Robert Bennett - The Company Man

After a while he was unable to tell if the man was dead or not. He suspected he was. The pulse had been too faint for a long time and he could not tell if any breath still went through the man. But the blood still came. Drooling out of the edges of the sodden bandage.

Garvey picked up his service revolver and opened the cylinder and took out each of the rounds. He lined them up on the cement next to him, copper points toward the morning sky, the last one’s nose open and smelling of sulfur. Then he laid the gun before them and sat on his knees. He was not sure why he did it. It was some ritual he had never known before, or perhaps had never yet existed. Some urban rite for those who died in these cement passageways, unshriven and unmourned.

They took their time to come. He was not surprised. The response time in these neighborhoods was terrible. As dawn came the end of the alleyway lit up with a half-dozen beams of light and he saw the glint of little shields and buttons behind them like sparks. Someone shouted at him to put his hands up.

He held up his badge. The beams stayed on him for a moment and then drooped as though disappointed. Then they walked to him and someone said his name and they all stood in the alley and looked at the man on the gore-streaked ground.

They picked Garvey up in Lynn and gave him a coat and sat him in the back of the car. Half the district had shown up, guns and truncheons in hand, pacing back and forth over the cement like animals with their blood up. The detectives raced to beat the sun and keep the body from the residents, but it was already too late. By eight a crowd had formed. By eight-thirty someone had squawked out the name of the body, then begun to put together who had shot him down. Soon the bottles and the rocks were flying through the air and the patrolmen had their truncheons out, but they were retreating step by step. Stones struck Garvey’s car and the glass of one of the passenger doors turned to frigid webbing before falling in on the seats.

“Christ,” someone cried. “Get him fucking out of here.”

They drove Garvey to Central but he barely noticed. He was drifting along. The shot still echoing in his ears. Samantha still calmly peeling back the bandage. Hayes gasping over the wound.

They stuck him in a back office. Collins came in and said, “Think. Just think. Don’t say anything yet. Just think.” Then he was gone.

Solidarity, he thought to himself. It had always been solidarity before. But the city had changed, he knew. Police were now its casualties along with all the regular citizens. Protectors no longer, perhaps never again.

He watched the ordeal through the slits in the blinds. Collins was speaking with two men, their faces impassive. High Crimes, he guessed. They handled the internal stuff. Collins wasn’t arguing with them, and that was troubling. Just talking. There seemed to be a lot of nodding going on. Then Garvey saw the gold glimmer of a full regalia hat, though they were not wearing the rest of the official uniform, certainly not at this hour. Everyone stood up straight and they maneuvered into lines. Someone big had come, Garvey guessed. Brassy. The commissioner, maybe, but Garvey couldn’t make out his face.

He wished he could take a shower. He had crawled through miles of piping behind Hayes and Samantha, shedding clothing when it became too sopping wet. He stank of bilgewater and sweat and his hands and arms and thighs were still smeared with the blood from the union man. It seemed as though he would never get it off. As though the stain went down through each layer of his skin to soak into his own veins and perhaps touch his heart.

He looked up. Collins was walking toward him, face set. He opened the door and came in and looked Garvey over. Then he took out a small green flask. “Here,” he said, holding it out.

“I don’t want it,” Garvey said.

“Yeah you do.”

“I don’t. I really don’t, Lieutenant.”

Collins hesitated, then replaced the flask. He sat down next to Garvey and asked, “You hurt?”

“No. I need a shower, though. That High Crimes out there?”

“Yeah. They ran down here the second they heard.”

“And the commissioner?”

A long silence. Collins said, “Yes.”

“What does the commissioner say?”

Collins did not answer.

“I’m being strung out, aren’t I,” Garvey said. “Cop drops a unioner. Deep in Lynn. That’s… that’s as dirty as it gets, isn’t it?” He pulled the coat tighter around him.

“It depends on the story,” Collins said quietly. “It depends on that. If you can sell it clean and sell it real, you can still come out ahead. Still come out police.”

“Does the Department have a story for me to tell?”

“We’re still putting it together. Why don’t you give it to me first? Run it by me and I can see if there’s any irregularities.”

Garvey told him. Told his story in full. Collins listened and did not speak for nearly five minutes once it was done.

“That’s your story?” Collins asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s what you’re going to tell High Crimes?”

“If they ask.”

“And the commissioner? If he asks?”

Garvey shrugged. “Yeah.”

“You can’t tell that to them. You can’t run with that. You’ll ruin us. You’ll ruin yourself. You’ll force our hand.”

“That’s what happened,” Garvey said carefully.

Collins looked him up and down. “I don’t even believe you.” He stood and opened the door and looked back. “I’m going to give you another hour to think. Another hour to remember. To listen. All right? I suggest you remember that you were traveling with Officer Philips from a local Midnight Mass when you saw the suspect coming from the alley entrance with what appeared to be a weapon and stolen goods in his hand, the stolen goods being three gold watches. Three run-down gold watches. Three of them. You then asked the suspect to stop, which is when he dropped the stolen goods and brandished his weapon. You then produced your revolver and told him to put his hands in the air, which is when he rushed you, which is when you popped off a round. You stayed on the scene, tried to revive him, but could not, and you waited for other police. Philips was there and he saw the whole thing, and he can testify to it, and it’ll be believable as he’s from that ratshit part of town. You certainly were not in that alley alone. You certainly didn’t see him stumbling around drunk with that weapon. You certainly didn’t accost him by yourself. It didn’t go like that. You understand me?”

“I thought you were still putting it together.”

“Do you understand?” asked Collins again.

“I understand,” Garvey said.

“All right. Now. When the representative from High Crimes comes and sits you down, will your story be more or less what we have just reviewed here, Detective?”

Garvey shook his head.

Collins took a deep breath. “You should really…”

“That’s not the way it went,” Garvey said. “That’s not the way.”

Collins studied him for a moment more, then turned and slammed the door.

Samantha struggled to help Hayes walk. He had been doing well for a bit, but now his head and nose were both bleeding freely. he had to keep his sleeve pressed to his scalp as if he were frozen in the middle of some bizarre salute. They went down empty streets at random and whenever they saw another pedestrian they shied away toward doorways and more empty alleys. Finally Hayes coughed and came to life a little more and began mumbling directions.

He directed her to the Wering Canal. They went down a stone stairway and began walking along the canal apartments. A smoky waterfall laved the stone walls at the far end. Next to it was an apartment with a small green door. Hayes leaned against it and told her to reach into his pocket and find the key with the little pearl. She did so and used it to open the door. Inside it was like a low musty attic with a tattered cot in the corner. Hayes staggered over and collapsed on it, the springs screaming beneath him. He lay there and forced breath into his lungs until it became calm.