The 1st Deadly Sin (14 page)

His face betrayed a certain tension, a secret passion held rigidly under control. Lips were pressed, forehead bland, eyes deliberately expressionless. Delaney had noted the bitten fingernails and a habit of stroking the upper lip downward with the second joint of his index finger.

“When did you shave your mustache?” he asked.

“You should have stayed in the detective division,” Handry said. “I know I can’t stop stroking my lip. Tell me, Captain—why won’t policemen talk to me? Oh, they’ll talk, but they won’t really open up. I can’t get into them. If I’m going to be a writer, that’s what I’ve got to learn to do—how to get into people. Is it me, or are they afraid to talk for publication, or what the hell is it?”

“It isn’t you—not you personally. It’s just that you’re not a cop. You don’t belong. There’s a gulf.”

“But I’m trying to understand—really I am. This series is going to be very sympathetic to the police. I want it to be. I’m not out to do a hatchet job.”

“I’m glad you’re not. We get enough of that.”

“All right, then you tell me: why
does
a man become a policeman? Who the hell in his right mind would want a job like that in this city? The pay is miserable, the hours are miserable, everyone thinks you’re on the take, snot-nosed kids call you ‘pig’ and throw sacks of shit at you. So what the hell is the
point
?

They were passing a private driveway alongside a luxury apartment house. Delaney heard something.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Handry.

He went moving quietly up the driveway, the flashlight dark. His right hand was beneath his jacket flap, fingers on the butt of his gun.

He was back in a minute, smiling.

“A cat,” he said, “in the garbage cans.”

“It could have been a drug addict with a knife,” Handry said.

“Yes,” Delaney agreed, “it could have been.”

“Well then,
why?
” Handry asked angrily.

They were strolling slowly southward on York Avenue heading back toward the Precinct house. Traffic was light at that hour, and the few pedestrians scurried along, glancing nervously over their shoulders.

“My wife and I were talking about that a few weeks ago,” Delaney mused, remembering that bright afternoon in the Park. “I said I had become a cop because, essentially, I am a very orderly man. I like everything neat and tidy, and crime offends my sense of order. My wife laughed. She said I became a policeman because at heart I am an artist and want a world of beauty where everything is true and nothing is false. Since that conversation—partly because of what has happened since then—I have been thinking of what I said and what she said. And I have decided we are not so far apart—two sides of the same coin actually. You see, I became a policeman, I think, because there is, or should be, a logic to life. And this logic is both orderly and beautiful, as all good logic is. So I was right and my wife was right. I want this logic to endure. It is a simple logic of natural birth, natural living, and natural death. It is the mortality of one of us and the immortality of all of us. It is the on-going. This logic is the life of the individual, the family, the nation, and finally all people everywhere, and all things animate and inanimate. And anything that interrupts the rhythm of this logic—for all good logic does have a beautiful rhythm, you know—well, anything that interrupts that rhythm is evil. That includes cruelty, crime, and war. I can’t do much about cruelty in other people; much of it is immoral but not illegal. I can guard against cruelty in myself, of course. And I can’t do a great deal about war. I
can
do something about crime. Not a lot, I admit, but
something.
Because crime,
all
crime, is irrational. It is opposed to the logic of life, and so it is evil. And that is why
I
became a cop. I think.”

“My God!” Handry cried. “That’s great! I’ve got to use that. But I promise I won’t mention your name.”

“Please don’t.” Delaney said ruefully. “I’d never live it down.”

Handry left him at the Precinct house. Delaney climbed slowly to his office to put away his “beat” equipment. Then he slumped in the worn swivel chair behind his desk. He wondered if he would ever sleep again.

He was ashamed of himself, as he always was when he talked too much. And what nonsense he had talked!

“Logic…immortality…evil.” Just to tickle his vanity, of course, and give him the glow of voicing “deep thoughts” to a young reporter. But what did all that blathering have to do with the price of beans?

It was all pretty poetry, but reality was a frightened woman who had never done an unkind thing in her life now lying in a hospital bed nerving herself for what might come. There were animals you couldn’t see gnawing away deep inside her, and her world would soon be blood, vomit, pus, and feces. Don’t you ever forget it, m’lad. And tears.

“Rather her than me” suddenly popped into his brain, and he was so disgusted with himself, so furious at having this indecent thought of the woman he loved, that he groaned aloud and struck a clenched fist on the desk. Oh, life wasn’t all that much of a joy; it was a job you worked at, and didn’t often succeed.

He sat there in the gloom, hunched, thinking of all the things he must now do and the order in which he must do them. Brooding, he glowered, frowned, occasionally drew lips back to show large, yellowed teeth. He looked like some great beast brought to bay.

3

I
N THE
Metropolitan Museum of Art there is a gallery of Roman heads. Stone faces are chipped and worn. But they have a quality. Staring into those socket eyes, at those broken noses, crushed ears, splintered lips, still one feels the power of men long dead. Kill the slave who betrayed you or, if your dreams have perished, a short sword in your own gut. Edward Delaney had that kind of face; crumbling majesty.

He was seated now in his wife’s hospital room, the hard sunlight profiling him. Barbara Delaney stared through a drugged dimness and saw for the first time how his features had been harshened by violence and the responsibilities of command. She remembered the young, nervy patrolman who had courted her with violets and once, a dreadful poem.

The years and duty had not destroyed him, but they had pressed him in upon himself, condensing him. Each year he spoke less and less, laughed infrequently, and withdrew to some iron core that was his alone; she was not allowed there.

He was still a handsome man, she thought approvingly, and carried himself well and watched his weight and didn’t smoke or drink too much. But now there was a somber solidity to him, and too often he sat brooding. “What is it?” she would ask. And slowly his eyes would come up from that inward stare, focus on her and life, and he would say, “Nothing.” Did he think himself Nemesis for the entire world?

He had not aged so much as weathered. Seeing him now, seated heavily in sharp sunlight, she could not understand why she had never called him “Father.” It was incredible that he should be younger than she. With a prescience of doom, she wondered if he could exist without her. She decided he would. He would grieve, certainly. He would be numb and rocked. But he would survive. He was complete.

In his methodical way, he had made notes of the things he felt they should discuss. He took his little leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and flipped the pages, then put on his heavy glasses.

“I called the children last night,” he said, not looking up. “I know, dear. I wish you hadn’t. Liza called this morning. She wanted to come, but I told her absolutely not. She’s almost in her eighth month now, and I don’t want her traveling. Do you want a boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Beast. Well, I told her you’d call as soon as it’s over; there was no need for her to come.”

“Very good,” he nodded. “Eddie was planning to come up in two weeks anyway, and I told him that would be fine, not to change his plans. He’s thinking of getting into politics down there. They want him to run for district attorney. I think they call it ‘public prosecutor’ in that state. What do you think?”

“What does Eddie want to do?”

“He’s not sure. That’s why he wants to come up, to discuss it with us.”

“How do you feel about it, Edward?”

“I want to know more about it. Who’ll be putting up the campaign funds. What he’ll owe. I don’t want him getting into a mess.”

“Eddie wouldn’t do that.”

“Not deliberately. Maybe from inexperience. He’s still a young man, Barbara. Politics is new to him. He must be careful. Those men who want him to run have their own ambitions. Well…we’ll talk about it when he comes up. He promised not to make any decision until he talks to us. Now then…” He consulted his notes “…how do you feel about Spencer?”

He was referring to the surgeon introduced by Dr. Bernardi. He was a brusque, no-nonsense man without warmth, but he had impressed Delaney with his direct questions, quick decisions, his sharp interruptions of Bernardi’s effusions. The operation was scheduled for late in the afternoon of the following day. Delaney had followed the surgeon out into the hall.

“Do you anticipate any trouble, doctor?” he asked.

The surgeon, Dr. K. B. Spencer, looked at him coldly.

“No,” he said.

“Oh, I suppose he’s all right,” Barbara Delaney said vaguely. “What do you think of him, dear?”

“I trust him,” Delaney said promptly. “He’s a professional I asked Ferguson to check him out, and he says Spencer is a fine surgeon and a wealthy man.”

“Good,” Barbara smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t want a
poor
surgeon.”

She seemed to be tiring, and there was a hectic flush in her cheeks. Delaney put his notebook aside for a moment to wring out a cloth in a basin of cold water and lay it tenderly across her brow. She was already on intravenous feeding and had been instructed to move as little as possible.

“Thank you, dear,” she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear her. He hurried through the remainder of his notes.

“Now then,” he said, “what shall I bring tomorrow? You wanted the blue quilted robe?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “And the fluffy mules. The pink ones. They’re in the righthand corner of my closet. My feet are swollen so badly I can’t get into my slippers.”

“All right,” he said briskly, making a note. “Anything else? Clothes, makeup, books, fruit…anything?”

“No.”

“Should I rent a TV set?”

She didn’t answer, and when he raised his head to look at her, she seemed asleep. He took off his glasses, replaced his notebook in his pocket, began to tiptoe from the room.

“Please,” she said in a weak voice, “don’t go yet. Sit with me for a few minutes.”

“As long as you want me,” he said. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat hunched over, holding her hand. They sat in silence for almost five minutes.

“Edward,” she breathed, her eyes closed.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Edward.”

“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m here.”

“I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” he vowed.

“If anything should happen to me—”

“Barbara.”

“If anything should—”

“Dear.”

“I want you to marry again. If you meet a woman…Someone…I want you to. Will you promise?”

He couldn’t breathe. Something was caught in his chest. He bowed his head, made a small noise, gripped her fingers tighter.

“Promise?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

She smiled, nodded, slept.

4

C
APTAIN
D
ELANEY WAS
detained by another demonstration at the embassy. By the time he got it squared away and the chanting marchers shunted off into side streets, it was late afternoon and almost time for Barbara’s operation. He had one of the precinct squad cars rush him over to the hospital. He knew it was a breach of regulations, but he determined to make a full report on it, explaining the circumstances, and if they wanted to discipline him, they could.

He hurried up to her room, sweating under his longjohns and uniform jacket. They were wheeling her out as he arrived; he could only kiss her pale cheek and smile at her. She was on a cart, bundled up in blankets, the tube still attached to her arm, the jar of feeding fluid high on a rod clamped to the cart.

He left her on the second floor where the operating rooms were located. There was also a recovery ward, offices of physicians and surgeons, a small dispensary, and a large waiting room painted a bilious green and furnished with orange plastic couches and chairs. This brutal chamber was presided over by a handsome nurse, a woman of about 40, buxom, a blonde who kept poking tendrils of hair back under her starched cap.

Delaney gave his name, and she checked a frighteningly long list on her desk.

“Mrs. Barbara Delaney?”

“Yes.”

“Captain, it will be another half-hour until the operation. Then Mrs. Delaney will go to the recovery ward. You won’t be allowed to see her until she’s returned to her room, and then only if her doctor approves.”

“That’s all right. I’ll wait. I want to talk to the surgeon after the operation is finished.”

“Well…” she said doubtfully, consulting her list. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to. Dr. Spencer has two more scheduled after your wife. Captain, if you’re hungry or want a cup of coffee, why don’t you go downstairs to the cafeteria? Our paging system is connected there, and I can always call if you’re needed.”

“A good idea,” he nodded approvingly. “Thank you. I’ll do that. Do you happen to know if Dr. Bernardi is in the hospital?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I’ll try to find out.”

“Thank you,” he said again.

The food in the hospital cafeteria was, as he expected, wretched. He wondered how long they had to steam it to achieve that spongy texture and uniform color; the string beans were almost the same shiny hue as the mashed potatoes. And it all tasted as bad as it looked. Even liberal sprinklings of salt and pepper couldn’t make the meat loaf taste like anything but wet wallboard. He thought of his wife’s Italian stew, scented and spiced with rosemary, and he groaned.

He finally shoved the dishes away, hardly touched, and had a cup of black coffee and half a dish of chocolate pudding. Then he had another cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette. He was sweltering in the overheated cafeteria, but he never considered unhooking his choker collar. It wouldn’t look right in public. He reflected on how you could always spot old cops, even in a roomful of naked men. The cops had a ring of blue dye around their necks: a lifetime of wearing that damned choker collar.