Cops and Robbers

2

They co-hosted a barbecue for some friends in the neighborhood. The grill was in Tom’s backyard, so that’s where the party was, but they both pitched in for the food and drink, and both wives worked on the salads and the desserts and in setting things up. The first humid hot spell of the summer had broken the day before with one of those real drenching summer downpours, but by the morning of the barbecue the yard was almost completely dry. Also, the humidity was way down, and the temperature had dropped into the high seventies. Perfect weather for a party in the backyard.

There were four other couples invited, all from the same block, plus their kids. None of them were on the force, and in fact only one of them even worked in the city; Tom and Joe liked them all mostly because they could forget their own jobs while with them.

Before the party, they’d brought all the kitchen chairs and folding chairs out of both houses and scattered them around Tom’s yard, and set up a bar on a card table back by the grill. They had gin and vodka and scotch, plus soft drinks for the kids. Mary had put a sheet over the card table instead of a tablecloth, one of those printed sheets with a flower design all over it, and it really looked nice there.

Before dinner, Tom and Joe took turns being bartender, one serving the drinks while the other wandered around the yard playing host. But Tom was the official chef, like it said on his apron, so while he was doing the chicken quarters and the hamburgers on the outdoor grill Joe became the bartender full time. Then, after everybody had eaten, Tom became bartender again and Joe just stood around or occasionally went to one kitchen or the other for more ice. They both had ice-makers in their refrigerators, but with fifteen or twenty people all drinking iced drinks at once — and the kids mostly spilling theirs out on the grass — you can use ice faster than any refrigerator on earth can make it. It was a good thing to have two.

It was a good party, as that kind of party goes. That is, there weren’t any long uncomfortable silences, and there weren’t any fist-fights. In fact, nobody got falling down drunk, which was kind of unusual. The people on the block, mostly the men, tended to be pretty two-fisted drinkers, and the way the summertime parties usually went, the survivors carried the others home. Maybe it was because it was so early in the season, and the group wasn’t into the swing of things yet. Or maybe it was simply the nice weather after the long stretch of humidity; everybody was feeling so pleasant and comfortable that nobody wanted to spoil it with a hangover.

It was getting toward evening when Joe wandered over to the bar again and said, “How’s the ice holding out?”

“We need some.”

“No sooner said,” Joe told him, and went over to his own kitchen, and brought back a glass pitcher full of the little half-moon cubes. He worked his way through the guests to the card table, where Tom was standing with his chef’s apron still on. He didn’t have any customers right at that moment. Joe put the pitcher down and said, “There you go.”

Tom began to switch the ice cubes to his Colonial ice-bucket. Joe rooted around among all the dirty glasses on the card table, and finally said, “What did I do with my drink?”

“I’ll make you another.”

“Thanks.”

Joe was drinking scotch and soda. Tom knew that wasn’t considered a summertime drink, but he’d never said anything; it was what Joe liked all year ’round, so why pester him?

Tom started making the drink, and Joe turned to look at the freeloaders all over the lawn in the gloom of twilight. The men were talking with men, the women were talking with women, the kids were running around the adults like motorcycles around traffic stanchions. It occurred to Joe that of all the women currently in the backyard the only one he really wanted to ball was Mary, who was Tom’s wife. Then she turned, and he realized in the half-light he’d made a mistake and it was Grace he’d been staring at, his own wife. He grinned and shook his head, and almost turned to tell Tom what he’d just done when he realized that wouldn’t be a good idea.

He looked around some more, and at last saw Mary way over by the house. Both women were wearing slacks with stripes, and fuzzy sweaters; Mary’s pink, Grace’s white. Because of the party they’d both gone off to the beauty parlor this morning and had come back with hairdos that sat up on top of their heads like Venusian helmets, hair styles that had absolutely nothing to do with who they really were. But that was women for you, they did that sort of thing.

Tom said, “Joe?”

Joe turned. “Yeah?”

“You remember that— Here.” Tom handed over the fresh drink.

“Thanks.”

“You remember,” Tom said, “that thing you told me the other day about the liquor store?”

Joe pulled at his drink, and grinned. “Sure.”

Tom hesitated, biting his lower lip, looking worriedly at the people at the other end of the yard. Finally, all in a rush, he said, “Have you done it again?”

Joe frowned, not sure what he was getting at. “No. Why?”

“You thought about it?”

With a little shrug, Joe looked away. “A couple times, I guess. I didn’t want to push my luck.”

Tom nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

One of the guests came up then, stopping the conversation for a while. He was named George Hendricks, and he ran a supermarket over in the five towns. He was a little drunk now, not terrible, and he came up with a loose grin on his face and said, “Time for a refill.”

“You’re a screwdriver,” Tom said, and took his glass.

“You’re goddam right I am,” George said. He was about thirty pounds overweight, and always hinting about what a sex maniac he was. Now he said, mostly to Joe, since Tom was busy making his drink, “You two both still work in the city, huh?”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, we do.”

“Not me,” George said. “I’m out of that rat-race for good.” Up till a few years ago, he’d managed a Finast in Queens.

Drunks always irritated Joe, even when he was off duty. Skeptical, a little bored, he said to George, “It’s that different out here?”

“Hell, yes. You know that yourself, you moved out here.”

“Grace and the kids are out here,” Joe said. “I’m still in the city.”

Tom held George’s fresh drink out to him: “Here.”

“Thanks.” George took the glass, but didn’t drink yet. He was still involved in his conversation with Joe. He said, “I don’t see how you guys stand it. The city is nothing but wall-to-wall crooks. Everybody out to chisel a dollar.”

Joe merely shrugged, but Tom said, “It’s the way of the world, George.”

“Not out here,” George said. He made it one of those definite, don’t-argue-with-me statements.

“Out here,” Tom said, “just like any place else. It’s all the same.”

“You guys,” George said, and shook his head. “You think everybody’s crooked in the whole world. It’s being in the city gives you that idea.” He gave a knowing grin, and rubbed his thumb and finger together. “Being in on it a little.”

Joe, who’d been looking at the women again, trying without success to develop an interest in George’s wife, turned his head and gave George a flat stare. “Is that right?”

“One hundred per cent,” George said. “I know about New York City cops.”

“That’s the same everywhere, too,” Tom said. He wasn’t offended; he’d given up being sore about slurs like that years ago. He said, “You think the guys in the precinct out here could make it on their salaries?”

George laughed and pointed his drink at Tom. “See what I mean? The city corrupts your mind, you think everybody in the world is a crook.”

Suddenly irritated, Joe said, “George, you come home every night with a sack of groceries. You don’t do that on any employee discount, you just pack up those groceries and walk out of the store.”

George was outraged. He stood up straighter, and got drunker. “I work for them!” he said, his voice loud enough to carry to the far end of the yard. “If the chain paid a man a decent salary—”

“You’d do the same thing,” Joe said.

Smoothly, Tom said, “Not necessarily, Joe.” He was a natural host, he eased groups through the rough spots. He said to Joe, but for George’s benefit, “Everybody hustles, but nobody wants to. I don’t want Mary to work, you don’t want Grace to work, George doesn’t want Phyllis to work, but what are you gonna do?”

George probably embarrassed at having gotten mad, made a heavy attempt at humor. “Lose the house to the bank,” he said.

Tom said, “The way I see it, the problem is really very simple. There’s so and so much money, and there’s so and so many people. And there isn’t quite enough money to go around. So you do the only thing that’s left; you steal to make up the difference.”

Joe gave Tom a warning look, but Tom hadn’t been thinking about the liquor store just then, and in any case didn’t notice him.

George, still trying to make up for his bad temper, said, “Okay. I can go along with that. You got to make up the difference, and you do a little of this and that. Like me with the groceries.” Then, with a smirk, and another heavy attempt at humor, he added, “And you guys with whatever you can get.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Joe said. He was still serious. He said, “In our position, we could get whatever we wanted. We restrain ourselves, that’s all.”

George laughed, and Tom gave Joe a thoughtful look. But Joe was moodily glaring at George; he was thinking he’d like to give him a ticket.