I didn't bother telling this dope where to stick his advice. As we waited for a light on the Concourse I considered shooting up to Ogden Avenue for a second, seeing Mom. Might have done it if I was alone or with Danny. Been near a month since I'd been up there. I didn't like to go up Without Mary because that was an admission on my part she wasn't comfortable around my folks.
There was another reason too. The old neighborhood gave me a funny feeling. Guys I'd been pals with since we were old enough to play hide and seek, guys who couldn't wait to slap me on the back when I won a fight, now treating me with that cold politeness most citizens reserve for cops. The cagey distrustful look, as if they expected me to belt them over the head with a night stick any minute. Still, I'd better go up and put away one of Mom's big Friday night meals before the summer heat hit us.
We passed the Yankee Stadium and Austin talked baseball all the way back to the precinct. I didn't listen. I kept seeing Owens' place, old and falling apart. As I parked the car I stared at the station house for a moment, a short ugly building that must be a hundred years old. A firetrap that was like ice in the winter, full of mice and bugs. Everything about the job seemed old, stagnant, so—
“Asleep at the wheel, wonder boy?”
Austin was standing outside the car, smiling at me—if you can call a sneer a smile. I got out, followed him up the worn steps, nodded at the desk lieutenant, the sergeant at the switchboard listening to the calls from the post cops and the guys driving on radio motor patrol.
A former cop was shot dead and everything went as usual in this old building.
Austin went to the John and I went up to the detective room. A quiet joker named Larson was at the desk, doing some paper work. He was a giant, a real mister six by six, one of these strong silent guys who keep to themselves. He told me, “Dave, your wife called. Wants you to ring her at her office. Called about ten minutes ago.”
I said thanks and dialed the agency. Mary said in the low voice you have to use in a crowded office, trying not to make it sound like a whisper, “Dave? Don Tills is having two tables of bridge tonight and he's asked us over. I told you about him, one of our top copywriters, the golden boy of the office. Be a great help to me if I get in with his crowd.”
“I don't mind some bridge. That all you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes and be sure to be home on time. They're counting on us to be there at nine sharp.”
“You know I always come home when I'm done here.”
“Just be 'done' by five so we can eat together like normal married people and get dressed and go out together, for a change.”
“Okay, we'll be normal married people. See you for supper, Babes.”
As I hung up I saw Larson grinning at me as he bent over his desk. I said, “Tough for a wife to take our hours. Your wife complain much?”
“Sometimes. She's a nurse and her shifts are almost as bad as ours. But then when we do get some time together we enjoy it more.”
“Anything new?”
He shook his big head. “Quiet. The lieutenant is down in Captain Lampkin's office. Stolen auto reported over on the avenue. I just came back from a busted store window on Adams Street. That's about all. Get anything from Mrs. Owens?”
“Nope.” It was seven after ten; Mom wouldn't be out shopping yet—not till the crappy soap operas she listened to every morning were over. I dialed her and we asked each other how we were and how was Pop and how was Mary? Could they come to our place this Sunday? Mom said after all Mary worked hard all week, no sense in her cooking for them. Could we come up this Friday? I said maybe but I was pretty busy. I'd check with Mary and call back. Mom said she would have fresh gefullte fish, chopped chicken liver, and her best lasagna. I told her she was making my mouth drool at the mention of her lasagna and gefullte fish but I'd have to see how I was fixed for time, check with Mary. Give Pop my love and I'll call Friday morning before ten.
I hung up and Austin was standing at the table, the big grin on his big puss. He asked, “What's your name again?” “You got a hell of a memory for a detective. Get it straight for once. Dave Wintino.”
“Thought I heard right, gefullte and lasagna! No wonder you're a jerk—a Jewboy and a Wop, what a—”
Without getting up I turned on the chair and planted a left hook next to the middle button of his sharp suit. His grin became a frantic O as he gulped for air, clutched his gut and bent double, then sat down hard on the floor.
I glanced at Larson who was still busy with his paper work, but from the way his big feet were set he was ready to jump up. I asked Austin, “Want to sample more of my mother's cooking?”
His face was still screwed up with pain and he was fighting for air as he gasped, “You... little... bastard... Sunday-punched... me.”
“Maybe I did, the way you caught me unawares with your crack about my folks.”
“I'll have your badge for this!” he mumbled, sweat starting down his agonized face. '
“Think you can get it? I got pull backing me too. Or maybe you mean... Look, lardass, you have a few inches in height on me and at least thirty pounds but I don't think you're big enough to take my badge. But let's step outside and try it. I'd like to spread your nose and—”
Larson was at my side, a heavy strong arm lightly on my shoulder. He said softly, “Cut it, Dave. This is a police station, not a street corner or a gym.”
He was in a middle spot, not knowing how much pull Austin might have down at Centre Street and if he took sides he could find himself pounding a country beat, a harness cop again.
“I was merely showing this stuffed clown how strong my mother's lasagna made me and—”
“Go over and sit at my desk, Dave,” Larson said. “Don't give me a hard time.”
“But... sure, Larson.” I walked over and sat on the corner of his desk, ran my hand over my hair: it wasn't mussed. He helped Austin to his feet. He still couldn't stand straight, an unexpected belt in the gut is rugged. Austin said, “I'll beat the living slop out of—”
“You two want to fight, go outside and on your own time. Sit down and relax.” Larson actually lifted Austin off the floor and carried him to the nearest chair. Then he came back to his desk, told me, “Get your can off my desk, Dave. You relax too.”
I wasn't sore at Larson and anyway I'd have to be stupid-mad to ever tangle with him—if you didn't take him out with the first punch those arms could crush you like big snakes. As I stood up Lieutenant Reed came in, looked at Austin holding his middle, his face pale. Then he glared at me and asked, “What the hell's going on here?”
I realized he was talking over me, to Larson. I said quickly, “I had to explain my name to Detective Austin, sort of straighten him out. He didn't like the way it sounded.”
“Wintino, this isn't any goddamn boys club, this is an overworked office. But seems you don't have enough work, you have time to showboat.”
“The Owens file is on my desk. Read through it, see if you can use your hands for something constructive, like giving me an intelligent summary of the reports, before you go out to lunch.”
There wasn't any point in arguing with Reed. I said, “Yes, Lieutenant,” went into his office and took the file into a drab-looking room down the hall where we sometimes questioned suspects. I blew dust off the table and chair, sat down.
At lunch I'd have to call Mary's uncle, have him get in touch with his big-shot politician friend, protect me in case there was a beef and Austin really had influence. If they ever stuck me back in uniform there'd be no living with Mary.