"Of course."
"So I'd want to do it right."
"Are you afraid you might do it wrong?"
"I just wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."
"Of course not."
"I mean, the reason I hate decoy work ..."
"I know."
"... is because there's . . . there's always the possibility you'll have to . . ."
"Yes?"
"Put someone away."
"Yes. Kill someone."
"Kill someone. Yes."
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"And you feel that would be a danger? When you're working the door?"
"Whenever there's a gun on the scene, there's a danger of that happening,-yes."
"But in this situation, you wouldn't be the one with the gun, isn't that right?"
"Well, yes, that's right."
"The taker would have the gun."
"The taker would have the gun, that's absolutely right."
"So there's no possibility that you would have to shoot anyone. Kill anyone."
"Well, you know, / don't want to get hurt, either, you know? The person in there has a gun, you know ..."
"Yes, I know."
"And if I screw up . . ."
"What makes you think you'll screw up?"
"I don't think I'll screw up. I'm only saying if I should screw up . . ."
"Yes, what would happen?"
"Well, the person in there might use the gun."
"And then what?"
"We'd have to come down."
"You'd have to take the door by force."
"Yes. If the taker started shooting."
"And if the door was taken by force . . ."
"Well. . . yes."
"Yes what, Eileen?"
"The taker might get hurt."
"Might get killed."
"Yes. Might get killed."
"Which you wouldn't want to happen."
"I wouldn't want that to happen, no. That's why I want to get out of decoy work. Because ..."
"Because you once had to kill a man."
"Bobby."
"Bobby Wilson, yes."
"I killed him, yes."
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The women looked at each other. They had gone over this
ground again and again and again. If Eileen heard herself
telling this same story one more time, she would vomit all
over her shoes. She looked at her watch. She knew Karin
hated it when she did that. It was twenty minutes past five.
Monday afternoon. Hot as hell outside and not much cooler
here in this windowless room with faulty municipal-government
air-conditioning.
"Why does Brady make you so angry?" Karin asked.
"Because he fired Mary Beth."
"But you're not Mary Beth."
"I'm a woman."
"He hasn't fired you, though."
"He might."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't think women can do the job."
"Does he remind you of anyone you know?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"You can't think of a single other man who ..."
"I'm not going to say Bert, if that's what you want me to say."
"I don't want you to say anything you don't want to say."
"It wasn't that Bert didn't think I could do the job."
"Then what was it?"
"He was trying to protect me."
"But he screwed up."
"That wasn't his fault."
"Whose was it?"
"He was trying to help me."
"You mean you no longer think . . .?"
"I don't know what I think. You were the one who suggested I talk to Goodman about joining the team, you were the one who thought..."
"Yes, but we're talking about Bert Kling now."
"I don't want to talk about Bert."
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"Why not? Last week you seemed to think he was responsible ..."
"He was. If I hadn't lost my backups ..." "Yes, you wouldn't have had to shoot Bobby Wilson." "Fuck Bobby Wilson! If I hear his name one more time ..."
"Do you still think Bert was responsible for ..." "He was the one who made me lose my backups, yes." "But was he responsible for your shooting Bobby Wilson? For your killing Bobby Wilson?" Eileen was silent for a long time. Then she said, "No." Karin nodded. "Maybe it's time we talked to Bert," she said.
Carella had spent his early adolescence and his young manhood in Riverhead. He had moved back to Riverhead after he married Teddy, and it was in Riverhead that his father had been killed. Tonight, he drove to a section of Riverhead some three miles from his own house, to talk to his brother-in-law, Tommy. He would rather have done almost anything else in the world.
Tommy had moved back to the house that used to be his parents' while he was away in the army. Nowadays, you did not have to say which war or police action or invasion a man had been in. If you were an American of any given age, you had been in at least one war. The irony was that Tommy had come through his particular war alive while his parents back home were getting killed in an automobile accident. He still owned the house, still rented it out. But there was a room over the garage, and he was living in that now.
Angela had told Carella that he'd moved out at the beginning of the month, after they'd had a terrible fight that caused their three-year-old daughter to run out of the room crying. Actually, Angela had kicked him out. Screamed at him to get the hell out of the house and not to come back till he got rid of his bimbo. That was the word she'd used. Bimbo. Tommy
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had packed some clothes and left. Two weeks ago, he'd called to tell her he had to go to California on business. Last night, he'd called to say he was back. Tonight, Carella was here to see him.
He had called first, he knew he was expected. He did not want to ring this doorbell. He did not want to be here asking Tommy questions, he did not want to be playing cop with his own brother-in-law. He climbed the steep flight of wooden steps that ran up the right-hand side of the garage. He rang the bell. It sounded within.
"Steve?"
"Yeah."
"Just a sec."
He waited.
The door opened.
"Hey." Arms opening wide. "Steve." They embraced. "I didn't know about your father," Tommy said at once. "I would've come home in a minute, but Angela didn't call me. I didn't find out till last night. Steve, I'm sorry."
"Thank you."
"I really loved him."
"I know."
"Come in, come in. You ever think you'd see me living alone like this? Jesus," Tommy said, and stood aside to let him by. He had lost a little weight since Carella had last seen him. You get a little older, your face gets a look of weariness about the eyes. Just living did that to you, even if you weren't having troubles with your marriage.
The single room was furnished with a sofa that undoubtedly opened into a bed, a pair of overstuffed easy chairs with flowered slipcovers on them, a standing floor lamp, a television set on a rolling cart, a dresser with another lamp and a fan on top of it, and a coffee table between the sofa and the two easy chairs. On the wall over the sofa, there was a picture of Jesus Christ with an open heart in his chest radiating blinding rays of light, his hand held up in blessing. Carella had seen that same picture in Catholic homes all over the city. There was a
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partially open door to the left of the sofa, revealing a bathroom beyond.
"Something to drink?" Tommy said.
"What've you got?" Carella asked.
"Scotch or gin, take your choice. I went down for fresh limes after you called, in case you feel like a gin and tonic. I've also got club soda, if you ..."
"Gin and tonic sounds fine."
Tommy walked to where a sink, a row of cabinets, a Formica countertop, a range, and a refrigerator occupied one entire wall of the room. He cracked open an ice-cube tray, took down a fresh bottle of Gordon's gin from one of the cabinets, sliced a lime in half, squeezed and dropped the separate halves into two tall glasses decorated with cartoon characters Carella didn't recognize, and mixed two hefty drinks that he then carried back to where Carella was already sitting on the sofa.