Eight Black Horses

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Deaf Man would have been the first to agree that most catastrophes were caused by the fools of the world. He would not have dreamed, however, that sometimes a fool can prevent a catastrophe, thereby rising above his lowly estate to achieve the stature of a hero.

Genero’s first opportunity to become a hero came at two forty-five on the afternoon of January 5, the twelfth day of Christmas. The city had by then taken down all its Christmas trimmings. It looked somehow naked, but there were probably eight million stories in it anyway. The temperature, hovering at twelve degrees Fahrenheit—which was twelve above zero here, but approximately eleven below zero in Celsius-speaking countries—did much to discourage the fanciful notion (twelve days of Christmas indeed!) that the holiday season had lingered beyond New Year’s Day. The citizens knew only that winter was here in earnest, and Easter was a long way away. In between there’d be the short holiday crumbs thrown to a chilled populace: Lincoln’s Birthday, Valentine’s Day, Washington’s Birthday, Saint Patrick’s Day—with only Washington’s Birthday officially observed. For now, the city and the months ahead looked extraordinarily bleak.

The cops were nervous.

Only three days ago nine police cars had been blown up.

This did not indicate an attitude of civic-mindedness on the part of the populace.

In some quarters of the city, in fact, some citizens were heard to remark that it served the cops right. Now they knew what it felt like to be victimized. Maybe now they’d do something about the goddamn crime in this city. Maybe they’d make it safe to ride the subways again. What patrol cars had to do with subways, no one bothered clarifying. The talk was all about the shoe being on the other foot, and turnabout being fair play, and what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. The people of this city, even when police cars weren’t being blown up, felt ambivalent about cops. If they came home one night to find their apartment burglarized, the first thing they did was call the cops. And then complain later about how long it took for them to get there and about how they’d never recover the stolen goods anyway. In this city a vigilante could become a hero, even if he was a fool.

To the cops of the Eight-Seven, Genero was not a fool. The word was too elite for their vocabulary. Genero was a complainer and a whiner and an inefficient cop and a dope, but he was not a fool. Just a jackass. Not many of the detectives enjoyed being partnered with Genero. They felt, perhaps rightfully, that if push came to shove, Genero wasn’t the candidate they’d elect to help them out of a tight spot. A cop’s very life often depended upon the reaction time of his partner. How could you entrust your life to a man who couldn’t spell ‘surveillance?’ Or perhaps even ‘vehicle.’ Even the worst male chauvinist pig on the squad would have preferred being partnered with a woman rather than with Genero. Tell them that Genero was about to become a hero, and they’d have laughed in your face.

By two forty-five on the twelfth day of Christmas, Genero—because he’d done some splendid detective work at the office—was in possession of the lieutenant’s home number. He did not know what he would do if the lieutenant himself answered the phone, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He also did not know what he would call Harriet Byrnes if she answered the phone, but he guessed he would think of something.

A woman answered the phone.

‘Mrs. Byrnes?’ Genero said,

‘Yes?’ Harriet said.

‘This is Richard,’ he said.

He felt funny announcing himself as Richard, but that’s what she’d called him in the invitation, wasn’t it?

‘Who?’ she said.

‘Richard,’ he said.

‘Richard who?’ she said.

‘Genero. Detective Richard Genero,’ he said. ‘Detective/Third Grade Richard Genero.’

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘You know,’ he said.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘I work with your husband,’ he said. ‘Peter Byrnes. Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes. Pete.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but he isn’t here just now. Can I...?’

‘Good,’ Genero said. ‘I mean, actually I wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Byrnes.’

‘Yes?’ Harriet said.

‘Am I expected to bring a present?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Tonight.’

‘What?’

‘To the party.’

There was a long silence on the line.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said. ‘What party do you... ?’

‘You know,’ he said, and almost winked.

There was another long silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I haven’t told anybody, you don’t have to worry,’ Genero said.

‘Told anybody what?’ Harriet said.

‘About the party.’

Harriet thought one of her husband’s detectives had flipped. That sometimes happened during the holidays. Cops had a habit of eating their own guns during the holidays. Some cops even ate their own guns on Halloween. But the holidays had come and gone, hadn’t they?

‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked.

‘Genero,’ he said. ‘You know. Richard.’

‘Is there some problem, Detective Genero?’ she said.

‘Only about whether to bring a present.’

‘Well, I’ll have to ask Pete...’

‘No, don’t do that!’ he said at once.

‘What?’

‘It’s supposed to be a surprise, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘I thought... the invitation makes it sound like a surprise party.’

‘Well, does it mention a present?’ Harriet asked, and wondered why she was entering into this man’s delusional system.

‘What?’ Genero said.

‘I said...’

‘Well, no, that’s why I’m calling.’ He suddenly thought he might have the wrong number. ‘Is this Harriet Byrnes?’ he asked.

‘Yes, this is Harriet Byrnes.’

‘Lieutenant Byrnes’s wife?’

‘Yes, I’m Lieutenant Byrnes’s wife.’

‘So should I bring a present?’

‘Detective Genero,’ Harriet said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you on that.’

‘You can’t?’ Genero said.

‘Maybe this is something you ought to discuss with someone who can really help you,’ she said, if you’re deeply troubled about some sort of present...’

‘Who?’ Genero said.

‘You,’ Harriet said. ‘Aren’t you the one who’s troubled about...?’

‘I mean, who should I discuss it with?’

‘I think you should call the Psychological Service,’ she said.

‘How do you spell that?’ Genero asked.

‘Just call the Psychological Service at Headquarters,’ she said. ‘Tell them you’re extremely worried about this present, and tell them you’d like to make an appointment to see someone. Once you’ve talked to them, you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether...’

‘Oh, I get it,’ Genero said. ‘Okay, don’t worry. Mum’s the word.’

‘Meanwhile, I’ll tell Pete you...’

‘No, no, don’t blow the surprise, Mrs. Byrnes, that’s okay. Thanks a lot. I’ll probably see you later, huh? Thanks again,’ he said, and hung up.

Harriet looked at the telephone receiver.

She found it difficult to believe she had just had this conversation.

She wondered if she should call Pete and tell him that one of his detectives had gone bananas. And then she wondered if perhaps someone really was throwing a surprise party for her husband. She sighed heavily. Sometimes police work got very, very trying.

* * * *

Genero could have become a hero when he spoke to Harriet Byrnes. He could have realized then that she hadn’t sent him an invitation at all and that there wasn’t going to be any surprise party for the lieutenant. But Genero was a dope, and he didn’t realize anything at all, and he still didn’t know whether he should bring a present or not.

What he figured was that Mrs. Byrnes had told him to use his own judgment.

The thing of it was he didn’t have any judgment on the matter. Suppose he didn’t bring a present, but a present was expected, he’d look like a jackass. Or suppose he did bring a present, but he was the only one there with a present, he’d still look like a jackass. The one thing Genero didn’t want was to look like a jackass. He sat there in his room in his mother’s apartment—he still lived with his mother, which was nice—and wondered what he should do.

If only he knew which of the detectives had been invited.

But he didn’t.

If only he knew which of the detectives he could trust.

He figured he could trust Carella, maybe. But he admired Carella, and he didn’t want Carella to think he was a jackass, asking whether he should bring a present or not, assuming Carella had even been invited to the party, which maybe he hadn’t.

Another detective he admired, perhaps even more than he admired Carella, was Andy Parker.

He called the squadroom and asked to talk to Parker.

Santoro, who was catching, said Parker had the four-to-midnight tonight.

Genero wondered if he should ask Santoro about the party. Instead, he asked for Parker’s home number. Parker answered the phone on the third ring.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

That was one of the things Genero admired about Parker. His gruff style.

‘Andy?’ he said.

‘Who’s this?’ Parker said.

‘Genero.’

‘What do you want?’ Parker said. ‘I ain’t due in till four.’

‘You’re gonna be there tonight, huh?’ Genero said.

‘What?’ Parker said.

‘In the squadroom.’

‘I got the duty, I’ll be there,’ Parker said.

‘With or without?’ Genero asked slyly.

‘What?’ Parker said.

‘You know,’ Genero said, and suddenly wondered if he did know. ‘Never mind, forget it,’ he said, and hung up.

Fuckin’ jackass, Parker thought.

* * * *

In the squadroom supply closet the timer inside the wooden box read 3:15 p.m. At midnight the timer had moved into the pie-shaped segment marked ‘Thursday.’ There were seven such segments on the timer, one for each day of the week. These segments were subdivided into fifteen-minute sectors.

Now, soundlessly, the timer moved into the 3:15-to-3:30 sector.

* * * *

A giant step on the way to Genero’s becoming a hero was his decision to buy the lieutenant a present. He figured he would make it something impersonal. He bought him a pair of pajamas. He also figured he would hide the present under his coat until he saw whether the other guys had bought presents or not. That way, he would be covered either way. If the other guys hadn’t bought presents, he would take the pajamas home and wear them himself; he had bought them in his own size, even though Byrnes was taller and heftier than he was.

He wondered whether the other guys would be bringing presents to the party.

He wondered how many other guys had been invited.

* * * *

There were sixteen detectives assigned to the 87th Squad. Of those sixteen, two were on vacation. Of the remaining fourteen, four had pulled the four-to-midnight shift on that fifth day of January and would have been at the squadroom even if they hadn’t received an invitation to the party. Unlike the blues, who worked five fixed eight-hour shifts and then swung for the next fifty-six hours, the detectives made out their own duty schedules. Usually—because vacation schedules and court appearances depleted the roster—only four of them were on duty in any given shift. The four detectives who arrived at the squadroom at fifteen minutes before the hour that afternoon were Parker, Willis, O’Brien, and Fujiwara. Each of them had received an invitation to the lieutenant’s party. None of them had discussed it with anyone else. Cops were very good at keeping secrets; in a sense secrets were a major part of the line of work they were in.

In the supply closet the timer moved into Thursday’s 3:45-to-4:00 p.m. sector.

* * * *

It began snowing at six-thirty.

The forecasters were still promising only light flurries. The people of this city knew that when the forecasters promised light flurries, they could expect a blizzard.

All of the other detectives who’d been invited to the party figured they’d better leave for the squadroom earlier than they’d planned.

The other invited detectives were:

Steve Carella.

Bert Kling.

Alexandre Delgado.

Cotton Hawes.

Richard Genero.

Arthur Brown.

Meyer Meyer.

And the guest of honor himself, Peter Byrnes.

Byrnes thought Carella was the guest of honor. That was because his invitation had said it was a party for Steve Carella. The handwritten scrawl on the flap of his invitation had been signed ‘Teddy.’ He had been tempted to call Teddy and ask if a present was expected. But he hated talking to that bitchy housekeeper of theirs. Instead, he had bought Carella a pair of cuff links and had hidden them in the top drawer of his desk.

As he dressed that night, he wondered why Teddy hadn’t cleared this with him first. A party in the squadroom? A squadroom was a place of business. Or had she gone downtown over his head, talked with a deputy inspector or something, asked if it would be okay to give a small party in the squadroom for her husband’s...

Her husband’s what?

Was it Steve’s birthday?

Byrnes didn’t think so.

He was vaguely troubled about the party in the squadroom. He hoped to hell no departmental rank walked in, and he hoped Teddy hadn’t planned to serve anything alcoholic. Only once could he remember a party in the squadroom, and that was when Captain Overman retired, more years ago than Byrnes could count. No booze. Just sandwiches and punch, though Byrnes later suspected one of the patrol sergeants had laced the punch with vodka. Still it wasn’t like Teddy not to have checked with him first. He was again tempted to call her, ask if she’d got some sort of clearance. Teddy knew how the goddamn department worked, she’d been a cop’s wife for a long time now.

Harriet watched him as he knotted his tie.

‘Who’s this party for?’ she asked cautiously. She figured the surprise was premised on his thinking the party was for someone else.

‘Steve,’ he said.

‘You didn’t tell me about it,’ she said.

‘I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,’ Byrnes said.

‘I’m not anyone, I’m your wife,’ Harriet said.

‘Still it’s supposed to be a surprise.’

She wondered suddenly if the party really was for Carella. On the phone the detective who’d called—whatever his name was—had only said, ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise, isn’t it?’ He hadn’t said it was a surprise for Pete.

‘Did you buy a present?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, a pair of cuff links.’

‘Gennario wanted to know if he should bring a present.’

‘Who?’

‘Gennario. One of your detectives.’

‘Genero?’

‘Yes, Genero, right. He called here, wanted to know if he should bring a present.’

‘What’d you tell him?’

‘I said I didn’t know.’

‘He’s a jackass,’ Byrnes said.

The clock on the dresser read six forty-five.

* * * *

‘What time will you be back?’ Annie Rawles asked.

‘I don’t know actually,’ Hawes said.

Annie was wearing one of his Christmas gifts. He had given her seven pairs of silk panties, one for each day of the week. The panties were in different colors. Blue for Monday. Green for Tuesday. Lavender for Wednesday. Purple for Thursday. Red for Friday. Black for Saturday. White for Sunday. She had asked him why he’d chosen those particular colors for those particular days. He said they had to be blue for Monday because of Blue Monday, and then he’d simply worked his way through the color spectrum until he got to the weekend. Friday was the beginning of the weekend, and the appropriate kickoff color seemed to be red. Saturday was all slinky and sexy, hence black. Sunday was as pure as the driven snow—white. Elementary, my dear Watson.

This was Thursday, and she was wearing the purple panties.

She was also wearing a lavender garter belt, a lavender bra, one purple nylon stocking and one black, and a gold chain and pendant, which she never took off. Thirty-four years old with brown eyes and black wedge-cut hair, long slender legs, and small perfectly formed breasts, she stood in high-heeled purple satin slippers, her hands on her narrow hips, and looked more like a Bob Fosse dancer than a Detective/First Grade earning $37,935 a year. She also looked like a woman scorned. Hawes was looking at the clock on the dresser. It read six forty-eight...

‘Well, what kind of a party is it?’ she asked.

‘For the lieutenant,’ he said.

‘And it’s in the squadroom?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do you always have parties up there at the old Eight-Seven?’

‘First one I can think of,’ he said.

Annie looked at him.

‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is there really a party tonight...’

‘Of course there...’

‘... in the squadroom, of all places...’

‘That’s where...’

‘... or is there something you’d like to tell me?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like why you’re rushing out of here...’

‘Who’s rushing?’

‘... when I’m all decked out like a whore?’

‘A whore? You look gorgeous!’

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this party earlier?’

‘The truth is I forgot about it. I got the invitation a few days before Christmas.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, I would like to see it,’ Annie said. ‘Please,’ she added. She felt dumb in the sexy underwear. All dressed up for a party of her own, and nobody coming.

Hawes took the invitation from his jacket pocket.

Annie looked at it.

‘Why all the secrecy?’ she asked.

‘I have no idea.’

‘A small party, huh?’ she said.

‘It looks that way, doesn’t it?’

‘How many people?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t discuss it with anyone. Harriet specifically...’

‘Well, if it’s in the squadroom and she’s telling you to keep it a secret, then I guess it has to be a small party.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The reason I’m asking all these questions...’

‘Mm?’

‘…is not because I’m a mastermind detective trying to figure out why anyone in her right mind would throw a party in a grubby squadroom, but only because I’m standing here half-naked wondering how long the damn party will last.’

‘Why? Do you have other plans?’

‘I’m thinking of making some,’ Annie said. ‘So the hooker outfit won’t be a total waste.’

He went to her. He took her in his arms.

‘I don’t have to leave here till seven-thirty,’ he said.

‘Great. That gives us what? Half an hour?’

‘Hookers can do it in ten minutes,’ he said.

‘Oh, but I’m not a real hooker, sir,’ she said, and clasped her hands together and rolled her eyes.

‘I’ll break away as soon as I can,’ Hawes said.

‘That may be too late,’ Annie said. ‘There’s a captain at the Seven-Two who’s been making eyes at me.’

‘What’s his name? I’ll go shoot him.’

‘Big talker,’ Annie said. ‘Gonna shoot a captain, can’t even take off a lady’s purple silk panties.’

* * * *

Genero got to the squadroom earlier than any of the others.

This was not because he was normally a punctual person but because he didn’t want to keep his coat on and look like a jackass. The pajamas he’d bought the lieutenant were hidden under his coat. If he took off the coat, everybody would see that he’d brought a present, and if none of the other guys had presents, he would look like a jackass. On the other hand, if he kept his coat on in the heated squadroom, everybody would still think he was a jackass. So what he did, he got to the squadroom at a little before seven-thirty, and he went directly to the supply closet without taking off his coat, and he put the present on top of a wooden box that had some kind of meter on its face.

That was the second time he came close to becoming a hero.

The timer inside the box silently moved into the 7:30-to-7:45 p.m. sector.

‘Hey, guys,’ Genero said, taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack. ‘How’s it going?’

None of the four-to-midnight detectives answered him.

Parker was wondering if the lieutenant’s wife had been dumb enough to invite this jackass to her party.

* * * *

Eileen Burke was crying.

Kling looked at the bedside clock, thinking he had to get out of here soon because of the snow. It was snowing like the arctic tundra out there, and the clock read seven thirty-two. Knowing this city, traffic would be stalled for miles—and the squadroom was all the way uptown.

But Eileen was crying.

‘Come on, honey,’ he said.

She was wearing what she’d worn to work that morning. Gray suit, black shoes with French heels, a white blouse. She had stopped wearing earrings ever since the rape. She had always considered earrings her lucky charm. Her luck had run out on the night of the cutting and the rape, and she had stopped wearing them.

They were in her apartment. He had rushed there the moment she called.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said.

‘I do,’ he said.

‘I was scared,’ she said. ‘I turned it down because I was scared.’

‘You had every right to be scared,’ he said.

‘I’m a cop!’ she said.

‘They shouldn’t have asked you in the first place. A gang of...’

‘That only makes it worse,’ she said. ‘A gang, Bert. A goddamn gang that’s running around raping women!’

‘They can’t expect you to handle a gang,’ he said. ‘Setting up a decoy for a gang is like...’

‘There’ll be backups,’ she said. ‘Four of them.’

‘A lot of hell good they’ll do if you’re jumped by a dozen guys. Who the hell requested this anyway?’

‘Captain Jordan.’

‘Where?’

‘The Seventh.’

‘I’ll go see him, I’ll talk to him person...’

‘No, you won’t!’ Eileen said. ‘It’s bad enough as it is! Chickening out in front of four hairbags who...’

‘What four? Are you talking about the backups?’

‘From the Seventh Squad. I don’t remember their names. All I remember is their eyes. What was in their eyes.’

‘Let one of them go out in drag,’ Kling said angrily. ‘Let him face a gang of...’

‘Their eyes said, “She’s scared.”’

‘You should have been scared.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘No. I’m a cop. Any other decoy cop wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. You got a gang out there? Piece of cake. When?’

‘That’s not true, and you know it.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Any woman who’d agree to go out there alone against a dozen men...’

‘Eight.’

‘What?’

‘It’s only eight.’

‘Terrific. Eight guys dragging a woman into the bushes...’

‘They’re working the subways.’

‘Better yet. You’ll end up on the fucking tracks with another scar on your...’

He stopped all at once. “I’m sorry,’ he said.

She was silent for a long time.

Then she said, ‘That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’ll get hurt again.’

‘You don’t have to prove anything,’ he said.

‘I’ll call Jordan,’ she said, sighing. ‘I’ll tell him I’ve thought it over, and...’

‘No.’

‘Bert...’

‘Why, damn it!’ he said, and took her in his arms. Eileen,’ he said, ‘I love you. If anything ever happened to you...’

‘Who told you to start up with a cop?’ she said.

‘You did the right thing. I’d have turned it down, too.’

‘You wouldn’t have.’

‘I would’ve’

They were both silent.

‘I love you, too,’ she said.

He held her close.

‘I don’t want anything to happen to either of us,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

‘Nothing will happen to us,’ he said. ‘Ever.’

‘But I’m going to call Jordan...’

‘Eileen, please...’

‘... tell him I want a bigger backup team. All over the platform. Men and women. Wall to wall cover.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I want to.’

‘You don’t want to.’

‘I don’t want to, right. But I have to,’ she said. ‘Or I never will again.’

She looked at the clock.

‘You’re going to be late,’ she said.

‘Will you be all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Go. Come back soon.’

He kissed her gently and went to the door.

‘Be careful,’ she said.

The clock on the dresser read a quarter to eight.

* * * *

In the park across the street from the station house the Deaf Man watched them trickling in. Big men, most of them. You could almost always tell a detective by his size. All of them bundled up against the cold. A very cold night. Well, they’d be warm enough soon enough.

He looked at his watch.

Ten minutes to eight.

In exactly twenty-five minutes ... Armageddon.

He began pacing again.

The snow blew furiously around him.

He hoped none of them would be late.

* * * *

By five minutes to eight on the squadroom clock, all but three of the invited detectives had arrived. Since none of the detectives knew who had been invited, none of them knew who was missing. But since they knew that anyone there had been invited, they felt free to talk about the party.

‘What’s it for?’ Brown asked. ‘You got any idea?’

‘Did you bring a present?’ Genero asked.

‘No,’ Hawes said. ‘Were we supposed to bring presents?’

‘Anybody know what it’s for? Brown said.

‘It said eight o’clock, didn’t it?’ Delgado asked. ‘The invitation?’

A man in the detention cage said, ‘What the hell is this?’ He had been arrested by Parker not ten minutes earlier. ‘I’m locked up in a fuckin’ cage here, like a fuckin’ animal here, and you guys are havin’ a party?’

‘Shut up,’ Parker said.

‘Where’s my lawyer?’ the man said.

‘On the way,’ Parker said. ‘Shut up.’

Even the four detectives who had the duty were all dressed up. Suits and ties, polished shoes. Parker was upset that he’d got blood on his shirt while arresting the man in the detention cage. The man in the detention cage had slit his wife’s throat with a straight razor.

‘My wife’s dead, and you guys are havin’ a party,’ he said.

‘You’re the one killed her,’ Parker said.

‘Never mind who killed her, is it right to have a party when a woman is dead? Anyway, I didn’t kill her.’

‘No, that razor just jumped off the sink all by itself,’ Parker said.

‘That wasn’t even my razor.’

‘Save it for when your lawyer gets here,’ Parker said. ‘You got blood all over my fuckin’ shirt.’

He walked to the sink near the supply closet, tore a paper towel loose, opened the cold water faucet, and began dabbing at the blood stains.

Inside the box in the supply closet the timer moved into the 8:00-to-8:15 sector.

Carella was just walking into the squadroom.

Genero noticed at once that he was carrying a present.

‘Where’s Harriet?’ Carella asked.

* * * *

In the park across the way the Deaf Man looked at his watch again. He had just seen Carella going into the station house. Carella, he knew. Carella, he recognized. In exactly fourteen minutes, though, Carella—and all the others—would be unrecognizable. The moment...

There!

Another one.

Blond and hatless, his head ducked against the flying snow.

The Deaf Man smiled.

Alfred Hitchcock, a director whose work the Deaf Man admired greatly —except for The Birds, that silly exercise in science fiction—had once described for an interviewer the difference between shock and suspense. The Master had used a parable to explain.

There is a boardroom meeting. Twenty men are sitting around a table, discussing high finance. The audience doesn’t know that a bomb has been planted in the room. The chairman of the board is in mid-sentence when the bomb goes off.

That is shock.

The same boardroom meeting. The same twenty men sitting around a table, discussing high finance. But this time the audience knows there is a bomb in that room, and they know that it is set to go off—as an example—at 8:15 p.m. The men keep discussing high finance. The camera keeps cutting away to the clock as it throws minutes into the room.

8:08.

8:12.

8:14.

That is suspense.

The detectives in the squadroom across the street did not know that a timer was programmed to set off an explosion and a subsequent fire at 8:15 sharp. They were in for one hell of a shock.

The Deaf Man, however—in this instance, the audience—did know, and the suspense for him was almost unbearable.

He looked at his watch again.

8:03.

It was taking forever.

* * * *

The confusion started the moment Lieutenant Byrnes walked in.

‘Where’s Teddy?’ he said.

‘Where’s the sandwiches?’ Delgado said.

‘Where’s Harriet?’ Carella said.

The detectives all looked at each other.

‘You jerks got the wrong night,’ the man in the detention cage said.

Brown looked at the clock.

8:05.

The invitation had specified eight o’clock.

‘Where’s my lawyer?’ the man in the detention cage said.

All Genero knew was that Carella had brought a present.

He began moving at once toward the supply closet.

* * * *

Nine minutes, the Deaf Man thought.

He had specifically asked them to arrive at eight because he wanted to be sure they were all assembled by eight-fifteen.

Another man was entering the police station across the street.

The Deaf Man had lost count.

Were all twelve pigs already present and accounted for?

Waiting for the big barbecue?

Which by his watch should happen in eight minutes now.

* * * *

‘I’m Harry Lefkowitz,’ the man at the slatted rail divider said. ‘Is that my client I see in the cage there?’

‘If your client is Roger Jackson, then that’s your client,’ Parker said.

Lefkowitz came into the squadroom. Genero was opening the door to the supply closet. The clock on the wall read 8:08.

‘I hope you read him his rights,’ Lefkowitz said, and went to the cage.

‘They’re havin’ a fuckin’ party up here,’ Jackson said. ‘My wife’s dead, and they’re havin’...’

‘Shut up,’ Lefkowitz said.

In the supply closet Genero pulled the chain hanging from the naked light bulb. For a moment he forgot where he’d put the lieutenant’s present. Oh, yeah, the box there against the back wall, under the lowest shelf.

‘Okay, Steve,’ Byrnes said, ‘what’s this all about?’

‘Me?’ Carella said.

‘Teddy’s invitation said...’

‘Teddy’s?’

‘Harriet’s,’ Brown said.

‘What?’ Byrnes said.

Genero knelt down and reached for the present. The wrapped pajamas fell off the top of the wooden box and behind it. ‘Shit,’ Genero said under his breath and then quickly looked over his shoulder to check if the lieutenant had heard him using profanity in the squadroom.

“What’s the story, Loot?’ Willis said.

‘Where’s the sandwiches?’ Delgado said.

‘What’s going on here?’ Byrnes said.

Genero lifted the wooden box by its handle, planning to move it aside so he could get at the lieutenant’s present. Something was snagging. The box wouldn’t move more than six inches from the wall. He gave a tug. He gave another tug, stronger this time, almost falling over backward when the short cord attached to the box pulled out of the wall socket behind it. Flailing for balance, he banged his elbow against one of the shelves on his right. ‘Shit!’ he yelled, and lost his grip on the box’s handle. The box fell on his foot—the same foot he’d shot himself in a long time ago.

‘Ow!’ he yelled.

The detectives all turned at the sound of his voice.

‘Damn it!’ Genero yelled, and kicked at the box, hurting his foot again. ‘Ow!’ he yelled again.

Carella came to the supply closet.

He looked at the box.

‘What’ve you got there?’ he asked.

Genero had just become a hero.

* * * *

Nothing happened at eight-fifteen.

The Deaf Man looked at his watch again.

Nothing happened at eight sixteen.

And nothing happened at eight twenty.

By eight thirty-five the Deaf Man began to suspect that nothing would happen.

By eight-forty, when the Bomb Squad truck pulled in across the street, he was certain nothing would happen.

The Bomb Squad team rushed into the building.

The Deaf Man kept watching.

* * * *

They found the cartons of incendiaries in forty seconds flat.

That was after the detectives showed them the open wooden box with the timer and the dynamite inside it. It was Carella who’d unlatched the box. But it was Genero, the hero, who’d found it and yanked it out of the wall socket.

‘Lucky thing you pulled this loose when you did,’ one of the Bomb Squad detectives said to Genero.

‘I try to keep my eyes open,’ Genero said.

‘You guys woulda been cinders,’ the second Bomb Squad detective said. ‘I never seen so many different kinds of incendiaries in one place in my entire life. Look at all this shit, willya? A dozen fire bottles, six cakes of paraffin sawdust, a whole box full of flake aluminium thermite, eight bottles of mineral oil, five bottles of kerosene—you ever see anything like this, Lou?’

‘This timer here was set for eight-fifteen,’ the second detective said to Genero. ‘You unplugged it just in time. Very nice little timer here.’

‘I recognized it right off,’ Genero said. ‘Who gets to keep it?’

‘What?’ Byrnes said.

‘I found it, do I get to keep it?’

‘What?’ Willis said.

‘It might work like a VCR,’ Genero said. ‘To tape television shows.’

‘This city has endangered the safety and well-being of my client,’ Lefkowitz said.

Kling was thinking maybe something could happen to him or Eileen. Maybe it wouldn’t be forever.

Hawes was thinking Annie had come within an ace of wearing the black silk panties. To his funeral.

Carella was thinking that maybe the Deaf Man had played it fair after all. On the first day of Christmas he’d announced his intentions clearly and unequivocally; they’d be hearing from him on the eleven days to follow. On the second to the sixth days he’d sent them all that police paraphernalia to let them know he was planning something for cops. On the seventh day the wanted flyers arrived, a segue from the uniformed force to the plainclothes cops in that the posters could be found in a muster room as well as in a squadroom. On the eighth day he’d let them know he was dead serious, but he’d also told them he was moving into the Eight-Seven itself; the armory was right there on First and Saint Sebastian. On the ninth day he’d started zeroing in. Those nine cars were 87th Precinct cars, no question about it. And on the tenth and eleventh days he’d let them know he was coming into the squadroom itself—ten D.D. forms, which only detectives used, and eleven Colt Detective Specials, a detective’s pistol of choice. The twelve roast pigs—by Carella’s count, there were twelve detectives in the squadroom right this minute, and they’d just come pretty damn close to being incinerated. He never wanted to come this close again.

‘There’s a bottle of scotch in the bottom drawer of my desk,’ Byrnes said. ‘Go get it, Genero.’ He turned to Carella. ‘Also, I bought you a pair of cuff links.’

‘I bought you a shirt,’ Carella said.

‘I bought you a pair of pajamas, Pete,’ Genero said, and hurried into the lieutenant’s office.

‘What’d he call me?’ Byrnes asked.

‘Do you men plan to drink alcohol in this squadroom?’ Lefkowitz asked.

* * * *

The Bomb Squad detectives came out of the station house at a few minutes before nine.

The Deaf Man watched them as they drove off.

Oddly he was neither angry nor sad.

As he walked way into the falling snow, his only thought was Next time.