“Listen, I got broads. I got...”
“You got mad,” she laughed.
Then I stopped and laughed too. “Well, like I said, it’s been pretty antiseptic. The things I wanted on a cop’s salary you have to make the hard way. You can do it easy too, but that puts you in another class I’m not interested in.”
“They told me you were offered some fancy jobs.”
“Unfortunately, then I just plain wanted to be a cop.”
“Police officer.”
“Police officer hell,” I said. “That’s for the upper etch bugheads who hate honesty. I like to be called a cop. You know why? Because that’s what I am. Somebody yells, what do they yell? ‘Call the cops’ they yell. Not ‘call a police officer.’ You know what I am to those snot-nosed JD’s? I’m a cop, that’s what. Damn it, a police officer wouldn’t last ten minutes outside Traffic Division with that tag.”
“Okay, copper, okay. So I’m sorry. You ought to see your face, it’s all screwed up red and tight and if I wasn’t a broad you’d cream me, huh?” Her laugh was deep and throaty again and took all the annoyance away. I shook my head because I let her get me all riled up and turned and stared out the window again. Old Giggie. Jeepers. She put her coffee down and walked away.
On the street half a dozen kids fought for stickball right in the middle of the road. They hung up two cars, but the drivers were too intent in the fight to bother blowing their horns. It ended quickly as they always do, then the cars crawled by and the game started.
Marta came out of the bedroom then. The grey tailored suit was gone and now she was in a sheer green thing that seemed to shimmer in the light, and what she did to her hair changed her face somehow and I had to wonder where all the beauty came from. She was full and proud in the breasts, with a casual way of standing with one leg partly thrust out that accentuated the incredible curve of her hips. Like that, the fabric of the dress ran flat across her belly, yet made you aware of other hidden curves still more lovely.
“You like?” she asked.
“I like,” I said. “What’s it for?”
“To give you a good reason for being here.”
“It was good enough before,” I grinned.
She walked closer, swirled around so I could see the overall effect. “But better now, huh?”
I nodded. “Better now.” Then I grabbed her and pulled her close so I could smell the sweet scent in her hair and she was warm and hard against me, her fingers biting into my arm. Her mouth touched my mouth, warm and moist, the tip of her tongue soft and searching, saying hello after such a long, long time, a gentle touch because we were still new, even though very old.
I held her away and she smiled. “Nutty, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I understand it.”
“Like this is nice work,” she grinned.
I said, “On the job training.”
She gave me that throaty laugh again, touched my lips with her finger and reached for her purse. She said, “We ready?”
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to six and there was no time like the present. I nodded and said, “Let’s go.”
We picked Tony’s Pizza for supper because René Mills had made it his special eatery. Nothing fancy about it, but Tony would put anybody from the neighborhood on the cuff. The old man remembered me with a black-faced nod not intended to be personal, but prohibition raids had long ago soured him on any kind of cop.
Fat Mary came over beaming and smiling, then patted me on the head like she used to do when she gave me a slice of hot Italian bread, thick with butter, for running errands for her.
When the sausage and peppers came Mary dished it up herself and sat down opposite me, nodding with satisfaction as we ate. She liked to see people eat.
She said, “Now, Joe, you come back to see thees nice girl, no?” She didn’t let me answer. “That is good. Very good. Long time thees nice girl should be marry. How to have the babies without the marry, no?”
“Well...”
She waggled a fat finger at me. “No. You marry first! Like I tell...”
But Tony broke it off. “Like you tell nobody. You let them eat, okay?”
Mary laughed so that her chins jiggled, then she reached over and patted my hand. “You a good boy, Joe. Now, how about rest of your family, eh? That crazy brother of yours still around?”
“I haven’t seen him in a long while, Mary.”
“Oh, he a funny one. Remember when he make believe he hang that kid and I scream and fall down the steps?”
Marta looked at me, puzzled. “The Davis kid,” I explained. “They made this harness to go under his clothes, but it looked like he really was hung.”
“Oh.”
Mary’s face drew into a stern grimace. “Not so funny yet. On the back I am all black and blue. Good thing I am there to see.”
“Why?”
“Thees things they made to hold him up. One broke and he really was hanging.” She shuddered. “For minute his face get red, his tongue come out. I take him down and I give that brother of yours one hell of a sock. Make his nose bleed. I was going to tell your papa, but he cry so I say nothing.”
“First time I heard about that part of it.”
“What was his name, what you called him? Something Indian.”
“Chief Crazy Horse. A Sioux, I think. Big war leader under Sitting Bull.”
“Oh, I tell you plenty things from them days.”
Behind the bar Tony said, “Yak, yak. You let them eat, woman.”
I winked at the old man and he scowled back friendly-like. Mary looked hurt, so I said casually, “See where René Mills died.”
“No die.” She hunched her heavy shoulders in a shrug. “He was killed.”
“Yeah. Shot. Lots of that going on around here,”
“Always trouble, Joe. You know that.”
“René making it big here?” She understood me, but waited a long moment before acknowledging it. “Not so big like he talked always. Big shot, that guy. Always talking about them... them shooters. His friends. Huh!”
“He always had a big mouth,” I said. “Who’d he say his buddies were?”
Her typical Italian gesture was eloquent. “Who cares? Tough guys he likes. Always somebody in the papers who got trouble is his pal.”
“He didn’t have any loot around when he died.”
“Always broke, that one. He pays his bills. Sometime take a month, but he come across.”
“You’re lucky,” I said.
“What the cops do about it, eh, Joe?”
It was my turn to shrug. “He’s on the books. Something’ll turn up.”
Her wise black eyes looked into me. “Like you maybe?”
I put down my fork. “Mary, I’m brass. I’m a lieutenant. You think I’m going to do legwork in this part of town?”
“So?”
“So let ’em shoot each other up all they want to. I’m going to make a pass at this mouse here and try to snag her out of this place.”
Mary said, “Some mouse,” and Marta jabbed me with her fork under the table. “Joe, no foolin’. You gonna do somethin’ ’bout René?”
“What for?”
“You cop. We pay taxes and...” From behind the bar Tony growled in his usual way. Mary gave him a dirty look.
I said, “The cops were here and asked all the questions, weren’t they?”
“Sure. They come. They ask. We tell. But what? Who knows from what, Joe? From a kid, like you, I know that one. He’s what they call a sharpie. So what else?”
“Nothing else. What else is there?”
She drummed her fingers on the table top and pursed her mouth in thought. Then her finger went up dramatically. “Wait. I think of something.” With a practiced motion she squeezed her bulk out of the seat and walked across the room with that peculiar lightness you sometimes see in fat people. A hurried talk in Italian with Tony got her yelled at, but she yelled back, then Tony rummaged around some papers beside his cash register and handed them to her. When she came back she laid them down and spread them open.