"No, huh? Big simon-pure Lieutenant Byrnes. I heard all about your junltie son, Lieutenant. The big shot cop with the drug addict son."
"That was a long time ago, too, Virginia.
My son is all right now."
He could never think back to that time in his life without some pain. Oh, not as much as in the beginning, no, there would never again be that much pain for him, the pain of discovering that his only son was a tried and-true drug addict, hooked through the bag and back again. A drug addict possibly involved in a homicide. Those had been days of black pain for Peter Byrnes, days when he had withheld information from the men of his own squad, until finally he had told everything to Steve Carella. Carella had almost lost his life working on that case. It had been touch and go after he'd been shot, and no man ever had prayed the way Byrnes did for any other man's recovery.
But it was all over now, except for the slight twinge of pain whenever he thought of it. The habit had been kicked, the household was in order. And now, Steve Carella, a man Byrnes almost considered as another son, had a rendezvous with a woman in black. And the woman in black spelled death.
"I'm glad your son is all right now," Virginia said sarcastically.
"My husband isn't. My husband is dead. And the way I read it, Carella killed him. Now let's cut the crap, shall we?"
"I'd rather talk awhile."
"Then talk to yourself. I'm not interested."
Byrnes sat on the corner of the desk. Virginia shifted the purse in her lap, the revolver pointing into the opening.
"Don't come any closer, Lieutenant. I'm warning you."
"What are your plans, exactly, Virginia?"
"I've already told you. When Carella gets here, I'm going to kill him. And then I'm going to leave. And if anyone tries to stop me, I drop the bag with the nitro."
"Suppose I try to get that gun away from you right this minute?"
"I wouldn't if I were you."
"Suppose I tried?"
"I'm banking on something, Lieutenant."
"What's that?"
"The fact that no man is really a hero. Whose life is more important to you-yours or Carella's? You make a try for the gun, and there's a chance the nitro will go off in your face.
Your face, not his. All right, you'll have saved Carella. But you'll have-destroyed yourself."
"Carella may mean a lot to me, Virginia. I might be willing to die for him."
"Yeah? And how much does he mean to the other men in this room? Would they be willing to die for him, too? Or for the crumby salary they're getting from the city? Why don't you take a vote, Lieutenant, and find out how many of your men are ready to lay down their lives rig at now? Go ahead. Take a vote."
He did not want to take a vote. He was not that familiar with courage or heroics.
He knew that each of the men in the room had acted heroically and courageously on many an occasion. But bravery in action was a thing dictated by the demands of the moment. Faced with certain death, would these men be willing to take an impossible gamble? He was not sure. But he felt fairly certain that given the choice "Your life or Carella's?" they would most probably choose to let Carella die. Selfish?
Perhaps.
Inhuman? Perhaps. But life was not something you could walk into a dime store to buy again if you happened to use one up or wear it out. Life was a thing you clung to and cherished. And even knowing Carella as he did, even (and the word was hard coming for a man like Byrnes) loving Carella, he dared not ask himself the question "Your life or Carella's?" He was too afraid of the answer he might give.
"How old are you, Virginia?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I'd like to know."
"Thirty-two."
Byrnes nodded.
"I look older, don't I?"
"A little."
"A lot. You can thank Carella for that, too. Have you ever seen Castleview Prison, Lieutenant? Have you ever seen the place Carella sent my Frank to? It's for animals, not men. And I had to live alone, waiting, knowing what Frank was going through.
How long do you think youth lasts? How long do you think good looks hang around when you've got sorrow and worry inside you like a... like a thing that's eating your guts?"
"Castleview isn't the best prison in the world, but ..
"It's a torture chamber!" Virginia shouted.
"Have you ever been inside it? It's dirty, filthy. And hot, and cramped, and rusting. It smells, Lieutenant. You can smell it for blocks before you approach it. And they crowd men into that hot ifithy stench.
Did my Frank cause trouble? Yes, of course he did. Frank was a man,
not an animal-and he refused to be treated like an animal, and so they labeled him a troublemaker."
"Well, you can't ..
"Do you know you're not allowed to talk to anyone during work hours at Castleview? Do you know they still have buckets in each cell buckets-no toilet facilities! Do you know what the stink is like in those sufferingly hot cubicles?
And my Frank was sick! Did Carella think about that, when he became a hero by arresting him?"
"He wasn't thinking of becoming a hero. He was doing his job. Can't you understand that, Virginia? Carella is a cop. He was only doing his job."
"And I'm doing mine," Virginia said flatly.
"How? Do you know what you're carrying in your goddamn purse? Do you realize that it might go up in your face when you fire that gun?
Nitroglycerin isn't toothpaste!"
"I don~t care."
"Thirty-two years old, and you're ready to kill a man and maybe take your own life in the bargain."
"I don't care."
"Talk sense, Virginia!"
"I don't have to talic sense with you or anyone.
I don't have to talk at all." Virginia moved violently, and the purse jiggled in her lap.
"I'm doing you a goddamn favor by talking to you."
"All right, relax," Byrnes said, nervously eyeing the purse.
"Just relax, willya? Why don't you put that purse on the desk, huh?"
"What for?"
"You're bouncing around like a rubber ball. If you don't care about it going off, I do."
Virginia smiled. Gingerly, she lifted the purse from her lap, and gingerly she placed it on the desk top before her, swinging the .38 around at the same time, as if .38 and nitroglycerin were newlyweds who couldn't bear to be parted for a moment.
"That's better," Byrnes said, and he sighed in relief.
"Relax. Don't get upset." He paused.
"Why don't we have a smoke?"
"I don't want one," Virginia said.
Byrnes took a package of cigarettes from his pocket. Casually, he moved to her side of the desk, conscious of the .38 against the fabric of the purse. He gauged the distance between him sell and Virginia, gauged how close he would be to her when he lighted her cigarette, with which hand he should slug her so that she would not go flying over against the purse. Would her instant reaction to the dropped match be a tightening of her trigger finger? He did not think so. She would pull back. And then he would hit her.