Wilks looked steadily at Bannion. The silence between them lengthened, became oppressive. Finally, he said, “Let’s don’t be childish, Dave. You’ve got your orders, I’ve got mine. We do what we’re told, and to hell with being mad, happy, bored or anything else. Let’s don’t have any more confusion on that point.”
“I wasn’t confused,” Bannion said. “I was mad.”
“Okay, okay, be mad,” Wilks said in a fast, hard voice. “Be as mad as you want. Be mad at home, or in some pool room, but not around here. Things are run certain ways in this world, remember that. And they’re run by certain people. You’ve always been above practical politics, haven’t you? Well, that’s a nice, high and mighty attitude, but it’s unrealistic as hell.” Wilks was pacing the floor, pounding one hand into the other with savage emphasis, and there was something in his face that surprised Bannion; it was a curious blend of envy and hate. “You read books about what life is like,” he said, looking down at Bannion. “Well, get smart and throw them away. Look around you and you can see what it’s like. It’s not wrong or right, it’s just the way things are. You’ll learn that someday, Bannion. You see that you have to play ball, make compromises.”
“Well, that’s possible,” Bannion said, after a slight pause.
“Damn it, we’re not in Kindergarten any more,” Wilks said, in a more reasonable voice. He sat down at his desk and studied Bannion with a small smile. “Remember what I told you: we both have our orders. Do you understand that?”
“Sure, I understand it.”
“Well—” Wilks hesitated, and his face softened. “Well, that’s all, I guess.”
“I’ll get back to work, then.”
Outside Neely and Carmody were discussing the Express story, but they stopped talking when Bannion came out of Wilks’ office. There was a strange little silence, a drawn-out interval of tension, and then Neely cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’re getting famous here in Homicide, Dave. Who snooped out the story, do you know?”
“It was Furnham,” Bannion said.
“Well, I’m damned.”
“You can’t trust any of them,” Carmody said.
Burke came in around the counter smiling, smelling of whiskey and cloves, his face flushed with the cold. “I’m glad my talents were overlooked and I stayed a simple old detective,” he said, winking at Bannion. “That way you keep out of the papers.”
“It was Furnham’s story,” Neely said.
“Damn them, they’re always at some keyhole,” Carmody said. “Why in hell do we let ‘em in here, anyway? What good do newspapers do? They just print stuff to cause trouble?”
“They shouldn’t cover police at all, if you ask me,” Neely said.
Bannion listened to the talk, frowning slightly. He didn’t know where Burke stood; he suspected Burke had brains. But Neely and Carmody, and too many other cops, would stand solidly against Furnham, and in back of Wilks. The names didn’t matter; it was the principle of sticking together, of rejecting criticism, of presenting a solid front to reports, to do-gooders, to any probing of sore spots in the department. The sore spot might be a cancer, but that made no difference. But a No Trespassing sign around it; that was the way to handle cancer. Cops leaned to the strength, whether they were part of it or not, leaned toward men like Lagana and Stone, who could apply the big pressure. Most cops weren’t crooks, but they had to keep a respectful eye on certain big crooks. That’s the way things were.
Bannion grinned slightly. “I gave Furnham the story,” he said. “He just passed it along.”
There was another little silence. Neely and Carmody looked at him, digesting this, and then they both shrugged. Carmody picked up a paper and Neely turned back to his desk. Bannion could almost feel the wall of indifference they put up to him; they wanted no part of this, thanks all to hell. He was acting queerly, ignoring some basic cop-rules, and they wanted no part of it, thanks again.
Burke came over and sat on Bannion’s desk. He grinned, his eyes thoughtful. “You know, Dave, I thought it was a nice little story. Had good suspense. Makes you wonder what’s going to happen next.”
“Yes, I guess it did,” Bannion said, slowly. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Let’s get a cup of coffee, okay?”
“Sure, Dave.”
Brigid, his four-year-old, dark-haired daughter, was playing blocks on the living-room floor when Bannion got home late that afternoon. She wanted no hug or kiss or stalls, just some help in finishing her castle. “Okay, okay, Bossy,” Bannion said, and dropped his hat and coat on the sofa. He tried to add a block to the archway, but she pushed his hand aside, and said firmly, “No, you just watch, Daddy.”
Kate came in smiling. “There’s my big man,” she said, kissing him on top of the head. She wore a fancy apron over one of her good dresses. “Company?” he said, patting her on the ankle.
“Yes, Al and Marg are coming over for dinner. You’d better take a shower and get a drink ready.”
“Okay,” Bannion said. He didn’t feel very much like company. Even Al and Marg. Marg was Kate’s sister, Al her brother-in-law. They were nice people, but he didn’t feel like seeing any kind of people.
“What’s the matter with you?” Kate said.
“Nothing, I guess. I’ll be okay.”
“No, no, talk to me, not Mommy,” Brigid said.
“All right,” Bannion said, ruffling her hair.
“Dave, is anything wrong?” Kate said. “You’ve seemed down the last few days.”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious.”
“Is it a case?”
“I told you it’s nothing.”
“Well, you’d better use another tone if you expect me to believe you,” Kate said.
“Okay, I’ll bring home an affidavit tomorrow night,” Bannion said, with an edge to his voice. He stared at the castle Brigid was building. It looked like City Hall, he thought. He sighed and glanced at Kate. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s okay. I wish you’d tell me, though, if something is worrying you.”
“It’s just a general let-down. That’s an occupational disease with cops, I guess. This is one of the bad moments. Something came up this past week, and I feel like—” He hesitated, forgetting what he meant to say, but feeling a strong sudden anger flowing through him as he thought of Lucy Carroway. Slowly, unaware of what he was doing, he raised his big fist and smashed it down on Brigid’s castle, on the tiny jumble of blocks that had reminded him of City Hall. “That’s what I feel like doing,” he said bitterly.
Brigid began to weep. She scrambled to her feet and ran to her mother. “It was a mistake, Daddy made a mistake,” Kate said, patting her gently. She raised her eyebrows at Bannion.
“I’m sorry, Bidge,” Bannion said. He rubbed his forehead, feeling silly. “There was a fly on the castle and I tried to hit it.”
“There was not a fly,” Brigid sobbed.
Fortunately the phone rang. Kate scooped the baby up, and said, “Oh, let’s see who’s calling us.” Brigid stopped crying. “Can I talk?” she said.
“Sure, of course,” Kate said, and hurried out of the room.
Bannion got up and loosened his tie. He was thinking about making himself a drink when Kate came back to the room.
“It’s for you.” She still carried Brigid.
“Who is it?”
“—I don’t know.”
Bannion glanced at her, puzzled by her tone. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing at all,” she said, but her face was white.
Bannion walked back to the living room and picked up the phone. “This is Dave Bannion,” he said.