“You just go on believing that,” Carella said.
“Huh?”
“It’ll make the time pass more quickly.”
“Huh?”
“You can get up to ten years for first-degree assault.” Carella paused. “What was the harm of a little innocent fun, huh, Bandler?”
* * * *
13
Love was in riotous bloom on the day that Fred Hassler came back to the squadroom and set the merry-go-round in violent motion once again. He had no idea he was reactivating the carousel, no knowledge that it had just about ran down, or that the Tommy Barlow-Irene Thayer suicide was in danger of being thrown into the Open File. Police work is always a race against time, especially in a precinct like the 87th. A crime is committed, and the bulls go to work on it quickly and efficiently because anything that’s likely to turn up is going to turn up soon or not at all. They’ll go over the ground a hundred times, asking the same questions over and over again in hope of getting a different answer. But a case goes cold too quickly, and in a place like the 87th, there are always new cases, there is always a steady press of crime, there is always a fresh occurrence demanding investigation, there is always the Open File. The Open File is a convenience which allows cops to close a case while keeping it open. Once a case is dumped into the Open File, they can stop thinking about it, and concentrate instead on the three dozen other cases that have miraculously become a part of their working day routine. The case in the Open File is not officially closed since it hasn’t officially been solved-there has been no arrest and conviction. But if it is not officially closed, neither is it truly active; it is simply laying there like a bagel. The Tommy Barlow-Irene Thayer case had lost all its momentum, and the cops of the 87th were almost ready to throw it into the Open File on the day Fred Hassler reappeared at the squadroom railing, on the day love was in riotous bloom.
The lovers were fifty-eight and fifty-five years old respectively, and they were standing before Detective Meyer’s desk arguing heatedly. The man wore a sports jacket which he had thrown on over his undershirt when the arresting patrolman had knocked on the door. The woman wore a flowered house dress.
“All right, now who’s pressing charges?” Meyer wanted to know.
“I’m pressing charges,” the man and woman said together.
“One at a time.”
“I’m pressing charges,” the woman said.
“I’m pressing charges,” the man said.
Hassler, standing at the slatted railing, tried to catch the attention of someone in the squadroom, but they all seemed to be busy filing or typing, except Meyer who was busy listening to the lovers.
“Who called the police?” Meyer asked.
“I called the police,” the woman said.
“Is that true, sir?”
“Sure,” the man said “Big mouth called the police.”
“All right, ma’am, why’d you call the police?”
“Because he pinched me,” the woman said.
“Big mouth,” the man said.
“Because he pinched you, huh?” Meyer asked patiently. “Are you married, folks?”
“We’re married,” the man said. “Big mouth can’t stand a little pinch from her own husband. Right away, she has to yell cop.”
“Shut up, you rotten animal,” the woman said. “You grabbed a hunk, I thought you were gonna rip it off.”
“I was being friendly.”
“Some friendly.”
“I should have been the one who called the cops,” the man protested. “But I’m not a big mouth.”
“You pinched me!” she insisted.
“Wash our dirty laundry,” the man muttered. “Call the cops. Why didn’t you call the F.B.I already?”
“Let’s try to calm down,” Meyer said. “Lady, if your husband pinched you…”
“She hit me with a frying pan!” the man said suddenly. “Ah!” the woman shouted. “Ah! Listen!
Just listen!”
“That’s right, she hit me with a…”
“And he calls me big mouth! Listen to him!”
“You hit me, Helen, it’s the truth.”
“You pinched me, and that’s the truth!”
“I pinched you ‘cause you hit me.”
“I hit you ‘cause you pinched me.”
“Look, one at a time,” Meyer warned.
“Now what happened?”
“I was washing the dishes,” the woman said. “He came up behind me and pinched me.”
“Tell him, tell him,” the man said, shaking his head. “Nothing sacred between a man and a wife. Blab it all to the police.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I took a frying pan from the sink, and I hit him with it.”
“On the head,” the man said. “You want to see what she done? Here, just feel this lump.”
“Go ahead, tell him everything,” the woman said.
“You were the one who called the police!” the man shouted.
“Because you threatened to kill me!”
“You hit me with the goddamn frying pan, didn’t you?”
“You got me angry, that’s why.”
“From a little pinch?”
“It was a big pinch. I got a mark from it. You want to see the mark, officer?”
“Sure, go ahead, show him,” the man said. “We’ll make this a burlesque house. Go ahead, show him.”
“How long have you been married?” Meyer asked patiently.
“Twenty-five years,” the man said.
“Twenty-three years,” the woman corrected.
“It seems more like twenty-five,” the man said, and then burst out laughing at his own wit.
“In addition to beating his wife,” the woman said, “he’s also, as you can see, a comedian.”
“I didn’t beat you, I pinched you!”
“Why don’t you both go home and patch it up?” Meyer asked.
“With him? With this rotten animal?”
“With her? With this loud mouth?”
“Come on, come on, it’s springtime, the flowers are blooming, go home and kiss and make up,” Meyer said. “We got enough troubles around here without having to lock you both up.”
“Lock us up?” the man said indignantly. “For what? For a little love tap with a frying pan?”
“For a friendly pinch between husband and wife?” the woman asked.