His gun was in a holster on the dresser across the room.
He thought about the gun a lot.
Whenever he wasn’t thinking about Augusta, he was thinking about the gun.
He didn’t know why he’d let Brown take all that stuff home with him, he’d have welcomed the opportunity to go through it himself, give him something to do tonight instead of thinking about either Augusta or the gun. He knew Brown hated paperwork, he’d have been happy to take the load off his hands. But Brown had tiptoed around him, they all tiptoed around him these days, No, Bert, that’s fine, you just go out and have a good time, hear? I’ll be through with this stuff by morning, we’ll talk it over then, okay? It was as if somebody very close to him had died. They all knew somebody had died, and they were uncomfortable with him, the way people are always uncomfortable with mourners, never knowing where to hide their hands, never knowing what to say in condolence. He’d be doing them all a favor, not only himself. Take the gun and…
Come on, he thought.
He turned his head on the pillow, and looked up at the ceiling.
He knew the ceiling by heart. He knew every peak and valley in the rough plaster, knew every smear of dirt, every cobweb. He didn’t know some people the way he knew that ceiling. Sometimes, when he thought of Augusta, the ceiling blurred, he could not see his old friend the ceiling through his own tears. If he used the gun, he’d have to be careful of the angle. Wouldn’t want to have the bullet take off the top of his skull and then put a hole in the ceiling besides, not his old friend the ceiling. He smiled. He figured somebody smiling wasn’t somebody about to eat his own gun. Not yet, anyway.
Damnit, he really hadn’t wanted to make her cry.
He sat up abruptly, reached for the Isola directory on the end table, and thumbed through it, not expecting to find a listing for her, and not surprised when he didn’t. Nowadays, with thieves getting out of prison ten minutes after you locked them up, not too many cops were eager to list their home numbers in the city’s telephone books. He dialed Communications downtown, a number he knew by heart, and told the clerk who answered the phone that he wanted extension 12.
“Departmental Directory,” a woman’s voice said.
“Home number for a police officer,” Kling said.
“Is this a police officer calling?”
“It is,” Kling said.
“Your name, please?”
“Bertram A. Kling.”
“Your rank and shield number, please?”
“Detective/Third, seven-four-five-seven-nine.”
“And the party?”
“Eileen Burke.”
There was a silence on the line.
“Is this a joke?” the woman said.
“A joke? What do you mean?”
“She called here ten minutes ago, wanting your number.”
“We’re working a case together,” Kling said, and wondered why he’d lied.
“So did she call you?”
“She called me.”
“So why didn’t you ask her what her number was?”
“I forgot,” Kling said.
“This isn’t a dating service,” the woman said.
“I told you, we’re working a case together,” Kling said.
“Sure,” the woman said. “Hold on, let me run this through.”
He waited. He knew she was making a computer check on him verifying that he was a bona fide cop. He looked through the window. It was snowing more heavily now. Come on, he thought.
“Hello?” the woman said.
“I’m still here,” Kling said.
“Our computers are down, I had to do it manually.”
“Am I a real cop?” Kling said.
“Who knows nowadays?” the woman answered. “Here’s the number, have you got a pencil?”
He wrote down the number, thanked her for her time, and then pressed one of the receiver rest buttons on top of the phone. He released the button, got a dial tone, was about to dial, and then hesitated. What am I starting here? he wondered. I don’t want to start anything here. I’m not ready to start anything. He put the phone back on the cradle. He owed her an apology, didn’t he? Or did he? What the hell, he thought, and went back to the phone, and dialed her number.
“hello?” she said. Her voice sounded very small and a trifle sniffly.
“This is Bert,” he said.
“Hello,” she said. The same small sniffly voice.
“Bert Kling,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“Really, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said again.
There was a long silence on the line.
“So… how are you?” he said.
“Fine, I guess,” she said.
There was another long silence.
“Is your apartment cold?” she asked.
“No, it’s fine. Nice and warm.”
“I’m freezing to death here,” she said. “I’m going to call the Ombudsman’s Office first thing tomorrow morning. They’re not supposed to turn off the heat so early, are they?”
“Eleven o’clock, I thought.”
“Is it eleven already?”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“Another day, another dollar,” Eileen said, and sighed. “Anyway, they’re not supposed to turn it off entirely, are they?”
“Sixty-two, I think.”
“The radiators here are ice-cold,” she said. “I have four blankets on the bed.”
“You ought to get an electric blanket,” Kling said.
“I’m afraid of them. I’m afraid I’ll catch on fire or something.”
“No, no, they’re very safe.”
“Do you have an electric blanket?”
“No. But I’m told they’re very safe.”
“Or electrocuted,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. And really, I am sorry for—”
“Me, too.” She paused. “This is the Tm-Sorry-You’re-Sorry’ scene, isn’t it?” she said.
“I guess so.”
“Yeah, that’s what it is,” she said.
Silence again.
“Well,” he said, “it’s late, I don’t want to—”
“No, don’t go,” she said. “Talk to me.”
She had asked him not to go, she had asked him to talk to her, and suddenly he could think of nothing else to say. The silence on the line lengthened. On the street outside, he heard the distinctive wail of a 911 Emergency truck, and wondered which poor bastard had jumped off a bridge or got himself pinned under a subway train.
“Do you ever get scared?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“I mean, on the job.”
“Yes.”
“I’m scared,” she said.
“What about?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“The nurse thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, just don’t—”
“I mean, I’m always a little scared, but not like this time.” She hesitated. “He blinded one of them,” she said. “One of the nurses he raped.”
“Boy,”Kling said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, what you have to do… just be careful, that’s all.”
“Yeah, I’m always careful,” she said.
“Who’s your backup on this?”
“Two of them. I’ve got two of them.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Abrahams and McCann, do you know them?”
“No.”