“According to the law—” Kozlowski began.
Clumly flushed. They didn’t need a warrant if she invited them in, and Kozlowski knew it. “Just ask her.”
Kozlowski nodded and adjusted his cap. “Positive,” he said. He went up on the porch, Clumly a little behind him, and rang the doorbell.
“Better knock,” Clumly said. “Those doorbells never work.”
Kozlowski knocked. Casually, Clumly stepped to the left of the door where she wouldn’t see him at once when she opened up. Kozlowski touched his cap again as if thinking of taking it off, then changed his mind. After a long moment he knocked a second time, more firmly, then folded his red hands behind him. There wasn’t a sound from inside the house, and they went on waiting, Clumly gazing down the street toward the grocery store at the corner of Harvester and Main, where there were more Negroes. A smell of pigweed came from the end of the porch. At last, though still there had been no sound, the doorknob turned and the door opened three inches. Clumly sidled back farther along the wall.
“Yes?” she said.
Kozlowski bent toward her, apologetic as a funeral director. “It’s nothing serious, ma’am. Do you mind if I come in?”
Clumly held in a smile, standing with his back against the cool wall of the house. Kozlowski would make a good cop, one of these days. She was going to let him in.
“All right,” she said doubtfully. She opened the door farther, keeping behind it. Kozlowski stepped in and when he was over the threshold turned as if inviting Clumly to follow. Clumly took off his hat and stepped in behind.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Kozlowski said again. “My name’s Kozlowski. This is Chief Clumly.”
She looked at them, waiting. She had baggy eyes and cracks on her lips, though she was young. She was a white woman, but dark-complected. Eyes like a gypsy’s. Her henna-red hair was long and loose and didn’t look clean. The hair on her legs was black. She stood with one hand on the doorknob, the other clutching her robe together—quilted pink, badly faded. The livingroom behind her was gloomy and grimy, furnished like a cheap motel with low-lined overstuffed chairs, a daybed, three standing metal ashtrays that were probably stolen from somewhere. A bus depot, maybe. On the dimestore coffee table there were battered magazines—True Confessions, Police Gazette, Movie Life, The Astrologer. It didn’t look to Clumly like a whorehouse, and he felt a moment’s panic. But this was the place and, he remembered suddenly—and smiled, cunning—he hadn’t told Kozlowski which house; Kozlowski had chosen it himself. He frowned then, until his eyes were like two bullets, and tried to think what the smell was, filling the room.
“How do you do,” Clumly said, extending his hand.
She ignored it. “What is this?”
“Your name Rosemary?” Clumly said.
She did not answer and at first gave no sign that he was right or wrong, merely watched him, hostile and afraid. She bit her lower lip. She had long thin teeth with space between the two in front. Then, stupidly—Poor stupid woman, Clumly thought—she looked at Kozlowski for help. “You said there’d be no trouble.” Kozlowski pursed his lips and looked at the floor. She looked back at Clumly. “What is this? What do you want?”
Clumly covered his mouth with his hand, startled by his luck, and merely looked at her. So young, he thought. (It was time to pounce now: ask to see the bedrooms.) There was dirt in the cracks on her neck, and below the collar line, where the sun hadn’t hit her, her flesh was goosepimply and white. It came to him that the stench in the house, heavier, more concentrated around her body—a stink like rottenness, like death—was dimestore perfume.
“How old are you, Rosemary?” Clumly said.
She drew back a step, running her hand through her hair, with her left hand pulling the collar of the robe more tightly together. “Get out of here,” she said. She turned her face to Kozlowski. “What does he want?”
But Kozlowski went on studying the floor, red as a beet, moving the toe of his boot along a crack, three inches, back and forth, like a boy.
Clumly went on studying her with his hand around his chin. She could have been pretty, like anyone else, if she’d wanted. “How long you been in this business, Rosemary?” he said gently.
“Get out,” she said. Her black eyebrows lowered and her mouth grew taut. “Get out of my house or by Jesus I’ll call—” She broke off abruptly and laughed, her voice electric.
Clumly thought about it. Her anger was queerly touching to him, and confusing. He felt he’d been here before, the same conversation. He tried to think. “Very well,” he said a little vaguely, “we’ll go. But we’ll be back, Rosemary.” He didn’t move. “Young lady, if you want my advice—” He didn’t finish, and couldn’t. They had come to a standstill. Kozlowski knew it and wouldn’t help; probably couldn’t. Clumly waited, and time grew like a calm. He tried to think. Then, suddenly, she darted forward releasing the collar and letting the robe fly loose around her naked bosom, and before Clumly knew what was happening he was back inside time, she had slashed open the side of his hand with her silver fingernails and was reaching for his face. He was too startled even for anger. “That’s enough!” he yelled. “Stop it!” He caught her hands, his heart pounding painfully, and simply held her as well as he could for a moment by the wrists, not knowing what to do. Then, collecting his wits, numb with the image of her nakedness, he released her and turned away quickly, ducking his head, and half-ran through the door. Kozlowski came out behind him soberly, like a man coming out of a church. His lips were pursed. The door slammed shut, then opened again. “Bastards!” she yelled at them. “Sons of bitches!” She shook her fist, leaning out at them, shameless, oblivious, hurling obscenities like mud. Clumly held his chest with two hands to keep the pounding of his heart from splitting it, and he walked bent over more than usual, panting for breath. When he reached the car he fell into it and sat with his eyes shut, still holding his chest but keeping the blood from his scratched hand off his shirt. He was afraid he was having an attack. Kozlowski sat waiting, lighting a cigarette.
“A policeman’s job—” Clumly said hoarsely. But a coughing fit seized him and he couldn’t finish. There were people at the windows of the houses across the street. Kozlowski went on waiting till the first rock hit the side of the car. Then he switched on the ignition and pulled out into the street. He drove back through town to the station slowly, saying nothing. When he parked, Clumly got out without a word, still full of painful excitement that was almost like pleasure, and hurried in. His face was squeezed tight with humiliation, and for the life of him he could not walk upright. It wasn’t that he was winded now. It was his liver or something. When he reached the door he found, to his surprise, that Kozlowski had followed him. He glanced at the man furtively, then, angry and ashamed, went on to the lavatory to wash his wounded hand, then back to his office as though Kozlowski were still out there in his car.
Finally, seated behind his desk, he knew he could no longer ignore the man’s presence. He snatched his reading glasses from the drawer and irritably hung them on his ears to examine the scratch marks. Then, knowing very well what a figure he cut, he tipped his mole’s nose slowly and squinted at Kozlowski.
“My badge,” Kozlowski said, pushing it toward Clumly over the papers.
Clumly said nothing, and the man turned away.
“Wait a minute,” Clumly said. He sucked the sore hand again.
Kozlowski waited.
Clumly closed his eyes and sat thinking, trembling all over, still sucking the hand, for a long time. He felt sick. His knees were shaking, and it wasn’t just his palsy. He got up abruptly, awkwardly, to prove to himself he was still in control, and went over to stand at the window, bent-backed, and took his glasses off again and held them behind him. He changed his mind and crossed back to his desk and dropped the glasses on the papers, then returned to the window and, with gray, trembling fingers, lighted himself a cigar. Still Kozlowski waited, standing with his hat on.
?
??Sit down,” Clumly said, gesturing without glancing over his shoulder. He heard Kozlowski move the chair a few inches and sit.
“All right,” Clumly said. He began to pace, smoking, never looking at Kozlowski. “All right,” he said more loudly. “Maybe I went too far. A mistake.” He stood still, musing. “You know it was a mistake, and you might have said so, but you didn’t.” He thought about it. “Spared my feelings. That’s good.” He paced again. “That’s very good. You could have said when we got to the car, ‘Where next, Chief?’—rubbing it in, you know. But you didn’t. Very good. You’ll make a good cop.”
“I’ve resigned,” Kozlowski said.
“Resigned hell! I could hang you for this. You promised that little whore protection. You heard her yourself. ‘You said there’d be no trouble.’ You don’t think I’ve forgotten that?”
Kozlowski lit the cigarette in his hand. “Not likely,” he said. He crossed his legs.
Clumly jerked away and went back to his pacing, struggling to ignore the sass. “All right,” he said. He smoked furiously, making a heavy cloud around his head. “I liked the way you got in there,” he said. “I thought to myself, ‘Good cop, that boy.’ I liked that.”
Kozlowski said nothing, and Clumly glared at him, then away again, thinking. His arms and legs prickled and felt numb. He pointed at Kozlowski then and said, “You should’ve shut her down. That’s your job. You know that.” He waited, but he knew there was no answer coming. “Well all right,” he said. “All right, you use your judgment. That’s good. A cop needs judgment I like that.” He paced. “A lot of my men get the wrong idea. We do this job of ours together, protecting Law and Order. This is a democracy.”
“Yes sir.”
The interruption broke his train of thought. He was sweating. “This is a democracy,” he said again, more emphatically. “We’re the Watchdogs. If a man can’t trust his Force, who can he trust? All right. I’m cognizant of that. Listen.” He tried to think what it was he had to tell him, but the memory of his humiliation distracted him. The woman’s image was burned into his mind—the youth of it, the nakedness, and the righteous indignation—and for some reason the painful image released another, his wife lying still as a dead chicken in the bed, unloved, useless. Who would mourn for her? Who would mourn for Clumly?
He went back to his desk, wincing, trying to think, and as if hoping it would help he put his glasses on again.
“Kozlowski,” he said, “don’t quit.”
Pitiful it sounded.
The man waited, not saying what Clumly knew he would be thinking.
“Too old, that must be it,” Clumly said. His chest was so full he felt like a man drowning. “Jitters,” he said. “—Miller!” He squinted at the door and called more loudly, “Miller! Come in here!”
Miller came in, pushing his pencil down into his pocket, carrying his clipboard. Miller was Clumly’s right-hand man.
“Miller, tell Kozlowski not to quit.”
“Don’t quit,” Miller said. He cocked his head, grinning, looking at Clumly.
“How long you been with us, Miller?” Clumly said.
“Why, nineteen hundred seven thousand twenty-three million two and a half—” Miller talked, always, a mile a minute. His name was Dominic Sangirgonio, Miller for short.
“Stop that!” Clumly roared. He banged the desk, then clung to it.
“Long time,” Miller said.
“Am I a rigid man?” Clumly demanded. “Am I a hard man to work for? Do I spy on my men, or ask the impossible? Tell him.”
“Just like a father,” Miller said.
“Miller, why do I drive my men? Why do I personally keep track of every job this Department does, from parking meters to criminal assault? Tell him.”
“Some kind of nut.” He smiled.
“Stop it,” Clumly said. “This man’s just tendered his resignation.”
“Tendered!” Miller said, impressed.
Clumly’s hand was still shaking, even when he steadied the heel on the desk—cigar ashes spattering on the papers—but for a moment longer Miller continued to watch, as if amused.
“Ok,” he said finally, looking over at Kozlowski. “What happened? Old man make a fool of himself, you think?” He tipped his head and grinned again. “You’ll get used to it. Honor bright. Cops are bad guys. Sometimes when you start out you forget that and pretty soon—paw!—you’re dead, some good guy’s got a knife. Like the kid Salvador we got guarding the bears. He thinks they’re his friends. Gives ’em cigarettes and candy and listens to their sob stories.” He laughed, but not wholeheartedly. “One of these days he’ll get his block knocked off. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get your block knocked off.”
“Look,” Kozlowski said.
“Tomorrow. For now, put on the badge. Think it over.” He reached for the badge and flipped it to Kozlowski. Kozlowski seemed to consider it. Miller said, “Shut her down, paisan. For a week or two, see? Teach the little broad some respect.” Before Kozlowski could answer he bowed to Clumly and went out.
Clumly looked at the papers, and Kozlowski stood toying with the badge.
“All right,” Clumly said weakly. “That’s all. Things have been pushing a little, lately. Just the same, all I said in the car—” He thought about it. “We have to enforce the law,” he said. “If a cop starts making exceptions—the fabric of society—” He had a funeral to go to this afternoon. The thought distracted him and he glared at Kozlowski to get his train of thought back. He said, “You ever see that man with the beard before?”
Kozlowski looked puzzled.
“In here,” Clumly said. He got up, knowing it was an odd thing to do, and led Kozlowski down the hallway to the cellblock. He held the door open and pointed. “Him.”
Kozlowski studied him, then shook his head.
Clumly turned back toward his office. “All right,” he said. “That’s all. Think it over.”
Kozlowski nodded. He remembered he still had his hat on and reached up to touch it. “Yes sir,” he said. He left.
Alone again, Clumly sat down and racked his brain to make out what had happened. But he didn’t get time. Miller looked in almost at once. “Got time for a public relations call? Old Lady Woodworth wants you. At her house, this afternoon, maybe.”
The words would not get straight in Clumly’s mind, and he strained to think. He was hungry again.
“About the robbery,” Miller said. “Cops ain’t doin their jobs. Gonna telephone the Gov’nah.”
At last he understood. “You think it’s that man we got, that Walter Boyle?”
“Not a chance.” Miller turned away.
Clumly sighed, grew calmer. There was something important he’d meant to do this morning. He remembered all at once that he’d thought there was a prowler in the yard last night. He tried to think what had made him change his mind. It was possible. They’d had case after case, these past two months. A plague of them, most of them in broad daylight, ever since spring. And some of them were dangerous—the Negro boy in the red shirt who’d beaten that woman on Ellicott Avenue half to death with the handle of a mop. He was still at large. Maybe he should call his wife, see that everything was all right. Sometimes they got into your basement and stayed there for hours, waiting. He closed his eyes. Behind him, in the cellblock, the bearded lunatic was singing. His voice was high and sweet, strangely sad. He’s as sane as I am, Clumly thought, and this time he was certain of it. When will he make his move?
Calmly, purposefully, Clumly got up and walked back to the cellblock. “You,” he said. “Keep it down.”
The bearded one smiled, all innocence, and blew him a kiss.
3
Ben and Vanessa Hodge were at the funeral too. They made them all, these days, like Clumly. Ben was a member of the Presbyterian Session, as Hubbard had been, and before that, a long time ago now, he’d sold milk and butter to the Hubbards. Hodge was a wide, benign man in white socks, with a face as orange as the bricks of his house
and hands like rusty shovels. He gave sermons here and there, at country churches from Genesee County to the Finger Lakes, wherever someone happened to know him. He knew stories, more than an average man, and when he told them the stories would grow clearer and clearer until the moral stood out like a pearl-handled nickel-plated pistol on a stump. He didn’t read much. He put in fourteen-hour days in the rush seasons of the summertime, except on Sundays, and in the winter, when he wasn’t out plowing off country roads with his wired-together Farmall tractor or milking his Holsteins or forking out ensilage or manure, he lay with his face turned into the cushions of his davenport and his monumental rear end hanging over, sleeping like a bear. He made up the sermons while he worked his land or while he rode through the foothills near Olean, late at night in the summer, on his old Horex motorcycle. His voice was high and sharp, as if he was calling from across a windy wheatfield.
He stood by the casket with one hand laid over the other in front of him, looking down at the powdered, painted face, or through it into the white silk cushions or the cold dirt under the house. Vanessa was beside him, with her pink-gloved hand hanging on to the tight arm of his suitcoat and her upside-down-milkpail-shaped flowered pink hat tipped queerly above the hair that had been bright red once but was now like old cotton fluff. She was short and wide and walked the way a domino would. When they came away from the casket, Vanessa hobbling on her two gimpy legs and smiling crookedly, like an alligator, Clumly nodded to them.
“Lo there,” Hodge said, loud as a plank breaking in the hush of the funeral parlor. But before they could get to Clumly, an old lady he didn’t know went up to them, shaking and clutching at Vanessa with one white, liver-spotted claw.
Clumly wiped his forehead with his handkerchief (it was ninety in the shade, and though it had been cool in the mortuary when he first came in, the crowd had warmed it by now) and moved over to stand nearer Hubbard’s sons. They’d be talking about Vietnam, he expected, or about unions ruining the country (which they were; he’d said so himself a hundred times). He leaned toward them a little, listening, pretending to watch the friends and relatives filing past the casket. He’d guessed wrong. They were talking about houses.