The Big Heat

Chapter 7

The apartment was clean and tidy, ashtrays emptied, newspapers and magazines in neat stacks, everything swept up, dusted, put in order. The flowers were gone, but their scent remained in the room, the faint, sickly smell of dying roses and lilies. Mrs. Weiss who lived above the Bannions’, had seen to these details the day after the funeral.

Bannion stood in the front room, his hands in his overcoat pockets, glancing about for the last time. There was nothing else to hold him here; Mrs. Weiss would take care of the sub-leasing, and of Kate’s clothes. He dropped his keys on the coffee table, and then looked around again, at the imitation fireplace, the mantel, bare of pictures now, at the radio, liquor cabinet, at the sofa where she had usually sat to read, and at his own big chair. It was a room he had known by heart, but it was strange and unfamiliar to him now, as impersonal as a furniture arrangement in a shop window. It was a clean and silent room in a clean and silent apartment, and he looked at it without any feeling at all.

He glanced once at his books beside his chair, his old, familiar companions. He wasn’t taking them with him, Hume, Locke, Kant, the men who had struggled and attacked the problems of living through all their lives. What could they tell him now of life? He knew the answers, and the knowledge was a dead, cold weight in his heart. Life was love; not love of God, love of Humanity, love of Justice, but love of one other person. When that love was destroyed, you were dead, too.

The front bell rang. Bannion frowned slightly and went to the door. Father Masterson from Saint Gertrude’s stood in the vestibule, a tall, earnest young man with pale skin and mild, unguarded blue eyes.

“Hello, Dave. I hope I’m not butting in.”

“No, but I was just leaving,” Bannion said.

“Well, I won’t hold you up then,” Father Masterson said. He turned his hat awkwardly in his big, gentle hands. “I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do.”

“No, there’s nothing you can do, Father.”

“Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

“No, of course not.” Bannion stepped aside and closed the door, after the priest entered the room. Father Masterson glanced around nervously, and then turned to him with an earnest but hopeless expression on his face. “Talking’s no good, Dave, and I know it. Some priests are good at it, but I’m not. When people say ‘Why, why did God let this happen?’ I just can’t answer them. There’s an answer, sure, and it’s all right in catechisms, I guess, but not at times like this, times when you need it. Maybe I’m just no good, Dave. But—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Father,” Bannion said. He smiled slightly. He had changed in the last week; his face was thinner and pale, and his clothes hung loosely on his huge frame. His eyes were empty and expressionless. “I’m not asking for any answers. I know the answers. Perhaps we should reverse roles. I’ll help you out, Father. Kate was killed because there was a stick of dynamite wired to the ignition of our car. When she stepped on the starter she was killed. Why was she killed? Someone was after me, and got her instead. That’s all there is to it, Father.”

“You can’t live with this hatred in your heart,” Father Masterson said, shaking his head slowly.

“I think it’s all that’s keeping me alive.”

“What about Brigid?”

“She’s okay. She’s with Kate’s sister. She thinks her mother is away on a trip.”

“What are your plans?”

Bannion smiled. “I’m going to kill the men who put that bomb in the car, Father.”

“You can’t do that, Dave. Brigid needs you now, you’ve got to be father and mother to her. You can’t do that with this hate in your heart.”

“I think we’ve talked enough, Father,” Bannion said. “We’re wasting time.”

Father Masterson was silent a moment, and then he smiled. “You know where I am if you need me,” he said. “I’ll do anything I can, remember that.”

“You won’t be any help to me,” Bannion said.

Father Masterson hesitated. Then he said: “Dave, don’t underestimate us. Sometimes, we seem to be offering a pretty timid sort of help. But there’s more to it than that, believe me. Try to keep that in mind. And don’t forget your little girl.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Bannion said. “That’s all any man can do. Right now, she’s okay.” He smiled again, the thin, humorless smile he had developed in the past week. “There’s a police detail twenty-four hours a day at Kate’s sister’s home. The police aren’t going to let this happen again. They’re sorry it happened to Kate. So are the papers. Everybody’s extremely sorry.”

“There have been no arrests yet, have there?”

“No, curiously enough, there haven’t. Curious, when you consider how sorry everyone is.”

“Dave, justice will be done.”

“Yes, of course,” Bannion said, still smiling. “But I’ll tell you a secret, Father. There won’t be any arrests.”

“You can’t take that responsibility.”

“Sure I can take it, Father,” Bannion said. “Don’t worn’ about that.”

Father Masterson winced at the tone of Bannion’s voice. He sighed and said, “Well, can I drop you somewhere, Dave. I have the car.”

“No, thanks. I’ll take a cab.”

“Please, just a minute,” Father Masterson said. “If you go this way I’m failing you, Dave.”

“I haven’t asked for anything, Father.”

Father Masterson rubbed his forehead with long gentle fingers. “I know, I know,” he said. “I... I feel useless anyway, though. You aren’t taking your books, I see.”

“No.”

Father Masterson walked to the bookcase and peered at the titles. Bannion glanced at his watch, and then put both hands deep in his pockets. The priest removed a book from the shelf and came back to him holding it awkwardly, tentatively, in his hands. “Would you do me a favor, Dave? Would you take this one with you, please?”

Bannion glanced at it without expression. It was the Ascent of Mount Carmel by St. John of the Cross. “That’s an interesting one,” he said.

“You’ll take it with you then?”

Bannion shrugged. “Let me read you something, Father,” he said. He took the book and opened it, and there was a thin, unpleasant smile on his lips. “Listen to this, Father,” he said, and began to read in an expressionless voice: “This light guided me. More surely than the light of noonday. To the place where he (well, I knew who!) was awaiting me — a place where none appeared.”

Bannion closed the book slowly and looked at the priest. “Funny, isn’t it?” he said.

“I don’t understand, Dave,” Father Masterson said.

“ ‘To a place where none appeared,’ ” Bannion repeated. “Maybe there wasn’t anyone there, Father. Maybe there was never anyone waiting for us after the darkness of the night. That’s a rather comical idea, don’t you think?”

“That’s not what he means,” Father Masterson said.

Bannion shrugged again. “Well, I’m just quoting him, you know,” he said. “If he meant something else, I think he might have said it.”

“He did say it, he said it unmistakably in the last stanza of that poem,” the priest said.

“I think I like the one I read better,” Bannion said. “Come on, Father, let’s go.”

“But take the book, Dave,” the priest insisted.

“Okay, okay,” Bannion said, irritably.

They went outside and down the steps. It was a cold, raw day with a cutting wind in the black, winter trees. Father Masterson put out his hand. “Well, goodbye, Dave.”

They shook hands. “Goodbye,” Bannion said, and walked down the street, his body inclined slightly into the winter-edged wind. He hailed a cab at the first intersection, and told the driver to take him to City Hall. He lit a cigarette and watched the gray, sluggish river, the low, leaden sky, and tried not to think. That had been the worst of it; thinking...

Neely was alone in Homicide, on the phone, and Bannion nodded to him and walked on into Wilks’ office.

Wilks came around his desk quickly, his face concerned and anxious. “I didn’t expect to see you yet, Dave,” he said. He took Bannion’s arm. “Here, sit down. Hell, we want you take a complete rest, a good long one, before coming back to work.”

Bannion didn’t sit down. He watched Wilks.

Wilks coughed and took his hand from Bannion’s arm. “We’ve got three men, full-time, on the job. There’ll be a payoff soon, by God.”

“That’s good,” Bannion said. “Nothing’s turned up yet, eh?”

“Well, no. There’s an angle—” He stopped, studying Bannion with an anxious little frown. “Dave, you don’t want to talk about it now, I know.”

“Sure, I’d like to talk about it,” Bannion said. He smiled. “What’s the angle?”

“It’s this. There’s a union official in your block, a fellow named Grogerty.”

“I know him.”

“Well, he’s been in trouble with a left-wing outfit that’s trying to crack one of his unions. We have some evidence that the bomb was meant for him, and not you, and certainly not your wife. His car was parked out that night, and it’s a dark sedan, just like yours. We’ve been thinking the whole thing may have been a ghastly accident, a mistake.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re thinking, eh?” Bannion said. He watched Wilks with the thin, unpleasant smile on his lips.

“Well, it’s an angle. We aren’t going to overlook anything. Dave.”

“That’s fine, neither am I.”

Wilks paused. “How do you mean, Dave.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Quitting? Quitting what?”

“My job. I suppose there’s a form to be filled out. I’ll take care of it.”

Dave, slow down. What’s the matter with you? Are you leaving town, or something?”

“No, I’ll be around,” Bannion said.

Wilks was silent a moment. “I see,” he said, finally. “You’re going to work on your own.”

“That’s right.”

I can’t say that I blame you. I’d probably do the same thing myself. But this is a police job, remember that. Even though I understand your motives, and sympathize with them, I can’t let you get in our way. Do you realize that?”

“Sure,” Bannion said. “I’ll try to keep out of your way.”

Dave, think this thing over carefully,” Wilks said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Amateurs get nowhere, you know that.”

“I’m no amateur.”

“Yes, but you can work faster in the department. Why don’t you stick with us?”

That doesn’t seem to be the best way to get the man I want,” Bannion said.

“Dave, I know what you’re thinking.”

“You should be worried then,” Bannion said, in a suddenly cold voice.

Wilks stared at him and then walked around behind his desk, and put his hands on it, as if to draw some strength from that symbol of his position and authority. “I don’t know what that crack means,” he said. He seemed abruptly very tired. “What’s on your mind, Dave?”

I didn’t come here to talk,” Bannion said, with an impatient gesture. “I’ll see you around, Wilks.”

“Dave — you’re making a mistake.”

Bannion turned to the door.

“Dave, wait a minute!”

“Okay, what is it?”

Wilks swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. “I’ll want your badge and gun, Dave,” he said. His voice was crisp and solid with authority; but his eyes didn’t quite meet Bannion’s.

“The gun belongs to me,” Bannion said.

“See that you get a permit to carry it,” Wilks said.

Bannion smiled, took out his wallet and unpinned his badge. It was a special badge, a gold one, given to him by his shift on his tenth anniversary in the department. He glanced down at it, gleaming and yellow in the palm of his hand, and then he looked squarely at Wilks and closed his big hand slowly, powerfully, deliberately. “There it is,” he said, opening his hand and tossing the badge onto Wilks’ desk. It rolled onto the green blotter and came to rest on a neatly typed report, bent and curled as if it had been made of tinfoil.

Wilks wet his lips. “You’ll regret that someday,” he said slowly. “The frontpiece is clean, even if some of the men who wear it aren’t. I—”

He was talking to the big detective’s back. The door opened and closed, Bannion was gone. Wilks stared at his desk, at the crumpled badge, his lips still moving, finishing his sentence in a whisper. He stood there half a moment and then sat down and lifted the phone. “Outside line,” he said.

He waited for the connection, dialled a number.

“This is Wilks,” he said.

“Yes, I know what you told me, but this is important. Bannion was in. He’s quit, going after things on his own.”

“I couldn’t do anything with him.”

“I’m not worried.” Wilks rubbed his forehead. “Sure, he’s just a dumb cop.”

“Okay, okay.”

“All right.”

Wilks replaced the phone slowly. There was a film of perspiration on his upper lip...

Bannion stopped in the outer office, at Neely’s desk. Burke had come in and was lounging against the counter, watching Bannion with a small, worried frown.

“Neely, I’d like a favor,” Bannion said.

“Sure, anything, Sarge.”

“I want the names of any automobile mechanics in town who have police records. The districts should be able to get them for you.”

“Sure, it won’t take long.”

“One thing, before you start. I’m not with the department anymore. I just quit.”

Neely looked at him in surprise. “You’re kidding?”

“No, that’s on the level.”

“For God’s Sake, Dave, I don’t know what to say. That’s classified information. I’m not supposed to pass it out.”

“I said it was a favor.”

“Dave— I can’t do it,” Neely said, looking unhappily at his phone.

“Okay, sorry I asked,” Bannion said, and started for the door. Burke straightened up from the counter, and said, “What the devil did you quit for, Dave?”

Bannion didn’t answer. He straight-armed the swinging door, almost jarring it off its hinges, and turned out of sight into the corridor. Burke swore and went after him, half-running. He caught up with him and put a hand on his forearm.

“Don’t go off your rocker,” he said, in a low, tense voice. “Relax. I’ll get those names for you, but take it easy. You want to take something apart now. I don’t blame you — but be smart about it, boy, be smart.”

They reached the elevators and Bannion faced Burke, his face hard and pale. “I’ll be smart, don’t worry,” he said, and shook Burke’s hand from his arm and stepped into the elevator.

The doors slid shut...

Burke walked slowly back to the Homicide office. He glanced at Neely as he rounded the counter, and shrugged. “What’s up?” Neely said. “What’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know,” Burke said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “He’s not using his head. But I wouldn’t want to get in his way. I’ve seen him mad, and that’s bad enough, God knows, but this is different. He’s going off like a bomb, you watch.”

“You watch,” Neely said, reaching for the ringing phone. “I want no part of it.”

Burke shrugged and lit another cigarette...

Bannion had to wait a few minutes in Inspector Cranston’s outer office. When he did go in Cranston stood and put both hands on his shoulders. “Is there anything at all I can do, Dave?” he said quietly.

“I’m here for a favor.”

“You may have it. Nothing helps at times like these, least of all talk. But you must know how I feel.”

“I think so. I’ve quit, Inspector. I want a permit for my gun.”

“You’re going to handle this yourself, eh?” Cranston said, after a pause. “Going gunning. That’s against the law, Dave.”

“So is leaving bombs in cars,” Bannion said.

Cranston frowned and sighed. “Well, I’ll skip the fatherly advice. You’re no child. You know what you’re doing. It will take a day for the permit. Where shall I send it?”

“I’ve moved into the Grand Hotel on Arch Street.”

“Okay, I’ll send it over by messenger in the morning. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, that’s enough, Inspector.”

Cranston rubbed his white head, still frowning. “Dave, let me ask you a favor now. Don’t forget where my office is. Okay?”

Bannion nodded. “I’ll remember,” he said.

Cranston watched him leave. He sighed and took a gun-permit from his desk, and began filling it out, his hard old face expressionless.

Bannion walked to his hotel. There was a fine rain falling now, and the winter darkness was closing in on the city. Neon signs flashed above store fronts, and automobile headlights bored yellow tunnels into the gray, wet gloom. He picked up his key at the desk and went up to his room, which was neither large nor small, friendly or otherwise, but simply an impersonal, adequate hotel room. He poured himself a drink and sat down at the window without bothering to remove his hat or coat.

He stared at the city. Now it’s time to start, he thought. It was a satisfying realization, it gave a purpose and outlet to the storm inside him.

He watched the city, a black, rain-shining mass, glittering with red and white lights, a cramped, crowded city, squeezing its densest glut of men and buildings into the corridor made by the hourglass curves of the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers. He watched the city, drinking.

Lots of people there. Most of them didn’t give a damn about him, or about Lucy Carroway, or his wife. Some did though; bondsmen, racketeers, a few cops, magistrates, judges, sheriff’s deputies — they cared about Bannion. They had to, whether they were for him or against him, whether they were straight or crooked, because the pressure had been big when it came, and everybody on a city payroll, everybody who made money out of the running of the city, had to care, had to worry when the big pressure was on, when the big hands tightened their grip.

Bannion finished his drink. He didn’t kid himself; it would be a tough job.

He glanced at his watch.

Time to start.

He stood and checked his gun, and then slid it easily back into its holster. He took the copy of St. John of the Cross from his pocket, looked at it for an instant, and then tossed it onto the top of the bureau. He felt as if he were putting down an unwelcome burden.

He walked out.