‘Like I told you,’ Brown said, ‘he’s telling us to stick our guns up our asses.’
‘No,’ Carella said. ‘He’s telling us he’s been inside eleven different squadrooms.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Parker said. ‘I know blues who pack the Special.’
‘That ain’t regulation,’ Brown said.
‘As a backup,’ Parker said. ‘Anyway, what are you, a fuckin’ Boy Scout?’
The fact remained that the Detective Special was the weapon of choice for most detectives in this city. All three detectives sitting there at Carella’s desk were carrying a gun similar to the ones spread on its top like a small arsenal.
‘Only an asshole gets his gun ripped off,’ Parker said, and wondered if Carella and Brown had been invited to the lieutenant’s party tomorrow night. ‘What we oughta do, we oughta wrap them like presents, send them back to those assholes,’ he said.
And wondered again if he was expected to bring a present.
I don’t even like the lieutenant, he thought.
* * * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Deaf Man would have been the first to agree that most catastrophes were caused by the fools of the world. He would not have dreamed, however, that sometimes a fool can prevent a catastrophe, thereby rising above his lowly estate to achieve the stature of a hero.
Genero’s first opportunity to become a hero came at two forty-five on the afternoon of January 5, the twelfth day of Christmas. The city had by then taken down all its Christmas trimmings. It looked somehow naked, but there were probably eight million stories in it anyway. The temperature, hovering at twelve degrees Fahrenheit—which was twelve above zero here, but approximately eleven below zero in Celsius-speaking countries—did much to discourage the fanciful notion (twelve days of Christmas indeed!) that the holiday season had lingered beyond New Year’s Day. The citizens knew only that winter was here in earnest, and Easter was a long way away. In between there’d be the short holiday crumbs thrown to a chilled populace: Lincoln’s Birthday, Valentine’s Day, Washington’s Birthday, Saint Patrick’s Day—with only Washington’s Birthday officially observed. For now, the city and the months ahead looked extraordinarily bleak.
The cops were nervous.
Only three days ago nine police cars had been blown up.
This did not indicate an attitude of civic-mindedness on the part of the populace.
In some quarters of the city, in fact, some citizens were heard to remark that it served the cops right. Now they knew what it felt like to be victimized. Maybe now they’d do something about the goddamn crime in this city. Maybe they’d make it safe to ride the subways again. What patrol cars had to do with subways, no one bothered clarifying. The talk was all about the shoe being on the other foot, and turnabout being fair play, and what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. The people of this city, even when police cars weren’t being blown up, felt ambivalent about cops. If they came home one night to find their apartment burglarized, the first thing they did was call the cops. And then complain later about how long it took for them to get there and about how they’d never recover the stolen goods anyway. In this city a vigilante could become a hero, even if he was a fool.
To the cops of the Eight-Seven, Genero was not a fool. The word was too elite for their vocabulary. Genero was a complainer and a whiner and an inefficient cop and a dope, but he was not a fool. Just a jackass. Not many of the detectives enjoyed being partnered with Genero. They felt, perhaps rightfully, that if push came to shove, Genero wasn’t the candidate they’d elect to help them out of a tight spot. A cop’s very life often depended upon the reaction time of his partner. How could you entrust your life to a man who couldn’t spell ‘surveillance?’ Or perhaps even ‘vehicle.’ Even the worst male chauvinist pig on the squad would have preferred being partnered with a woman rather than with Genero. Tell them that Genero was about to become a hero, and they’d have laughed in your face.
By two forty-five on the twelfth day of Christmas, Genero—because he’d done some splendid detective work at the office—was in possession of the lieutenant’s home number. He did not know what he would do if the lieutenant himself answered the phone, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He also did not know what he would call Harriet Byrnes if she answered the phone, but he guessed he would think of something.
A woman answered the phone.
‘Mrs. Byrnes?’ Genero said,
‘Yes?’ Harriet said.
‘This is Richard,’ he said.
He felt funny announcing himself as Richard, but that’s what she’d called him in the invitation, wasn’t it?
‘Who?’ she said.
‘Richard,’ he said.
‘Richard who?’ she said.
‘Genero. Detective Richard Genero,’ he said. ‘Detective/Third Grade Richard Genero.’
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘You know,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘I work with your husband,’ he said. ‘Peter Byrnes. Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes. Pete.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but he isn’t here just now. Can I...?’
‘Good,’ Genero said. ‘I mean, actually I wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Byrnes.’
‘Yes?’ Harriet said.
‘Am I expected to bring a present?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Tonight.’
‘What?’
‘To the party.’
There was a long silence on the line.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said. ‘What party do you... ?’
‘You know,’ he said, and almost winked.
There was another long silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I haven’t told anybody, you don’t have to worry,’ Genero said.
‘Told anybody what?’ Harriet said.
‘About the party.’
Harriet thought one of her husband’s detectives had flipped. That sometimes happened during the holidays. Cops had a habit of eating their own guns during the holidays. Some cops even ate their own guns on Halloween. But the holidays had come and gone, hadn’t they?
‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked.
‘Genero,’ he said. ‘You know. Richard.’