Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

Time was standing still, Carmody thought, looking at his watch. The crowds went by him, charged with night time excitement and a traffic cop waved and gave him a soft, smiling salute. He crossed the street and stopped to look at the bright posters in front of a movie house. Buying a ticket, he went inside and took a back seat. The audience sloped down from him to the screen, a dark, intense unit. There was an irritating smell of stale smoke and popcorn in the heavy air.

After twenty minutes he lost interest in the picture and left. It was the kind of junk that annoyed him thoroughly, a sticky, phony story about a man and woman who ran into trouble because they ignored the standards of their society. Who in hell made those standards? A group of frightened ninnies who clung for protection to the symbols of reversed collars and nightsticks, and wanted only a kind boss, an insurance policy and a two-room apartment with babies.

There was no penalty for smashing the rules made by these timid people; Carmody had proved that to his satisfaction. The truth they gave lip-service to didn’t exist; there was no mystery about life, no hidden value, no far-away beauty and happiness. The true life spread around every human being, a dog-eat-dog slaughter for money and power. Those who didn’t see it were blinded by fear; they closed their eyes to the truth because they were afraid to fight. They wanted a handout, a pension, a break, from some other world. They can’t take this world, and that’s why we take it away from them, Carmody thought.

Finally, he turned into a night club on Fifteenth Street, a big splashy place with a name band and a Hollywood star doing an M.C. turn between pictures. Carmody had a drink with the owner, a worried little man named Ventura, who was going into court the following month to explain some tax irregularities. They talked about the case and Ventura wanted to know if Carmody had heard anything about it, or did he know the judge, and how the hell did things look anyway?

“That’s all Federal,” Carmody said, relieved that there was no way he could help. That was odd; normally he didn’t mind doing a favor. Maybe I want a favor, he thought. But what? And who can help me? While Ventura was off greeting a chattering bunch of expensive-looking college kids, Carmody paid the check and left.

Now it was time to see his brother.

Eddie was sitting at the bar, his broad back to the entrance, and Carmody came up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. His brother turned, smiling awkwardly, and they exchanged hellos and shook hands.

“What’ll you have?” Eddie asked him.

“It doesn’t matter. Scotch, I guess.”

“I’ll coast on this,” Eddie said, nodding at his half-filled glass of beer.

The Fanfair was a pleasant spot, several notches above a neighborhood tavern. There was a piano on a dais at the end of the long bar and beyond that double doors led to the dining room. The lighting was soft and the decorations were attractive; it was the sort of place a young man would take his girl after the movies, or where a married couple would bring their in-laws for Sunday dinner. There was no bouncer, no drunks or cigarette girls, no unescorted women.

“Let’s take a booth,” Carmody suggested.

“Sure.” Eddie picked up his beer and crossed to a row of dark-wood booths, moving with solid strides that were in sharp contrast to Carmody’s easy but powerful grace. Eddie was several inches shorter than his brother, but his shoulders were heavier. At twenty-eight he was in good shape, but he would have trouble with his weight in a few years. There was still the suggestion of the choir boy in his square pale face and in the shyly earnest expression around his eyes. Despite his bulk, there was a vulnerable look about him; he had never learned to camouflage his emotions. His hopes and hurts and disappointments were nakedly apparent, mirrored for everyone to see in his embarrassingly clear and honest eyes.

“What’s on your mind, Mike?” Eddie said, after a quick glance over his shoulder at the piano.

“Does your girl work here?”

“Yes, she’s a singer and plays her own accompaniments.” Eddie smiled. “She’s pretty good, I guess.”

He was very proud of her, Carmody saw. “Well, let’s get this over with,” he said, moving his glass aside, fixing Eddie with his hard eyes. “You got yourself into a mess on this Delaney business.”

“That’s your version of it, not mine.”

“Damn it, let me finish,” Carmody said. “Delaney’s in a position to embarrass the men who run the city. He’s threatening to talk unless they take the heat off. You’re the heat, Eddie. Do you understand?”

Eddie put his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Carmody. “You want me to say it wasn’t Delaney I saw standing over Ettonberg with a gun in his hand? Is that what you want?”

“I want to keep you out of trouble,” Carmody said.

“Thanks all to hell,” Eddie said shortly. “I don’t need your help.”

“Kid, be sensible. Why be a hero for a bum like Delaney?”

“If he’s such a bum, why are the big boys worried?”

“He can embarrass them; put it that way.”

“They embarrass real easy, don’t they?” Eddie said.

“Be a humorist,” Carmody said dryly. “But see if this strikes you as comical. Unless you testify sensibly, you won’t testify at all.”

Eddie stared at him for a few seconds, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’ll get killed for doing my job,” he said at last. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m just a carrier pigeon, a Western Union boy,” Carmody said. “I’m delivering a message. But you wouldn’t be getting this treatment if it weren’t for me. They’d step on you like a bug if you weren’t my brother.”

“I owe you a lot,” Eddie said bitterly. “I get a reprieve because my brother works with the big boys.”

“Don’t talk like a fool.” They were both becoming angry and Carmody knew that would ruin everything. He lit a cigarette and drew a long breath. This always happened with him and Eddie; he could handle other men without his emotions interfering, but this kid brother of his always got under his skin. Eddie was too stubborn to see the truth, and that made Carmody furious. “Now look,” he said, keeping his temper in check. “You’re not just getting a reprieve. You’ll get ten thousand bucks to go with it, which is more dough than you can save in twenty years pulling police boxes. You get that for just saying, ‘I’m not sure’ when you look at Delaney in court.”

“I’ll tell the truth so to hell with you,” Eddie said, his big hands tightening into fists. He was bitterly angry but beneath that was a deeper feeling; his soft clear eyes were like those of a child who has been hurt by a trusted adult.

A chord sounded from the piano and he turned his head quickly.

The big baby, Carmody thought helplessly. He doesn’t understand how the world is run, he doesn’t know anything except the nonsense the old man pounded into him. Carmody wondered how he would handle this as he glanced past Eddie to the girl at the piano. She was older than Eddie, thirty or thirty-two maybe, a slender girl with brown hair and a small serious face. She began to sing a sentimental ballad in a voice that was low and pleasant, but not much else. Carmody wondered what her appeal was to Eddie. What would his brother want in a woman? Carmody didn’t know. They had stopped communicating on all but superficial levels long before he got to know Eddie’s needs and taste in women. This one didn’t seem to be the party type. She looked brave and thoughtful, but that might be part of the act. She wasn’t voluptuous or sexy, in fact she didn’t even look very strong; her arms were white and thin against her black evening gown, and he could see the deep shadowed hollow at the base of her throat. A demure clinging vine maybe. Would Eddie like that? Someone he could baby and protect? Carmody sipped his drink and shook his head. That would be a great union. Two babies hugging each other in the big windy world.