Part II
1

Captain Edward X. Delaney, Commanding Officer of the 251st Precinct, New York Policy Department, wearing civilian clothes, pushed open the door of the doctor’s office, removed his Homburg (stiff as wood), and gave his name to the receptionist.

He planted himself solidly into an armchair, glanced swiftly around the room, then stared down at the hat balanced precisely on his knees. It was the “Observation Game”: originally a self-imposed duty but now a diversion he had enjoyed for almost thirty years, since he had been a patrolman. If, for any reason, he was called upon to describe the patients in the waiting room…

“Left: male, Negro, dark brown, about 35, approximately 5 feet 10 inches, 160 pounds. Kinky black hair cut short; no part. Wearing plaid sports jacket, fawn-colored slacks, cordovan loafers. Necktie looped but not knotted. Heavy ring on right hand. Slight white scar on neck. Smoking cork-tip cigarette held between thumb and forefinger of left hand.

“Center: female, white, about 60–65; short, plump, motherly type. Uncontrollable tremor of right hand. Wearing black coat, soiled; elastic stockings, hole in left knee; old-fashioned hat with single cloth flower. Dark reddish hair may be wig. Approximately 5 feet 1 inch, 140 pounds. Fiddles with wen on chin.

“Right: male, white, about 50, 6 feet 2 inches. Extremely thin and emaciated. Loose collar and suit jacket show recent weight loss. Sallow complexion. Fidgety. Right eye may be glass. Nicotine-stained fingers indicate heavy smoker. Gnaws on lower lip. Blinks frequently.”

He raised his eyes, inspected them again. He was close. The Negro’s ring was on the left hand. The old woman’s hair (or wig) was more brown than reddish. The thin man wasn’t quite as tall as he had estimated. But Captain Delaney could provide a reasonably accurate description and/or identify these strangers in a line-up or courtroom if needed.

He was not, he acknowledged, as exact as some men in his judgment of physical characteristics. There was, for instance, a detective second grade attached to the 251st Precinct who could glance at a man for a few seconds and estimate his height within an inch and his weight within five pounds. That was a special gift.

But Captain Delaney also had an eye. That was for the Negro’s necktie that was looped but not knotted, the old woman’s wen, the thin man’s continual blinking. Small things. Significant things.

He saw and remembered habits, tastes, the way a man dressed, moved, grimaced, walked, spoke, lighted a cigarette or spat into the gutter. Most important, Captain Delaney-the cop-was interested in what a man did when he was alone, or thought he was alone. Did he masturbate, pick his nose, listen to recordings of Gilbert amp; Sullivan, shuffle pornographic photos, work out chess problems? Or did he read Nietzsche?

There was a case-Delaney remembered it well; he had been a detective in the Chelsea precinct where it happened-three young girls raped and murdered within a period of 18 months, all on the roofs of tenements. The police thought they had their man. They carefully charted his daily movements. They brought him in for questioning and got nowhere. Then they established very close surveillance. Detective Delaney watched the suspect through binoculars from an apartment across the courtyard. Delaney saw this man, who had never been known to go to church, this man who thought he was alone and unobserved, this man went each night onto his knees and prayed before a reproduction of the face of Jesus Christ-one of those monstrous prints in which the eyes seem to open, close, or wink, depending upon the angle of view.

So they took the suspect in again, but this time, on Delaney’s urging, they brought in a priest to talk to him. Within an hour they had a complete confession. Well…that was what one man did when he thought he was alone and unobserved.

It was the spastic twitch, the uncontrollable tic that Captain Delaney had an eye for. He wanted to know what tunes the suspect whistled, the foods he ate, how his home was decorated. Was he married, unmarried, thrice-married? Did he beat his dog or beat his wife? All these things told. And, of course, what he did when he thought he was alone.

The “big things” Captain Delaney told his men-things like a man’s job, religion, politics, and the way he talked at cocktail parties-these were a facade he created to hold back a hostile world. Hidden were the vital things. The duty of the cop, when necessary, was to peek around the front at the secret urges and driven acts.

“Doctor will see you now,” the receptionist smiled at him.

Delaney nodded, gripped his hat, marched into the doctor’s office. He ignored the hostile stares of the patients who had, obviously, been waiting longer than he.

Dr. Louis Bernardi rose from behind his desk, holding out a plump, ringed hand.

“Captain,” he said. “Always a pleasure.”

“Doctor,” Delaney said. “Good to see you again. You’re looking well.”

Bernardi caressed the bulged grey flannel waistcoat, straining at its tarnished silver buttons which, Barbara Delaney had told her husband, the doctor had revealed to her were antique Roman coins.

“It’s my wife’s cooking,” Bernardi shrugged, smiling. “What can I do? He-he! Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Delaney is dressing. She will be ready to leave soon. But we shall have time for a little chat.”

A chat? Delaney assumed men had a talk or a discussion. That “chat” was Bernardi. The Captain consulted a police surgeon; Bernardi was his wife’s physician, had been for thirty years. He had seen her through two successful pregnancies, nursed her through a bad bout of hepatitis, and had recommended and seen to her recovery from a hysterectomy only two months previously.

He was a round man, beautifully shaved. He was soft and, if not unctuous, he was at least a smooth article. The black silk suit put forth a sheen; the shoes bore a dulled gleam. He was not perfumed, but he exuded an odor of self-satisfaction.

Contradicting all this were the man’s eyes: hard, bright. They were shrewd little chips of quartz. His glance never wavered; his toneless stare could bring a nurse to tears.

Delaney did not like the man. He did not, for a moment, doubt Bernardi’s professional competence. But he mistrusted the tailored plumpness, the secret smile, the long strands of oily hair slicked across a balding pate. He was particularly incensed by the doctor’s mustache: a thin, carefully clipped line of black imprinted on the upper lip as if marked by a felt-tipped pen.

The Captain knew he amused Bernardi. That did not bother him. He knew he amused many people: superiors in the Department, peers, the uniformed men of his command. Newspapermen. Investigators. Doctors of sociology and criminal pathology. He amused them all. His wife and children. He knew. But on occasion Dr. Bernardi had made no effort to conceal his amusement. Delaney could not forgive him that. “I hope you have good news for me, doctor.”

Bernardi spread his hands in a bland gesture: the dealer who has just been detected selling a ruptured camel.

“Regrettably, I do not. Captain, your wife has not responded to the antibiotics. As I told her, my first instinctive impression was of a low-grade infection. Persistent and of some duration. It accounts for the temperature.”

“What kind of infection?”

Again the gesture: hands spread wide and lifted, palms outward.

“That I do not know. Tests show nothing. Nothing on X-rays. No tumor, so far as I am able to determine. But still, apparently, an infection. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t like it,” Delaney said stonily.

“Nor do I,” Bernardi nodded. “First of all, your wife is ill. That is of most importance. Second, it is a defeat for me. What is this infection? I do not know. It is an embarrassment.”

An “embarrassment,” Delaney thought angrily. What kind of a thing was that to say? The man didn’t know how to use the king’s English. Was he an Italian, a Lebanese, a Greek, a Syrian, an Arabian? What the hell was he?

“Finally,” Dr. Bernardi said, consulting the file open on his desk, “let us consider the fever. It has been approximately six weeks since your wife’s first visit complaining of, quote, ‘Fever and sudden chills.’ Unquote. On that first visit, a temperature a bit above normal. Nothing unusual. Pills for a cold, the flu, a virus-whatever you want to call it. No effect. Another visit. Temperature up. Not a great increase, but appreciable. Then antibiotics. Now, third visit and temperature is up again. The sudden chills continue. It worries me.”

“Well, it worries her and it worries me,” Delaney said stoutly.

“Of course,” Bernardi soothed. “And now she finds many loose hairs in her comb. This is undoubtedly the result of the fever. Nothing serious, but still…And you are aware of the rash on the insides of her thighs and forearms?”

“Yes.”

“Again, undoubtedly the result of the fever stemming from the infection. I have prescribed an ointment. Not a cure, but it will take the itch away.”

“She looks so healthy.”

“You are seeing the fever, Captain! Don’t believe the blush of health. Those bright eyes and rosy cheeks. He! It is the infection.”

“What infection?” Delaney cried furiously. “What the hell is it? Is it cancer?”

Bernardi’s eyes glittered.

“At this stage, I would guess no. Have you ever heard of a Proteus infection, Captain?”

“No. I never have. What is it?”

“I will not speak of it now. I must do some reading on it. You think we doctors know everything? But there is too much. There are young physicians today who cannot recognize (because they have never treated) typhus, small pox or poliomyelitis. But that is by the by.”

“Doctor,” Delaney said, wearied by all this lubricous talk, “let’s get down to it. What do we do now. What are our options?”

Dr. Bernardi leaned back in his swivel chair, placed his two forefingers together, pressed them against his plump lips. He regarded Delaney for a long moment.

“You know, Captain,” he said with some malevolence, “I admire you. Your wife is obviously ill, and yet you say ‘What do we do’ and ‘What are our options.’ That is admirable.”

“Doctor…”

“Very well.” Bernardi sat forward sharply and slapped the file on his desk. “You have three options. One: I can attempt to reduce the fever, to overcome this mysterious infection, by heavier doses of antibiotics or with drugs I have not yet tried. I do not recommend this out of the hospital; the side effects can be alarming. Two: Your wife can enter a hospital for five days to a week for a series of tests much more thorough than I can possibly administer in this office. I would call in other men. Specialists. Neurologists. Gynecologists. Even dermatologists. This would be expensive.”

He paused, looking at the Captain expectantly.

“All right, doctor,” Delaney said patiently. “What’s the third choice?”

Bernardi looked at him tenderly.

“Perhaps you would prefer another physician,” he said softly. “Since I have failed.”

Delaney sighed, knowing his wife’s faith in this oleaginous man.

“We’ll go for the tests. In the hospital. You’ll arrange it?”

“Of course.”

“A private room.”

“That will not be necessary, Captain. It is only for tests.”

“My wife would prefer a private room. She’s a very modest woman. Very shy.”

“I know, Captain,” the doctor murmured, “I know. Shall you tell her or shall I?”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Yes,” Dr. Bernardi said. “I believe that would be best.” The Captain went back to the reception room to wait for her, and practiced smiling.

It was a doxy of a day, merry and flirting. There was a hug of sun, a kiss of breeze. Walking north on Fifth Avenue, they heard the snap of flags, saw the glister of an early September sky. Captain Delaney, who knew his city in all its moods and tempers, was conscious of a hastened rhythm. Summer over, vacation done, Manhattan rushed to Christmas and the New Year.

His wife’s hand was in his arm. When he glanced sideways at her, she had never seemed to him so beautiful. The blonde hair, now silvered and fined, was drawn up from her brow and pinned in a loose chignon. The features, once precise, had been softened by time. The lips were limpid, the line of chin and throat something. Oh she was something! And the glow (that damned fever!) gave her skin a grapy youthfulness.

She was almost as tall as he, walked erect and alert, her hand lightly on his arm. Men looked at her with longing, and Delaney Was proud. How she strode, laughing at things! Her head turned this way and that, as if she was seeing everything for the first time. The last time? A cold finger touched.

She caught his stare and winked solemnly. He could not smile, but pressed her arm close to his body. The important thing, he thought-the most important thing-was that…was that she should out-live him. Because if not…if not…he thought of other things.

She was almost five years older than he, but she was the warmth, humor, and heart of their marriage. He was born old, with hope, a secret love of beauty, and a taste for melancholy. But she had brought to their home a recipe for lentil soup, thin nightgowns with pink ribbons, and laughter. He was bad enough; without her he would have been a grotesque.

They strolled north on Fifth Avenue, on the west side. As they approached the curb at 56th Street, the traffic light was about to change. They could have made it across safely, but he halted her.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “I want to catch this.”

His quick eye had seen a car-a station wagon with Illinois license plates-coming southward on Fifth Avenue. It attempted to turn westward onto 56th Street, going the wrong way on a one-way street. Immediately there was a great blaring of horns. A dozen pedestrians shouted, “One-way!” The car came to a shuddering halt, nosing into approaching traffic. The driver bent over the wheel, shaken. The woman beside him, apparently his wife, grabbed his arm. In the seat behind them two little boys jumped about excitedly, going from window to window.

A young uniformed patrolman had been standing on the northwest corner of the intersection, his back against a plate glass window. Now, smiling, he sauntered slowly toward the stalled car.

“Midtown Squad,” Captain Delaney muttered to his wife. “They pick the big, handsome ones.”

The officer wandered around to the driver’s side, leaned down, and there was a brief conversation. The couple in the out-of-state car laughed with relief. The policeman cocked thumb and forefinger at the two kids in the back and clicked his tongue. They giggled delightedly.

“He’s not going to ticket them?” Delaney said indignantly. “He’s going to let them go?”

The patrolman moved back onto Fifth Avenue and halted traffic. He waved the Illinois car to back up. He got it straightened out and heading safely downtown again.

“I’m going to-” Captain Delaney started.

“Edward,” his wife said. “Please.”

He hesitated. The car moved away, the boys in the back waving frantically at the policeman who waved back.

Delaney looked sternly at his wife. “I’m going to get his name and tin number,” he said. “Those one-way signs are plain. He should have-”

“Edward,” she repeated patiently, “they’re obviously on vacation. Did you see the luggage in the back? They don’t know our system of one-way streets. Why spoil their holiday? With two little boys? I- think the patrolman handled it beautifully. Perhaps that will be the nicest thing that happens to them in New York, and they’ll want to come back again. Edward?” He looked at her. (“Your wife is obviously ill…the fever…hair in her comb…you have three options…infection that…”) He took her arm, led her carefully across the street. They walked the next block in silence.

“Well, anyway,” he grumbled, “his sideburns were too long. You won’t find sideburns like that in my precinct.”

“I wonder why?” she said innocently, then laughed and leaned sideways to touch her head against his shoulder.

He had plans for lunch at the Plaza, window-shopping, visiting the antique shops on Third Avenue-things she enjoyed doing together on his day off. It was important that she should be happy for a time before he told her. But when she suggested a walk through the Park and lunch on the terrace at the zoo, he agreed instantly. It would be better; he would find a bench where they could be alone.

As they crossed 59th Street into the Park, he looked about with wonder. Now what had been there before the General Motors Building?

“The Savoy-Plaza,” she said.

“Mind-reader,” he said.

So she was-where he was concerned.

The city changed overnight. Tenements became parking lots became excavations became stabbing office buildings while your head was turned. Neighborhoods disappeared, new restaurants opened, brick changed to glass, three stories sprouted to thirty, streets bloomed with thin trees, a little park grew where you remembered an old Irish bar had been forever.

It was his city, where he was born and grew up. It was home. Who could know its cankers better than he? But he refused to despair. His city would endure and grow more beautiful.

Part of his faith was based on knowledge of its past sins: all history now. He knew the time when the Five Points Gang bit off enemies’ ears and noses in tavern brawls, when farm lads were drugged and shanghaied from the Swamp, when children’s bordellos flourished in the Tenderloin, when Chinese hatchetmen blasted away with heavy pistols (and closed eyes) in the Bloody Triangle.

All this was gone now and romanticized, for old crime, war, and evil enter books and are leached of blood and pain. Now his city was undergoing new agonies. These too, he was convinced would pass if men of good will would not deny the future.

His city was an affirmation of life: its beauty, harshness, sorrow, humor, horror, and ecstasy. In the pushing and shoving, in the brutality and violence, he saw striving, the never-ending flux of life, and would not trade it for any place on earth. It could grind a man to litter, or raise him to the highest coppered roof, glinting in benignant sunlight.

They entered the Park at 60th Street, walking between the facing rows of benches toward the zoo. They stopped before the yak’s cage and looked at the great, brooding beast, his head lowered, eyes staring at a foreign world with dull wonder.

“You,” Barbara Delaney said to her husband.

He laughed, turned her around by the elbow, pointed to the cage across the way where a graceful Sika deer stood poised and alert, head proud on slim neck, eyes gleaming.

“You,” Edward Delaney said to his wife.

They lunched lightly. He fretted with his emptied coffee cup: peering into it, turning it over, revolving it in his blunt fingers.

“All right,” she sighed in mock weariness, “go make your phone call.”

He glanced at her gratefully. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“I know. Just to make sure the precinct is still there.”

The thick voice said, “Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct. Officer Curdy. May I help you?”

“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he said in his leaden voice. “Connect me with Lieutenant Dorfman, please.”

“Oh. Yes, Captain. I think he’s upstairs. Just a minute; I’ll find him.”

Dorfman came on almost immediately. “’Lo, Captain, Enjoying your day off? Beautiful day.”

“Yes. What’s happening?”

“Nothing unusual, sir. The usual. A small demonstration at the Embassy again, but we moved them along. No charges. No injuries.”

“Damage?”

“One broken window, sir.”

“All right. Have Donaldson type up the usual letter of apology, and I’ll sign it tomorrow.”

“It’s done, Captain. It’s on your desk.”

“Oh. Well…fine. Nothing else?”

“No, sir. Everything under control.”

“All right. Switch me back to the man on the board, will you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll buzz him:”

The uniformed operator came back on.

“Captain?”

“Is this Officer Curdy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Curdy, you answered my original call with: ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ In my memo number six three one, dated fourteen July of this year, I gave very explicit orders governing the procedure of uniformed telephone operators on duty. I stated in that memorandum that incoming calls were to be answered: ‘Precinct two five one.’ It is shorter and much more understandable than ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ Did you read that memo?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, Captain, I did read it. It just slipped my mind, sir. I’m so used to doing it the old way…”

“Curdy, there is no ‘old way.’ There is a right way and a wrong way of doing things. And ‘Two five one’ is the right way in my precinct. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up and went back to his wife. In the New York Police Department he was known as “Iron Balls” Delaney. He knew it and didn’t mind. There were worse names. “Everything all right?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Who has the duty?”

“Dorfman.”

“Oh? How is his father?”

He stared at her, eyes widening. Then he lowered his head and groaned. “Oh God. Barbara, I forgot to tell you. Dorfman’s father died last week. On Friday.”

“Oh Edward.” She looked at him reproachfully. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I meant to but-but it slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind? How could a thing like that slip your mind? Well, I’ll write a letter of condolence as soon as we get home.”

“Yes, do that. They took up a collection for flowers. I gave twenty dollars.”

“Poor Dorfman.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“Of course I like him. As a man, a person. But he’s really not a good cop.”

“He’s not? I thought you told me he does his job very well.”

“He does. He’s a good administrator, keeps up on his paperwork. He’s one of the best lawyers in the Department. But he’s not a good cop. He’s a reasonable facsimile. He goes through all the motions, but he lacks the instinct.”

“And tell me, oh wise one,” she said, “what is this great cop’s instinct?”

He was glad to have someone to talk to about such things. “Well,” he said, “laugh if you like, but it does exist. What drove me to become a cop? My father wasn’t. No one in my family was. I could have gone on to law school; my marks were good enough. But all I ever wanted was to be a cop. As long as I can remember. And I’ll tell you why: because when the laundry comes back from the Chinaman-as you well know, my dear, after thirty years-I insist on-”

“Thirty-one years, brute.”

“All right, thirty-one years. But the first year we lived in sin.”

“You are a brute,” she laughed.

“Well, we did: the most marvelous year of my life.”

She put a hand over his. “And everything since then has been anti-climax?”

“You know better than that. All right, now let me get back to the instinct of a true cop.”

“And the Chinaman’s laundry.”

“Yes. Well, as you know, I insist on putting my own clean clothes away in the bureau and dresser. Socks are folded once and piled with the fold forward. Handkerchiefs are stacked with the open edges to the right. Shirts are stacked alternately, collar to the rear, collar to the front-so the stack won’t topple, you understand. And a similar system for underwear, pajamas, and so forth. And always, of course, the freshly laundered clothes go on the bottom of each pile so everything is worn evenly and in order. That’s the word: ‘order.’ That’s the way I am. You know it. I want everything in order.”

“And that’s why you became a cop? To make the world neat and tidy?”

“Yes.”

She moved her head back slowly and laughed. How he loved to see her laugh. If only he could laugh like that! It was such a whole-hearted expression of pure joy: her eyes squinched shut, her mouth open, shoulders shaking, and a surprisingly full, deep guffaw that was neither feminine nor masculine but sexless and primitive as all genuine laughter.

“Edward, Edward,” she said, spluttering a little, taking a lace-edged hanky from her purse to wipe her eyes. “You have a marvelous capacity for deluding yourself. I guess that’s why I love you so.”

“All right,” he said, miffed. “You tell me. Why did I become a cop?”

Again she covered his hand with hers. She looked into his eyes, suddenly serious.

“Don’t you know?” she asked gently. “Don’t you really know? Because you love beauty. Oh, I know law and order and justice are important to you. But what you really want is a beautiful world where everything is true and nothing is false. You dreamer!”

He thought about that a long time. Then they rose, and hand in hand they strolled into the park.

In Central Park, there is an inclosed carousel that has been a delight to generations of youngsters. Some days, when the wind is right, you can hear its musical tinkle from a distance; the air seems to dance.

The animals-marvelously carved and painted horses-chase each other in a gay whirl that excites children and hypnotizes their parents. On a bench near this merry-go-round, Barbara and Edward Delaney sat to rest, shoulders touching. They could hear the music, see the giddy gyrations through trees still wearing summer’s green.

They sat awhile in silence. Then she said, not looking at him, “Can you tell me now?”

He nodded miserably. As rapidly as he could, he delivered a concise report of what Dr. Bernardi had told him. He omitted only the physician’s fleeting reference to a “Proteus infection.”

“I see no choice,” he said, and gripped her hand harder. “Do you? We’ve got to get this cleared up. I’ll feel better if Bernardi brings in other men. I think you will, too. It only means five days to a week in the hospital. Then they’ll decide what must be done. I told Bernardi to go ahead, get the room. A private room. Barbara? Is that all right?”

He wondered if she heard him. Or if she understood. Her eyes were far away, and he did not know the smile on her soft lips.

“Barbara?” he asked again.

“During the war,” she said, “when you were in France, I brought the children here when the weather was nice, Eddie could walk then but Elizabeth was still in the carriage. Sometimes Eddie would get tired on the way home, and I’d put him in the carriage with Liza. How he hated it!”

“I know. You wrote me.”

“Did I? Sometimes we’d sit on this very bench where we’re sitting now. Eddie would ride the merry-go-round all day if I let him.”

“He always rode a white horse.”

“You do remember,” she smiled. “Yes, he always rode a white horse, and every time he came around he’d wave at us, sitting up straight. He was so proud.”

“Yes.”

“They’re good children, aren’t they, Edward?”

“Yes.”

“Happy children.”

“Well, I wish Eddie would get married, but there’s no use nagging him.”

“No. He’s stubborn. Like his father.”

“Am I stubborn?”

“Sometimes. About some things. When you’ve made up your mind. Like my going into the hospital for tests.”

“You will go, won’t you?”

She gave him a dazzling smile, then unexpectedly leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. It was a soft, youthful, lingering kiss that shocked him with its longing.

And late that night she still burned with that longing, her body kindled with lust and fever. She came naked into his arms and seemed intent on draining him, exhausting him, taking all for herself and leaving nothing.

He tried to contain her fury-so unlike her; she was usually languorous and teasing-but her rage defeated him. Once, thrashing about in a sweated paroxysm, she called him “Ted,” which she had not done since their life together was born.

He did what he could to satisfy and soothe, wretchedly conscious that his words were not heard nor his caresses felt; the most he could do was be. Her storm passed, leaving him riven. He gnawed a knuckle and fell asleep.

He awoke a few hours later, and she was gone from the bed. He was instantly alert, pulled on his old patterned robe with its frazzled cord. Barefoot, he went padding downstairs, searching all the empty rooms.

He found her in what they still called the “parlor” of their converted brownstone, next door to the 251st Precinct house. She was on the window seat, clad in a white cotton nightgown. Her knees were drawn up, clasped. In the light from the hallway he could see her head bent forward. Her hair was down, hiding her face, drifting shoulders and knees.

“Barbara,” he called.

Her head came up. Hair fell back. She gave him a smile that twisted his heart.

“I’m dying,” she said.

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