About 7:30 p.m., he dressed warmly and left the house, telling the log-man he was going to the hospital. But instead, he went on his daily unannounced inspection. He knew the men on duty were aware of these unscheduled tours; he wanted them to know. He decided to walk-he had been inside, sitting, for too many hours-and he marched vigorously over to East End Avenue. He made certain Tiger One-the man watching the Castle-was in position and not goofing off. It was a game with him to spot Tiger One without being spotted. This night he won, bowing his shoulders, staring at the sidewalk, limping by Tiger One with no sign of recognition. Well, at least the kid was on duty, walking a beat across from the Castle and, Delaney hoped, not spending too much time grabbing a hot coffee somewhere or a shot of something stronger.
He walked briskly back to the White House and stood across the street, staring up at Blank’s apartment house. Hopefully, Danny Boy was tucked in for the night. Captain Delaney stared and stared. Once again he had the irrational urge to go up there and ring the bell.
“My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. I’d like to talk to you.”
Crazy. Blank wouldn’t let him in. But that’s all Delaney really wanted-just to talk. He didn’t want to collar Blank or injure him. Just talk, and maybe understand. But it was hopeless; he’d have to imagine.
He knocked on the door of the Con Ed van; it was unlocked and opened cautiously. The man at the door recognized him and swung the door wide, throwing a half-assed salute. Delaney stepped inside; the door was locked behind him. There was one man with binoculars at the concealed flap, another man at the radio desk. Three men, three shifts; counting the guy in the hole and extras, there were about 20 men assigned to Bulldog One.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
They assured him it was going fine. He looked around at the hot plate they had rigged up, the coffee percolator, a miniature refrigerator they had scrounged from somewhere.
“All the comforts of home,” he nodded.
They nodded in return, and he wished them a Happy New Year. Outside again, he paused at the hole they had dug through the pavement of East 83rd Street, exposing steam pipes, sewer lines, telephone conduits. There was one man down there, dressed like a Con Ed repairman, holding a transistor radio to his ear under his hardhat. He took it away when he recognized Delaney.
“Get to China yet?” the Captain asked, gesturing toward the shovel leaning against the side of the excavation.
The officer was black.
“Getting there, Captain,” he said solemnly, “Getting there. Slowly.”
“Many complaints from residents?”
“Oh, we got plenty of those, Captain. No shortage.”
Delaney smiled. “Keep at it. Happy New Year.”
“Same to you, sir. Many of them.”
He walked away westward, disgusted with himself. He did this sort of thing badly, he knew: talking informally with men under his command. He tried to be easy, relaxed, jovial. It just didn’t work.
One of his problems was his reputation. “Iron Balls.” But it wasn’t only his record; they sensed something in him. Every cop had to draw his own boundaries of heroism, reality, stupidity, cowardice. In a dicey situation, you could go strictly by the book and get an inspector’s funeral. Captain Edward X. Delaney would be there, wearing his Number Ones and white gloves. But all situations didn’t call for sacrifice. Some called for a reasoned response. Some called for surrender. Each man had his own limits, set his own boundaries.
But what the men sensed was that Delaney’s boundaries were narrower, stricter than theirs. Too bad there wasn’t a word for it: coppishness, copicity, copanity-something like that. “Soldiership” came close, but didn’t tell the whole story. What was needed was a special word for the special quality of being a cop.
What his men sensed, why he could never communicate with them on equal terms, was that he had this quality to a frightening degree. He was the quintessential cop, and they didn’t need any new words to know it. They understood that he would throw them into the grinder as fast as he would throw himself.
He got to the florist’s shop just as it was closing. They didn’t want to let him in, but he assured them it was an order for the following day. He described exactly what he wanted: a single longstem rose to be placed, no greenery, in a long, white florists’ box and delivered at 9:00 a.m. the next morning.
“Deliver one rose?” the clerk asked in astonishment. “Oh, sir, we’ll have to charge extra for that.”
“Of course,” Delaney nodded. “I understand. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary. Just make certain it gets there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Would you like to enclose a card, sir?”
“I would.”
He wrote out the small white card: “Dear Dan, here’s a fresh rose for the one you destroyed.” He signed the card “Albert Feinberg,” then slid the card in the little envelope, sealed the flap, addressed the envelope to Daniel G. Blank, including his street address and apartment number.
“You’re certain it will get there by nine tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll take care of it. That’s a lot of money to spend on one flower, sir. A sentimental occasion?”
“Yes,” Captain Edward X. Delaney smiled. “Something like that.”
5
The next morning Delaney awoke, lay staring somberly at the ceiling. Then, for the first time in a long time, he got out of bed, kneeled, and thought a prayer for Barbara, for his own dead parents, for all the dead, the weak, the afflicted. He did not ask that he be allowed to kill Daniel Blank. It was not the sort of thing you asked of God.
Then he showered, shaved, donned an old uniform, so aged it was shiny enough to reflect light. He also loaded his.38 revolver, strapped on his gunbelt and holster. It was not with the certainty that this would be the day he’d need it, but it was another of his odd superstitions: if you prepared carefully for an event, it helped hasten it.
Then he went downstairs for coffee. The men on duty noted his uniform, the bulge of his gun. Of course, no one commented on it, but a few men did check their own weapons, and one pulled on an elaborate shoulder holster that buckled across his chest.
Fernandez was in the kitchen, having a coffee and Danish. Delaney drew him aside.
“Lieutenant, when you’re finished here, I want you to go to Bulldog One and stay there until relieved. Got that?”
“Sure, Captain.”
“Tell your lookout to watch for a delivery by a florist Let me know the minute he arrives.”
“Okay,” Fernandez nodded cheerfully. “You’ll know as soon as we spot him. Something cooking, Captain?”
Delaney didn’t answer, but carried his coffee back into the radio room. He set it down on the long table, then went back into his study and wheeled in his swivel chair. He positioned it to the right of the radio table, facing the operators.
He sat there all morning, sipping three black coffees, munching on the dry, stale heel of a loaf of Italian bread. Calls came in at fifteen-minute intervals from Bulldog One and Ten-0. No sign of Danny Boy. At 9:20, Stryker called from the Factory to report that Blank hadn’t shown up for work. A few minutes later, Bulldog One was back on the radio.
Fernandez: “Tell Captain Delaney a boy carrying a long, white florist’s box just went into the White House lobby.” Delaney heard it. Leaving as little as possible to chance, he went into his study, looked up the florist’s number called, and asked if his single red rose had been delivered. He was assured the messenger had been sent and was probably there right now. Satisfied, the Captain went back to his chair at the radio table. The waiting men had heard Fernandez’ report but what it meant, they did not know.