Big boy said, “We feel like singing. We're happy. Got us a load going back just like that.” He tried to snap his fingers.
“You want to sing, go down on the docks and sing your fool heads off.” I nodded at the beds. “Also, you ain't on the farm now and this ain't no pigpen—take your shoes off when you hit the sack.”
The smaller guy came toward me, waving his bottle. “Aw, have a drink with me.”
I wanted them both in close—although they didn't look like bottle throwers. I made one last effort. I said, “It's awful hot, no point in any of us working up a sweat. Take off your shoes and cut the singing! Tomorrow I'll take that drink.”
“Kind of old and fat for all that tough talk, ain't you, baldy?” the big one asked.
“All you whiskey-big-mouthed jokers give me a headache,” I said as I hooked the smaller one in the gut. He landed on the bed, skidded off onto the floor, fighting for breath and puking all over the old plush carpet. Big boy didn't move fast at all. I grabbed his bottle hand, jerked him to me and kicked his shin. He sat down hard, holding the leg, rye spilling over one bed.
“It's very hot, let's not have no more exercise,” I said.
“You fat bastard, I'll kill you!”
I pulled big boy up by his hair, planted a solid one under his ribs and let him sprawl on the floor. His hands clutched at his belly, clawing at the skin.
That was it: they'd never been hit like that before and their eyes were all fear. I said, “Either of you have any ideas about pulling a knife, forget it. I can give you a real beating if you're asking for it. I asked you in a nice way, but you hardheads got to get smacked down.” I glanced around the dirty room. If they had a return trip set, they were loaded. “You slobs made a mess of this room, ruined the rug. Be trouble if the chambermaid yells. Maybe hotel sues you. Best you leave her a tip—now.”
The smaller guy rolled over and dug into his pocket. “Be ten bucks to clean the rug, at least. And worth another ten for the work she'll have to do,” I added.
He waved a fistful of bills at me. Nothing like a wallop in the gut to take the starch out of a rough stud. I reached over—carefully—picked up two tens. As I opened the door I told them, “Now go to bed or poppa will have to spank again.”
“We'll never come here again!” big boy gasped. “You do, I'll throw you out the front door. Go to a flop joint where you belong.” I shut and locked the door, waited in the hallway for a moment. The clowns weren't marked —if they yelled they couldn't prove a thing. They were stupid drunk and fighting when I came in.
I was sweating a lot and stopped in at my bathroom, washed up, and it was a lucky move, for I got a sudden cramp. When I was ready I took a mint and called Dewey. “Room 703 is okay. Now send that jerky cop into my office.” In my office I took out my wallet and left it open on the desk so my card in the Policeman's Benevolent Association showed—to let the punk know who he was talking to.
He was a young cop, slight, with a skinny chicken neck, and the face looked a little familiar. He sure looked like a real cop, except for the patch on his shoulder, and the badge was smaller and the cap looked cheap. He had a gun belt on with bullets but no gun. Just a night stick and something in his back pocket that could be a sap.
He stood in the doorway, a silly grin on his narrow face, held out his arms like he was modeling the stingy uniform, asked, “Like it, Marty?”
For a moment I didn't recognize him. Hell, the last time I'd seen the kid was during the war, and he wasn't more than a dozen years old then. The grin on his face faded as he asked, “Marty, don't you remember me?”
The sort of plea in his voice did it. I jumped up and shook his small hand. “Lawrence, boy! Where do you come off with that not-remembering line? I was merely dazzled by the blue. Come on, put it down. When did you get the badge?” He always was a frail kid and now he looked compact, but like a weak welterweight. On his collar he had a gold A.P.—auxiliary police.
He sat down opposite me, pleased with himself. “Well, I'm not exactly a real cop. I'm with Civil Defense and we put in a few hours a week doing patrol duty—sort of practice for us, in case there ever should be an emergency, a bombing and all that. But I'm going to take the police physical next fall. I've been building myself up for it, go to the college gym every day.”
“How's your mother?” The kid had always been muscle-happy and cop-crazy. Maybe because he was always so delicate and sickly.
“Just fine. Guess you know she married again?”
“Yeah, I heard. Right after the war, and to some duck working in the aircraft factory with her. Hope she's happy. I gave Dot a rough time.”
“Mom never understood you,” Lawrence said. He had a good voice, deep and relaxed, and when you looked at his eyes for a while, you knew he was no longer a kid but a man. “Marty, I didn't mean to barge in on you so late, but I was just assigned to this precinct, and... uh... I thought you'd still be up.”
“I never hit the sack before three or four in the morning. Lately I've had some bum food and my stomach won't let me sleep anyway. You say you're going to college?”
He nodded. “Law school. I wanted to work and go nights, but Dot has been simply wonderful—insisted upon putting me through day school.”
“What's the idea of this tin-badge deal?”
He flushed. “Actually, I thought it would help me, give me a working idea of the force, so when I pass the physical and become a real...”
“You're studying to be a shyster—why you want to be a cop?”
He smiled as if I'd said something clever. “With the name Bond, what else could I be? Some of the men at the station, the regular police, asked me if I was related to you.”
“Down in this precinct—they remember me?”
“Every cop remembers you.”
“Are you... uh... defense cops under the precinct captain?”
“No, we have our own setup. Before this I was assigned to a station house up in the Bronx. But I mingle with the real cops.”
“They giving you a hard time because of me?”
He opened his collar, pushed his cap back, said flatly, “No one gives me a hard time, not the son of Marty Bond, the toughest cop on the force.” He sounded pretty hard. The kid could be more rugged than he looked—or nuts.
“That what they still call me?”
He turned his palms up, waved them. “Oh, a few said something about the... uh... Graham case, that you gave the force a black eye. But I told them off, reminded them you were the most cited man in the history of the New York City police force.”
“Graham—that lousy black bastard!”
“How's the hotel business?”
“Dull. Forget being a cop, Lawrence. It's a no-good job, everybody hates your heart.”
“I wouldn't say that. Laws are vital, living things to me that need protection, proper enforcement.” He lowered his voice. “After all, I not only have your name but my father died in harness. I belong on the force. And if I can only put on a little more muscle, I'll make a good cop.”
I was about to tell him there wasn't any such animal as a “good” cop, there couldn't be, but it was too warm to argue. So I said, “Hear there's a lot of college boys on the force.”