Once Pop asked, “Dave, is everything all right with you and Mary?”
“The best. But you know how it is, little fights and... Naw, Pa, guess we aren't making it. She doesn't want me to be a cop. Wants me to take some dull job with her uncle.”
“You think Mama and I don't tremble when we see a headline about a policeman hurt or shot? You should understand her view too.”
“That isn't it. She has these phony standards—a desk job is good, any other job stinks. She'd rather have me a half-ass 'executive' than a police lieutenant. Know what kind of funky job her Uncle Frank has for me? I should start in at thirty-five a week as a land of strong-arm fink.”
Pop sighed. “That is definitely no good. Still you should be patient, see her side.”
“Why? Why shouldn't she see my side? Pa, I think we should have a kid now, while we're young, but I don't make an issue of the fact she wants to hold on to her gassy job. I—”
Pa held up a skinny finger, pointed toward the kitchen. Ma came in, drying her hands. She put out a bowl of fruit and sat down. “It's after nine, turn to Channel 5, see what has happened to Big White Sing, the Indian Scout.”
As Pop changed stations he made a mock bow and told me, “Behold what television does to culture. At her age she must see a cowboy movie every night.”
“Shhh!” Mom said.
I sat in the semidarkness, sleepy and full, suddenly thinking of Owens and his wife watching their old TV, another happy home... and him out hustling a four-grand cushion. And a penny-snatcher like Wales spending all his dough on a hopelessly sick wife... how damn lonely he must have been to loosen up and spend a couple of hundred bucks with a call girl. What must it feel like, dressing like a slob, working for twenty-five bucks a week: with eleven grand wrapped around your gut? The—
The phone rang and Pa got it, said, “Yes. He's here. We were sorry you couldn't make it tonight.... Yes, get some rest. The heat takes its toll.... Mama had a wonderful supper. Maybe next Friday... I'll call him.”
He put the phone down and came over to me. “Your wife is on the phone, David.”
“What does she want?” Ma shrilled.
“Mama!” Poppa scolded softly as I picked up the receiver, asked, “Yeah, Mary?”
“Dave, I feel nervous, scary. I... can you come home right away?”
“Sure. What's the matter?”
“Nothing really, except I have this feeling. Three times in the last hour the phone has rung and each time there wasn't any answer, not a sound.”
“Nothing to get excited about. Could be a couple of wrong numbers, or something wrong with the phone.”
“Davie, please come home. It may be silly but each time I said hello, the more certain I was that somebody was listening at the other end. The phone was too quiet. Please, Davie, I'm jittery.”
“Okay, Babes. I'll leave now and be there within an hour. Make you feel better, go visit a neighbor and I'll pick you up there.”
“No. Somehow I don't want to leave the apartment. I'm not the kind that goes up in the air but I have this terrible feeling, have it so strong, that something... evil... is waiting outside. Just hurry home.”
“Okay, sit tight and don't open the door for anybody but me. Turn up the TV and try to relax. I'm leaving now,” I said, hanging up.
When I tried to explain it to Ma she said, “What's the matter, she can't let us have you for a few hours? She's nervous and... David, is she pregnant?”
“Not that I heard. Guess I'd better go.” I wondered if the three phone calls were an accident. But it didn't make sense for the Data clowns to start giving me the works. And Wren had said he was calling them off. Maybe she had seen a horror show on TV... and three calls were spooky to a girl home alone. Still, she wasn't the emotional kind... but she might really be tired and upset. I could phone the local precinct to have the beat cop look in, but how would that sound?
Ma hinted that Mary was doing all this on purpose and Pop said, “Such nonsense, Mama. And if his wife is nervous, no matter what the reason, what else should the boy do but rush home? Dave, call us the moment you reach your house.”
I said I would and was about to borrow cab fare but didn't want them to know I was broke. I was sounding almost as hysterical as Mary.
I had luck at the subway, an express was just pulling in. Thinking it over on the ride downtown I knew what had happened: Uncle Frank had phoned, said I hadn't gone overboard about the job, and this was Mary's way of needling-me. She'd been mad because I went up to Ma's anyway... and the last couple of days had just been one long argument. Only if Mary was sore about something she usually said so.
I made good time, it was a few minutes under ten-fifteen when I ran up the subway steps and headed toward our place. I didn't even stop to buy the morning paper. If it was the Data boys, if I found Flatts hanging around my place, I'd give him a beating he'd sure never forget. But when I reached our corner, turned into the block, everything looked so quiet and peaceful I decided to have it out with Mary. If this was her sneaky way of getting back at me for having supper with the folks it was time we found out where we stood. In fact that time was long due.
When I'm mad I walk fast and I was rushing into the entrance of our house when I heard the sudden step behind me, felt a hell of a big gun shoved in my right side. Then a heavy arm went around my neck, hugging my shoulders in a hard embrace and Mr. Wren was saying loudly, “No more talking, not that late. Come on, let's have a last drink.”
It was a good act even though nobody was around to see it; looked like a friendly greeting. His left arm casually around my shoulder while his right held the gun inside his coat pocket against my side. We were about the same height and I was looking smack into his eyes, eyes distorted by his thick glasses. At first I was so completely surprised at seeing Wren—if anybody, I'd expected the Data clowns—my mind was a blank. But one look at those eyes and I got scared, but fast.
According to the Police Manual I should have gone for my gun. There wasn't any crowd or bystander to stop a wild shot. Even common sense should have told me to make a stand, call his bluff. But his eyes told me the gun in my side wasn't any bluff, it would mean a sure slug in the gut.
He said gently, jovially, “Oh, now, just one last nightcap.” Then the whisper: “Keep your hands in sight. If you're not foolish you may live. Now walk!”
If he had pushed me, if his gun had left my side for a second, I might have made my play. But he was smart, waited for me to walk, then moved with me, like we were a couple of chums. There wasn't a person in sight on the dimly lit street as we headed toward Second Avenue. Then his left hand neatly slid inside my coat while his gun, feeling as big and round as a shotgun barrel, pressed into my kidney as he took my gun from the shoulder holster. He didn't try to pocket the gun, merely pushed it up his sleeve and kept walking with his arm around my shoulder.
I was still frightened but mostly I was burning with shame. For a cop to have his gun lifted is like wearing a coward's badge. I'd never live this down. I never thought I'd be a complete coward... but I was.
We kept walking slowly toward the lights of Second Avenue. I said, “You're crazy, Wren, if you think you can get away with this!” And my voice was as shrill as Ma's.
“If I don't you'll never hear about it in the cemetery. Use your head, Wintino. All I want is to have a quiet chat with you.”
I told myself that when we reached Second Avenue, or if anybody came along, I'd drop flat and go for his legs. He wouldn't dare pull anything in the light, with people around. But with my gun lost I might as well let him plug me.
We were three stores and a tenement from the avenue. The first store had a for bent sign in the window—it had been a ritzy gift shop till a few months ago. He suddenly steered me into the doorway, looked around quickly, then opened the door and his gun pushed me in.
Closing the door softly he told me, “Clasp the back of your neck with both hands, please,” and his gun slid up my side to my neck, like a snake. “Blink your eyes to get used to the darkness, then walk toward the back of the store. A false move, even if you should trip, and I'll be forced to kill you. Walk—slowly.”
I walked. I felt lost, beaten. He knew his business, no chance for me to kick backward. The pressure of the gun barrel lessened and then from the sound of his steps and the heat of his body, I knew he was walking an arm's length back of me.
Blinking my eyes I saw the store was empty except for an open arched doorway we were nearing. Wren said, “Walk straight through the center of the opening, turn slowly— when I tell you.”
We walked into what must have been a small stockroom. A little door to my right was ajar and outlined by dim light-not a light within the room but coming from outside.
He told me to turn and open the door. The room, the size of a phone booth, was the John with a tiny barred Window high up that caught some faint light from Second Avenue. There wasn't room for the two of us. Wren said, “Turn around and sit on the toilet—with your hands in sight. I didn't mean any comical touch but this is the best place I could find for an undisturbed talk. Man's confidence in locks is touching, even in a simple spring lock on a store door.”
I sat down as Wren leaned against the doorway, the light giving his glasses a weird smoky look. He was wearing pigskin gloves and the pistol in his hand had a bulky silencer—which was why it had felt big as a shotgun in my back. He said, “I'm sorry to pull a gun on you, and all this hocus-pocus. We may part as friends. I hope so, sincerely I hope that. Killing is a terrible thing, an idiotic gesture that—”
The tightness within me suddenly shot up to my mouth; I had to talk. “You're not going to kill me!” I said, my voice still high. “You're not that much of a fool. I reported my visit to your office, if I'm found dead you'll be number one on the suspect parade!” I sounded hysterical; was surprised I could still wisecrack.
“Don't raise your voice,” he said, holding
