“Mr. Ward, I referred to this matter as a misunderstanding. That’s a euphemism. In fact, a wrong has been done these lads. Now examine your heart for a moment: is it too much to ask that a word of apology be tendered?”
“You’re damn right it is,” Ward said, and Farrell felt a sudden respect and affection for him as he leaned over and pounded a fist on the lieutenant’s desk. “Those punks whose praises you’re singing beat hell out of my son, after turning him into a thief. Now you listen to me,” Ward said, as Garrity raised both hands in pained protest. “My boy is nine years old and weighs seventy or eighty pounds. Those louts who worked him over are grown men. You can’t soft-soap me into patting them on the back for that piece of work. I’ll pat them on the skull with a baseball bat first.”
“I understand your feelings, Mr. Ward. But I must ask you this: why didn’t your son identify these lads as the perpetrators of these outrages?”
“He was scared, that’s all,” Ward said. “And so was Farrell’s boy.”
“Please, Mr. Ward. Is that likely? They were under the wing of the police, detectives and patrolmen surrounding them by the score, their own fathers standing protectively at their sides — why should they be frightened under such circumstances? And of whom? Two teen-aged lads who, I must point out, were manhandled for innocently inquiring the nature of the charges against them.” He glanced sharply at Jameson. “More on that later, Tom, but I understand you made no protest when Sergeant Cabella struck Duke.”
“The sergeant acted with my full approval,” Jameson said. “As you say, more on that later.”
“Now that may be an important admission, Tom.”
“Just one minute,” Farrell said. “Mr. Garrity, I don’t understand your interest or position in this business. Are you a lawyer or bondsman or what?”
“That’s a good and fair question,” Mr. Garrity said, smiling at him. “I’ve known these lads a good time and I intend to make sure they get a fair shake. You live in Faircrest, Mr. Farrell. A lovely and luxurious community. They live in Hayrack which is neither. I wouldn’t like to see the police, or any other official agency discriminate against them simply because they’re not quite as happily blessed with material things as the youngsters in Faircrest. The poor need friends and the rich need tax counselors, Mr. Farrell. I do not happen to be a tax counselor.”
“I’ll bet you’ve got a good one,” Ward said.
“I’m truly sorry we’ve let our tempers get short,” Mr. Garrity said smilingly. “But I respect a man like yourself, Mr. Ward, who holds his beliefs firmly and speaks up for them with heat, for warmth in discussion — it may be hoped — will lead finally to warmth in the heart.” With a plump hand on his stomach, he gave them each in turn a small graceful bow. “Now I must be running along. Lieutenant, I have always trusted your judgment. I know you’ll do nothing to make me feel this trust was misplaced. Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure. I sincerely hope we will meet again under more pleasant circumstances.”
After he had gone Jameson lit a cigarette and looked at Farrell and Ward with a faint cold smile. “We’ll give Duke and Jerry a stiff talking-to before we let them go. And we’ll keep an eye on them for a while. I’m sorry, but that’s all we can do.”
Farrell drove home in silence. It was Saturday morning, clear and sunny with late fall colors in the trees, and traffic was heavy. Supermarkets were surrounded by ranks of brilliant station wagons, and Whiting Boulevard’s miracle mile was solid with cars. Farrell was relieved to have the business of driving to occupy himself; he could think of nothing to say to Jimmy, who sat huddled beside him staring straight ahead with narrow, worried eyes. When they turned into Faircrest he saw Sam Ward on the sidewalk talking with Bill Detweiller. Detweiller wore a red sweater and jeans, and had obviously been performing the Saturday morning ritual of polishing his two-toned hardtop convertible. Farrell pulled into the driveway and cut the motor. In the silence that settled he lit a cigarette and glanced at Jimmy. “Well, it’s not the end of the world,” he said.
“I know,” Jimmy said in a distant voice. He twisted uncomfortably. “Can I go in?”
“In a second. I don’t quite know what to say to you, Jimmy. I know you didn’t tell the truth this morning. You recognized those boys, and I can’t understand why you didn’t speak up. Do you know why?”
“Well, Andy wasn’t sure, and that made me...” He paused and Farrell heard him swallow with a dry little noise. “Then I wasn’t so sure either.”
“Did you think it would be unfair to identify them? Try to be honest with me. Did you feel that it was like being, well, a tattletale or a stool pigeon?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it.”
Farrell sighed and opened the door. “Hop out,” he said, and rubbed Jimmy’s thin stiff back. “Find the gang and have some fun.”
“Can’t I just go inside?”
“Well, whatever you like.”
When Farrell got out of the ear Detweiller strolled down the sidewalk, a chamois cloth trailing in one hand. “Well, it’s a temptation not to say I told you so. Ward tells me it was a complete bust.”
“It was a bust all right,” Farrell said.
“So they’ll turn these young gangsters loose with apologies.” Detweiller shook his head. “Great, isn’t it? Democracy at work. What the hell is happening to America anyway, John?”
“I don’t know what’s happening to America, Mr. Bones. I haven’t looked lately, I guess.”
“Maybe you’d better take the trouble,” Detweiller said. With big hands resting on his hips, he nodded down the block. “There it is, right under your nose.”
If that was truly America, Farrell thought, it was very pretty; the sun was splashing against thinning trees, sparkling on picture windows, painting lawns and shrubs with pale golden strokes.
“You take Wayne Norton for instance,” Detweiller said. Norton, a few houses down, was on his knees trimming the row of stocky little evergreens he had planted alongside his terrace. Other husbands, Farrell knew, would now be cleaning basements, painting bookshelves, raking leaves, cutting hedges, repairing toys. That’s what Saturday morning was for, it was generally agreed; keeping even with the obsolescence factor.
“Norton’s taking care of what’s important to him,” Detweiller went on. “Do you see what I mean? That’s America. He’s got a kid, and he’s expecting another, but those kids aren’t just accidents. They’re planned for, they’re wanted, and they’re not going to be booted out into the slums to fight for survival like wild animals. I’ll bet you Wayne has already got those kids set with college insurance. But the trouble is too many of the wrong kind of people are having kids. We’re going to wind up as a country that made it too easy for the worst kinds of people to survive and get along.”
“Det, you sound like a fool,” Farrell said.
“You think so? Just keep on looking down the block for a second. See the Sims family piling into their car? Well, five will get you ten they’re taking the kids to the zoo or a museum this morning.”
“It’s a safe bet,” Farrell said. “They don’t do much else. John Sims has a museum fetish. Queer for mummies...”
Detweiller looked pained. “Make gags if you want to, but what I’m saying is that this neighborhood, this group of people, are what’s important in my life, and it irritates the be-jesus out of me that those hoodlums from Hayrack can walk in here and kick us around like a bunch of rusty tin cans.” Detweiller took a deep breath; he seemed to have come to a conclusion. “Look, John, a guy by the name of Malleck stopped by this morning to talk to Norton and me. You don’t know him, I guess.”