“Later.”
“Where are we going tonight?” Claire asked.
“No place.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t have to be back at the squad until Monday morning,” Kling said.
“Oh, is that right?”
“Yes, and what I planned was…”
“Yes?”
“I thought we could get into bed right now and stay in bed all weekend. Until Monday morning. How does that sound to you?”
“It sounds pretty strenuous.”
“Yes, it does. But I vote for it.”
“I’ll have to think about it. I had my heart set on a movie.”
“We can always see a movie,” Kling said.
“Anyway, I’m hungry right now,” Claire said, studying him narrowly. “I’m going to make the steaks.”
“I’d rather go to bed.”
“Bert,” she said, “man does not live by bed alone.”
Kling rose suddenly. They stood at opposite ends of the room, studying each other. “What did you plan on doing tonight?” he asked.
“Eating steaks,” she said.
“And what else?”
“A movie.”
“And tomorrow?”
Claire shrugged.
“Come here,” he said.
“Come get me,” she answered.
He went across the room to her. She tilted her head to his and then crossed her arms tightly over her breasts.
“All weekend,” he said.
“You’re a braggart,” she whispered.
“You’re a doll.”
“Am I?”
“You’re a lovely doll.”
“You going to kiss me?”
“Maybe.”
They stood not two inches from each other, not touching, staring at each other, savoring this moment, allowing desire to leap between them in a mounting wave.
He put his hands on her waist, but he did not kiss her. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms.
“You really have no bra on?” he asked.
“Big weekend lover,” she murmured. “Can’t even find out for himself whether or not I have a…”
His hands slid under the smock and he pulled Claire to him.
The next time anyone would see Kling would be on Monday morning.
It would still be raining.
Give the Boys a Great Big Hand, 1960
Patterns.
The pattern of October sunlight filtering past barred and grilled windows to settle in an amber splash on a scarred wooden floor. Shadows merge with the sun splash — the shadows of tall men in shirt sleeves; this is October, but the squad room is hot and Indian summer is living slowly.
A telephone rings.
There is the sound of a city beyond those windows. The sudden shriek in unison of children let out from school, the peddler behind his cart — “Hot dogs, orange drink” — the sonorous rumble of buses and automobiles. The staccato click of high-heeled pumps, the empty rattle of worn roller skates on chalked sidewalks. Sometimes the city goes suddenly still. You can almost hear a heartbeat. But this silence is a part of the city noise, a part of the pattern. In the stillness, sometimes a pair of lovers will walk beneath the windows of the squad room, and their words will drift upward in a whispered fade. A cop will look up him his typewriter. A city is going by outside.
Patterns.
A detective is standing at the water cooler. He holds the cone-shaped paper cup in his hand, waits until it is filled, and then tilts his head back to drink. A .38 Police Special is resting in a holster which is clipped to the left-hand side of his belt. A typewriter is going across the room, hesitantly, fumblingly, but reports must be typed, and in triplicate; cops do not have private secretaries.
Another phone rings.
“87th Squad, Carella.”
There is a timelessness to this room. There are patterns overlapping patterns, and they combine to form the classic design that is police work. The design varies slightly from day to day. There is an office routine, and an investigatory routine, and very rarely does a case come along which breaks the classic pattern. Police work is like a bullfight. There is always a ring, and always a bull, and always a matador and picadors and chulos, and always, too, the classic music o the arena, the opening trumpet playing La Virgen de la Macarena, the ritual music throughout, announcing the various stages of a contest which is not a contest at all. Usually the bull dies. Sometimes, but only when he is an exceptionally brave bull, he is spared. But for the most part he dies. There is no real sport involved here because the outcome is assured before the mock combat begins. The bull will die. There are, to be sure, some surprises within the framework of the sacrificial ceremony — a matador will be gored, a bull will leap the barrera — but the pattern remains set and unvaried, the classic ritual of Mood.
It is the same with police work.
There are patterns to this room. There is a timelessness to these men in this place doing the work they are doing.
They are all deeply involved in the classic ritual of blood.
“87th Squad, Detective Kling.”
Bert Kling, youngest man on the squad, cradled the telephone receiver between his shoulder and his ear, leaned over the typewriter, and began erasing a mistake. He had misspelled “apprehended.”
“Who?” he said into the phone. “Oh, sure, Dave, put her on.” He waited while Dave Murchison, manning the switchboard in the muster room downstairs, put the call through.
From the water cooler, Meyer Meyer filled another paper cup and said, “He’s always got a girl on the phone. The girls in this city, they got nothing else to do, they call Detective Kling and ask him how the crime is going today.” He shook his head.
Kling shushed him with an outstretched palm. “Hello, honey,” he said into the phone.
“Oh, it’s her,” Meyer said knowingly.
Carella, completing a call at his own desk, hung up and said, “It’s who?”
“Who do you think? Kim Novak, that’s who. She calls here every day. She wants to know should she buy some stock in Columbia Pictures.”
“Will you guys please shut up?” Kling said. Into the phone, he said, “Oh, the usual. The clowns are at it again.”
Claire, on the other end of the line, said, “Tell them to stop kibitzing. Tell them we’re in love.”
“They already know that,” Kling said. “Listen, are we all set for tonight?”
“Yes, but I’ll be a little late.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a stop to make after school.”
“What kind of a stop?” Kling asked.
“I have to pick up some texts. Stop being suspicious.”
“Why don’t you stop being a schoolgirl?” Kling asked. “Why don’t you many me?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I can’t tomorrow. I’ll be very busy tomorrow. Besides, the world needs social workers.”
“Never mind the world. I need a wife. I’ve got holes in my socks.”
“I’ll darn them when I get there tonight,” Claire said.
“Well, actually,” Kling whispered, “I had something else in mind.”
“He’s whispering,” Meyer said to Carella.
“Shut up,” Kling said.
“Every time he gets to the good part, he whispers,” Meyer said, and Carella burst out laughing.
“This is getting impossible,” Kling said, sighing. “Claire, I’ll see you at six-thirty, okay?”
“Seven’s more like it,” she said. “I’m wearing a disguise, by the way. So your nosy landlady won’t recognize me when she peeks into the hall.”
“What do you mean? What kind of a disguise?”
“You’ll see.”
“No, come on. What are you wearing?”
“Well… I’ve got on a white blouse,” Claire said, “open at the throat, you know, with a strand of very small pearls. And a black skirt, very tight, with a wide black belt, the one with the silver buckle…”