“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. A heavy man, so heavy that he might at any moment fall 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, toward his desk, 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, to penetrate the armored skin and gaze into the black skull, where a dry cloud hovered, the gathered force of will, reason, and worry. Light from the window gave the desk a liquid glow, an ashtray floating there like a water lily. The police superintendent pushed his long thick fingers into the leather desktop — worms burrowing into black earth, the material stretching and squeaking — then joined the fingers of both hands in a meaty cup. He cleared his throat.
“Might we get to it.”
Ward said nothing, his seeking gaze ranging over the police superintendent’s oddly constructed face. A diminishing crop of brown hair. Small brown eyes under an overhang of heavy eyelids and thick brows, so deeply embedded that they seemed to be sinking into the quicksand of fat-headed flesh. A swollen church bell of a nose. A broad yard of chin. And large ears that flapped in butterfly-like delight at the slightest movement.
The police superintendent 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. Every one of us should be entitled to a private corner in the garden.” The police superintendent shook his head, weary, defeated. “Alas …” He parted his hands, nothing to offer.
Ward wet his lips. “The wonder of it,” he said. “Your face takes me back. Alluvial. Ah, the joys of evolution.”
The lines in the police superintendent’s face grew tight, as if disparate threads of yarn had been yanked all at once. “If your associates had been more careful in their actions, perhaps we could—”
“My associates?”
“Yes. Speaking plainly.”
“Allow me a question.”
The police superintendent spoke no reply, watching Ward with a look of come-what-may.
“Did you by any chance spend your beloved lunch hour bobbing for ripe, juicy 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, his profiled face metallic and gray in skyscraper glitter, his gold necklace no longer visible to the casual or curious observer, safe under the depths of his collar. 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, then rolled the sleeve up his arm — dense wiry hair on the wrist, now the forearm — to the elbow. He did the same with the other sleeve. Stood still a moment with his arms hanging at his sides. Then he brought both hands to his chest and pulled violently at his shirt like some high-story flasher exhibiting himself to the world, buttons catapulting into air. He twisted backward and began freeing himself of the shirt — thin gold necklace, bare heavy shoulders, bare meaty back and arms — 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 hatred.
Ward gripped the arms of his chair and scooted to the edge of the seat, face extended over the desk, in breathing distance. Immobilized, the police superintendent continued to glare at him, even as the sun began to suddenly shift its position, a spotlight pivoting around the police superintendent until it took up a new station, where it beamed down at him from a furious angle and fired his face, brick like in ever-brightening colors. This police superintendent, singled out for illumination, his chest rising and falling, crashing waves on his chest. After some time, his posture eased, his shoulders relaxed. He cupped his hands underneath his belly and began rocking in the chair, his nose hairs visible one moment, gone the next, visible, gone, and so on.
“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”—he stroked hairs curling out of his chest like barbed wire—“access he has—”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ward said.
At these words, the police superintendent rocked to a halt and fixed his gaze on Ward.
“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 into 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 poised over his desk, staring at Ward, indignation, abhorrence, annihilation.
It was cold where he lay, and under his head was a cold pillow. The yellowed glow of street lamps seeping under and around the edges of the window shade, frail wisps of light spinning like ballet dancers in the dark, with a reserved wind tapping 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. He turned the cold pearl of his pillowed face in the direction of the sound. Still no visual evidence that the door even existed, but he knew it was there, shadows crawling — black crabs — in the strip of light under its frame.
He listened to the wet whine of the rusty radiator. Snuggled under the covers, nose-deep in layered warmth, peeking over the top quilt at the shadowed ceiling.
“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 out from under the sheets. Sat upright in the bed — a cot, really, a narrow iron frame, small and set low — lax springs sagging under his insignificant weight. Placed his feet on the cold wooden floor. Seeing the thin window shade aglow with faint illumination, he tried unsuccessfully to convince himself that he felt its warmth on his skin. He bent forward and fingered the shade, which snapped back up on its roller, allowing morning light to rush into the room like a gate crasher — he shut his eyes.