“The distribution is well organized, as you can imagine. From San Francisco the stuff goes all over the country by small planes, big planes, trucks, private cars, trains — in purses, pockets, and even in the mail. So the real place to stop it is before it gets distributed.” He smiled in a deprecating manner. “Now, I realize the stopping of smuggling is our baby in Customs, our responsibility. But I also know, and I’m sure you men know even better than I do, that every drug addict in the city is a danger to the citizenry, and that the responsibility for protecting the people on the streets and in their homes, is yours. Every hophead with a gun is a danger to each one of you personally. Every girl with a habit is going to try and satisfy that habit at any cost, and that means more work for you and your men. And that’s why we feel meetings of this type are necessary for us to develop proper — well, a proper climate for co-operation between us.”
Reardon raised his eyes to the ceiling. Imported drugs weren’t the problem; not to him. Simple acid was the baby that brought out the sweat. One week before he had answered a call from some neighbors who had heard shots in a pad on Haight; he had found a youngster sitting cross-legged on the floor facing two dead bodies, both sixteen years old, one male, Caucasian, one female, Oriental. When he took the gun from the boy and asked him why he had done it, the kid looked at him blankly and said, “Done what?” Reardon tried to remember a murder done under the influence of heroin, and couldn’t. Trying to raise the price of a lift, sure; but under the influence? But acid? Daily. It had raised the homicide rate in San Francisco almost 200 per cent in a year; and New York was no better. Nor Washington, Chicago, Seattle, Cleveland; Gobler’s Knob, Kentucky, too, in all probability, he thought and tried to listen to the man.
“And it isn’t just the smuggling of narcotics that has us worried. Weapons are coming into this country at a rate that would surprise many people, especially considering the ease with which local weapons are available. Air guns manufactured in Hong Kong — precious stones...”
Reardon fought down a desire to yawn. Weapons manufactured in Hong Kong? What about that kid with the knife manufactured in Waukegan? Or the nut who used a whiskey bottle to beat his woman to death? He didn’t break the seal because he wanted the weight; or maybe he just didn’t want to spill any so he could have a relaxing drink afterward. What wasn’t a weapon? He glanced at his watch and wondered if Dondero had gotten to the restaurant as yet, how long this pointless meeting would last — because the young man from Customs sounded as if he were just getting started — and why they bothered with meetings of this nature in the first place. Obviously, co-operation was necessary; it was pretty sad to think meetings had to be held to point up the fact. And as far as narcotics were concerned, the problem was mainly in junk a high school kid could cook up in the kitchen, but soft or hard the effects were more noticeable to the patrolman on the beat than to the Customs people. All that Customs lost when a shipment got by them was a bit of face; the patrolman often lost his life. If meetings asking for co-operation had to be held, the police should be holding them at the Customs Building over on Jackson Street; not here.
He started to yawn, saw Captain Clark from the corner of his eye sitting next to Assistant Chief Boynton watching him, and swallowed it. The telephone on a small table on the stage began to ring; almost without volition he found himself on his feet, trotting up the several steps, picking it up. The young man at the blackboard paused; twenty-four pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him.
“Yes?” He listened carefully, and then fought down a smile, managing to look quite serious. “What? I’ll be right there.”
He put the receiver down and walked down the steps, bending down to speak quietly into the captain’s ear.
“That was Communications. Some problem.”
“About what?”
Reardon managed to look concerned. He never believed in lying unnecessarily. “They didn’t go into any great detail. If it’s nothing important, I’ll be right back...”
“Right.” Captain Tower watched the young lieutenant march up the aisle and nodded his head. Lieutenant Jim Reardon had some of the faults that came from youth, but he was turning out to be a damned good police officer and the captain knew it.
Reardon kept a straight face as he made his escape, but it was an effort not to smile. He climbed the ramp to the door quietly, aware of the envious glances from the other men chained in the auditorium by the droning voice which had picked up its theme once again.
“Co-operation between the various government departments and the police officers involved in the day-to-day war against crime has been studied at great length, and it is our hope—”
The closing door cut off the speaker’s repetitious voice. Good-by, dear hearts and gentle suckers, Reardon thought with a grin and walked happily to the stairs. He trotted down them contently to the fourth floor and walked to the Communications room, pushing open the door. With any luck he could either handle the matter over the phone or assign somebody — which was the logical thing to do — and be on his way back to the Little Tokyo restaurant in a matter of minutes. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time; Don and Jan would still be on their first drink. Their meal would scarcely have been ordered as yet. And speaking of meals, he hadn’t eaten since lunch, and it had been an athletic — though rewarding — afternoon.
On the other hand he had been off base in leaving the auditorium for a call that had asked for someone in Traffic — but he had to get out or go mad. But somehow he would manage to square it and still be back with Jan in short order. God wouldn’t punish a nice guy like Lieutenant James Reardon, with a nice meal and nice drink and an extra nice girl waiting for him...
Tuesday — 8:50 P.M.
The Communications room was its usual misleading quiet. The switchboard beside the entering door was unattended; the sergeant in charge of the room was leaning over one of the six patrolmen manning the center table, watching the other’s face as he handled the call. The automatic tape recorders to one side started and stopped spasmodically as some calls were recorded and others were not. The red lights on the map of the city, denoting the patrol cars on calls, covered most of the board. The sergeant looked up at the opening of the door and came forward, frowning slightly.
“I thought that was you, Jim. But I need a traffic man.”
“What’s the problem?” Reardon smiled. “Make it an easy one. I’ve got a date and supper’s on the table.
“But this is for Traffic. An accident.”
Reardon shrugged. “So nobody else was available.” He glanced at the lighted board on the wall. “And it seems nobody’s available on the streets either. What is it?”
The sergeant shook his head.
“If you insist. It isn’t Homicide, but you’re a lieutenant and I’m only a sergeant, so who am I to argue? Frankly, I’m happy somebody’s here. From any department.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“I make no promises on this one,” the sergeant said, thankful a lieutenant — even from the wrong department — was involved. “I’ll take hysterical women any time.” He pointed to the switchboard. “Take it on the headphone, Jim.”
Reardon had a cold feeling he should have stayed in the meeting. “What’s it all about?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Some guy, he’s all shook up. He’s practically crying. He — excuse me, Lieutenant...” He stared up at the board, picked a microphone from beside the patrolman he was working with, and spoke into it. He set the microphone down. “That makes about the last car free. What a night! Not even nine o’clock and—” He realized he was straying from the subject. “Grab the phone. This character’s really rattled. Says he killed somebody.”