John Gardner - The Sunlight Dialogues

“A policeman’s job—” Clumly said hoarsely. But a coughing fit seized him and he couldn’t finish. There were people at the windows of the houses across the street. Kozlowski went on waiting till the first rock hit the side of the car. Then he switched on the ignition and pulled out into the street. He drove back through town to the station slowly, saying nothing. When he parked, Clumly got out without a word, still full of painful excitement that was almost like pleasure, and hurried in. His face was squeezed tight with humiliation, and for the life of him he could not walk upright. It wasn’t that he was winded now. It was his liver or something. When he reached the door he found, to his surprise, that Kozlowski had followed him. He glanced at the man furtively, then, angry and ashamed, went on to the lavatory to wash his wounded hand, then back to his office as though Kozlowski were still out there in his car.

Finally, seated behind his desk, he knew he could no longer ignore the man’s presence. He snatched his reading glasses from the drawer and irritably hung them on his ears to examine the scratch marks. Then, knowing very well what a figure he cut, he tipped his mole’s nose slowly and squinted at Kozlowski.

“My badge,” Kozlowski said, pushing it toward Clumly over the papers.

Clumly said nothing, and the man turned away.

“Wait a minute,” Clumly said. He sucked the sore hand again.

Kozlowski waited.

Clumly closed his eyes and sat thinking, trembling all over, still sucking the hand, for a long time. He felt sick. His knees were shaking, and it wasn’t just his palsy. He got up abruptly, awkwardly, to prove to himself he was still in control, and went over to stand at the window, bent-backed, and took his glasses off again and held them behind him. He changed his mind and crossed back to his desk and dropped the glasses on the papers, then returned to the window and, with gray, trembling fingers, lighted himself a cigar. Still Kozlowski waited, standing with his hat on.

“Sit down,” Clumly said, gesturing without glancing over his shoulder. He heard Kozlowski move the chair a few inches and sit.

“All right,” Clumly said. He began to pace, smoking, never looking at Kozlowski. “All right,” he said more loudly. “Maybe I went too far. A mistake.” He stood still, musing. “You know it was a mistake, and you might have said so, but you didn’t.” He thought about it. “Spared my feelings. That’s good.” He paced again. “That’s very good. You could have said when we got to the car, ‘Where next, Chief?’—rubbing it in, you know. But you didn’t. Very good. You’ll make a good cop.”

“I’ve resigned,” Kozlowski said.

“Resigned hell! I could hang you for this. You promised that little whore protection. You heard her yourself. ‘You said there’d be no trouble.’ You don’t think I’ve forgotten that?”

Kozlowski lit the cigarette in his hand. “Not likely,” he said. He crossed his legs.

Clumly jerked away and went back to his pacing, struggling to ignore the sass. “All right,” he said. He smoked furiously, making a heavy cloud around his head. “I liked the way you got in there,” he said. “I thought to myself, ‘Good cop, that boy.’ I liked that.”

Kozlowski said nothing, and Clumly glared at him, then away again, thinking. His arms and legs prickled and felt numb. He pointed at Kozlowski then and said, “You should’ve shut her down. That’s your job. You know that.” He waited, but he knew there was no answer coming. “Well all right,” he said. “All right, you use your judgment. That’s good. A cop needs judgment I like that.” He paced. “A lot of my men get the wrong idea. We do this job of ours together, protecting Law and Order. This is a democracy.”

“Yes sir.”

The interruption broke his train of thought. He was sweating. “This is a democracy,” he said again, more emphatically. “We’re the Watchdogs. If a man can’t trust his Force, who can he trust? All right. I’m cognizant of that. Listen.” He tried to think what it was he had to tell him, but the memory of his humiliation distracted him. The woman’s image was burned into his mind — the youth of it, the nakedness, and the righteous indignation — and for some reason the painful image released another, his wife lying still as a dead chicken in the bed, unloved, useless. Who would mourn for her? Who would mourn for Clumly?

He went back to his desk, wincing, trying to think, and as if hoping it would help he put his glasses on again.

“Kozlowski,” he said, “don’t quit.”

Pitiful it sounded.

The man waited, not saying what Clumly knew he would be thinking.

“Too old, that must be it,” Clumly said. His chest was so full he felt like a man drowning. “Jitters,” he said. “—Miller!” He squinted at the door and called more loudly, “Miller! Come in here!”

Miller came in, pushing his pencil down into his pocket, carrying his clipboard. Miller was Clumly’s right-hand man.

“Miller, tell Kozlowski not to quit.”

“Don’t quit,” Miller said. He cocked his head, grinning, looking at Clumly.

“How long you been with us, Miller?” Clumly said.

“Why, nineteen hundred seven thousand twenty-three million two and a half—” Miller talked, always, a mile a minute. His name was Dominic Sangirgonio, Miller for short.

“Stop that!” Clumly roared. He banged the desk, then clung to it.

“Long time,” Miller said.

“Am I a rigid man?” Clumly demanded. “Am I a hard man to work for? Do I spy on my men, or ask the impossible? Tell him.”

“Just like a father,” Miller said.

“Miller, why do I drive my men? Why do I personally keep track of every job this Department does, from parking meters to criminal assault? Tell him.”

“Some kind of nut.” He smiled.

“Stop it,” Clumly said. “This man’s just tendered his resignation.”

“Tendered!” Miller said, impressed.

Clumly’s hand was still shaking, even when he steadied the heel on the desk — cigar ashes spattering on the papers — but for a moment longer Miller continued to watch, as if amused.

“Ok,” he said finally, looking over at Kozlowski. “What happened? Old man make a fool of himself, you think?” He tipped his head and grinned again. “You’ll get used to it. Honor bright. Cops are bad guys. Sometimes when you start out you forget that and pretty soon— paw! — you’re dead, some good guy’s got a knife. Like the kid Salvador we got guarding the bears. He thinks they’re his friends. Gives ’em cigarettes and candy and listens to their sob stories.” He laughed, but not wholeheartedly. “One of these days he’ll get his block knocked off. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get your block knocked off.”

“Look,” Kozlowski said.

“Tomorrow. For now, put on the badge. Think it over.” He reached for the badge and flipped it to Kozlowski. Kozlowski seemed to consider it. Miller said, “Shut her down, paisan. For a week or two, see? Teach the little broad some respect.” Before Kozlowski could answer he bowed to Clumly and went out.

Clumly looked at the papers, and Kozlowski stood toying with the badge.

“All right,” Clumly said weakly. “That’s all. Things have been pushing a little, lately. Just the same, all I said in the car—” He thought about it. “We have to enforce the law,” he said. “If a cop starts making exceptions — the fabric of society—” He had a funeral to go to this afternoon. The thought distracted him and he glared at Kozlowski to get his train of thought back. He said, “You ever see that man with the beard before?”

Kozlowski looked puzzled.

“In here,” Clumly said. He got up, knowing it was an odd thing to do, and led Kozlowski down the hallway to the cellblock. He held the door open and pointed. “Him.”