"Get some sleep," she said. "You're tired." There was something strange in her eyes, an almost malicious gleam.
"Can't..."
"No."
"For Christ's sake, Alice..."
"No!"
"All right."
She smiled quickly. "All right," she repeated.
"Well . . ." Bush paused. "I'd ... I'd better get to bed."
"Yes. You'd better."
"What I can't understand is why..."
"You won't even need a sheet in this weather," Alice interrupted.
"No, I guess not."
He went to the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He didn't want to undress because he didn't want to give her the satisfaction, now that he'd been denied, of knowing how she'd affected him. He took off his trousers and quickly got into the bed, pulling the sheet to his throat.
Alice watched him, smiling. "I'm reading Anapurna," she said.
"So?"
"I just happened to think of it."
Bush rolled over onto his side.
"I'm still hot," Alice said. "I think I'll take a shower. And then maybe I'll catch an air-conditioned movie. You don't mind, do you?"
"No," Bush mumbled.
She walked to the side of the bed and stood there for a moment, looking down at him. "Yes, I think I'll take a shower." Her hands went to her hips. Slowly, she rolled the panties down over the flatness of her stomach, past the hard jut of her crotch, over the whiteness of her thighs. The panties dropped to the floor, and she stepped out of them and stood by the bed looking down at Bush smiling.
He did not move. He kept his eyes on the floor, but he could see her feet and her legs, but he did not move.
"Sleep tight, darling," she whispered, and then she went into the bathroom.
He heard the shower when it began running. He lay on the soggy sheet and listened to the steady machine-gunning of the water. Then, over the sound of the shower, came the sound of the telephone, splitting the silence of the room.
He sat up and reached for the instrument.
"Hello?"
"Bush?"
"Yes?"
"This is Havilland. You better get down here right away."
"What's the matter?" Bush asked.
"You know that young rookie Kling?"
"Yeah?"
"He was just shot in a bar on Culver."
Chapter TWELVE
the squad room of the 87th resembled nothing so much as the locker room of the Boys' Club when Bush arrived. There must have been at least two dozen teen-agers crammed in behind the dividing rail and the desks beyond it. Add to this a dozen or so detectives who were firing questions, the answers to which were coming in two languages, and the bedlam was equivalent to the hush of a hydrogen bomb explosion.
The boys were all wearing brilliantly contrasting purple and gold jackets, and the words "The Grovers" decorated the back of each jacket. Bush, looked for Carella in the crowded room, spotted him, and walked over toward him quickly. Havilland, a tough cop with a cherubic face, shouted at one of the boys, "Don't give me any guff, you little punk, or I'll break your goddamn arm."
"You try it, dick," the kid answered, and Havilland cuffed him across the mouth. The boy staggered back, slamming into Bush as he went by. Bush shrugged his shoulders, and the boy flew back into Havilland's arms, as if he'd been brushed aside by a rhinoceros.
Carella was talking to two boys when Bush approached him.
"Who fired the gun?" he asked.
The boys shrugged.
"We'll throw you all in jail as accessories," Carella promised.
"What the hell happened?" Bush wanted to know.
"I was having a beer with Kling. Nice, peaceful off-duty beer. I left him there, and ten minutes later, when he's leaving the joint, he gets jumped by these punks. One of them put a slug in him."
"How is he?"
"He's at the hospital. The slug was a .22, went through his right shoulder. We figure a zip gun."
"You think this ties with the other kills?"
"I doubt it. The m.o.'s 'way off."
"Then why?"
"How the hell do I know? Looks like the whole city figures it's open season on cops." Carella turned back to the boys. "Were you with the gang when the cop was jumped?"
The boys would not
"Can't..."
"No."
"For Christ's sake, Alice..."
"No!"
"All right."
She smiled quickly. "All right," she repeated.
"Well . . ." Bush paused. "I'd ... I'd better get to bed."
"Yes. You'd better."
"What I can't understand is why..."
"You won't even need a sheet in this weather," Alice interrupted.
"No, I guess not."
He went to the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He didn't want to undress because he didn't want to give her the satisfaction, now that he'd been denied, of knowing how she'd affected him. He took off his trousers and quickly got into the bed, pulling the sheet to his throat.
Alice watched him, smiling. "I'm reading Anapurna," she said.
"So?"
"I just happened to think of it."
Bush rolled over onto his side.
"I'm still hot," Alice said. "I think I'll take a shower. And then maybe I'll catch an air-conditioned movie. You don't mind, do you?"
"No," Bush mumbled.
She walked to the side of the bed and stood there for a moment, looking down at him. "Yes, I think I'll take a shower." Her hands went to her hips. Slowly, she rolled the panties down over the flatness of her stomach, past the hard jut of her crotch, over the whiteness of her thighs. The panties dropped to the floor, and she stepped out of them and stood by the bed looking down at Bush smiling.
He did not move. He kept his eyes on the floor, but he could see her feet and her legs, but he did not move.
"Sleep tight, darling," she whispered, and then she went into the bathroom.
He heard the shower when it began running. He lay on the soggy sheet and listened to the steady machine-gunning of the water. Then, over the sound of the shower, came the sound of the telephone, splitting the silence of the room.
He sat up and reached for the instrument.
"Hello?"
"Bush?"
"Yes?"
"This is Havilland. You better get down here right away."
"What's the matter?" Bush asked.
"You know that young rookie Kling?"
"Yeah?"
"He was just shot in a bar on Culver."
Chapter TWELVE
the squad room of the 87th resembled nothing so much as the locker room of the Boys' Club when Bush arrived. There must have been at least two dozen teen-agers crammed in behind the dividing rail and the desks beyond it. Add to this a dozen or so detectives who were firing questions, the answers to which were coming in two languages, and the bedlam was equivalent to the hush of a hydrogen bomb explosion.
The boys were all wearing brilliantly contrasting purple and gold jackets, and the words "The Grovers" decorated the back of each jacket. Bush, looked for Carella in the crowded room, spotted him, and walked over toward him quickly. Havilland, a tough cop with a cherubic face, shouted at one of the boys, "Don't give me any guff, you little punk, or I'll break your goddamn arm."
"You try it, dick," the kid answered, and Havilland cuffed him across the mouth. The boy staggered back, slamming into Bush as he went by. Bush shrugged his shoulders, and the boy flew back into Havilland's arms, as if he'd been brushed aside by a rhinoceros.
Carella was talking to two boys when Bush approached him.
"Who fired the gun?" he asked.
The boys shrugged.
"We'll throw you all in jail as accessories," Carella promised.
"What the hell happened?" Bush wanted to know.
"I was having a beer with Kling. Nice, peaceful off-duty beer. I left him there, and ten minutes later, when he's leaving the joint, he gets jumped by these punks. One of them put a slug in him."
"How is he?"
"He's at the hospital. The slug was a .22, went through his right shoulder. We figure a zip gun."
"You think this ties with the other kills?"
"I doubt it. The m.o.'s 'way off."
"Then why?"
"How the hell do I know? Looks like the whole city figures it's open season on cops." Carella turned back to the boys. "Were you with the gang when the cop was jumped?"
The boys would not
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