Delaney turned away and found himself facing a carton of theatrical costumes. He fumbled through them and thought they might have been left from some remote Christmas pageant performed in the Precinct house by neighborhood children, the costumes provided by the cops. But beneath the cheap cotton-sleazy to begin with and now rotting away-he found an ancient Colt revolver, at least 12 inches long, rusted past all usefulness, and to the trigger guard was attached a wrinkled tag with the faded inscription: “Malone’s gun. July 16, 1902.” Malone. Who had he been-cop or killer? It made no difference now.
He finally found what he was looking for: two stacks of relatively fresh cardboard cartons containing the last year’s garbage from the detective squad’s files. Each carton held folders in alphabetical order, but the cartons themselves were stacked helter-skelter, and Delaney spent almost an hour organizing them. It was then past noon, and he sat down on a nailed wooden crate (painted on the top: “Hold for Capt. Kelly”) and ate one of his sandwiches, spiced salami and thickly sliced Spanish onion on rye bread thinly spread with mayonnaise-which he dearly loved-and drank half his thermos of coffee.
Then he got out his list of names from Monica’s cards and went to work. He had to compare list to files, and had to work standing up or kneeling or crouching. Occasionally he would spread his arms wide and bend back his spine. Twice he stepped out into the hallway and walked up and down a few minutes, trying to shake the kinks out of his legs.
He felt no elation whatsoever when he found the first file labeled with a name on his list. The address checked out. He merely put the file aside and went on with the job. It was lumbering work, like a stake-out or a 24-hour shadow. You didn’t stop to question what you were doing; it was just something that had to be done, usually to prove the “no” rather than discover the “yes.”
When he finished the last file in the last cardboard carton, it was nearly 7:00 p.m. He had long ago finished his second sandwich and the remainder of his coffee. But he wasn’t hungry; just thirsty. His nostrils and throat seemed caked with dust, but the radiator had never stopped clanking, hissing steam and water, and his shirt was plastered to armpits, chest, and back; he could smell his own sweat.
He packed carefully. Three files. Three of the people on Monica’s cards had been involved in cases of “street justice.” He tucked the files carefully in his brief case, added the empty thermos and wax paper wrappings from the sandwiches. He pulled on jacket and overcoat, put on his hat, took a final look around. If he ever came back to the Two-five-one, the first thing he’d do was have this room cleaned up. He turned off the light, stepped out into the hallway, made certain the spring lock clicked.
He walked past the drunk tank and detention cells. Two of the drunks were gone, and only one cell was occupied. There was no uniformed officer about, but he might have gone upstairs for coffee. Delaney walked up the rickety staircase and was surprised to feel his knees tremble from tiredness. Lt. Dorfman was standing near the outside door, talking to a civilian Delaney didn’t recognize. When he passed, the Captain nodded, smiling slightly, and Dorfman nodded in return, not interrupting his conversation.
In his bedroom, Delaney stripped down to his skin as quickly as he could, leaving all his soiled clothing in a damp heap on the floor. He soaked in a hot shower and soaped his hands three times but was unable to get the grime out of the pores or from under his nails. Then he found a can of kitchen cleanser in the cabinet under the sink; that did the trick. After he dried, he used cologne and powder, but he still smelled the carbolic.
He dressed in pajamas, robe, slippers, then glanced at the bedside clock. Getting on…He decided to call Barbara, rather than wait until he went through the retrieved files. But when she answered the phone, he realized that she had drifted away. Perhaps it was sleep or the medication, perhaps the illness; he just didn’t know. She kept repeating his name. Laughing: “Edward!” Questioning: “Edward?” Demanding: “Edward!” Loving: “Ed-d-w-ward…”
Finally he said, “Good-night, dear,” hung up, took a deep breath, tried not to weep. In his study, moving mechanically, he mixed a heavy rye highball, then unpacked his briefcase.
Flashlight back to the drawer in the kitchen cabinet. Crumpled wax paper into the garbage can. Thermos rinsed out, then filled with hot water and left to soak on the sink sideboard. Ring of keys into his top desk drawer, to be handed over to Lt. Dorfman. Delaney knew now, in some realization, he would never again command the Two-five-one.
And the three files stacked neatly in the center of his desk blotter. He got a square of paper towel, wiped off their surface dust, stacked them neatly again. He washed his hands, sat down behind his desk, put on his glasses. Then he just sat there and slowly, slowly sipped away half his strong highball, staring at the files. Then he leaned forward, began to read.
The first case was amusing, and the officer who had handled the beef, Detective second grade Samuel Berkowitz, had recognized it from the start; his tart, ironic reports understated and heightened the humor. A man named Timothy J. Lester had been apprehended shortly after throwing an empty garbage can through the plate glass window of a Madison Avenue shop that specialized in maternity clothes. The shop was coyly called “Expectin’.” Berkowitz reported the suspect was “apparently intoxicated on Jamesons”-a reasonable deduction since next door to “Expectin’” was a tavern called “Ye Olde Emerald Isle.” Detective Berkowitz had also determined that Mr. Lester, although only 34, was the father of seven children and had, that very night, been informed by his wife that it would soon be eight. Timothy had immediately departed for “Ye Olde Emerald Isle” to celebrate, had celebrated, and on his way home had paused to toss the garbage can through the window of “Expectin’.” Since Lester was, in Berkowitz’ words, “apparently an exemplary family man,” since he had a good job as a typesetter, since he offered to make complete restitution for the shattered window, Detective Berkowitz felt the cause of justice would best be served if Mr. Lester was allowed to pay for his mischievous damage and all charges dropped.
Captain Edward X. Delaney, reading this file and smiling, concurred with the judgment of Detective Berkowitz.
The second file was short and sad. It concerned one of the few women included on Monica Gilbert’s list. She was 38 years old and lived in a smart apartment on Second Avenue near 85th Street. She had taken in a roommate, a young woman of 22. All apparently went well for almost a year. Then the younger woman met a man, they became engaged, and she announced the news to her roommate and was congratulated. She returned home the following evening to discover the older woman had slashed all her clothes to thin ribbons with a razor blade and had trashed all her personal belongings. She called the police. But after consultation with her fiance, she refused to press charges, moved out of the apartment, and the case was dropped.
The third file, thicker, dealt with Daniel G. Blank, divorced, living alone on East 83rd Street. He had been involved in two separate incidents about six months apart. In the first he had originally been charged with simple assault in an altercation involving a fellow tenant of his apartment house who apparently had been beating his own dog. Blank had intervened, and the dog owner had suffered a broken arm. There had been a witness, Charles Lipsky, a doorman, who signed a statement that Blank had merely pushed the other man after being struck with a folded newspaper. The man had stumbled off the curb and fell, breaking his arm. Charges were eventually dropped.