“Edward? You still there?”
“I’m still here.”
“You understand? You back on active duty. Head of Operation Lombard. Whatever you need. What do you say?”
“Yes,” Captain X. Delaney said promptly.
“Yes? You said yes?”
“That’s what I said.”
“He said yes!” Thorsen screamed. Again Delaney held the phone away, hearing the loud gabble of many voices. This was fraternity house stuff, and it displeased him.
“My God, that’s great,” the Deputy Inspector said in what Delaney was sure Thorsen thought was a sober and solemn voice.
“But I want complete control,” the Captain said stonily. “Over the whole operation. No written reports. Verbal reports to you only. And-”
“Whatever you want, Edward.”
“And no press conferences, no press releases, no publicity from anyone but me.”
“Anything, Edward, anything. Just wrap it up fast. You understand? Show Broughton up for the stupid schmuck he is. He gets canned and three days later you’ve solved it. Right? Shows up the bastard.”
“Canned?” the Captain asked. “Broughton?”
“’mounts to the same thing,” Thorsen giggled. “Filed for retirement. Stupid sonofabitch. Says he’s going to run for mayor next year.”
“Is he?” Delaney said, still speaking in a dull, toneless voice. “Ivar, are you certain you’ve got this straight? I’ll take it on, but only on the conditions that I have complete control, verbal reports only to you, pick my own men, handle all the publicity personally. Is that understood?”
“Captain Delaney,” a quiet voice said, “this is Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. I apologize, but I have been listening in on an extension. There is a certain celebration going on here.”
“I can hear it.”
“But I assure you, your conditions will be met. You will have complete control. Whatever you need. And nothing in the press or TV on Operation Lombard will come from anyone but you. Satisfactory?”
“Yes.”
“Great!” Deputy Inspector Thorsen burbled. “The Telex will go out immediately. We’ll get out a press release right away-just so we can make the late editions-that Broughton has put in for retirement and you’re taking over Operation Lombard. Is that all right, Edward? Just a short, one-paragraph release. Okay?”
“Yes. All right.”
“Your personal orders have already been cut. The Commissioner will sign them tonight.”
“You must have been very sure of me,” Delaney said.
“I wasn’t,” Thorsen laughed, “and Johnson wasn’t. But Alinski was.”
“Oh?” Delaney said coldly. “Are you there, Alinski?”
“I am here, Captain,” the soft voice came back.
“You were sure of me? That I’d take this on?”
“Yes,” Alinski said. “I was sure.”
“Why?”
“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor asked gently.
Delaney hung up, just as gently.
The first thing the Captain did was finish his beer. It helped. Not only the tang of it, the shock of coldness in his throat, but it stimulated the sudden realization of the magnitude of the job he had agreed to, the priorities, big responsibilities and small details, and the fact that “first things first” would be the only guide that might see him through. Right now, the first thing was finishing a cold beer.
“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor had asked gently.
What had he meant by that?
He switched on the desk lamp, sat down, put on his glasses, pulled the yellow, legal-lined pad toward him, began to doodle-squares, circles, lines. Rough diagrams, very rough, and random ideas expressed in arrowheads, lightning bolts, spirals.
First things first. First of the first was around-the-clock surveillance of Daniel G. Blank. Three plainclothesmen on foot and two unmarked cars of two men each should do it. Seven men. Working eight-hour shifts. That was 21 men. But a police commander with any experience at all didn’t multiply his personnel requirements by three: he multiplied by four, at least. Because men are entitled to days off, vacations, sick leave, family emergencies, etc. So the basic force watching Danny Boy was 28, and Delaney wondered if he had been too optimistic in thinking he could reduce the 500 detectives assigned to Operation Lombard by two-thirds.
That was one division: the outside force shadowing Blank. A second division would be inside, keeping records, monitoring walkie-talkie reports from the Blank guards. That meant a communications set-up. Receivers and transmitters. Somewhere. Not in the 251st Precinct house. Delaney owed Lt. Dorfman that one. He’d get Operation Lombard out of there, establish his command post somewhere else, anywhere. Isolate his men. That would help cut down leaks to the press.
A third division would be research: the suspect’s history, background, credit rating, bank accounts, tax returns, military record-anything and everything that had ever been recorded about the man. Plus interviews with friends, relatives, acquaintances, business associates. Cover stories could be concocted so Blank wasn’t alerted.
(But what if he was? That blurry idea in the back of Delaney’s mind began to take on a definite outline.)
A possible fourth division might investigate the dark, skinny girl friend, the boy Tony, the friends-what was their name? Morton. That was it. They owned the Erotica. All that might take another squad.
It was all very crude, very tentative. Just a sketching-in. But it was a beginning. He doodled on for almost an hour, starting to firm it up, thinking of what men he wanted where, who he owed favors to. Favors. “I owe you one.”
“That’s one you owe me.” The lifeblood of the Department. Of politics. Of business. Of the thrusting, scheming, rude world. Wasn’t that the rough cement that kept the whole rickety machine from falling apart? You be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Charles Lipsky: “One hand washes the other-right?”
It was an hour-more than that-since his conversation with Thorsen. The Telex would now be clicked out in every precinct house, detective division, and special unit in the city. Captain Delaney went up to his bedroom, stripped down to his underwear and took a “whore’s bath,” soaping hands, face and armpits with a washcloth, then drying, powdering, combing his hair carefully.
He put on his Number Ones, his newest uniform, used, so far, only for ceremonies and funerals. He squared his shoulders, pulled the blouse down tautly, made certain his decorations were aligned. He took a new cap from a plastic bag on the closet shelf, wiped the shield bright on his sleeve, set the cap squarely atop his head, the short beak pulled down almost over his eyes. The uniform was a brutal one: choker collar, shielded eyes, wide shoulders, tapered waist. Menace there.
He inspected himself in the downstairs mirror. It was not egotism. If you had never belonged to church, synagogue or mosque, you might think so. But the costume was continuing tradition, symbol, myth-whatever you like. The clothing, decorations, insignia went beyond clothing, decorations, insignia. They were, to those of the faith, belief.
He decided against an overcoat; he wouldn’t be going far. He went into the study just long enough to take the photo of Daniel G. Blank from the file and scrawl the man’s address, but not his name, on the back. He slipped the photo into his hip pocket. He left his glasses on the desk. If possible, you did not wear eyeglasses when you exercised command, or exhibit any other signs of physical infirmity. It was ridiculous, but it was so.
He locked up, marched next door to the 251st Precinct house. The Telex had obviously come through; Dorfman was standing near the sergeant’s desk, his arms folded, waiting. When he saw Delaney, he came forward at once, his long, ugly face relaxing into a grin. He held out a hand eagerly.