“You should be worried then,” Bannion said, in a suddenly cold voice.
Wilks stared at him and then walked around behind his desk, and put his hands on it, as if to draw some strength from that symbol of his position and authority. “I don’t know what that crack means,” he said. He seemed abruptly very tired. “What’s on your mind, Dave?”
I didn’t come here to talk,” Bannion said, with an impatient gesture. “I’ll see you around, Wilks.”
“Dave — you’re making a mistake.”
Bannion turned to the door.
“Dave, wait a minute!”
“Okay, what is it?”
Wilks swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. “I’ll want your badge and gun, Dave,” he said. His voice was crisp and solid with authority; but his eyes didn’t quite meet Bannion’s.
“The gun belongs to me,” Bannion said.
“See that you get a permit to carry it,” Wilks said.
Bannion smiled, took out his wallet and unpinned his badge. It was a special badge, a gold one, given to him by his shift on his tenth anniversary in the department. He glanced down at it, gleaming and yellow in the palm of his hand, and then he looked squarely at Wilks and closed his big hand slowly, powerfully, deliberately. “There it is,” he said, opening his hand and tossing the badge onto Wilks’ desk. It rolled onto the green blotter and came to rest on a neatly typed report, bent and curled as if it had been made of tinfoil.
Wilks wet his lips. “You’ll regret that someday,” he said slowly. “The frontpiece is clean, even if some of the men who wear it aren’t. I—”
He was talking to the big detective’s back. The door opened and closed, Bannion was gone. Wilks stared at his desk, at the crumpled badge, his lips still moving, finishing his sentence in a whisper. He stood there half a moment and then sat down and lifted the phone. “Outside line,” he said.
He waited for the connection, dialled a number.
“This is Wilks,” he said.
“Yes, I know what you told me, but this is important. Bannion was in. He’s quit, going after things on his own.”
“I couldn’t do anything with him.”
“I’m not worried.” Wilks rubbed his forehead. “Sure, he’s just a dumb cop.”
“Okay, okay.”
“All right.”
Wilks replaced the phone slowly. There was a film of perspiration on his upper lip...
Bannion stopped in the outer office, at Neely’s desk. Burke had come in and was lounging against the counter, watching Bannion with a small, worried frown.
“Neely, I’d like a favor,” Bannion said.
“Sure, anything, Sarge.”
“I want the names of any automobile mechanics in town who have police records. The districts should be able to get them for you.”
“Sure, it won’t take long.”
“One thing, before you start. I’m not with the department anymore. I just quit.”
Neely looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding?”
“No, that’s on the level.”
“For God’s Sake, Dave, I don’t know what to say. That’s classified information. I’m not supposed to pass it out.”
“I said it was a favor.”
“Dave— I can’t do it,” Neely said, looking unhappily at his phone.
“Okay, sorry I asked,” Bannion said, and started for the door. Burke straightened up from the counter, and said, “What the devil did you quit for, Dave?”
Bannion didn’t answer. He straight-armed the swinging door, almost jarring it off its hinges, and turned out of sight into the corridor. Burke swore and went after him, half-running. He caught up with him and put a hand on his forearm.
“Don’t go off your rocker,” he said, in a low, tense voice. “Relax. I’ll get those names for you, but take it easy. You want to take something apart now. I don’t blame you — but be smart about it, boy, be smart.”
They reached the elevators and Bannion faced Burke, his face hard and pale. “I’ll be smart, don’t worry,” he said, and shook Burke’s hand from his arm and stepped into the elevator.
The doors slid shut...
Burke walked slowly back to the Homicide office. He glanced at Neely as he rounded the counter, and shrugged. “What’s up?” Neely said. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know,” Burke said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He’s not using his head. But I wouldn’t want to get in his way. I’ve seen him mad, and that’s bad enough, God knows, but this is different. He’s going off like a bomb, you watch.”
“You watch,” Neely said, reaching for the ringing phone. “I want no part of it.”
Burke shrugged and lit another cigarette...
Bannion had to wait a few minutes in Inspector Cranston’s outer office. When he did go in Cranston stood and put both hands on his shoulders. “Is there anything at all I can do, Dave?” he said quietly.
“I’m here for a favor.”
“You may have it. Nothing helps at times like these, least of all talk. But you must know how I feel.”
“I think so. I’ve quit, Inspector. I want a permit for my gun.”
“You’re going to handle this yourself, eh?” Cranston said, after a pause. “Going gunning. That’s against the law, Dave.”
“So is leaving bombs in cars,” Bannion said.
Cranston frowned and sighed. “Well, I’ll skip the fatherly advice. You’re no child. You know what you’re doing. It will take a day for the permit. Where shall I send it?”
“I’ve moved into the Grand Hotel on Arch Street.”
“Okay, I’ll send it over by messenger in the morning. Is there anything else you need?”
“No, that’s enough, Inspector.”
Cranston rubbed his white head, still frowning. “Dave, let me ask you a favor now. Don’t forget where my office is. Okay?”
Bannion nodded. “I’ll remember,” he said.
Cranston watched him leave. He sighed and took a gun-permit from his desk, and began filling it out, his hard old face expressionless.
Bannion walked to his hotel. There was a fine rain falling now, and the winter darkness was closing in on the city. Neon signs flashed above store fronts, and automobile headlights bored yellow tunnels into the gray, wet gloom. He picked up his key at the desk and went up to his room, which was neither large nor small, friendly or otherwise, but simply an impersonal, adequate hotel room. He poured himself a drink and sat down at the window without bothering to remove his hat or coat.
He stared at the city. Now it’s time to start, he thought. It was a satisfying realization, it gave a purpose and outlet to the storm inside him.
He watched the city, a black, rain-shining mass, glittering with red and white lights, a cramped, crowded city, squeezing its densest glut of men and buildings into the corridor made by the hourglass curves of the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers. He watched the city, drinking.
Lots of people there. Most of them didn’t give a damn about him, or about Lucy Carroway, or his wife. Some did though; bondsmen, racketeers, a few cops, magistrates, judges, sheriff’s deputies — they cared about Bannion. They had to, whether they were for him or against him, whether they were straight or crooked, because the pressure had been big when it came, and everybody on a city payroll, everybody who made money out of the running of the city, had to care, had to worry when the big pressure was on, when the big hands tightened their grip.
Bannion finished his drink. He didn’t kid himself; it would be a tough job.
He glanced at his watch.
Time to start.
He stood and checked his gun, and then slid it easily back into its holster. He took the copy of St. John of the Cross from his pocket, looked at it for an instant, and then tossed it onto the top of the bureau. He felt as if he were putting down an unwelcome burden.