Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“I’m not arguing. I’m just telling the truth.”

“Anything you say.” He chomped his chicken sandwich and turned to Rebecca, who looked at him worshipfully. “How’re you doing, sugarplum?”

“Okay,” she said shyly, looking down. Her voice was high-pitched and soft, reminding him of a faint breeze.

“How’s school?”

“Okay.”

“Doing better in math?”

“A little.”

“Not very talkative today, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

Sheila wagged her finger at him. “She’s shy in front of you because you’re like a stranger to her. You hardly ever come out here to see her. Put yourself in her shoes. How would you feel?”

“Come on, Sheila. This is the first day off I’ve taken in almost a month.”

“That’s no excuse and you know it. The police department won’t fall into the Hudson River if you take your regular days off. You like to think you’re indispensable—that makes you feel good. But you’re only kidding yourself, as usual. They’d get along fine without you, maybe better, who knows? My Sam runs a big dress company all by himself, and if he can take weekends off, so can you.”

“It’s not the same thing. Sam’s factory closes down on weekends, but the city doesn’t. Crimes happen all the time. In fact, people murder each other more on weekends.”

Sam handed Sheila a glass of sherry and sat beside her with his scotch on the rocks in hand. Rackman looked at Sheila as she sipped her sherry and tried to remember when she was a young college girl who shivered whenever he put his hand up her dress. He wondered why so many pretty Jewish girls grew up to be nagging bitchy wives. He looked at Rebecca and hoped she wouldn’t turn out that way. “Did you get a report card since I saw you last?”

She shook her head.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Sheila said, setting down her sherry glass.

“What subject?”

“There’s no excuse for you not seeing your daughter more often—that subject.”

“Give me a break, Sheila.”

“Why don’t you give your daughter a break? How can you be so selfish. Can’t you see how much she loves you?”

Rackman looked at Rebecca, who looked at the floor.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “I understand.”

“She does not understand,” Sheila said, raising her voice. “You should be on your knees begging your forgiveness of her.”

Sam put his hand on his wife’s arm. “The doctor warned you about getting excited—”

“Take your hands off me!” she shouted, moving away. “You always stick up for him because you’re afraid of him!”

“Why do you always argue with him whenever he comes here?”

“I wouldn’t argue with him if he came to see Rebecca more often. I’m not arguing for myself, but for her. He’s a completely irresponsible human being and I know him very well, don’t think I don’t.”

“Maybe you’d better take a Valium,” Sam said.

“Get me one.”

Sam arose and walked to the kitchen. Sheila glowered at Rackman who looked at Rebecca who looked at her hands. Rackman took the final bite of his sandwich and washed it down with bourbon. Sam returned with a yellow pill and a glass of water. Sheila popped the pill into her mouth and drank some water, then glanced sideways at Rackman. “You see the trouble you make for me when you come here?”

“I was just leaving.” He tapped Rebecca’s leg. “Let’s go, kid.”

She got up and he stood beside her, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “I think I’m going to take her for a little walk. It’s been very nice seeing the both of you again.” He held out his hand to Sam.

“Don’t keep her out too late,” Sheila said, getting up. “And don’t forget to feed her. Growing girls need food. It might be a good idea if you bought her some clothes. And don’t take her to any of those bars that you go to.”

“I’ll look out for her—don’t worry.” Rackman took Rebecca’s hand and led her to the door.

In the corridor next to the elevator, Rackman wiped his hand across his forehead. “Wow,” he said.

“Mommy is very mad at you,” Rebecca replied.

“I know.”

“I think she’s still in love with you.”

“I think you’ve been watching too much crap on television.”

They rode down the elevator, crossed the lobby, and walked toward Queens Boulevard. Rebecca chattered about school, girlfriends, boyfriends, and various interesting experiences she’d had since seeing her father last. She spoke quickly, chattering about nonsensical things that were more an outpouring of love than verbal communication.

“Didn’t your mother say you needed some clothes?” he asked in front of a dry cleaning establishment on Queens Boulevard.

“Well, there are a few things I could use.”

“Like what?”

“Jeans and tops, stuff like that. Everything’s getting too small for me.”

“The Abraham and Strauss on Queens Boulevard is open on Sundays, isn’t it?”

“All the stores out here are open on Sunday.”

“Let’s take a cab down, and if we can’t find what we want at Abraham and Strauss, we’ll go to Macy’s. You know your size?”

“Of course I know my size. Size twelve.”

Sunday afternoon traffic was congested but Rackman was able to hail an empty cab returning from Kennedy Airport. He and Rebecca got in while Rebecca confessed her latest career goal.

“I want to be an actress when I grow up,” she said proudly. “Like Cheryl Ladd and Farrah Fawcett-Majors.”

“Maybe I should enroll you in some kind of acting school.”

“Mommy said I’m too young, but Kristy McNichol is only sixteen and she’s already famous.”

“I’ll talk to your mother about it.”

“You’ll have another argument.”

“I don’t give a damn. How’re you getting along with Sam?”

“He’s okay.”

“He ever hit you or anything like that?”

“He wouldn’t dare, but Mommy does.”

“Why don’t you hit her back?”

Rebecca smiled. “Do you really think I should?”

“On second thought, I think you’d better not.”

They got out of the cab at the new Abraham and Strauss on Queens Boulevard and took the escalator up to the second floor children’s department. Rebecca was as concentrated as a fighter pilot on a strafing run as she went through a rack of silk party dresses. Rackman looked at her and thought of the whores and peepshow girls of Times Square, reflecting that they were once twelve years old too, guileless and romantic, dreaming of princes on white horses, party dresses, and lollipops. He wondered what terrible things had happened to them, and hoped Rebecca wouldn’t take a wrong turn someplace and go in that direction.

She spun around, holding before her a frilly white dress with little red flowers on it. “Do you like this one, Daddy?”

“It’s very pretty, sweetheart. Why don’t you take it to the dressing room and try it on?”

It was the next night and Rackman was back on duty driving west on Fifty-seventh Street to meet with one of his informants. His police radio was on, crackling with routine messages. As he neared the Sixth Avenue intersection, the radio broadcaster’s voice became urgent, “Signal ten-fourteen… signal ten-fourteen… Possible homicide at the Polka Dot Lounge, 757 Eighth Avenue… Which car responding?”

A few seconds later a patrol car in the area reported it was on its way to the scene. Immediately thereafter another patrol car said it was proceeding there too. Rackman hooked a left on Seventh Avenue and drove in that direction. The Polka Dot Lounge was in his territory, and as duty homicide detective, he’d have to file a report if a murder had actually taken place.