Bancroft is the younger of the two, going slightly thin on top, but compensating for that with the length it is at the back. One of his eyes is made of glass and the other may as well be for all the loving light that shines out of it. Like the cuffs of his pants, his nostrils are flared wide, and the distance between his nostrils and his top lip gives his face the look of an orangutan.
Connors is ugly in a different kind of way. His ugliness is in his creepiness, in the physical manifestation of his character; you feel that if you touched him, you'd come away with a grey oily film on the tips of your fingers. He's tall and carries himself well and he always has a faint grin on his mouth. If he was ever to allow it to break into a smile, you'd expect to see a couple of fangs at either side of his mouth. Unlike Florian, Bancroft and Connors have their eyes on me the minute I walk through the door; they keep them there while I walk across to the counter and sit down. I wait for Gardenias to appear and Bancroft and Connors keep on looking at me and Florian keeps on drinking his coffee. When Gardenias comes out from the back and sees it's me, he shoots a glance at Florian and Co., then back at me.
“Hello, Mr. Boldt,” he says, edging over to where I am. “What can I get for you?”
“Coffee,” I tell him. “And liverwurst on rye.”
“Fine,” he says, pouring me some coffee from a pot and fetching cream and sugar before he goes to work on his bleached wood board and starts assembling the sandwich.
While he's working he says to me, “I seen your partner in here, maybe Tuesday. Eats here a lot these days.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That's right. His brother-in-law doesn't understand him.”
“Oh?” Gardenias says. “Well, he never speaks about it.”
Bancroft gives a low laugh. “That's cops for you,” he says. “They suffer and yet they never grouse.”
“You're right,” Connors agrees. “That's why only a certain kind of man makes it on the force.”
I don't say anything to Bancroft or Connors but instead I sugar my coffee and stir it up. At the same time Florian puts his coffee cup down, wipes his mouth with his napkin and gets off his stool. He moves over to where I'm sitting motioning his boys to stay where they are.
“I heard about your problem,” Florian says, sitting down alongside me. “You got any news on that yet?”
Florian's voice is rough and ugly, a direct contrast to his cultivated appearance.
“You're interested in that?” I ask him.
“I'm interested in everything,” he says, “and besides, I don't like wild cards. I don't like a mess. I get upset.”
“Even when it doesn't concern you?”
“Yeah,” Florian says. “Even then. I get uneasy. Things get out of control, I get frustrated, maybe I make some bad decisions. I don't know.”
“Well,” I tell him, “even if it happens, it's only going to be messy for a few seconds because after it happens, that's the easy part, picking up the guy.”
Florian thinks about this for a minute or two then says, “The guy receiving, he's your brother.”
“That's right.”
Florian shakes his head. “I hate to see this kind of thing,” he says. “A guy can't give a shit about his brother getting whacked or not.”
“That's good,” I tell him, “because in that case maybe you hate it so much you'll go out and find the guy and bring him to me and save me a lot of trouble.”
Florian shakes his head again.
“Charlie,” he says, “Earl, come over.”
Bancroft and Connors snap to it and when they get to us Florian says, “Meet a prince, a man of real family feeling. You know, I'm beginning to think maybe you sent the note to the Police Department yourself.”
“No,” Bancroft says. “You got to be able to write before you can send notes.”
Connors gives a low laugh and Florian looks at me to see what I'm going to do and at the same time Gardenias puts the sandwich on the counter beside me.
“You like liverwurst on rye, Charlie?” I say to Bancroft.
Charlie hardens himself up. “Yeah,” he says, “I really do.”
“Oh Christ,” Gardenias says, turning away from the counter.
“Out,” Florian says.
For a second I wonder whether he's talking to me or Bancroft, but then Bancroft looks at Florian, Florian jerks his head and Bancroft moves toward the door.
“You, too,” Florian says to Connors. Connors does as he's told and the door closes behind them both. Florian and me look at one another.
“What would be the use?” he says. “You all work for me anyway.”
After a while I agree, “Yeah, what would be the use?”
I turn to the counter and take a bite of my sandwich.
“About that,” Florian says. “You could work for me for real, you know that. Half the hours, ten times the dough. Your way, it don't mean much if some kid knocking over a drive-in whacks you before he pisses himself.”
“As opposed to being whacked by a pro while I'm fetching and carrying for you.”
“You heard about that?”
“I was the first in the department.”
“And yet it was Lambert who called me. You don't like me enough to call me, Boldt?”
“He likes you better than I do, yes,” I tell him. “But you heard about our little problem and I've got no time for anything else.”
“That's what I meant,” Florian says. “That's what I'm talking about. A thing like this throws everything. Everything gets screwed up. Already I'm affected.”
“I may cry,” I tell him.
“Yeah,” Florian says. “Anyway, I told Lambert anything breaks on this, I want to know.”
“Then you'll get to know, won't you, if Lambert guarantees it,” I reply, getting off my stool and beginning to walk over to the door.
“Boldt,” Florian says.
I pause and turn back to look at Florian.
“I don't like a thing I can't understand,” he says. “And I never will understand you.”
“Well, I understand you, Mr. Florian,” I tell him, “and isn't it funny that understanding you doesn't help me to like you either.”
I close the door behind me and stand on the sidewalk waiting for a cab to cruise by. Florian's car is parked about thirty feet along the curb with Connors and Bancroft sitting in front. When they see me come out of Gardenias's, the car slides along the curbside and stops opposite the diner; the doors open and Connors and Bancroft get out.
“You better hurry,” I tell them. “Gardenias is holding a shotgun on him for his stickpin.”
They pause for a moment on their way across the sidewalk and Bancroft says, “It's a funny thing ---we protect Florian and Florian protects you. Is that a fringe benefit that's part of the package he hands you?”
“That's right,” I tell him. “Because see, I need Mr. Florian's protection because I'm so scared of people like you. I wouldn't be able to handle any of your kind of trouble which, of course, you already know.”
Connors puts a hand on Bancroft's shoulder.
“Charlie,” Connors says, “Mr. Florian doesn't want anything like this, don't forget that. He's in there now and he wouldn't be happy.”
Bancroft looks at me. “Another time,” he says.
I nod. “There'll be plenty of other times,” I tell him.
Then there's nothing left for Bancroft to do but turn away and follow Connors into Gardenias's. I turn away, too, and face the evening traffic and suddenly I feel very tired; tired of the whole day and of people like Moses and the hustler and Florian and Florian's boys and most of all tired of myself, a forty- three-year-old cop with an undistinguished career and a dis-tinguished shit of a brother who's still bringing trouble into my life.
While I'm thinking all this, a cab cruises into my line of vision and I almost forget to hail it, I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts. The cab makes a U-turn and pulls up. I tell the driver my address and get in the back, lean back in the seat and close my eyes, the stale atmosphere of sweat and old cigarette ends drifting into my nostrils a perfect counterpoint to the way I'm feeling. After a moment or two, though, the sleep begins to creep into my eyelids and as I begin to drift away the cab driver says, “You know this city never was an actual pleasure to drive in, but Christ, this year it's worse than ever. I used to live in Des Moines and that was always terrible, but that's bigger than this town and I really believe this town's getting as bad as Des Moines. Christ, maybe it's even getting worse.”
I open my eyes and automatically fish in my top pocket for a cigarette.
“Yeah,” I say, blinking the sleep away.
“But a job's a job, and what can you do?” the cab driver continues. “We all got to work. But listen, did you ever hear of, say, a postman on his day off, go out and deliver a couple of hundred letters just for fun to please his old lady? Or maybe a welder go home and get out the spare kit he keeps in the garage then go around looking for things to weld? No, you never did, did you? And you never will. But with me it's different. Last Saturday is when my day off falls. It varies. Sometimes I get days in the week, sometimes I get days on the weekend. It varies. But last Saturday, last week, I get my day off. So what happens? What happens is my wife says, âLook it's a beautiful day; why don't we go visit with my sister?' Her sister happens to live only a hundred and thirty, hundred fifty miles away, you know? She says, âWe can take the kids and picnic on the way, and as Mrs. Sloman next door is crocked up, we can take her kids as well which will be nice for her and nice for our kids as well. What do you say?' she says. So I tell her. âThis is what I say,' I say. âAll I want is to have a beer or two, get on the swing seat in the garden and read the paper through three or four times and when I've done that maybe I'll do it again. And,' I say to her, âwhat is more, that is what I'll be doing. So what do you think of that?' I ask her. So she tells me and then she gets on the phone to her sister with whom she's already arranged this little joy ride and tells her all the forty-seven kinds of bastard I am which in itself is nothing particularly new. So in the end I finish up going down to this bar I sometimes go to and I spend the day down there, and when I get back you can imagine what the evening's like. A great evening. So great I wish I'm out working.”
“Yeah.”
All the time he's been talking, I've been rolling the cigarette around in my fingers waiting for him to stop because I've no more matches left in my book. So I ask him if he has a light and that's a mistake because he tells me he doesn't smoke.
“I had to cut that out,” he says. “With one thing and another, I found it better not to. And I was lucky. I never tried before; I guess I figured I wouldn't be able to, but when I did, no sweat. I smoked the last of my pack, threw the pack in the trash can and an hour later I'd forgotten I was trying to give them up. After that I never looked back. I mean, some guys give up a week, two weeks, maybe three months sometimes, but in the end they take it up again because really, they know they're going to; while they're not smoking they're just passing the time until they start up again only they don't admit it to themselves. Me, I figured that and that's why I guess I beat it.”
“I guess you're right,” I tell him, hoping to Christ that my agreeing with him will shut him up.
“You're right,” he says. “And that's one thing I've got over my old lady. She's never going to give up. And so if she ever figures on getting snotty about some of the things she don't like about me, I get in these little remarks, you know, like about how many packs is that she's gone through today already, and, by the way, I don't think we can afford the deposit on the violin Joanne wants to practice with for the school orchestra, that kind of thing.”
I nod my agreement and the cab driver makes a right, and in a couple of merciful moments we will be at where I live.
“Mind you,” the driver says, “sure I can afford a violin; if the day comes I can't afford something like that for my kid, I'll turn this hack in and shoot myself. But Christ, imagine a ten-year-old kid let loose on a violin around the house...”
“Just over there,” I interrupt him. “The apartment building on the left.”
“Sure,” the cab driver says, and swings over.
I get out and pay the fare and the cab driver takes it without a word. It's as though he's never spoken to me, as if the monologues he's been delivering were for his ears only. He drives off and I cross the sidewalk, climb the stairs to the second floor and walk down the landing. I stop outside my door, put the key in the lock and push. Inside I take off my jacket and drop it on the table in the hall then walk through into the living area, go over to the table in the corner and pour myself a vodka. I cross to the window and look out into the dusty evening air and take a long drink.
The apartment is full of dead air so I put my glass down on the sill and raise the window which lets in the dust and the sounds of the traffic and the smells from the restaurant on the ground floor. I drain my glass, go back to the table and make myself another drink then I lie down on the divan and shake off my shoes, balance my glass on my chest and close my eyes. But though I'm still tired now I'm able to sleep, the sleep won't come, so I give up and get up and go into the kitchen and begin to scramble eggs. While I'm doing, that the phone rings. I go back into the living area and lift the receiver.
“Yeah?”
“Listen,” the voice at the other end says. “It's Pete.”
“Who?”
“Pete.”
“Yeah, I know it's Pete, I can hear. Pete who?”
“Pete Foley for Christ's sake.”
“Right.”
I wait for him to go on.
“You there?” he says.
“Yeah, I'm here.”
“Well listen, you asked me to phone you, right?”