He flicks on the lamp for comfort. He watches his face in the window. His laugh begins slowly, like a murmur. Eventually it’s loud enough to wake the birds.
The near remote
by Jeffery Renard Allen
35th & Michigan
The Police Superintendent sat bent forward at his sturdy mahogany desk, a big man in a big leather armchair, framed by a floor-to-ceiling window looking out onto the vast and vicious wonders of the city. He was reading a file, which lay flat upon the leather-topped surface of the desk.
Ward slammed the door shut.
The Police Superintendent raised his eyes from the file and saw menace, tall and bony, standing in his office. If he was surprised that someone had been watching him, he didn’t let on. He wet his thumb against the blotter of his tongue, picked up the file between wet thumb and dry forefinger, and placed it on top of a stack of papers at the corner of the desk. He curled his small and enormously pink lips into a smile, placed both palms against the desk edge, and scooted his chair backwards. Then he gripped the padded armrests, rose up from the seat, and came around the desk, carpet muffling the sound of his white cordovans shined with a high polish, and came over to where Ward stood, with a hand extended in welcome.
“Ward,” he said. “You’ve decided to come.”
“I had to see you for myself,” Ward said.
“Pleased to have you with us.”
Ward stuck a finger inside his nose and worked it around. Only then did he offer to shake hands. The Police Superintendent looked at the finger, looked Ward straight in the face. Ward seized one cuff of the Police Superintendent’s white linen shirt — so out of season, the thinnest fabric in the coldest weather — and cleaned the finger on the sleeve.
To Ward’s regret, the Police Superintendent slowly raised his line of sight, offering a face lacking any signs of anger or distress or revulsion, a face betraying no emotion other than authority and duty. He spoke to Ward in polite, even tones, asking that he be seated, motioning to a leather armchair directly in front of his desk. Cautiously Ward settled into the chair. The Police Superintendent walked over to a second picture window and stood looking out, dust drifting like unmoored astronauts in two smoky shafts of sunlight on either side of him.
“A damn nice secretary you have,” Ward said.
The Police Superintendent seemed to be looking off at a skyscraper surprisingly small and dull in the afternoon sun. He was a heavy man, so heavy that he might at any moment sink through the floor and plunge forever downward.
“‘Go right in.’ Damn nice. It can’t be easy for her.”
The Police Superintendent made slow steps away from the window, then sat down leisurely in his big leather armchair, eyes trained on the desk, giving Ward time to study the lumpy mass of his head. Light from the window gave the desk a liquid glow. The Police Superintendent joined the fingers of both hands into a meaty cup. He cleared his throat.
“Might we get to it.” He lifted his eyes to Ward’s face. “I cannot stress enough” — gesturing with his hands — “how important it is that we follow our plan to the letter” — his palm held upward in supplication. “Unless you can adduce any legitimate grounds for some fresh course of action.” He locked his fingers before him on the desk.
Ward watched him in silence.
“I am sorry. Profoundly sorry,” the Police Superintendent said. “Every one of us should be entitled to a private corner in the garden.” He shook his head, weary, defeated. “Alas—” He parted his hands, nothing to offer. “If your associates had been more careful in their actions, perhaps we could—”
“My associates?”
“Yes. Speaking plainly.”
“Let me ask you a question. Did you spend your lunch hour bobbing for turds?”
Just like that. He began unbuttoning his black overcoat.
The Police Superintendent watched the unbuttoning without comment, blinking each time a button snapped free. He stirred heavily in his seat, then pushed himself up from his chair and walked to a third massive window. He extended his arm stiffly out in front of him as if preparing to bend it in salute, caught the soiled shirt cuff between the thumb and forefinger of his other hand, unsnapped the button, and rolled the sleeve to the elbow, revealing dense wiry hair on his wrist and forearm. He did the same with the other sleeve. Stood still a moment with his arms hanging at his sides. He brought both hands to his chest and pulled violently at his shirt, buttons catapulting into air, like some high-story flasher exhibiting himself to the world. He twisted backwards and began freeing himself of the shirt, tilting his torso to one side then the other until both sleeves were free. That done, he crumpled up the shirt between both hands, his violent belly hanging like a mound of descending lava over his belt, and moved forward, the sausage rolls of his sides quivering with each step and the shirt trailing along the carpet behind him. He dropped the garment into a wicker wastebasket and resumed his station behind his desk, hands folded in his lap, watching Ward with murderous hate. His chest rising and falling. He cupped his hands underneath his belly and began rocking in the chair. Continued:
“As you know, in this suspect we are dealing with a man who has been fortunate enough to travel in some of our most distinguished circles, not to mention the access he has...”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ward said. “Would you take my hand in marriage?”
The Police Superintendent grabbed the edges of the desk and leaned in close. “Look! I am appealing to your—”
“Don’t refuse me.”
“—better nature.” His nostrils blew hot air onto Ward’s face. “A selfless act. Lives in the balance. After all, you gain as well. Your time to shine.”
“So thoughtful of you. Such abundance of caution and concern.”
The Police Superintendent glared at Ward and remained poised over his desk like some indecisive highwire acrobat.
It was cold where Ward lay. The yellowed glow of streetlamps seeping under and around the edges of the window shade, frail wisps of light spinning like ballet dancers in the dark. A reserved wind tapped modest applause against the paned glass. He shut his eyes and let the world spin free. The next thing he knew he had spun out of orbit, his brain ricocheting off the black walls of his skull. He opened his eyes and found darkness in slow dissolution.
“Everything all right in there?”
A hand pounded muffled words into the door.
Ward turned his face in the direction of the sound. No visual evidence that the door even existed, but he knew it was there. Shadowy crabs crawling in the strip of light under its frame.
He listened to the wet whine of the rusty radiator.
“Hey!”
“Just relax.”
“The Police Superintendent will be here soon.”
“Just relax.”
He turned back the bedcovers. Shivered to a cold greeting of air. Kicked his feet from under the sheets. Sat upright in the bed, a cot really, a narrow iron frame small and set low. The lax springs sagging under his insignificant weight. He placed his feet on the cold wooden floor. Bent forward and fingered the shade, which snapped back upon its roller, allowing morning light to rush like gatecrashers into the room. He shut his eyes.
“Hey!”
“Relax. I’ll be right out.” Ward placed a blanket across his shoulders.
Hands shoved in his pockets, a young officer who had spent the entire night outside Ward’s door sat slumped over on a stool wearing his department-issued cap and jacket, the side of his young face barely visible in sixty-watt gloom. He turned his head and peered up at Ward, one corner of his mouth twisted as if he were biting down on something. The sight of Ward changed the look in his eyes, the angle of his chin, the red polish of his cheeks. He pulled his hands from his pockets, sat as straight as he possibly could on the stool, and redirected his gaze to a neutral wall.