“We try not to kill anybody,” O’Sullivan said.
“You say so,” Davis said, noncommittally.
In the outer office, O’Sullivan slipped out of his topcoat and slung it over the counter, to be less encumbered. Davis wore no topcoat, just that spiffy blue suit with derby. O’Sullivan led the way through the little gate to the door that said MAYOR HAROLD M. SCHRIVER — PRIVATE.
Not knowing whether it was locked or not, O’Sullivan took no chances; the mayor had undoubtedly been informed by phone or otherwise of the impending danger outside and may well have locked himself in. So the rescuer raised his right foot and kicked it open, the door springing off its hinges and the pebbled glass shattering under the impact, chunks falling like melting sheets of ice.
His shoes crunching shards as he entered, O’Sullivan took position to the right of the doorway, leaving the left for Davis, who immediately followed, and both men fanned their guns around the startled tableau within.
John Looney, barely conscious, lay asprawl on his back on the leather couch against the left wall; his white shirt was spattered with blood, the brown suit rumpled, dark dried patches of blood on it, too. The mayor sat behind his desk, leaned back in his swivel chair, and his two bruisers, pockmarked Simmons and round-mugged Randell, sat in a pair of hardback chairs, facing the couch but not close by. All three men were in shirtsleeves, white cloth splotched with blood. The two burly cops were hunkered over, as if exhausted.
“Tuckered out, boys?” O’Sullivan said.
“Takes it out of you,” Davis said, “whompin’ a helpless old man.”
Simmons sneered and went for his holstered gun; the weapon was half out of its hip holster and the plainclothes dick was three-quarters up out of the chair when O’Sullivan’s .45 slug took the top of his head off and splashed a covered bridge depicted in watercolor on a 1922 calendar over the file cabinets. Small spatters of blood marked various dates.
The dead Simmons tumbled back over his chair and lay in an awkward V half between the toppled chair and the files.
“Jesus!” the mayor said, on his feet; but he had sense enough to lay his hands flat on the desktop.
The other cop, Randell, remained seated; his bland moon face was largely emotionless, though his left eye was twitching. Slowly he raised his hands.
Davis, near the door, threw his comrade a look that said, Try not to kill anybody, huh? which O’Sullivan ignored, saying, “Got a gun back there, Your Honor?”
The toad-like mayor, trembling with rage and fear, said, “Are you crazy? Out of your minds?”
“We’re Looney,” Davis said, gold teeth glittering.
Schriver was sputtering, words rushing out: “You don’t just waltz in the mayor’s office and start shooting the place up! There’s forty cops downstairs, you fools! You killed one of their brothers! You’ll fry for this.”
“Those forty cops,” O’Sullivan said, “have their hands full with two or three thousand voters who want your fat ass out from behind that desk... Speaking of which, go stand by the corpse and put your hands up. High.”
Swallowing, the now-speechless mayor did that very thing, revealing the front of his gray pants as glistening wet, which O’Sullivan found gratifying — the two Looney soldiers were making their point.
O’Sullivan got behind the desk and used the mayor’s phone to call the number Captain Doherty had provided.
In the meantime, Davis knelt beside Looney, whose face was battered and swollen, decorated with shades of blue, black, orange, and red, his eyes almost shut, like a heavyweight fighter in the final round.
O’Sullivan strolled from behind the desk to where the mayor stood; the stench of urine wasn’t pleasant.
“Harry,” O’Sullivan said, “it’s a damn shame a brave officer like Simmons there had to catch a stray bullet in this riot. He’ll deserve a commendation.”
The mayor’s chin was quivering. “You really think I’d cover for you, O’Sullivan?”
“Well, Harry, you best convince me such, right now — or both you and Randell can join Simmons in hell.”
The mayor whitened; then he lurched to one side and fell to his knees and vomited.
In a voice that tried to sound calm but had a warble in it, Randell said, “Harry’ll cover for you. If he doesn’t, I’ll kill him for you myself, Mike.”
“I believe you,” O’Sullivan said. Then to the mayor, he said, “Stand up, Harry.”
The smell in the enclosed space was awful.
Davis glanced over with his face balled up. “What the hell did you have for supper, Harry? Christ!”
The mayor got to his feet, looking less than dignified in his pissed pants and with puke-stubble around his mouth.
But doing his best, the mayor said, “It’s... it’s sad to lose a fine... fine man like Lieutenant Simmons to a... a... unruly mob.”
O’Sullivan nodded. “We’re in this together, Harry. You see, I’m doing you a favor.”
“A... a favor?”
“That’s right. That’s why Chief Cox paved the way for this.”
The mayor couldn’t hold back a sneer at word of this predictable betrayal.
“If those thousands rush this building,” O’Sullivan said, “and find out what you and your boyos did to John Looney... they’ll lynch you, sure.”
The mayor frowned in the realization of the truth of these words.
“Both of you,” O’Sullivan said, throwing a glance at the surviving dick. “The way Simmons went out will start to look merciful.”
The mayor nodded.
His hands still up, Randell said, “You’re right, Mike. For God’s sake, get John outa here.”
Davis was looking through the open door into the outer office. “John’s ride is here,” he said.
“Okay,” he said to Davis. “Let’s you and me drunk-walk John out to the stretcher — no need for another witness to this tragedy... Harry, I’d advise dumping your boy on the street somewhere.”
The mayor swallowed and nodded.
Randell said, “I’ll handle it personally, Mike. Nobody but us here in this room will know.”
“That’s how I want it,” O’Sullivan said.
Looney’s two men, each with a gun in one hand, got on either side of their barely conscious boss and eased him to his limp feet.
From the doorway, as he hauled Looney in tandem with Davis, O’Sullivan glanced back with a tiny smile, and said, “Gents? If you do decide to cross me, make sure you kill me. You wouldn’t like bein’ on my bad side.”
Within moments, Looney was on a stretcher that a young uniformed cop and Davis were bearing down the stairs. The gunfire outside had resumed, but it remained limited to shots in the air and high assaults on the building itself — posturing, so far, not open warfare. O’Sullivan, in his topcoat again, the .45 still in hand, followed as they carted the now unconscious Looney through the empty station to the garage and into the waiting paddy wagon.
Davis rode with Looney, and O’Sullivan sat in front while the young copper drove the bulky black vehicle. The garage was around back, and away from the crowd, so getting out to open and close the door — a chore O’Sullivan handled — was no problem. Pushing through the crowd itself was slow, and rioters banged on the metal sides, making dull clangs; but nobody took a shot, and in five minutes they were clear of the riot scene.
Just before they slipped away, however, O’Sullivan spotted a familiar face at the rear of the crowd: Connor Looney, watching the Maria depart. The Old Man’s son was not one of those yelling or waving a gun... In fact, Connor looked eerily calm, a terrible smile glazed on his face.
No man on earth, Michael O’Sullivan decided, had a worse smile than Connor Looney... nor was there likely any man who wore a smile more often, at such inappropriate times.