“Yes.”
“Don’t underestimate him. He has the confidence of the devil. He thought he’d wrap up the Lombard murder in record time. Score one for his side, and an important step toward becoming the next Commissioner. But in case he didn’t find Lombard’s killer, the Group would be left with their thumbs up their assholes. So I asked Thorsen and Johnson who were the best detectives in New York. They named you and Chief Pauley. Broughton took Pauley. Thorsen and Johnson asked for you, and we went along with them.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Our Group,” Alinski smiled. “Or call it our ‘Anti-Group.’ Anyway, here is the situation of this moment. At the meeting tonight, we think we can get Broughton dumped from Operation Lombard. No guarantee, but we think we can do it. But not if you go to him now and give him the killer.”
“Fuck Broughton,” Delaney said roughly. “I couldn’t care less about his ambitions, political or otherwise. I won’t go to him if you’ll just give me my three plainclothesmen on foot and two in an unmarked car.”
“But you see,” Alinski explained patiently, “we cannot possibly do that. How could we? From where? You don’t realize how big the Group has grown, how powerful. They are everywhere, in every precinct, in every special unit in the Department. Not the men; the officers. How can we risk alerting Broughton that we have the killer and want to put a watch on him? You know exactly what would happen. He would come galloping with sirens screaming, flashing lights, a hundred men and, when all the TV cameras were in place, he’d pull your man out of his apartment in chains.”
“And lose him in the courts,” Delaney said bitterly. “I’m telling you, at this moment you couldn’t even indict this man, let alone convict him.”
The Deputy Mayor looked at his watch again and grimaced. “We’re going to be late,” he said. He strode to the door, yanked it open. Thorsen and Johnson were waiting outside, in hats and overcoats. Alinski waved them into the dining room, then closed the door behind them. He turned to Delaney. “Captain,” he said. “Twenty-four hours. Will you give us that? Just twenty-four hours. After that, if Broughton still heads Operation Lombard, you better go to him and tell him what you have. He’ll crucify you, but he’ll have the killer-and the headlines-whether or not the man is ever convicted.”
“You won’t give the guards?” Delaney asked.
“No. I can’t stop you from going to Broughton right now, if that’s what you want to do. But I will not cooperate in his triumph by furnishing the men you want.”
“All right,” the Captain said mildly. He pushed by Alinski, Thorsen, Johnson, and pulled open the door. “You can have your twenty-four hours.”
He made his way through the hallway, crowded now with men pulling on hats and coats. He looked at no one, spoke to no one, although one man called his name.
Back in the dining room, Alinski looked at the two officers in astonishment. “He agreed so easily,” he said, puzzled. “Maybe he was exaggerating. Perhaps there is no danger tonight. He certainly didn’t fight very hard for the guards he wanted.”
Thorsen looked at him, then looked out into the hallway where the others were waiting.
“You don’t know Edward,” he said, almost sadly.
“That’s right,” Inspector Johnson agreed softly. “He’s going to freeze his ass off tonight.”
He wasn’t furious, wasn’t even angry. They had their priorities, and he had his. They had the “Group” and “Anti-Group.” He had Daniel G. Blank. It was interesting, listening to the Deputy Mayor, and he supposed their concern was important. But he had been in the Department a long time, had witnessed many similar battles between the “Ins” and the “Outs,” and it was difficult for him to become personally involved in this political clash. Somehow the Department always survived. At the moment, his only interest was Dan, his close friend Dan.
He walked home rapidly, called Barbara immediately. But it was Dr. Louis Bernardi who answered the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Delaney demanded. “Is Barbara all right?”
“Fine, fine, Captain,” the doctor soothed. “We’re just conducting a little examination.”
“So you think the new drug is helping?”
“Coming along,” Bernardi said blithely. “A little fretful, perhaps, but that’s understandable. It doesn’t worry me.”
Oh you bastard, Delaney thought again. Nothing worries you. Why the hell should it?
“I think we’ll give her a little something to help her sleep tonight,” Bernardi went on in his greasy voice. “Just a little something. I think perhaps you might skip your visit tonight, Captain. A nice, long sleep will do our Barbara more good.”
“Our Barbara.” Delaney could have throttled him, and cheerfully.
“All right,” he said shortly. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”
He looked at his watch: almost seven-thirty. He didn’t have much time; it was dark outside; the street lights were on, had been since six. He went up to the bedroom, stripped down to his skin. He knew, from painful experience, what to wear on an all-night vigil in the winter.
Thermal underwear, a two-piece set. A pair of light cotton socks with heavy wool socks over them. An old winter uniform, pants shiny, jacket frayed at the cuffs and along the seams. But there was still no civilian suit as warm as that good, heavy blanket wool. And the choker collar would protect his chest and throat. Then his comfortable “cop shoes” with a pair of rubbers over them, even though the streets were dry and no rain or snow predicted.
He unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedroom taboret. He owned three guns: his.38 service revolver, a.32 “belly gun” with a two-inch barrel, and a.45 automatic pistol which he had stolen from the U.S. Army in 1946. He selected the small.32, slid it from its flannel bag and, flicking the cylinder to the side, loaded it slowly and carefully from a box of ammunition. He didn’t bother with an extra gun belt. The gun was carried on his pants belt in a black leather holster. He adjusted it under his uniform jacket so the gun hung down over his right groin, aimed toward his testicles: a happy thought. He checked the safety again.
His identification into his inside breast pocket. A leather-covered sap slid into a special narrow pocket alongside his right leg. Handcuffs into his righthand pants pocket and, at the last minute, he added a steel-linked “come-along”-a short length of chain, just long enough to encircle a wrist, with heavy grips at both ends.
Downstairs, he prepared a thick sandwich of bologna and sliced onion, wrapped it in waxed paper, put it into his civilian overcoat pocket. He filled a pint flask with brandy; that went into the inside overcoat breast pocket. He found his fleece-lined earmuffs and fur-lined leather gloves; they went into outside overcoat pockets.
Just before he left the house, he dialed Daniel Blank. He knew the number by heart now. The phone rang three times, then that familiar voice said, “Hello?” Delaney hung up softly. At least his friend was home, the Captain wouldn’t be watching an empty hole.
He put on his stiff Homburg, left the hall light burning, double-locked the front door, went out into the night. He moved stiffly, hot and sweating under his layers of clothing. But he knew that wouldn’t last long.
He walked over to Daniel Blank’s apartment house, pausing once to transfer the come-along to his lefthand pants pocket so it wouldn’t clink against the handcuffs. The weighted blackjack knocked against his leg as he walked, but he was familiar with that feeling; there was nothing to be done about it.