason called up, a man leaned out from a second-floor window and waved them east. Marie followed from the uptown side of the street. Just before they reached the corner, she saw Harvey hand Gleason the cash. They were at another Automat, on Sixth. Gleason went inside, and Harvey waited on the sidewalk, dancing with impatience. This was not convenient.

  This Automat had always been Three-Finger Jack’s next stop, after Times Square. Marie wasn’t sure if following Gleason was the right play, but now she couldn’t go inside. She had never done anything like slugging Jack—Was it forty minutes ago? An hour? She hadn’t even been tempted. She could lose her job for what she did. Marie didn’t feel guilty, exactly, even as she knew she’d done wrong. She could hardly lecture Millie about self-awareness, about self-control, if they ever spoke again. A cheap shot with a heavy hand was Sid’s MO, not Marie’s. Had he rubbed off on her? Two of a kind they were, or would be, a before-and-after pair, like Harvey and Mike. Like Marie and . . . Where was Millie? Tony, Tony, turn around! Marie was getting as edgy as Harvey, and she was just as relieved to see Gleason return.

  They crossed the street and walked toward her as she sat on a drain-pipe. Thoughts of Sid, Jack, and the rest of the rotten world fell away. She homed in on Harvey as closely as Harvey did on the dope. Come to Mama. And they did. Marie let them pass, maybe ten feet ahead. She hadn’t seen the transaction yet, the exchange.

  Harvey asked, “You got it? We good?”

  They were good: Gleason tapped Harvey’s wrist with a closed first and dropped the glassines into his open palm. Marie switched her cuffs from her right pocket to her left, so she could grab her gun. She pulled open her lapel, so her detective shield would show. She didn’t look very official, but she was confident she’d make an impression. “Police!” she yelled. “Hands up, you’re under arrest!”

  Gleason and Harvey broke into a sprint, and Marie fired a warning shot into the pavement. They stopped short. When they turned around, their expressions were of curiosity as much as fear. Who is this crazy lady? If there were just one of them, Marie would have managed without any trouble. But there were two, each twice her size. Gleason looked confused, but Harvey’s face twisted in fury, adrenalin flooding his bloodstream instead of heroin. He pulled out a knife and flipped it open. It had a long blade, six inches at least. “I’ll take care of this bitch.”

  He lunged at her, and she dodged him like a matador. She shot him as he passed, and he went down on the sidewalk, spitting and shrieking, holding on to his thigh. Marie picked up the knife from the ground, and then she picked up the heroin. She leaned down, putting her knee on his back, and her gun to his head.

  “You crazy bitch, you shot me!”

  “Give me your hands, or I’ll put another one in you.”

  Marie cuffed him and looked over at Gleason where he stood, stunned. She became aware of cabbies shouting, the crowds on the sidewalks, the suits and secretaries and laborers. Most ran away, but a few rushed over to see what was happening. And then Gleason ran, too, heading up Sixth. Two men, and then a third approached, and Marie yelled, “Police! Call it in! Say a policewoman’s holding one, and to send an ambulance!”

  “What are you—”

  “What happened?”

  “Why did—”

  Marie didn’t wait to explain. She followed Gleason uptown for two blocks and saw where he dodged inside a commercial building. It was a jewelry exchange, a maze of little shops like stalls in a bazaar. The light was dim, and Marie could barely make out the faces of the old men who poked their heads out from their stores. “Vat?”

  “Vat, vat?”

  “Police! I’m a policewoman! Where did he go, the man who came in here?”

  Doors slammed shut as she passed each shop, gun in hand, and the shops went dark, as if a rolling blackout followed in her wake. Marie ran a lap around the first floor and then ascended to the second, where history repeated itself even as time seemed to fast-forward. Bad light; old heads; quizzical syllables in foreign accents: “Vat?”

  “I’m a policewoman! Call the police! Where did he run?”

  Marie didn’t see who called out from one of the shops. The door was open, but the lights were off. A voice in the dark said, “He’s in the toilet.”

  Marie didn’t think the jeweler expected to be thanked. She jogged ahead until she found the restroom. “Police! Come on out, with your hands up!”

  There
was no response. The door opened inward. Marie wouldn’t be knocked down if the man inside jumped out. She opened it, just a crack, and held it ajar with her foot, “Police! Come on out! Come out with your hands up, or I’ll shoot you like I shot your friend!”

  When she felt the door move, she stepped back, maintaining her aim, chest-level. “Easy now. Hands up, lemme see ’em.”

  Gleason had one hand up, the other on the door handle. He raised both when he was outside. He was wet with sweat, trembling, but she could see from his darting eyes that he was adding up his chances, making a plan. She had to break his concentration. She shouted, “Turn around! Against the wall! Hands against the wall!”

  Marie kicked his feet apart so he was spread-eagled, off balance, and she slapped his raised hands back up when he began to lower them. She pressed her gun against his lower spine and gave him a quick pat-down. She’d check the bathroom later to see if he’d stashed anything there. Now, it didn’t matter. She only cared if he had a gun, a blade on him. So far, so good. She wished she had another pair of handcuffs. A partner would have been helpful, too. Stop. Marie had a hand on his shoulder when she felt his muscles flex. She jammed the gun into his back.

  “Don’t be stupid. I know what you’re thinking. You might be fast, but you’re not faster than a bullet. Put your hands on your head. Walk forward.”

  Marie saw heads play peekaboo from the darkened shops as she marched Gleason down the hall. She felt relief at the sound of sirens outside, but she didn’t relax. When they reached the heavy metal fire door at the top of the stairwell, she knew that Gleason was weighing his opportunities again. He could slam the door shut on her hand, her gun. The rhythm changed in the movement of his ribs as his breath slowed. He was getting ready to make his move.

  “Stop.” She grabbed his shirt and felt him recoil. It was time to make an impression on him again, to reintroduce herself. She nestled the barrel of the gun behind his right ear. “I told you to stop.”