The next witness for the prosecution is a police officer. Flaherty expects something bad. The police have been protecting the profession's reputation so far, they have been standing up for Arany. But this doesn't look good â¦
     Captain Nunzio is a tall, strong man whose hair has been falling out and whose potbelly has started show. He led the raid against the hostage takers at the First State Savings and Loan. At the prosecutor's prompting, he gives a long, impressive list of the milestones in his career. The prosecution has a choice witness here. His father was a cop too. He had wanted to join the force since he was a child. He graduated from the Academy with high honors. He started out in uniform, and climbed the ladder. He served in the toughest neighborhoods and performed admirably. Awards and welldeserved promotions characterize his rising career. As Flaherty takes notes, he catches his private detective's questioning look. The detective is his brother-in-law, Jack. After working with the police for twelve years, he resigned four years ago, but he wouldn't have if his career had been anything like Nunzio's. Should I look into this? his eyes seem to ask. Flaherty shakes his head mildly. It's not necessary. They are obviously not lying, and if he rudely attacks a man like this, they'll just lose points with the judge and jury. No. You have to give this wretched guy respect. Suggest, politely that he's mistaken and bring in an expert with an equal number of awards to refute his point.
     The captain puts everything clearly, in simple sentences. The twelve fools on the jury pay intense attention to him. At last someone they can understand. Nunzio's claim is clear: If Arany and Captain Ericsson had cooperated with him, those three people would not have died. Why do you think they were not cooperating, the prosecutor asks. Now is the time to jump up, blushing with anger, and object. This question is asking the witness to speculate about something of which he cannot be directly aware. The judge accepts the objection. The captain doesn't respond verbally, but his smile suggests an answer. Flaherty drops back into his chair. Why did I take this damned case?
CHAPTER 30
Captain Ericsson promised to make it in twenty minutes but it takes thirty. He arrives in a police car, sirens wailing. He covers the last couple of hundred yards on foot. Holding up his shield, he elbows his way through the rubbernecking throngs.
     "They're out of their mind," he informs Arany without bothering to greet him. Arany doesn't really listen to him, he's too tired, the milling crowd, the noise is getting on his nerves. He feels sick and can't decide if he is nauseous and dizzy because of the noise and tension or if he's having one of those strange fits again.
     Ericsson doesn't seem to notice Arany's mood. He takes a look around and his face glows contentedly.
     "They're demanding twenty million dollars a helicopter that can seat ten, and parachutes."
     "We should give them what they want," Arany shrugs. "They'll get caught, eventually." He couldn't care less. A helicopter, twenty millionâthe whole thing seems too unreal. He's still trying to figure out what business Delacroix has in the office across from the bank. Is he supposed to warn his partners via radio if the police start to storm the bank? And what good would that do?
     He leans against the wall. Ericsson's voice reaches him from a distance.
     "It's not that simple. They want ten parachutes, so we don't know which ones they want for themselves and which ones are for the hostages. All the parachutes have to be good. We could conceal tracking devices in them, but â¦"
     Arany mops his forehead. He is literally drenched in sweat. His throat is parched, he's craving a drink of water. He steps back into the cool doorway. The locked doors stare at him with patrician aloofness. Is it possible that none of the tenants are home? Or are they trying to seal out the insanity that's outside?
     A brawny commando in uniform blocks the way to the entrance. He eyes them with disgust, as if they are just civilians or something.
     Arany tries to pull himself together.
     "What shall we do about Delacroix?" he asks Ericsson, haltingly.
     The captain waves Arany off for the moment. He's listening to his walkie-talkie. He shakes his head, disapprovingly.
     "They're still bargaining," he grumbles. "There are two snotnoses in there playing the heavies, and they're willing to bargain with them. In my time we would've stormed the bank. We wouldn't let bulletproof glass stop us. We would've brought in a tank if we had to, but we would've got the sleaze balls. But in my time we were proper cops in proper uniforms, not goons in asinine outfits." The captain threw a sarcastic glance at the commando.
     "What are we going to do about Delacroix?" Arany grows impatient. It's possible that the sudden fit is blowing over because he feels growing tension and nervousness, he feels like engaging in combat. "Should we get him?" His voice is husky. He turns towards the doorway. Break down the door, dash into the office. Fire. "We could radio for backup." Arany is glad hear himself say something so cautious. It proves he's not completely out of his mind.
     "All right, go and call someone!" The captain plants himself in front of Arany. When he leans towards him his breath smells unpleasantly sour. "And how are you going to prove that this punk really is the accomplice of those two snotnoses? They go to the same disco? Do you know what a good lawyer will do with this kind of evidence? He'll tear it into shreds. He doesn't even need to be a good lawyer. The punk in there is obviously keeping a look out, waiting for us to do something. But all we have is a bunch of kids in stupid, tactical uniforms. We're not going to do anything." Ericsson glances at the commando and quite obviously enjoys the seething rage he sees in the young man's face. "We'll get him when things happen. He'll want to make a getaway. Where's the rear entrance?" He peers in the direction of the doorway.
     Arany leads him up the stairs, opens the window and points at the glass panes of the narrow passage above them. Ericsson hums contentedly. The young man in fatigues casts a glance inside, toward them, and starts talking into his portable radio.
     "And if nothing happens, if they get away, this little bird in here will be part of our contingency plan." Ericsson seems happy with this idea. He produces a hip flask. Arany hesitates at the sight of it, then shakes his head, no. His mouth is parched enough, if he had a drink he'd be even thirstier. "So we'll simply shadow him. We'll take turns, all of us if needed, but we won't lose his tail. And if his friends succeed in getting away he's the only one who can lead us to their hide-away."
     Arany can clearly see the logic of the plan, but somehow he doesn't really like it. There is too much noise outside and too profound a silence inside. He feels as if they were engaging in guerilla activities behind the others' back.
     The door opens, a tall, good-looking officer enters. In spite of his small paunch he seems to be muscular enough. He throws a quick salute in their direction, something Arany has seen only in movies till now.
     "My name's Nunzio." His voice is deep. He's the type of officer, who is well liked by his underlings, at least he likes to think so.
     Ericsson's glance never wavers. Tough old reprobate, Arany thinks with some admiration. Those two look each other steadily in the eyes, daring the other one to make his opening gambit. Nunzio gives up first in spite of the fact that he is the younger and fitter of the two.
     "What do you want here?"
     Ericsson is reaching into his pocket for his identification, but Nunzio waves him off. He knows quite well they are cops. What he wanted to know was what the hell they were doing there.
     "We're a surveillance team," Ericsson replies blandly. "And how about you? What the hell are
you
doing here?"
     Nunzio is on the brink of losing his temper. He can't tolerate the cheek of this shabby, old cop. Who does he think he is? He isn't used to the kind of mild impertinence Ericsson displays. His men wouldn't dare talk back, and his superiors usually show him respect.
     "I'm in charge of this operation, that's what I'm doing here. We don't need unessential personnel hanging around, so why don't you go some place else. We have work to do here."
     "So do we." Ericsson's amber eyes flash in a menacing manner. The old lion prepares for battle.
     The commando in fatigues doesn't take his eyes off them. He seems satisfied, pushes his cap down onto his forehead and contentedly scratches his shaved nape. In spite of his clothes, his roughly hewn features and puffy eyes he reminds Arany strongly of the clientele at the Star. It's young toughs like this who are over in the bank right now, demanding twenty million, a chopper and parachutes. The third party is still upstairs keeping track of the events below. How does he feel? Probably just as helpless and miserable as they are.
     A siren begins to wail, and it gets louder and louder outside the building. Are they bringing in more troops? What's next? A platoon? The National Guard?
     The silence in the building grows tense.
     Ericsson reaches into his pocket and feels for his old silver cigarette case and oldfashioned lighter. He lights his cigarette deliberately, his melancholy eyes never for a moment leave the face of the other captain.
     Nunzio covers the distance between them. He leans forward, so their faces almost touch.
     "I told you to get out of here!" he bellows directly into Ericsson's face.
     The tone and volume of his voice makes Arany start. There is violence in the air, he can feel it. He has been more sensitive to it ever since his injury. He feels it in his bones as if it were a rain coming.
     Have they all gone crazy? Bank robbery and hostages across the street, cops beating each other up over here? Out of the corner of his eye he looks at the commando. Big arms. Heavy boots. If he uses them for kicking â¦
     Am I out of my mind, too? Arany wonders. But it's something close to joy that he feels when he thinks of the coming combat.
     Ericsson flashes a smile towards the other captain. He turns away and inhales the smoke slowly. The captain's face almost disappears in the billowing smoke.
     "All right," Ericsson says at last. "Could you just put your instructions in writing?"
     Nunzio seems seriously tempted to hit him. He hesitates for a second, then his bureaucratic self prevails. Writing reports and filling in forms have become second nature to him. It's as much a part of his life as violence. He snorts impatiently, but takes his notebook out of his pocket, tears a page out, scribbles a few words on it and finally signs it with a flourish.
     "Here you are! All in writing. And now get lost!"
     Ericsson's eyes scan the slip of paper. His face lights up with a smile. He folds it and deposits it in his worn black wallet.
     "Come on, son." He turns toward Arany and the two of them saunter off in the direction of the street. They elbow their way through the crowd. The side street is packed with cars. Agitated drivers try to make U-turnsâor failing that to double park, so they can get out of the crowd on foot. Arany doesn't speak. As he keeps pace with Ericsson, he seems to be lost in his own thoughts.
     "That fathead!" Ericsson mumbles, shaking his head. They reach the corner and take a left turn. The houses here have narrow, elegantly designed facades, and they are built too closely to each other, so it's impossible to see from the outside which one is connected to the other side of the block by the glass-paned corridor. The two men methodically examine the doorways. They are not bothered by the suspicious glares of the caretakers. When asked what they are looking for, Ericsson only waves them away, but Arany flashes his identification. The third doorway they inspect opens to the passage they have been looking for.
     In keeping with the facades, the elevator is narrow, too, so much so that they are pressed close together. Ericsson reeks with cloyingly sweet after-shave. He rests his forehead on the cool metal wall. His gray hair must be sweaty and sticky to the touch. It occurs to Arany that the captain must feel sick, and he experiences a rushed of pity, anxiety and helplessness.
     The floors in the two buildings connected by the passage are not level. They get out of the elevator at the third floor and start their slow descent. In the winding, oval staircase the walls are decorated with a convoluted line running parallel with the rail, though maybe the line is a bit higher up. Deadly silence. Arany listens to the pounding of his own heart. He hates this silence, but when he opens his mouth his own voice sounds distorted and strange.
     "Why didn't you tell the captain who we were keeping under surveillance?"
     Ericsson stops immediately and clings to the rail. He might be happy that he's given a breather, or he has been expecting the question, which is a good one considering the possible witty remarks.
     "Because he didn't ask me," he replies as expected. He would go on, then mumbles something and turns towards Arany again. "He's in charge of the whole operation and he's not even interested in who we're observing, right under his nose. What kind of a cop is that? He simply assumed we were chasing some petty thief. In our line of work, you should never make assumptions. I remember once, a few years back, when we â¦" he dismisses the memory with a wave of his hand.
     They stop at the thick glass door leading to the passage. Arany places his hand on the wooden doorknob.
     "Shall we wait some more?"