Night Squad (16 page)

      Corey moved very slowly toward a chair and sat down and gazed at the floor.

      “Well?” McDermott smiled dimly.

      “Nothing,” Corey said. “All this tells me nothing.”

      “You weren't there tonight? You weren't in them swamplands?”

      “Of course not.”

      “You don't work for Grogan?”

      “Of course not,” Corey said. He got up from the chair.

      McDermott frowned down at the desk top. Then he looked at Corey and opened his mouth to say something. But Donofrio came up from the floor, pushing Heeley and the other squadmen from his path. On McDermott's desk there was a pair of scissors and Donofrio grabbed it and held it with the blades closed.
He's gotta be kidding
, Corey thought. But then Donofrio moved in.

      “I'll get it out of you,” Donofrio wheezed. “I'll carve it out of you,” and the scissors came close, causing Corey's arm to function mechanically while he sidestepped. The motion of his arm was just a blur and almost in that same split second he displayed the gun.

      The gun meant nothing to Donofrio. He kept coming, and Corey thought,
you're just gonna hafta shoot him. There ain't no other way to stop him.
At that moment McDermott lunged at the tall Italian, and with his left hand he grabbed Donofrio's wrist, stopping the forward thrust of the scissors. His other hand, clenched and functioning like a piston, banged Donofrio's jaw. He hit Donofrio six times on the jaw, but Donofrio wouldn't let go of the scissors. McDermott let out a despairing moan, set himself and hit Donofrio high on the jaw. The Italian went across the room and collided with the wall. Then he was facedown on the floor, unconscious.

      Corey stood with the gun in his hand. He was thinking that he ought to put the gun back under his shirt, but he wasn't sure about the other squadmen. Maybe one of them would snap as Donofrio had snapped. Or maybe all of them would snap. He told himself it was a matter of tactics, and he had to let them know he was ready to use the gun.

      Then he saw that McDermott was looking intently at the gun.

      “Gimme that,” McDermott said.

      Which is just what you're gonna hafta do , Corey told himself. You either hand it over or use it, and you know you don't wanna use it.

      He handed the gun to the detective-sergeant. The other squadmen moved in as McDermott examined the gun.

      “This ain't no police pistol,” McDermott said.

      Corey didn't say anything.

      “Where'd you get this pistol?” McDermott asked.

      “Someone gave it to me.”

      “When?”

      “A long time ago.”

      “Like how many hours?”

      “Whaddya mean, hours?”

      “Twenty-four hours? Less than twenty-four hours?”

      “Look, Sergeant, I said—”

      “Hold it,” McDermott cut in softly. He smiled a trifle sheepishly. “I'm just guessing here.” And then, the smile fading, “Now let's check to see if I'm guessing right.”

      McDermott went to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers. He took out some papers, studied them, put them back in, took out more papers. It appeared he couldn't find what he wanted. He pulled out another drawer and looked through the papers. Finally he had the paper he wanted. It was mimeographed. He studied something on the paper, then studied something on the gun. He put the paper back in the filing cabinet, closed the drawer and walked toward the prone form of Louis Donofrio. He gently patted Donofrio's head. The Italian stirred, opened his eyes, started to get up, then sighed heavily and went back to sleep. McDermott stood looking down at him with fondness, something close to tenderness.

      The four squadmen moved closer to Corey. Then McDermott came toward them, coming very slowly, looking at the gun in his hand and saying, “There's a sales notation for this pistol. It was sold just a few months ago. It was sold to Walter Grogan.”

      Corey heard a low-pitched growl. It came from one of the squadmen. He wasn't sure which one.

      McDermott said, “You've had this pistol less than twenty-four hours. Grogan gave it to you.”

      “Now look, I can explain—”

      “No you can't. Not now you can't. This pistol does all the explaining. And proves it, too. Proves you're working for Grogan.”

      “Sergeant, if you let me—”

      “I'm gonna letcha listen. Just stand there and listen. Last night them two masked hoods, they woulda got Grogan if it wasn't for you. That impresses Grogan. He puts you on his payroll. A few hours later you're in this office and I proposition you to join the Squad. All right, you sign in. And you don't say nothing about working for Grogan. That's why Ferguson ain't here now. That's why Leonard Ward Ferguson was only forty-four when they put him in the box.”

      There was another low-pitched growl. Corey glanced at the growler. It was Heeley. Now the same thing that had happened to Donofrio was happening to Heeley. Letting out another growl, Heeley started a move toward Corey. Moving faster, a squadman got behind Heeley and held him back.

      McDermott said to Corey, “You better get outta here. The next one that flips, we may not be able to hold him.”

      Corey started to turn away.

      “Wait,” McDermott said. “Here's your gun.” Going toward the door, Corey tucked the gun inside his shirt and put it under his belt. Then he opened the door and walked out.

10

      In the corridor, going toward the elevator, he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. As it hit him, the pain in his head went away. Then the twinge went away and the other pain came again, throbbing along the side of his head where Donofrio had clouted him, and also the searing pain in his ribs where Donofrio had kicked him. In the elevator he pushed the street-floor button. As the elevator went down he leaned back against the wall, shaking his head slowly. He had no specific thoughts, just a negative feeling, everything on the gloomy side.
      The elevator came to a stop. Corey got out and walked slowly along the corridor. As he approached the doorway on the Banker Street side of city hall, he saw a framed poster on the wall. It showed a blue-uniformed policeman smiling cheerily and pointing to a large rubbish can. The caption read, “Let's Keep This City Clean.” Underneath the caption there was a penciled comment consisting of two words.
      On Banker Street, walking toward a taxi stand, Corey took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face. It was cold sweat. He told himself he needed a drink. In the taxi he said, “Second and Addison.”
      The driver said, “Right.” There was no further talk. Corey leaned back, then leaned sideways, to lessen the pain in his ribs. He touched the side of his head, felt the bump and wished the throbbing would go away. Suddenly he sat up straight, forgetting the black and blue of his ribs and his bruised head. He reached for the back pocket of his trousers, took out his wallet and opened it. He looked at the police identification card that read, “Night Squad.” Then he looked at the badge.
     
It's one for the puzzle fans , he thought. You've been clobbered by the Squad, you were damn close to getting torn to pieces by the Squad, and yet according to what you see here, you're still a member of the Squad.
      But don't try to account for it. Don't try to account for anything that happens up there in Room 529. What happens in that room is something for the head doctors to figure out. And they couldn't do it in three weeks or even three months. You can believe that.
      But look now, just look at this here card and this here badge. Whaddya make of this? Sure, you can tell yourself that McDermott took it for granted you were booted off the Squad; and he just forgot to mention it to make it official. You can say he just forgot to tell you to hand over the card and the badge. He was occupied with other matters, like dancing around with Donofrio. That would be a simple explanation. Except that ain't the explanation at all. You know it ain't.
      You know there's gotta be another explanation why you still got the card and badge. It's out there in the fog somewhere, maybe a little too far out for this explorer. But Jesus Christ, what are you trying to explore? You think there's any way to explore McDermott? To do that you gotta go all the way down to hell, because that's where he lives. He lives there with Mrs. McDermott who won't let him come near her. Not because she don't care for him. It's a cinch she cares for him plenty; you can bet she worships the ground he walks on. You can also bet that she don't hardly know what year it is. Or let's say it don't matter to her what year it is, considering the fact that she went away from everything some thirty-three years ago on that night when they jumped her. Them nine. Them nine from the Third Street Dragons.
      Does that tell you anything? Does that give you any hint at all or bring in any connection? The only connection is Walter Grogan who these days is a respected member of the Southeast Boat Club. Some thirty-three years ago this same Walter Grogan was a member of the Third Street Dragons. This Walter Grogan was the leader.
      You know what that tells you? It tells you absolutely nothing. The fog just gets thicker, that's all. And the fog-maker is Detective-Sergeant Henry McDermott, the man with the mild eyes and the soft voice. The man who I swear it's like he's with you right now and he's forcing you to look at the badge.
      Why? Why me? Of all people, why me?
      And here's another silly question. The gun. How come he pulled that ass-backwards caper and handed the gun back to you and letcha walk out with it? But wait now, that sorta ties in with the card and the badge. He letcha walk out with the card and the badge. But the gun, it ain't no police pistol. It's Grogan's gun, or to be more accurate it's the gun that Grogan gave you. So what it amounts to, you're sitting here with the badge that says you're a policeman, the card that says you're attached to the Night Squad, and the .38 that says you're working for Walter Grogan.
      “Let's Keep This City Clean,” it said on the poster. And somebody took out a pencil and scribbled two words. You go along with them two words, you save yourself a lotta worry, a lotta complications. Because it's them two words that simplify the issue, stating clearly and positively that we all come from the caves or the trees or maybe the bottom of the goddam ocean; and wherever we come from it's them two words that put us where we are today and give us what we got today, like for instance meat for the table.
      Don't believe that , the badge said.
      Corey grimaced, biting the corner of his mouth. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. He closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket. Then he leaned back and his hand drifted toward the bulge where his polo shirt covered the .38. His hand touched the bulge and he smiled dimly. Some greed came into his eyes. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars.
      At Second and Addison the taxi pulled away and Corey walked into the Hangout. At the far end of the bar he found sufficient space to set his foot on the rail and get an elbow on the wood. The bartender looked at him. Corey nodded and the bartender served him a double gin. On either side of him some drinkers decided to call it a night; they moved off and he had that section all to himself. For some reason it was like being marooned.
     
And that's as it should be
, a soundless heckler remarked.
      Corey nodded slowly, in dismal agreement. He was thinking about Leonard Ward Ferguson.
      But actually it wasn't your fault , he tried to veer away from the accusing finger. I mean, it wasn't your fault directly, it was just some circumstances—
      And who set up them circumstances? the heckler came in again.
     
But what I mean—
      Don't tell me nothing , the heckler cut in rudely. You ain't got nothing to tell. You're a wrong number from way back and the vote on that is unanimous.
      Corey lowered his head and shut his eyes tightly.
      A voice boomed above all other voices at the bar. It was Nellie, going over to aid the bartender who had his hands full with two youths wearing duck-tail haircuts and blue rayon club jackets. The youths claimed they were over twenty-one and therefore entitled to buy drinks. They looked about seventeen. Nellie told them to get away from the bar. They didn't move. They grinned at her. She asked them if they wanted stitches in their heads. The juveniles went on grinning and didn't move. Nellie gestured to the bartender. The bartender reached under the bar, came up with a foot-long section of lead pipe and handed it to Nellie. The two youths looked at each other. Then they walked away from the bar.
      “Out the door,” Nellie said. They hesitated a moment, one of them mumbling inaudibly. Nellie took a step toward them. They hurried to the side door, opened it and went out. Nellie returned the lead pipe to the bartender, grimacing with disappointment because she hadn't been given an excuse to use it. She moved along the bar, her eyes alert for any unruly behavior or antisocial chicanery. She came to a stop where Corey was bent low over the bar, gazing morosely at his double shot.
      “Go on, drink it,” Nellie said. “It don't do you no good just sittin' there.”
      He turned and looked at the big woman. “You pushin' sales?”
      “Just nursing the trade, that's all. That's part of my job. I'm here to keep the customers happy.”
      “I'm happy,” Corey said.
      “Yeah. You look happy.”
      “Get off me,” he mumbled. He gulped the gin. Nellie grinned at him and he said tightly, “Now what the hell's so comical?”
      Nellie chuckled lightly. She said, “It always tickles me—”
      “What tickles you?”
      “When the slick ones get it. When the screwer gets screwed.” She started away from him. Something zigzagged through his brain. He reached out and took hold of her huge arm. She stopped, looked at his hand on her arm.
      “You messin' with me?”
      “Just socializin'.” Corey forced a smile. It was a weary smile, sad and lonely. “Lemme buy you a drink.”
      “It's rye. Beer chaser.”
      He ordered a double rye and a tall beer for Nellie, a double gin for himself. The big woman reached for the shot glass, brought it to her mouth, then frowned thoughtfully and set the glass on the bar. “How come?” she asked.
      “What?”
      “You never done this before. Buyin' me a drink.”
      “Don't make it a big deal.”
      “Jesus,” she said. She stepped back and looked at him in wonder. Then her eyes narrowed and she peered at him as though studying a chart.
      Corey Bradford squirmed and muttered, “Cut it out, Nellie. God damn it, cut it out.” He snatched at his drink and tossed the gin down his throat. As he lowered the shot glass to the bar, he saw that his hand was quivering. He glanced quickly at Nellie. Her eyes aimed at his quivering hand.
      “And now it ain't no joke,” she said quietly, solemnly. “Whatever it is, you really been clobbered hard.” She moved closer to him. “You wanna tell me, Bradford?”
      He shook his head.
      “Come on, tell me,” Nellie said. “Lean it on me.”
      “It can't be handled that way,” he mumbled. And wondered, now what does that mean? A voice burdened with sadness and choked with remorse called out to the bartender for another gin. It was his own voice and he said to himself,
it can't be handled that way, neither.
But as the double shot arrived, he went for it like an empty-bellied bird diving desperately for a breadcrumb in the snow.
So you know what happens now?
he asked the desperate drinker.
It's them eleven faces you'll hafta live with, the face of Leonard Ward Ferguson and the face of his widowed wife and the nine faces of them fatherless children. Because you did it. Just like McDermott said, you done him in. And don't say it couldn't be helped. Don't even say you're sorry. If you were really sorry you'd go to Grogan and tell him the deal is off, and you don't need his fifteen grand. Can you picture yourself doing that? Can you picture a larceny expert running to the lost-and-found department with a five-dollar bill he found in the subway?
      He heard Nellie say, “You know how long I've known you, Bradford? Since grammar school. Since fifth grade. And you still got that dent in your forehead.”
      “What dent?”
      “Right there. Right above your left eye. Where I hit you that time in the schoolyard. With a brick. I threw a brick. You remember?”
      “Too far back.”
      “You were calling me Ellie instead of Nellie. And I asked you why. And you said Ellie was short for elephant.”
      “You coulda picked up a stone. It didn't hafta be no brick.”
      “A stone wouldn't of left no mark,” Nellie said. “Guess I wanted it to leave a mark. So you'd never forget.”
      “To call you Nellie instead of Ellie?”
      “That's one thing.”
      “And the other thing?”
      “We won't talk about that.”
      “But I don't know what it is.”
      “That's what I mean,” Nellie said. She gulped the double rye and chased it with some beer. She started away from the bar. Again he reached out and took hold of her arm. She said tightly, “Now what?”
      “Lemme buy you another.”
      “I don't want no more.”
      “The hell you don't,” Corey said. He pulled the big woman toward the bar. He released her arm. She stood there and he ordered more drinks.
      “Whatcha tryin' to do?” she muttered sullenly, almost bitterly. “You wanna get me drunk?”
      “Let's both get drunk.”
      “And then what?”
      “We'll be drunk. We'll be good and drunk, and what's better than that?”
      “You asking me?”
      “I'm asking anybody. What's better than getting really plastered? Absolutely looped?”
      “Well now, let's see—”
      “See what?” he cut in gruffly, almost angrily. Their shot glasses were empty and he called for refills. They drank the refills. He ordered more and said, “Ain't nothing to see. Ain't nothing better than when you're soused and I mean all the way soused, don't-give-a-good-goddam delirious, way out there where they got no clocks and there ain't no stipulations what you gotta do because of what you done. You're out there, you don't see no fingers pointing.”
      Nellie frowned thoughtfully, “Is that what they mean when they say blind drunk?”
      “Who knows what they mean?” He lost track of the question. “Who cares what they say?” He turned and yelled to the bartender for more drinks. The refills came and then came again.
      The refills kept coming.
      At one of the tables there was a disturbance, two women were on their feet, going for each other's hair. Another woman moved in to stop it and got her face clawed for her good intentions. Someone yelled for Nellie as the female combatants went at it with more fury. Then others were yelling for Nellie and she turned toward them. She looked at the two women who were now on the floor, grappling, biting, scratching and screeching. A man shrieked at Nellie, “Come on, bouncer, don't stand there, do something.”
      “Go jump a giraffe,” Nellie said.
      The man turned away. He enlisted the aid of some other men and they managed to pacify the two women. Someone put a dime in the jukebox and a blues singer lamented all the empty nights and wasted years. A bearded neurotic got up on a table and attempted to recite poetry that contradicted the singer's lyrics, and from the bar some unpoetic creature pegged a half-eaten, hot-pork sandwich that hit the poet in the mouth.
      “But I'm a vegetarian,” the poet declared in a tone that was neither male nor female. To shut him up, someone handed him a fifteen-cent Tokay. He got down from the table and sat on the floor, murmuring phrases of endearment to the yellow wine in the glass.
      The bartender brought another double rye for Nellie and another double gin for Corey Bradford.