This was the dull part. From now on, just sitting and waiting, this was going to be the dull part. If Ernie was here, they could Indian wrestle or something. He should of asked to be put on the truck detail, instead of Wycza. Let Wycza sit here all night.
He looked at George, speculatively, trying to find a sign in George’s face to indicate he might maybe try something pretty soon, make life interesting somehow. But there was no sense even hoping; George just wasn’t the heroic type, that’s all there was to it.
He stretched again. He wished he could take the hood off, but he couldn’t. He’d taken one fall, and his picture was on file. A dumb fall. Him and Ernie, seventeen years of age for him and nineteen for Ernie, they were just razzing this clown with the tape recorder, down having old rumpots sing folk songs into it, and someway or other it all got out of hand, and when they were done they hadn’t just beat the tape recorder in with lumber chunks like they’d intended, they’d beat the clown in, too. Then they had no more sense but to go right straight on home, and get picked up by the sheriff the next morning. Nobody much believed their story about stopping the clown from trying to rape some little girl that run away and likely too mortified to come forward and testify, but they stuck to the story anyway and got smaller sentences than they might of otherwise. Eight years apiece, for manslaughter. Out in less than three years.
There was a time, once, when three years in a state pen couldn’t hurt anybody, but that time’s long gone. Go look for a job, and the paperwork starts. When was you in the army? Why not? Where were you instead? What were you in the pen for? We’ll call you if there’s an opening.
Not all jobs were like that. Nobody cares what you did a while back if all they want you for is to operate a shovel or work in a harvest gang. Heavy work for low wages, all you can use.
There’s more than one way to make a living. And if you want more of a living than you can get with a shovel, and if nobody’ll give you a sniff at any sort of a job better than that, there’s stillways to make a living.
Chambers stretched and scratched himself, and watched old George. That damn fool Ernie. Why take off after a sixteen-year-old chippy anyway? Who cares how willing she was?
Chambers sighed, and shifted position, and felt the sweat dribbling down. Too bad Ernie wasn’t here.
3
Grofield heard background music. Always, everywhere he went. Sometimes lush and full, with a lot of strings. Sometimes rapidfire, with xylophones and brass, that busy-Manhattan-street-with-yellow-taxicabs music. Sometimes strident, harsh, dramatic. But always music, in the air around his head like a halo.
Right now, next to Parker in the front seat of the prowl car, the music he was hearing was low, slow, like a heavy pulse beat; a bass drum, and a bass fiddle, and maybe a few other instruments, all low-pitched, pounding out a slow relentless beat, gradually building up.
Parker was driving, and wearing a hat he’d taken off one of the cops. The walkie-talkie was on the seat between them, and the Tommy between their knees, barrel down against the floor, stock jutting up onto the seat. Grofield’s rifle was in his arms, butt in his lap and barrel pointing up past his right ear. His walkie-talkie was on the floor between his legs.
Behind them, in the other car, were Phillips and Littlefield and Kerwin. The two cars drove over Caulkins Street to Raymond Avenue, and turned left. A block and a half up they saw the truck, but nobody in or near it. Grofield heard the music build up in tempo as they went by, rolling slow and silent, Parker’s face all jutting angles in the green dashlights. Grofield turned his head to look at the truck, anonymous-looking truck, imagining the angle of the follow shot, the camera, having trailed up to now, now speeding, going past on the other side, keeping the truck always centered beyond the prowl car, and intercutting to the faces inside, Parker and himself.
He felt he ought to say something, but nothing came to mind. Nothing that wasn’t banal, too damn typical of this scene. None of the really great playwrights had ever written this scene; the fifth-raters who had written it would all, to a man, put in his mouth at this point the line, “Well, this is it, boss.”
He remained silent.
Three more blocks and they turned left on Blake Street. The telephone company building was one block over, on the corner. Parker stopped the car, and the background music stopped, too, leaving a dramatic silence. Parker got out of the car, carrying the Tommy but leaving the walkie-talkie, and Grofield got out on his side, strapped his walkie-talkie on, and picked up his rifle. The station wagon had stopped behind them, and the other three had gotten out. They’d all had their hoods off while riding, and now they put them back on.
The telephone company building was three stories high, made of the yellow brick that seemed to be standard around here for nonresidental buildings. The walk up to the door was flanked by flowers. There was a dim light beyond the entrance door, and lights behind four of the windows on the second floor left.
They went in without talking. The walkie-talkie on Grofield’s back made a tiny jangling sound as he moved, barely loud enough for even him to hear it. That would be amplified on the soundtrack, serve instead of background music. He tried to walk so as to give the jangling a proper slow rhythm.
Inside, a globe hanging from the ceiling was lit, showing a hall, and a wide flight of metal stairs leading up. They went up, sliding their feet on to each step with small shushing sounds, to avoid any clatter, and at the top they saw a door with light behind the frosted glass.
They pushed open the door and went in, Parker first, Grofield after him, and the others behind. Parker said, “Stop, ladies. If anybody screams, I shoot.”
Three women. One at a desk, writing with a ballpoint pen. The other two on chairs before a long switchboard filling the right-hand wall, looking like a flat black computer. All three stared. Two opened their mouths, but none of them screamed.
Parker said, “All stand up. Move to the center of the room.”
The woman at the desk found part of her voice and said, “What are you men doing here?”
“Do as the gentleman tells you, dear,” said Grofield, “Don’t interfere with the schedule.”
He watched the three women move uncertainly to the center of the room. The two operators looked terrified, period. The woman who’d been at the desk looked both terrified and indignant. But there wouldn’t be any screaming, and there wouldn’t be any running or anything like that. They’d behave.
Parker lowered the Tommy and pointed at the woman from the desk. “What’s your name?”
