Climbing the outside steps to Glynda\u2019s apartment, Mick Garrity felt the gravity of experience slowing his step. The sky was spitting wet snow at him, paying him back for some screw up he could not put his finger on, just now. Glynda\u2019s deadbeat boyfriend Murphy had beaten her up again. Dispatch said she was hysterical. She wanted the police to save her. Again. Across the universe a thousand cops were climbing the same steps hearing the same old story they had heard and told a thousand times.
\nOn the landing, Mick raised his hand to knock but Glynda was already opening the door to him. \u201cI kept my word,\u201d she snuffled. \u201cI swear to God, Mick, I kept my word.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked terrible. The sleeve of her burgundy quilted robe was torn. Her hair was wild. She had always had a cute face, a sexy come-get-me face, but now it was bruised and lumpy, swollen out of shape courtesy of Marvin Murphy.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello, Glynda. Want me to come in?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her girls were there, hushed and head down, behaving the way kids did in homes where beating went on. They sat at the table in the kitchen pretending to concentrate on their homework, untouched glasses of chocolate milk on the table in front of them.
\n\u201cI\u2019m going to talk to Officer Garrity,\u201d Glynda told them, honey sliding in her mommy’s voice. \u201cYou come get me if you need something.\u201d
\nMick had seen this, too, more times than he wanted, tender taking care in the wake of an assault, as though now the nastiness was out of the way people could focus on being human. The girls looked at him with bunched suspicion. A tall man in a uniform who wasn\u2019t saying much. Was this how his own kids saw him?
\nThere was a faint smell of something sinister in the living room, the blackened residue of anger and fear. Glynda tried to manoeuvre him into a seat next to her on the couch, but he took a chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat I told you? Last time? How I wasn\u2019t letting the son of a bitch in the apartment any more? I kept my promise.\u201d
\n\u201cSo how did he get to you?\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m on the phone coming down the stairs, right? Not paying attention. There he stands at the bottom, smoking, and he\u2019s got this God\u2019s gift smile on his face. Drug me out in the back yard and worked his Murphy magic on me.\u201d
\n\u201cYou ready to have him arrested?\u201d
\nShe nodded. She looked at her hands folded in her lap.
\n\u201cI need to hear you say it, Glynda. Say it and mean it.\u201d
\n\u201cAll right, arrest the bastard. I\u2019ll testify. I swear to God I will testify and hope his dick rots off in prison. I used to be pretty, you know.\u201d
\nHe nodded. He attended to his paperwork. The thought of arresting Murphy gave him more satisfaction than it needed to.
\nOn the way out he said goodbye to the girls. They had not yet made up their mind whether he was a good guy or one more bad guy in the endless line of them turning up at their mother\u2019s.<\/p>\n
Back in the car, he was relieved to be away from Glynda. In his experience, which admittedly was limited to upstate New York, there were women like her who couldn\u2019t stop trying even if they didn\u2019t really want it. Some of them liked cops or the idea of a cop. One of the reasons he was happy with Becky was her indifference to police life. She thought they could be a regular couple. Mick had his days but had not given up hoping the same thing.<\/p>\n
Murphy\u2019s last known turned out to be three blocks over from Glynda\u2019s. She lived on the upper floor of a duplex. Murphy lived on the lower floor of an almost identical place. Both were blue, and their porches sagged at a similar angle. Mick parked a few doors down but decided he couldn\u2019t give the time it needed to sit on the place. He went up the steps and knocked. No answer. When he knocked again a woman\u2019s crabby voice asked him who he was and what he wanted.<\/p>\n
\u201cTroy police, ma’am.\u201d
\n\u201cGod damn it.\u201d
\nBut she opened the door. She was Glynda\u2019s sister, or might as well be. No bruises on the face, though. Murphy had been indulging his inner child elsewhere.
\n\u201cOfficer Mickey Garrity,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m looking for Marvin Murphy. And you are?\u201d
\n\u201cCollateral damage. What\u2019s he done now, and who to?\u201d
\n\u201cI just want to have a conversation with Marvin.\u201d
\nShe nodded. \u201cRight. Well, you won\u2019t find him here. I threw him out a month ago.\u201d
\nShe was telling the truth; cop instinct.
\n\u201cKnow where I can find him?\u201d
\n\u201cYou might stop by Glynda Brozick\u2019s. He always had a thing for her.\u201d
\n\u201cWhere does he work?\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019re kidding, right?\u201d
\n\u201cIf he doesn\u2019t work, what does he do with his time?\u201d
\nThe teeth in her crooked grin were surprisingly perfect. \u201cMarvin gets by.\u201d
\n\u201cThat pay pretty well?\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019d be surprised. Why don\u2019t you just come out and ask me do I know where you can find him.\u201d
\n\u201cDo you?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s in it for me?\u201d
\n\u201cThe satisfaction of knowing you\u2019re a solid citizen.\u201d
\nShe had been holding an apple, and now she took a bite. \u201cThat\u2019s something, I guess.\u201d
\nShe had information he wanted and was trying to decide whether she would give it up.
\n\u201cYou want me to come in while you\u2019re thinking? You don\u2019t have to heat the whole neighbourhood.\u201d
\nShe bit hard into her apple again. \u201cWhat I heard, Marvin\u2019s back into freelancing.\u201d
\n\u201cWeed? Meth? Give me a hint.\u201d
\n\u201cSome pretty wonderful Mexican marijuana, a girlfriend of mine says. But I can\u2019t tell you where he hangs. Marvin burns his bridges every damn where. Hard to keep track of the man.\u201d
\n\u201cI appreciate the help.\u201d
\n\u201cYou find him, do me a favor, remind him he owes Dolores a grand.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019ll do that, Dolores.\u201d<\/p>\n
He wanted to arrest Murphy today, now, while the pain and indignity still smarted in Glynda. She had been known to backslide when it came to pressing charges. If Mick could nail him for weed transactions so much the better. Was there any way to be a cop and not get crazed by this stuff?<\/p>\n
He drove to a tavern on Fern and parked around the corner on Wisteria. The snow had stopped, and the sun was a dim wafer in the gray sky; a prize you wanted to reach for but would never get your hands on. He rolled down the window and waited. He could not give it long. He was meeting Becky at school for some kind of conference with Kyle\u2019s teacher. No big deal, Becky had told him, but he\u2019d better be there. Come dressed like a dad.<\/p>\n
Pitufo was half Mexican, half Albanian, and a man of regular habits. He could no more pass by the tavern on a weekday afternoon when it was cold out than he could recite the Gettysburg Address. Some combination in his cultural heritage made him fatalistic. When he saw Mick\u2019s cruiser he shook his head and came toward him like a robot, head down and shoulders sagging. Caught, and no idea what for.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s up, Bigfoot?\u201d
\nThat was Mick\u2019s name on the street. Size 14\u2019s, and his feet looked bigger in cop shoes.
\nPitufo was scrawny and had a hard time keeping the wings of his mustache even. He was wearing a denim jacket not up to the demands of upstate winter.
\nMick asked him, \u201cHow come you don\u2019t get yourself a decent coat?\u201d
\nPitufo shrugged. \u201cExpenses, man. I got \u2018em up the wazoo.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat do you hear about some quality Mexican weed?\u201d
\n\u201cI hear it will get you righteously high.\u201d<\/p>\n
Patience. You had to have it for the song and dance of people like Pitufo who fell back on the truth as a last resort only after exhausting every other option. Eventually he gave Mick a name and an address and a reason to check them out.
\nIt was a cold storage warehouse, or had been. Cadogan Brothers sat on the edge of Troy. It was just inside the city limits so Mick did not have to bother calling the Rensselaer County sheriff. It fell to a city cop to investigate the report of a criminal enterprise on these particular premises. Mick was a city cop.<\/p>\n
Untenanted Cadogan Brothers might be, but there were signs of recent foot traffic, and along the west wall of the long low building Mick found a door that had been wrenched open and left ajar. The perfect way for this to play out would be to arrest Marvin Murphy inside the warehouse for the assault on Glynda, coming upon the man with his hands wrapped around a significant brick of Mexican. It could happen. Not likely, but it could happen.<\/p>\n
He radioed dispatch his location and sat to wait. It was that time of the afternoon on a short winter day when thoughts of the city\u2019s potheads turned to blunts.<\/p>\n
Sitting there, he thought too much about arresting Murphy and not enough about the meeting with Kyle\u2019s teacher. Shit. By the time he realized he was going to be late he also realized he would have to show up in his uniform. Come dressed like a dad.
\nHe drove fast.<\/p>\n
Kyle was in the third grade. His teacher was a man, which was unusual and, Mick thought, probably a good thing. Mr Curry wore a green sweater and had lively eyes. Three or four times he told Becky and Mick how excited he was to have the opportunity to teach their child.<\/p>\n
Afterwards, outside, Mick asked his wife, \u201cSo what was that all about?\u201d
\nBecky shooed the kids into the car. Kyle was on best behavior and did what he was told, no lip, but Vanessa was a born scorch. Eighteen months younger than Kyle, she ostentatiously refused to buckle her seat belt.
\n\u201cDo you really not know, Mick?\u201d
\n\u201cAll I know for sure is, Mr Curry is excited.\u201d
\n\u201cKyle ignores directions. Half the time he does the opposite of what he\u2019s told.\u201d
\nGood for him, Mick did not say. What he said instead was, \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d
\n\u201cFor being late, you mean.\u201d
\n\u201cThat, and the uniform.\u201d
\nShe wasn\u2019t looking at him, which did not necessarily mean she was pissed. Becky was blonde in the way and the style a lot of women wished they could be. Her senior year, she turned them down when they voted her homecoming queen. She thought the whole thing was demeaning. Mick loved that about her. She was independent. She was also quirky and ran at her own rhythm. Her goal was to become a potter. That was expensive, though, plus they were super busy with the kids. For now she contented herself drawing painstaking pictures of pieces she might some day throw on a wheel.
\n\u201cLet\u2019s take the kids out to eat,\u201d Mick said.
\n\u201cIf you let them pick, they\u2019ll say Arby\u2019s.\u201d
\nArby\u2019s it was, and Mick really did wish he\u2019d had time to change into jeans. He liked sitting with his good looking unpredictable wife and their two kids. He liked being off duty. He looked around the restaurant.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with these people, Becky?\u201d
\nEverybody in the place was hypnotized by a phone. Parents, kids, teenagers in solidarity clusters. All they saw was little screens.
\n\u201cIt makes me sad,\u201d Becky said, which was another way of saying she forgave him for being late to meet with Mr Curry, and she likes Mick sort of admired their son\u2019s unwillingness to follow directions. And \u2013 he was pretty sure and it turned out he was right \u2013 she was in the mood to make love.
\nThat night, lying wrapped in his arms in the afterglow of intimacy, the way people ought to fall asleep every night of their life, she ambushed him.
\n\u201cYou need to find something to do that isn\u2019t chasing bad guys.\u201d
\n\u201cA hobby, you\u2019re talking about.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m talking about whatever it takes.\u201d
\n\u201cWe\u2019ve had this conversation before.\u201d
\n\u201cThen I guess it didn\u2019t sink in.\u201d
\n\u201cBecky.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pulled away, turned away, and he knew better than to reach for her. They had made a pact, years ago, not to fight about his being a police officer. This was as close as they got to disrespecting it. He ought to worry, but he was tired and fell asleep in a hurry.
\n\u260a
\nMick was on days. At the station in the morning, Chief Hurley beckoned him into the office with a crooked finger. The chief was fifty and taking night courses at community college. He had grown up in Troy and never worked anywhere except the department but thought he had it in him to be an architect when he retired. He had a wide, sad Irish face and ears that could have been a size smaller with no damage to his overall appearance.
\n\u201cI understand Marvin Murphy beat up one of his girlfriends.\u201d
\n\u201cGlynda Brozick. This time she\u2019s pressing charges. I also heard he\u2019s peddling some Mexican weed.\u201d
\nHurley nodded slowly. \u201cSins of the father.\u201d
\nMick must have looked at him oddly.
\n\u201cMurphy\u2019s old man,\u201d Hurley explained. \u201cCrook, con man, deadbeat. Bled out in his nephew\u2019s front yard. Some kind of argument over nothing. How do you expect the son of a man like that to turn out?\u201d
\nThey were standing up, which meant a short meeting. Hurley picked up a stack of papers from his desk and handed them to Mick.
\n\u201cRun these out to Whelan. Tell him I can\u2019t keep putting off the insurance guy forever.\u201d
\nSix months away from retirement, Will Whelan had been shot responding to a home invasion call. The bullet was a through and through, but it seemed to take the fight out of him. He was diabetic. He was bitter. He nursed every grievance an old-time cop could be expected to have or invent. He was not cooperating with the insurance company or the department to get the settlement he was owed.<\/p>\n
Mick didn\u2019t care much for Whelan. The guy knew a whole lot about police work, but every useful thing he had to say came curdled with hate, much of it racist. He drove out to Whelan\u2019s place in the country only because he had to. It was a piece of property anybody would love to own. Halfway up a hill, the gray house was gone to seed. But the back yard was a meadow, and behind the meadow rose a planting of pines that looked like the woods where the Seven Dwarves had their big luck, stumbling across Sleeping Beauty who would change their life.<\/p>\n
Whelan\u2019s wife had left him years ago \u2013 big surprise \u2013 and he did not answer Mick\u2019s knock. Mick went around behind the house and found him bundled on the back porch, sitting in a chair cupping a glass in his hands. Next to him, a shotgun leaned against the siding. On the floor by his feet, a bottle of bourbon.
\n\u201cYou bring doughnuts?\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019ve got diabetes, Will.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m a cop. Cops eat doughnuts, any idiot knows that.\u201d
\nHe was a squat man with leathery skin. His eyebrows were a forest, the black eyes beneath them hiding in pouches. He looked like a potato left out to dry.
\n\u201cLittle early for the Wild Turkey?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s it to you?\u201d
\nMick shrugged. \u201cThe chief sent out some papers for you to sign.\u201d
\n\u201cI already signed \u2018em.\u201d
\n\u201cHurley says you didn\u2019t.\u201d
\n\u201cHurley\u2019s an asshole.\u201d
\n\u201cNo he\u2019s not.\u201d
\nWhelan relented. \u201cLeave me the papers, I\u2019ll sign.\u201d
\n\u201cIf you sign now I\u2019ll take them back with me.\u201d
\n\u201cSo how\u2019s it going, Garrity? Popped any interesting malefactors lately?\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m looking for a piece a shit named Marvin Murphy. Beat up a woman, and he\u2019s ped-dling dope.\u201d
\n\u201cHe ain\u2019t black, is he?\u201d
\n\u201cHe\u2019s white.\u201d
\n\u201cThere\u2019s black Murphys, you know.\u201d
\nMick had no idea what moved him to say what he did. \u201cMy wife says I need to find a hobby.\u201d
\nWhelan nodded. \u201cDon\u2019t get mad at her. She\u2019s right, she just wants you to be somebody. In a good way, I\u2019m talking about. She wants there to be a little piece of you the job don\u2019t own.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m not mad at Becky, I\u2019m just not into hobbies.\u201d
\n\u201cCurse of the job. I finally got mine. Late, but I got it.\u201d
\n\u201cOh yeah?\u201d
\nWhelan squinted his black potato eyes. He lifted his glass and sniffed the bourbon, set it down again. \u201cGot a goal now, you see.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your goal, Will?\u201d
\n\u201cOne of these mornings I\u2019m going to be sitting here with a shot of Wild Turkey rolling around in my mouth. Under the tongue, right? Savoring it. At that very moment a wild turkey will come into the yard, and I\u2019ll shoot the fucker.\u201d
\n\u201cThat\u2019s it?\u201d
\n\u201cPay attention to your wife, Garrity.\u201d
\nMick handed him a pen. \u201cSign. I need to go arrest Marvin Murphy.\u201d
\nWhelan waved away the pen. \u201cYou don\u2019t think it can happen, do you? My big moment. Wild Turkey on the tongue, wild turkey in the yard. You\u2019re thinking, this old fart couldn\u2019t hit the bird if they painted it pink and put it on stilts.\u201d
\nHe was building up a head of steam. Mick did not want to be there for the blast, so he left the unsigned paperwork and made his escape. In the driveway he ran into Whelan\u2019s daughter. Meg was a redhead who dressed like a hippy, pretty much what you would expect from the child of a hard-ass like Whelan.
\n\u201cIs he drunk?\u201d she wanted to know.
\n\u201cNot yet. I left some papers. He needs to sign them to get his money. If you can make that happen we\u2019ll send a car to pick them up.\u201d
\nShe shrugged. \u201cYou know my father.\u201d
\n\u201cYeah, I know your father.\u201d
\nHis day got busy. He responded to a fender-bender down town, keeping two belligerent drivers from going at each other. Somebody broke into a bar and stole the kitchen sink. The sink? Then dispatch sent him to Elgin Pawn where a coked-out woman in teal heels was beating old Ben Elkin with her empty purse, also teal. She claimed he had stolen her diamond ring. What he was doing, in fact, was holding an item she had pawned and did not have the cash to redeem. Anyway the stone was a zircon. Elgin had done her a favor, taking the damn thing in the first place.
\nThis was the circus, and Mick loved all three rings. Wouldn\u2019t trade jobs with Bill Gates; not that he was the digital type. What was different, today, was his obsession. He could not get Marvin Murphy out of his mind. He shouldn\u2019t care who picked up the mutt, but he did. The war-rant was out. Sooner or later he would cross a patrolman\u2019s field of vision. Mick could not say why he wanted so badly to be the one who took him in, he just did.
\nBy itself, that was no big deal. He had seen it happen. Some lowlife offender stuck in a cop\u2019s craw, and for a while all that mattered was getting him off the street and into a cell. But Mick did not leave his obsession at work. It bled into his home life. Two days went by; three. No sign of Murphy. No problem, or it shouldn\u2019t be. He was not likely to bolt. Guys like Murphy were rooted to the scene of their constant crimes. They did not have enough imagination to picture life in a jurisdiction where they could get a fresh start. So how come Mick was worrying it day in and day out like a dog with a meatless bone?
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s eating you?\u201d Becky asked him the evening of the third day he failed to pick up Murphy.
\n\u201cNothing.\u201d
\n\u201cYou didn\u2019t even hear what Vanessa asked you, did you?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s she want?\u201d
\nHe was fated not to know. Becky rose from her chair, her back excessively straight, and scooped up the girl. She marched her upstairs to bed cooing a poisonous lullaby aimed at him. When Mick asked Kyle what his sister wanted, the boy put his head down and shrugged.
\nIt got worse. Day four, day five. At work, Mick drank too much coffee and spent too much time chasing Murphy-leads that went nowhere. Once, over at the tavern on Fern, he got into Pitufo\u2019s face in a way that sobered both of them. At home, the least little thing set him off. But he did not yell. He did not curse or fume. He swallowed his anger, which stewed in the juice of his frustration. Becky quit talking to him beyond the basics. Kyle has swimming practice. We need to write the mortgage check.
\nOn day six he drove to Glynda\u2019s. He wouldn\u2019t put it past her to be in touch with Murphy. Hell, she might have apologized to him, warned him to lay low, promised she\u2019d make it up to him. He caught her fresh from the shower. Her girls were at school, and their mother looked like a person in need of social stimulation. Her makeup was way too heavy for ten in the morning. She was like a cat expecting to be fed now.
\n\u201cYou thought I was wimping out, didn\u2019t you? Well I\u2019m not. Murphy called twice and I never answered. Three times.\u201d
\n\u201cGood for you, Glynda. Is he still around town?\u201d
\n\u201cHe\u2019ll always be around.\u201d
\n\u201cLend me your phone.\u201d
\n\u201cSure.\u201d
\nHe scrolled until he found Murphy\u2019s number and hit the call button, handing the phone back to Glynda when it began ringing. She knew exactly what she was supposed to do.
\n\u201cHey, sugar. It\u2019s me. What\u2019s going on?\u201d
\nShe listened for a long minute, grinning at Mick.
\n\u201cI know you\u2019re sorry, baby. It was my fault, I admit that\u2026 All right, yes, I did call the cops. It was Mick Garrity that came, remember him from high school? But I told him it was a misunderstanding. It\u2019s over\u2026 The girls are in school. Why don\u2019t you come keep me company? I\u2019m looking good this morning, I\u2019m looking like your sexy mama. Bring something to smoke, we\u2019ll lay down and relax.\u201d
\nMick knew that Murphy hung up by the expression of disappointment on her face, or was it distaste? She had been looking forward to nailing him, watching him led away cuffed, and it wasn\u2019t going to happen.
\n\u201cHe knows,\u201d she said. \u201cDon\u2019t ask me how, but he knew the minute he answered. I\u2019m sor-ry, Mick.\u201d
\n\u201cDon\u2019t be sorry. You tried. Hey, if I was the criminal I\u2019d have believed you.\u201d
\nShe was let down and as consolation wanted Mick to entertain her, to entertain him in the time-honored manner. He got out fast making her promise she would call 911 if Murphy tried to get in touch. He went back to looking for the man any time he was not on a call.
\nOne afternoon, after school hours, he stopped Kyle\u2019s teacher for sliding past a stop sign. Mr. Curry was wearing the same bright green sweater he wore the day of the conference. Being pulled over by a cop for a moving violation really threw him. Sweat gems appeared on his upper lip, and his voice cracked like a teenager\u2019s. His apology was over the top. A couple of points on his license? You\u2019d think he was being hauled in for assault and battery. Mick had lived long enough to know that his anger at Mr. Curry was an arrow aimed at the wrong target. He let him go with a warning.
\nAs he got back into the car, dispatch was reporting something going on out at Will Whelan\u2019s. Rensselaer County had notified the department as a courtesy. Mick told the dispatcher he was close enough to take the call. Not true, but he was curious.
\nHe went 33, lights and siren, arriving to find Whelan\u2019s hippyesque daughter sitting on the porch steps cradling her old man\u2019s shotgun. She did not look like a person who had just blown away a close relative, but you never knew. Mick approached with care.
\n\u201cWhere\u2019s Will?\u201d
\nHer face was pale with anger. Contempt, really. She shook her head.
\n\u201cTell me you didn\u2019t shoot him, Meg.\u201d
\n\u201cHe\u2019s drunk.\u201d
\n\u201cThat happens a lot, doesn\u2019t it?\u201d
\n\u201cThe mood he\u2019s in, I thought he might off himself. I took this.\u201d She held up the shotgun. \u201cThat made him mad. He called me a spoiled little bitch. You have any daughters, Garrity?\u201d
\n\u201cOne.\u201d
\n\u201cMy advice? You have a bad day, don\u2019t call her a bitch. It\u2019s the kind of thing stays with a girl.\u201d
\nThe front door was half open. From inside the house came a bellowing sound of immense self-pity.
\n\u201cI\u2019ll go talk to him,\u201d said Mick. \u201cYou take the gun. Keep it a while.\u201d
\n\u201cOne of these days\u2026\u201d
\n\u201cYou\u2019ll quit coming by.\u201d
\nShe nodded. She stood to make way for him on the steps. By the time he reached the door she was at her car.
\nWhelan was dressed in a brown suit, a crisp white shirt, a red tie. His feet were bare. On his hands he wore a pair of polished burgundy wingtips. His dried potato face was lit with an an-ger the equal of his daughter\u2019s. Balanced imbalance.
\n\u201cGoing out, Will?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat the fuck do you want, Garrity?\u201d
\n\u201cThought I might sit out back on the porch a little, watch for some turkeys. That okay with you?\u201d
\nWhelan threw one of the wingtips at him. Then he threw the other. The whiskey and his debility made him weak, and there was no velocity in the flying footwear, which Mick dodged easily.
\n\u201cThat girl still out there?\u201d
\n\u201cYour daughter, you mean. Her name is Meg. Nice kid.\u201d
\n\u201cShe stole my shotgun.\u201d
\n\u201cI told her to keep it.\u201d
\nMick saw a pair of sneakers under the couch. He inched his way toward them, leaned down and picked them up.
\n\u201cPut these on. Any minute now you\u2019re going to realize your feet are cold.\u201d
\nWhelan nodded as though they were having a rational discussion, they were talking about the Giants, how many interceptions Eli was throwing. He put on the sneakers, which looked ri-diculous with the suit. He loosened his tie, which was too wide and likely the only one he owned.
\n\u201cGot any more guns in the house?\u201d Mick asked him.
\n\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d
\n\u201cGet \u2018em for me.\u201d
\nIt was the critical moment, and Mick understood it could go either way. Whelan nodded and disappeared into the bedroom. Was he pissed off enough to shoot a fellow cop? But he came out and obediently handed over his firearms. A Smith & Wesson .38 pistol. A Winchester lever-action rifle, cowboy style. And, strangely, a derringer with mother-of-pearl grips.
\nOnly then did Mick ask him, \u201cHow come you\u2019re wearing a suit?\u201d
\nWhelan studied his windowpane-checked sleeve. He hiked up his pants, which he found uncomfortable. \u201cBeats me.\u201d
\n\u201cMaybe you want to check your blood sugar.\u201d
\n\u201cGood idea.\u201d
\nHe sank heavily onto the couch with a drunk man\u2019s oof and went through the familiar pin-prick ritual. \u201cIt\u2019s high,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s real high.\u201d
\nHe sounded relieved, as if now he had something specific to worry about.
\n\u201cYou done drinking for a while?\u201d
\nWhelan nodded. He looked at Mick across a distance so dark and long it scared Mick. It was a tunnel he wanted never to walk.
\n\u201cRemind me what you said your wife\u2019s name was.\u201d
\n\u201cBecky.\u201d
\n\u201cRight. Becky. All that about getting yourself a hobby?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat about it?\u201d
\n\u201cYou tell her\u2026\u201d His head dropped, not in exhaustion but in all-encompassing shame.
\n\u201cTell her what?\u201d
\nWith manful effort Whelan composed and pronounced his sentence. \u201cWild Turkey is no kind of hobby.\u201d
\n\u201cI hear you. You got any eggs in the fridge?\u201d
\n\u201cThere\u2019s eggs in there.\u201d
\n\u201cI thought I\u2019d make us an omelet and toast. It\u2019ll soak up some of that bourbon.\u201d
\nWhelan nodded. He was thinking about something else but came back long enough to tell Mick, \u201cThere\u2019s bacon if you want it.\u201d
\n\u260a
\nA couple of days later, Pitufo had a new coat. Old-fashioned; what people used to call a cardigan. It gave him an oddly conservative look. Mick caught up to him outside the Fern Ave-nue tavern.
\n\u201cLooking good, Pitufo.\u201d
\n\u201cI heard Cane and Brace is hiring. I\u2019m applying. I can handle factory work. Shit, I can handle anything they throw at me and come back for more.\u201d
\nSaying almost anything would be saying too much. Mick nodded. You had to keep an open mind on the subject of happy endings. Once in a while, they happened. Pitufo must really be picturing a new and different life for himself. He offered up what he had without pumping.
\n\u201cYou still looking for Marvin Murphy?\u201d
\n\u201cI am.\u201d
\n\u201cHe\u2019ll be at the Cadogan warehouse this morning. I heard he\u2019s offering a discount. Needs to move his product so he can pay somebody off.\u201d
\nMick was skeptical and did not call for back-up. Pitufo had let him down more often than not. But there was an old Ford in the Cadogan Brothers lot, where the slush had frozen into low, freaky shapes. He ran the plate. It came up registered to a Dolores Hathaway of Troy. So much for throwing Murphy out.
\nThe side door was propped open with a brick. A story came back to Mick, some cop blinded going into a dark building out of the sun and getting blasted by the guy he was trying to arrest. The details were murky, but he squinched his eyes and went in warily with his gun drawn.
\nIt was not as dark as he expected. The warehouse was a cavern, but the second story was punctuated with big windows through which bars of sunlight fell the way they fell in church. His eyes adjusted.
\nEasy. Some perverse instinct in him wished it were harder, but there sat Murphy in a plas-tic lawn chair watching the smoke from his cigarette rise in the dusty light. Next to his foot was a cardboard box containing what appeared to be neatly stacked bags of weed.
\n\u201cGuess I got lazy,\u201d said Murphy.
\n\u201cYou mean you\u2019d rather pound on women and sell dope than work for a living.\u201d
\nHe shook his head. \u201cShouldn\u2019t have left the car out front.\u201d
\nHe was a good-looking guy, with chiseled features, brown hair just a little too long, and an air of gigantic self-regard. Women like Glynda and Dolores found him irresistible, and he had gotten a lot of mileage out of his studly looks.
\n\u201cWhat\u2019s in the box?\u201d Mick said.
\n\u201cRecreational use only. I smoke it when my nerves get bad.\u201d
\n\u201cThere\u2019s a warrant out on you for assaulting Glynda.\u201d
\n\u201cI don\u2019t know any Glyndas. What you gonna do, Garrity, shoot me? You know you want to. You\u2019re dying to put a hole in me.\u201d
\nMick had not thought his rage was obvious. Knowing it was should have put him on his guard. It didn\u2019t.
\n\u201cStand up slow, hands on your head.\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019m comfortable where I am, Officer. The nerves are bad this morning. My situation, the stress I got, it happens.\u201d
\nHe was goading Mick. Maybe that was a tactic. More likely it was all he knew to do. Mick told him again to stand up.
\n\u201cYou don\u2019t shoot me, what, you gonna make yourself feel good, knock me around? Don\u2019t tell me \u2018cuz I know how this thing works. No witnesses, and who they gonna believe? You were an asshole in high school, Garrity, and you\u2019re still an asshole. You have no fucking idea what real life is like. Without the gun and the cop suit, you\u2019re zero minus.\u201d
\nHe went on. It was working, and he knew it was working. Mick felt fresh anger rising red in him. Murphy wanted to provoke him. Well, he was provoked. In a dim side room of his mind a man in a funny hat, a man with no face, was writing up a report of how the suspect got up out of his chair and lunged for the officer\u2019s gun.
\nNah.
\nNah.
\n\u201cWe\u2019ve got history, Garrity. That\u2019s all my lawyer needs.\u201d
\nThey had gotten into it, once, back in high school. Mick could not remember over what.
\n\u201cThere\u2019s no history between you and me,\u201d he said. \u201cThere\u2019s no nothing.\u201d
\nMurphy had no compelling reason to get up. So they added resisting arrest to their love letter. What did he care? His only shot, at the moment, was if Mick did something stupid.
\nMick experienced a moment of clean, pure hatred. For Murphy and all his lowlife broth-ers-in-crime on the streets of Troy. It hit him like a bullet. He was lucky. It was a through and through. No organ damage. He would do nothing stupid.
\nHe called dispatch on his cell and gave them his location. \u201cGot a subject resisting arrest.\u201d
\nHearing that, Murphy knew it was over. Help was on the way; witnesses. He stood. He placed his hands on his head. He did not bother saying anything.
\n\u201cHands out where I can cuff them,\u201d Mick said.
\nMurphy offered his hands, and Mick went toward him with deliberation. Becky was prob-ably right. He needed a hobby.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Regrets<\/strong>
\nThe women began pushing each other. \u201cYou move. No, you!\u201d The light was thinning under wisps of cloud. I was getting cold and had to go to the bathroom and debated leaving my post, but I didn\u2019t want to miss anything. I wondered what Jan was doing. Mr. Vanderhoek, tall, thin, with a severe crew cut, appeared briefly like a spectre in the doorway to see what the commotion was about.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3782,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[14],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2143","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2143","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2143"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2143\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3880,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2143\/revisions\/3880"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3782"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2143"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2143"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2143"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}