“And you didn’t go with him.”
Evans shook his head. “I tried to, sir, but all the salesmen was tryin’ to get in too, and the fat gal was pushin’ them away. She’s a good pusher.”
“This whole God-damned operation has a curse on it,” Captain Davidson said bitterly. “It’s already taken ten times as long as it should have and used up ten times too many men. Now this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You looked like you were going to say something, Evans. Spit it out.”
“No, sir. I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’.”
The captain jerked his head toward the construction vehicles parked along the curb. “Where are the operators?”
“Down the street, sir, gettin’ some coffee.”
“I don’t blame them.”
“No, sir.”
Captain Davidson walked to the stoop and leaned forward to peer at the door.
“Watch it, sir. It’s icy.”
“So I see.”
“Think we’ll get much more snow, sir?”
Captain Davidson turned around to look at Evans. “Not before we have them out of there, no. Not before I have the whole God-damned bunch of you screw-offs back on the job. Who’s got the ax?”
None of the policemen spoke.
“You heard me. Somebody hit this door with an ax. Williams, you beaned Proudy with it. Where is it now?”
Williams muttered.
“Speak up! If you’re afraid to swing it again, I’ll do it myself. Where is it?”
“Somebody got it.”
A slightly disheveled man in blue spectacles separated himself from the knot of salesmen. “A little guy with thick glasses got it, Captain.”
“What?”
“This officer was somewhat dazed—I think we all were—and this little guy came up to the officer and said, ‘I’ll take that,’ and took the ax from his hand. That was the last I saw of it.”
“Who are you?”
It was said briskly and even abruptly, but the man in the blue spectacles stepped forward smiling. “Nathaniel Glasser, Captain.” Like a stage magician producing a miraculous bouquet, he extended his card. “I’m an investment counselor. Possibly you’ve heard of us—Papke, Mittleman, Glasser & Dornberg. We got our clients into women’s preperfumed bras right at the beginning. They made millions, and we steered them into tax shelters. Our own percentage is very small, of course.” The card was in Captain Davidson’s hand. Glasser stepped back, still smiling.
“The sunlight troubles your eyes, Mr. Glasser?”
“Hm? Oh, you mean these?” Glasser removed his blue spectacles. “Yes, it does. When the sun’s out, I mean. Reflects off the snow. I’m not wanted, if that’s what you’re thinking, Captain.”
“No, I suppose not. The sun’s not out now, Mr. Glasser.”
“They have my correction,” Glasser said, and replaced the blue spectacles.
Captain Davidson turned away. “Evans, you’re pretty big. I want you and Williams here up on that stoop. You two—” he gestured toward a pair of policemen who had been watching the salesmen. “You go around back. You, Peters,” he pointed to his driver. “You come—”
At that moment, the door of the Free house opened; Mick Malloy stepped out, closing it behind him.
“What are you waiting for, you dumb bastards! Evans! Get that door!”
Evans lunged for it, slipped on the ice, and caught himself by grabbing the knob. After a moment he got his knees under him and tried to turn it. “Locked again, Captain.”
“Yeah, I bet.” Captain Davidson stalked across to Malloy. “Who’re you?”
“Eighteen years on the force,” Malloy said. “Seven in plain clothes. I’m Mick Malloy. Used to be Eleventh Precinct, Captain.”
“You live in there?”
“’Fraid not, Captain. I was just in there talking to Sergeant Proudy; I’m his insurance advisor.” Malloy’s hand dipped into an inner pocket and came out with an official-looking document. His eyes sought out a red-faced man in the crowd. “I just signed Sergeant Proudy up for twenty-five thousand whole life.”
The red-faced man stepped forward, swinging his attache case. “You signed him while he was lying there bleeding? You dirty cocksucker!”
“He was anxious to sign,” Malloy said happily. “He wanted to sign, Steve. You should have heard him thank me afterwards. I could have made it fifty. I’m kind of sorry I didn’t.”
“Suppose he dies?” Marshal asked angrily. (Captain Davidson watched the two of them in silence.)
“He won’t.”
“The hell you say! You’re no doctor.”
“The doctor’s a doctor. He’s got him in there taking stitches in his head. He’s not yelling about oxygen and transfussions, is he?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Captain Davidson said, “You said you didn’t live there, Malloy.”
“I don’t, Captain.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if we had a look at your keys, would you? Just friendly. You say you’re an ex-cop. You ought to know how it is.”
“I’d like the keys back, Captain. I hope you’ll keep the card. You know how it is.”
“I don’t. I never sold insurance.”
A shivering man in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt appeared at Malloy’s elbow. “Did you say twenty-five thousand whole life?”
Captain Davidson tossed the keys to Evans on the stoop.
“Double indemnity. Beneficiary’s his wife.”
“That’s what I thought I heard,” the shivering man said. He was nursing a styrofoam coffee container. “One of the guys was talking about it when I came up. I had him—” He paused to wipe his nose.
Glasser pushed him aside. “Look, you’re leaving, right? Malloy, right?” He thrust out a hand, and Malloy took it. “Nat Glasser. You got nothing to lose, so tell me. What kind of a presentation did he go for? Man-of-the-world? Serious? We’ve got something opening up that—”
“How do you know I don’t have a concussion?” Sergeant Proudy asked argumentatively.
“Do I look like God?” the old doctor said. “I don’t know.” As a matter of fact, he did look like God. He was a small, elderly man who sported a little white beard and an even whiter mustache; the collar of a tattersall shirt—an almost infallible sign of the presence of deity—peeped above the collar of his overcoat.
“Suppose I do have a concussion?”
“You’re blacking out? Seeing spots?”
“No.”
“Dizzy?”
“Not much.”
“Your fingers are numb. You drop things.”
“Not since I dropped that flashlight, and that was before I got hit.”
“Then supposing you have a concussion, I’m ordering you to go home and go to bed. In the morning, see your regular doctor and tell him what happened.”
“That’s what you said before.”
“I noticed it myself.” The doctor glanced at his curved needle and put it away. “Concussion is a bruising of the brain. It can be so slight there’s practically no symptoms at all. The main thing is to leave it alone until it gets better. Don’t play football. If you see somebody trying to hit you with a ball bat, duck. (Nurse, let me have some tape.) If you want to find out for certain if you have a concussion, we’ll perform an autopsy. If you think you might have a fractured skull, go to the emergency room of the nearest hospital and tell them that. They’ll zap your head with a few X-rays, and it’s a poor X-ray man that can’t find a little crack someplace if he looks hard enough. He’ll tell you to give up football until the bone knits. Okay, all done, put on your hat and you can go home.”
“You’re through bandaging?” Sergeant Proudy’s fingers groped at the gauze.
“Why do you think I was pulling you around while I was talking to you? I warn you, if you press it, it’s going to hurt.”