“Nothing. There was a guy with her, a young guy, one of these advertising types. I kept watching her, that’s all. She didn’t know I was watching her, she didn’t even know I existed. Then I followed them when they left, and found out where she lived, and after that I kept following her wherever she went. That’s all.”
‘‘That’s not all.”
“I’m telling you that’s all.”
“Okay, play it your way,” Kling said. “Be a wise guy. We’ll throw everything but the goddamn kitchen sink at you.”
“I’m telling you I never laid a finger on her. I went up to her office to let her know, that’s all.”
“Let her know what?”
“That she was my girl. That, you know, she wasn’t supposed to go out with nobody else or see nobody, that she was mine, you dig? That’s the only reason I went up there, to let her know. I didn’t expect all that kind of goddamn trouble. All I wanted to do was tell her what I expected from her, that’s all.”
John “Cookie” Cacciatore lowered his head. The brim of his hat hid his eyes from Kling’s gaze.
“If you’d all have minded your own business, everything would have been all right.”
The squadroom was silent.
“I love that girl,” he said.
And then, in a mumble, “You lousy bastard, you almost killed me tonight.”
Morning always comes.
In the morning, Detective Bert Kling went to Elizabeth Rushmore Hospital and asked to see Cynthia Forrest. He knew this was not the normal visiting time, but he explained that he was a working detective, and asked that an allowance be made. Since everyone in the hospital knew that he was the cop who’d captured a hoodlum on the seventh floor the night before, there was really no need to explain. Permission was granted at once.
Cindy was sitting up in bed.
She turned her head toward the door as Kling came in, and then her hand went unconsciously to her short blond hair, fluffing it.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”
“How do you feel?”
“All right.” She touched her eyes gingerly. “Has the swelling gone down?”
“Yes.”
“But they’re still discolored, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. You look all right, though.”
“Thank you.” Cindy paused. “Did… did he hurt you last night?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes, I m sure.”
“He’s a vicious person.”
“I know he is.”
“Will he go to jail?”
“To prison, yes. Even without your testimony. He assaulted a police officer.” Kling smiled. “Tried to strangle me, in fact. That’s attempted murder.”
“I’m… I’m very frightened of that man,” Cindy said.
“Yes, I can imagine.”
“But…” She swallowed. “But if it’ll help the case, I’ll… I’d be willing to testify. If it’ll help, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Kling said. “The D.A.’s office’ll have to let us know about that.”
“All right,” Cindy said, and was silent. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching her blond hair. She lowered her eyes. Her hand picked nervously at the blanket. “The only thing I’m afraid of is… is when he gets out. Eventually, I mean. When he gets out.”
“Well, we’ll see that you have police protection,” Kling said.
“Mmm,” Cindy said. She did not seem convinced.
“I mean… I’ll personally volunteer for the job,” Kling said, and hesitated.
Cindy raised her eyes to meet his. “That’s… very kind of you,” she said slowly.
“Well…” he answered, and shrugged.
The room was silent.
“You could have got hurt last night,” Cindy said.
“No. No, there wasn’t a chance.”
“You could have,” she insisted.
“No, really.”
“Yes,” she said.
“We’re not going to start arguing again, are we?”
“No,” she said, and laughed, and then winced and touched her face. “Oh God,” she said, “it still hurts.”
“But only when you laugh, right?”
“Yes,” she said, and laughed again.
“When do you think you’ll be out of here?” Kling asked.
“I don’t know. Tomorrow, I suppose. Or the day after.”
“Because I thought…”
“Yes?”
“Well …”
“What is it, Detective Kling?”
“I know you’re a working girl…”
“Yes?”
“And that you don’t normally eat out.”
“That’s right, I don’t,” Cindy said.
“Unless you’re escorted.”
Cindy waited.
“I thought…”
She waited.
“I thought you’d like to have dinner with me sometime. When you’re out of the hospital, I mean.” He shrugged. “I mean, I’d pay for it,” Kling said, and lapsed into silence.
Cindy did not answer for several moments. Then she smiled and said simply, “I’d love to,” and paused, and immediately said, “When?”
Eighty Million Eyes, 1966
Bert Kling was in love.
It was not a good time of the year to be in love. It is better to be in love when flowers are blooming and balmy breezes are wafting in off the river, and strange animals come up to lick your hand. There’s only one good thing about being in love in March, and that’s that it’s better to be in love in March than not to be in love at all, as the wise man once remarked.
Bert Kling was madly in love.
He was madly in love with a girl who was twenty-three years old, full-breasted and wide-hipped, her blond hair long and trailing midway down her back or sometimes curled into a honey conch shell at the back of her head, her eyes a cornflower blue, a tall girl who came just level with his chin when she was wearing heels. He was madly in love with a scholarly girl who was studying at night for her master’s degree in psychology while working during the day conducting interviews for a firm downtown on Shepherd Street; a serious girl who hoped to go on for her Ph.D., and then pass the state boards, and then practice psychology; a nutty girl who was capable of sending to the squadroom a six-foot high heart cut out of plywood and painted red and lettered in yellow with the words Cynthia Forrest Loves Detective 3rd/Grade Bertram Kling, So Is That A Crime? as she had done on St. Valentine’s Day just last month (and which Kling had still not heard the end of from all his comical colleagues); an emotional girl who could burst into tears at the sight of a blind man playing an accordian on The Stem, to whom she gave a five-dollar bill, merely put the bill silently into the cup, soundlessly, it did not even make a rustle, and turned away to weep into Kling’s shoulder; a passionate girl who clung to him fiercely in the night and who woke him sometimes at six in the morning to say, “Hey, Cop, I have to go to work in a few hours, are you interested?” to which Kling invariably answered, “No, I am not interested in sex and things like that,” and then kissed her until she was dizzy and afterwards sat across from her at the kitchen table in her apartment, staring at her, marveling at her beauty and once caused her to blush when he said, “There’s a woman who sells pidaguas on Mason Avenue, her name is Iluminada, she was born in Puerta Rico. Your name should be Illuminada, Cindy. You fill the room with light.”
Boy, was he in love.
Fuzz, 1968
Kling had come to the apartment to make love.
It was his day off, and that was what he wanted to do. He had been thinking about it all afternoon, in fact, and had finally come over to The apartment at four-thirty, letting himself in with the key Cindy had given him long ago, and then sitting in the darkening living room, waiting for her return.