Haggerty slowly piloted his car along Broadway; he saw a place up on 138th Street, so he pulled in to park. It was the first Saturday in July, three in the morning, steaming hot, and from a rooftop up ahead some guy was screaming as he threw bottles down onto the pavement.
“Fantastic,” Eric said, staring out at the Harlem night. He could not hide his excitement any more than he could stop his ceaseless looking around.
Haggerty turned off the car motor, pocketed the keys, lit a Camel. So far he had done nothing right in the way of disabusing the kid of his notion. They’d started with a steak dinner at Gallagher’s. There were a bunch of other detectives eating when they came in, and they all noted Haggerty and his companion. And they kept watching them. At first Haggerty thought it was because of the way the kid was dressed—neat dark gray dacron and cotton suit, blue button-down shirt, red rep tie. Haggerty wore his usual off-duty costume—an old baggy jacket just to hide his gun, faded pants, short-sleeve shirt, no tie.
Who was he kidding, that wasn’t it Eric was just as startling to look at in his way as his twin was in hers. Big, powerful, moved well. And the same olive complexion, the same sea-blue eyes.
Haggerty told him horror stories over dinner—when the junkie cracked his skull, when he took the cleaver shot in the stomach, and they thought he was dead from blood loss, when the loony he’d put away got out and shot him three times point-blank and God alone knew how he’d stayed alive. And on this last one he described the slow healing months, the pain, the pressure he’d put on his family, how his daughter almost cracked with worry; Haggerty piled it on. All the stories were true, of course, he never lied, not about anything, but usually if he talked about them at all it was only because someone else brought it up and he grazed over them, never going into detail. Now he went into detail. The fear, the hurt, the knowledge that some nut was going to any day blow you away tomorrow, the miserable way it ripped at any semblance of family fabric, if it was sad or gory, Haggerty let it out.
Eric just kept saying “Really.” Or “Incredible.” Or “God, I wish I could have been there.”
Once, when Haggerty went to the men’s room, Cooney followed him. Cooney had the next desk over in the precinct house. “Who’s the co-ed?” Cooney wondered.
“Would you believe, a recruit? I’m trying to talk him out of it.”
“Play down the glamorous aspects then,” Cooney advised. “Don’t tell him about the free apples we get from fruit stands.”
“Mum’s the word,” Haggerty promised and he went back to the table. After dinner, they walked through Times Square, Haggerty pointing out various points of sleaze. Then a long drive through the South Bronx, burned out and shameful.
And last, always last, Harlem.
“Now we’re just going to sit quiet and watch,” Haggerty said. He pointed out the newsstand a short distance away on the corner. The bar in the middle of the block, the dance hall beside it and across the street another dance hall, Earl’s, big and very loud. “Earl’s is a bad place, capital B.”
“How so?”
“People get hurt in there. Frequently.”
Eric stared across the street toward the large, lit place, the music surging out from the open doors. On the sidewalk in front of them, a number of drunks leaned on the buildings for support. Now a man left the bar, hesitated on the street a moment and a drunk left the support of the building, lost his balance, fell against the man who’d just left the bar. No harm though. The bar patron shoved the drunk away. The drunk staggered back to the safety of the building.
“If we see a crime, will you arrest the guy?”
“I’m off duty, Eric; I guarantee you I won’t.”
“You mean you’ll just let it happen? A crime?”
“It’s like rebounding in basketball—if you go after every one you’ll get tired and pretty soon you’ll start missing some that are your responsibility. You play basketball?”
“I’m not into team sports. But I know what you mean.”
Haggerty lit another Camel.
Eric continued to stare around, trying to spot something. “I wonder, when will we see a crime?”
“We already saw one.”
Eric looked at the older man.
“The drunk,” Haggerty explained patiently, indicating the man leaning against the building. “He just picked the pocket of the man who left the bar.”
“You’re serious.’’
“Indeed.”
“Damn, and I missed it.” Eric said and he shook his head. “Boy, do I have a lot to learn.”
Haggerty gestured toward the newsstand. The owner was old and small, and needed a cane to hobble around. What business he was doing was in the Sunday Daily News. “See the owner?”
“I do, yessir.”
Now he gestured again. “Now, see those two playing with the spaldeen at the corner?”
“The little kids without the shirts you mean?”
“They are little but Hispanics tend to be. But I’d guess they were your age. Damn close anyway. And I’d also guess that when they feel so inclined, they will mug and rob the newsstand owner.”
“He’s a cripple.”
“That shows how smart they are. Nobody in his right mind is going to mug Bronko Nagurski. Let me explain about muggers to you, Eric. Except for the fact that it’s low in social prestige, it’s not a bad occupation. Short hours, excellent wages, the taxes are very low. What muggers want to avoid is just what the rest of us want to avoid: trouble. Heaven for a mugger is an old woman alone on crutches.”
“And you don’t think we could stop them?”
“You can’t stop crime, Eric—that’s why the job is so draining —it flows on over you. And the tide is rising.”
Eric was silent a moment and then began to laugh. “I was just thinking of a story—true story—about this famous legendary con man named Yellow Kid Weil. Wore yellow kid gloves. Immaculate gentleman. And he used to work the ocean liners. First class. Sail over, become friends with someone rich, and then cheat them in a card game the last night or get them to invest in something not so legal. And this one trip on the last night he had this old fat guy ripe and ready and they’re starting a rummy game when Weil looks up and this other con man is signaling to him to come over. Weil tries to ignore him but this other con man comes right up to the table and says, “I’m glad you two know each other’— the old fat guy was a con man too.” Eric laughed again, forced it, then went silent. “Now why did I tell that?”
Haggerty sat there smoking. Ahead of them, in the next block, a number of bottles crashed against the pavement.
“I guess I was thinking what if the other guy was a pickpocket too.”
The two shirtless Puerto Ricans moved a few steps closer to the newsstand, playing expert catch with the spaldeen.
“I still don’t get it.”
“I was trying to make everything come out all right I guess. If they’d picked each other’s pockets, no one would have lost.”
More bottles shattered in the darkness up ahead.
“Eric, what the hell are you doing here?”
“You mean why did I decide to be a policeman? Well, there were a bunch of us at Swarthmore interested in the Peace Corps —after graduation, you understand—for the experience. And …” He stopped now, looking at a tall beautiful woman who exited the dance hall by the bar. “That black lady’s a whore, obviously, right? Or a madam do you think?”
“Too young and pretty for a madam, and she’s also a man.” Haggerty pointed. “Transvestite bar.”
Eric just stared at her.
“What’s wrong with the Peace Corps?”
“Nothing—nothing at all—but the Philadelphia police— Swarthmore’s not far from Philly—they’ve got a new recruiting program and they sent a guy to campus—not too warmly received But he said, ‘Why do you want to go across the world to help out in some jungle? Believe me, we’ve got plenty of jungles at home.’ Plenty of jungles at home—I couldn’t get
that phrase to leave me. So I went in and talked to some police in Philadelphia—groundbreaking questions, that kind of thing. And it seemed logical. Not in Philly, I’m a local, I want to work here.”
“You do well in school?”
“Well, I ought to, I put in the hours.”
“A’s?”
“Sure, but my dad expects it, my mom too, Karen does good work, no reason for me not to.”
“Eric—I really like you—I don’t know you well, but you seem very open, honest, and full of potential—so go to med school.”
“Like a good boy, you mean? And spend the rest of my life listening to loonies? Sorry—I know it’s old hat to you, but I can’t think of much more exciting than bringing in a criminal, a guy who’s caused pain, that’s something.”
“You don’t bring them in!—and if you do, their lawyers get them out—mostly you collar acidheads, dropouts, dammit!” and he stopped suddenly, rolled down his window.
Gunfire from across the street, from inside Earl’s.
Haggerty sat there.
Now screams.
“Shit,” Haggerty said as he got his gun out, whirled on Eric. “You listen to me—you lock this door when I’m out and you sit here. You don’t move, got that? You sit right here until I’m back. Don’t do a fucking thing but sit/99
Eric swallowed, made a nod.
Haggerty threw the car door open and took off across the street.
Eric reached over, slammed the door shut, locked it.
Haggerty moved to the sidewalk, slowed, then made a quick move inside.
Gone.
Alone and white in Harlem, in the middle of an angry summer steamer, Eric was crushed to find—no question, no lying about it —panic building.
Ridiculous.
Now stop it!
In the first place, the car was locked. He was safe inside. Point two: Mr. Haggerty was just across the street. True he was out of sight and true again, perhaps even now he was engaged in a gunfight, but there was no disputing the fact that he was. around, he was in the area, and he was not about to let anything happen to Eric.
And of course and most of all, Eric could take care of himself.
He was six one, almost two, and he weighed a solid one ninety-five. He was athletic. And he could box. His right was lethal and his left was well formed and the gym coach at Swarthmore had told him to try out for the Golden Gloves, that he had a real shot, if he put in the hours, at being champion.
So how could a locked-in potential Golden Glover with an armed protector feel anything but calm.
Ridiculous indeed.
Eric stared across the street toward Earl’s, where the screams were building. A growing crowd filled the sidewalk sprawling into the street itself.
Tick tick tick—
—Eric whirled.
The transvestite stood outside the window tapping his long nail against the glass. Tick tick tick.
Eric ignored him.
Tick tick tick.
Eric turned his back to the window and concentrated on Earl’s across the street.
One more tick tick tick and then silence.
Eric kept his attention on Earl’s until it was safe. Then he kept it there a while longer. When he finally turned and faced front the two Spanish kids had moved in closer to the newsman with the cane. And the transvestite was sitting on the hood looking in at him through the windshield.
“Get off,” Eric said.
The transvestite cupped his hand over one ear and shook his head.
“Off,” Eric repeated, louder.
The black man still kept his hand by his ear. Now he pointed to the window and gestured for Eric to roll it down.
Eric hesitated, then rolled it down. Two inches. No more.
“Let’s you and me boogie,” the transvestite said, getting off the car, leaning by the window.
“I’m not really much in the mood for boogieing, sir,” Eric said.
“Sir!” the transvestite exploded. “What you mean ‘sir?’
“Ma’am, I meant ma’am, I’m sorry,” Eric said quickly.
The black man put his lips by the window opening. He whispered, “I’ll take you places you never been.”
“I can’t leave the car just now,” Eric said. “I’m meeting my wife and children here any minute.”
“Roun’ the worl’—over the falls—”
Eric made no reply, just watched the Spanish kids tossing their spaldeen. The news dealer with the cane was eyeing them now.
Eric felt the dark fingers now gently caressing his cheek. He cried out, felt foolish, but there it was.
“God sure been good to you,” the black man said. Then he snaked his thin arm back through the window, looked at Eric for a long moment before turning, walking pridefully back into the bar.
The crowd at Earl’s was even larger now. But the screaming had peaked, and there were no more gun sounds.
Why did you cry out like a baby? Jesus. A skinny sick guy and you with a right cross that can drop people. With a jab that sets them up and a cross that puts them down. And still you cry out like a jerk.
More action from Earl’s now—people from Eric’s side of the street began crossing over in larger numbers.
Which meant there were very few people left around the newsstand.
Eric_ watched.
The two kids were very close to the newsstand now.
I wish Mr. Haggerty were here, Eric thought.
The tiny old black newsstand owner glanced around. He busied himself straightening the stacks of papers. But one hand was very tight around his cane.
The two kids stopped playing catch. One of them tucked the spaldeen into his jeans pocket.
And now the sidewalk was empty.
Probably they won’t do anything, Eric thought. Probably they’re just two kids out for a night on the town. Probably they’ll see all the action on the sidewalk across the street and go over and see what’s going on. Probably… Probably …
I don’t want to watch, Eric decided and he turned his body away and stared across the street.
The newsstand was not that far from the car, just up ahead at the corner and Eric had to concentrate very hard on the crowd across the street in order not to be upset by the cry that came, he assumed, from the old man with the cane.
Now another cry.
Eric studied the crowd across the street. No one paid any attention to what was happening at the newsstand; no one even turned.
He’d fought enough to know what punches sounded like, and he stared across, listening to the blows coming from the direction of the newsstand.
Please, Mr. Haggerty, Eric thought. You must hurry.
Now the sound of a body hitting hard against pavement.
Eric was burning up in the car, so he pulled his tie off hard and managed to get out of his suit coat. He unbuttoned his shirt at the neck and then when there was nothing more to do, he whirled in the seat and stared front.
The old man was trying to rise from the sidewalk. His cane was beside him and they had him down and one of them was going through his pockets and as Eric watched a handful of bills came into view and then they were going for his other pockets but they didn’t produce much and one of them held him down while the other grabbed some magazines and then they were done and ready to go—
—but the old man held tight to one of their ankles.
“Leave him alone!” Eric shouted from the car.
The one with the magazines started off and the one with the money wanted to—
—but the old man would not release his hold on the ankle.
The one with the magazines came back and the one who was held tried to kick with his free leg—
—but the grip remained.
At least it did until the one with the magazines picked up the cane and brought it down across the face of the old man, and Eric said “aw shit” and threw the door open and took off and the kids saw him and took off too, and they could fly and this was their tu
rf and in a blink they were around the corner and tearing up the dark street but they were slow, compared to Eric they were molasses and probably they sensed that because halfway up the block they turned, racing into a deserted lot
Eric trapped them easily. They were caught in the farthest. corner where the walls of the lot connected, and they were breathing heavily. Eric waited for his eyes to get better accustomed. He kept ten feet away, watching them until one of them started screaming, “This got nothin’ to do with you, get the fuck out of it”
Eric felt he had to say something and he hoped he didn’t blow things now. It was important they realize they were in trouble, they had no choices left, they were his to do with just what he wanted—only he wasn’t exactly sure how you got all that across. His throat felt dry and he hoped it wouldn’t squeak on him. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he said easily in the night, and it sounded—he had to admit it—it sounded so goddam authentic and tough Cagney would have nodded in approval. No bluster. Not yet. Just authority—”Don’t make me hurt you” implied that it was up to them, if they wanted pain, he could deliver it.
In the dark, the two kids looked at each other. “You’re asking for it, asshole,” the one with the magazines said, but his tone was already weaker than before.
“Give me what you stole,” Eric said, again quietly.
Again they looked at each other and there were bricks scattered on the floor of the lot and suddenly the one with the money stooped and grabbed for xme and Eric boomed ‘77I tear you fucking apart you give me trouble—”
The brick might have been on fire he dropped it that quickly.
God damn, Eric thought, it worked.
“This ain’t your business,” the magazine kid said.
But there was whining in his voice now.
“I want it all, everything you took.”
“Can we keep the Playboy’—V
“You keep nothing, I want it now!”
“Okay, shit, okay,” the money kid said, and he nervously walked to Eric, held out the cash, and as Eric took it the magazine kid handed over the magazines and the money kid kicked Eric’s testicles up toward his stomach and in the beat or two that exists between the blow and the pain, Eric began to say “Now get out of here” except the “nnnn” was all he had time to begin before his hands went to his genitals and he pitched forward onto the bricks, the world white now with pain. He was aware as they knelt and scrabbled for their belongings, and nothing he could do would stop them, and after they were standing he wasn’t sure which of them began kicking his ribs in and which was the one stomping his face but he did what he feebly could, one arm trying to protect the body, the other the head, and did they enjoy it, Eric wondered, the world whiter, it seemed like they did, and would they stop, Eric wondered, the white shrouding him now and maybe they never would have if Haggerty hadn’t come.