shanghaied from the Swamp, when children’s bordellos flourished in the Tenderloin, when Chinese hatchetmen blasted away with heavy pistols (and closed eyes) in the Bloody Triangle.
All this was gone now and romanticized, for old crime, war, and evil enter books and are leached of blood and pain. Now his city was undergoing new agonies. These too, he was convinced would pass if men of good will would not deny the future.
His city was an affirmation of life: its beauty, harshness, sorrow, humor, horror, and ecstasy. In the pushing and shoving, in the brutality and violence, he saw striving, the never-ending flux of life, and would not trade it for any place on earth. It could grind a man to litter, or raise him to the highest coppered roof, glinting in benignant sunlight.
They entered the Park at 60th Street, walking between the facing rows of benches toward the zoo. They stopped before the yak’s cage and looked at the great, brooding beast, his head lowered, eyes staring at a foreign world with dull wonder.
“You,” Barbara Delaney said to her husband.
He laughed, turned her around by the elbow, pointed to the cage across the way where a graceful Sika deer stood poised and alert, head proud on slim neck, eyes gleaming.
“You,” Edward Delaney said to his wife.
They lunched lightly. He fretted with his emptied coffee cup: peering into it, turning it over, revolving it in his blunt fingers.
“All right,” she sighed in mock weariness, “go make your phone call.”
He glanced at her gratefully. “It’ll just take a minute.”
“I know. Just to make sure the precinct is still there.”
The thick voice said, “Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct. Officer Curdy. May I help you?”
“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he said in his leaden voice. “Connect me with Lieutenant Dorfman, please.”
“Oh. Yes, Captain. I think he’s upstairs. Just a minute; I’ll find him.”
Dorfman came on almost immediately. “’Lo, Captain, Enjoying your day off? Beautiful day.”
“Yes. What’s happening?”
“Nothing unusual, sir. The usual. A small demonstration at the Embassy again, but we moved them along. No charges. No injuries.”
“Damage?”
“One broken window, sir.”
“All right. Have Donaldson type up the usual letter of apology, and I’ll sign it tomorrow.”
“It’s done, Captain. It’s on your desk.”
“Oh. Well…fine. Nothing else?”
“No, sir. Everything under control.”
“All right. Switch me back to the man on the board, will you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll buzz him:”
The uniformed operator came back on.
“Captain?”
“Is this Officer Curdy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Curdy, you answered my original call with: ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ In my memo number six three one, dated fourteen July of this year, I gave very explicit orders governing the procedure of uniformed telephone operators on duty. I stated in that memorandum that incoming calls were to be answered: ‘Precinct two five one.’ It is shorter and much more understandable than ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ Did you read that memo?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, Captain, I did read it. It just slipped my mind, sir. I’m so used to doing it the old way…”
“Curdy, there is no ‘old way.’ There is a right way and a wrong way of doing things. And ‘Two five one’ is the right way in my precinct. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up and went back to his wife. In the New York Police Department he was known as “Iron Balls” Delaney. He knew it and didn’t mind. There were worse names. “Everything all right?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Who has the duty?”
“Dorfman.”
“Oh? How is his father?”
He stared at her, eyes widening. Then he lowered his head and groaned. “Oh God. Barbara, I forgot to tell you. Dorfman’s father died last week. On Friday.”
“Oh Edward.” She looked at him reproachfully. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I
All this was gone now and romanticized, for old crime, war, and evil enter books and are leached of blood and pain. Now his city was undergoing new agonies. These too, he was convinced would pass if men of good will would not deny the future.
His city was an affirmation of life: its beauty, harshness, sorrow, humor, horror, and ecstasy. In the pushing and shoving, in the brutality and violence, he saw striving, the never-ending flux of life, and would not trade it for any place on earth. It could grind a man to litter, or raise him to the highest coppered roof, glinting in benignant sunlight.
They entered the Park at 60th Street, walking between the facing rows of benches toward the zoo. They stopped before the yak’s cage and looked at the great, brooding beast, his head lowered, eyes staring at a foreign world with dull wonder.
“You,” Barbara Delaney said to her husband.
He laughed, turned her around by the elbow, pointed to the cage across the way where a graceful Sika deer stood poised and alert, head proud on slim neck, eyes gleaming.
“You,” Edward Delaney said to his wife.
They lunched lightly. He fretted with his emptied coffee cup: peering into it, turning it over, revolving it in his blunt fingers.
“All right,” she sighed in mock weariness, “go make your phone call.”
He glanced at her gratefully. “It’ll just take a minute.”
“I know. Just to make sure the precinct is still there.”
The thick voice said, “Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct. Officer Curdy. May I help you?”
“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he said in his leaden voice. “Connect me with Lieutenant Dorfman, please.”
“Oh. Yes, Captain. I think he’s upstairs. Just a minute; I’ll find him.”
Dorfman came on almost immediately. “’Lo, Captain, Enjoying your day off? Beautiful day.”
“Yes. What’s happening?”
“Nothing unusual, sir. The usual. A small demonstration at the Embassy again, but we moved them along. No charges. No injuries.”
“Damage?”
“One broken window, sir.”
“All right. Have Donaldson type up the usual letter of apology, and I’ll sign it tomorrow.”
“It’s done, Captain. It’s on your desk.”
“Oh. Well…fine. Nothing else?”
“No, sir. Everything under control.”
“All right. Switch me back to the man on the board, will you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll buzz him:”
The uniformed operator came back on.
“Captain?”
“Is this Officer Curdy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Curdy, you answered my original call with: ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ In my memo number six three one, dated fourteen July of this year, I gave very explicit orders governing the procedure of uniformed telephone operators on duty. I stated in that memorandum that incoming calls were to be answered: ‘Precinct two five one.’ It is shorter and much more understandable than ‘Two hundred and fifty-first Precinct.’ Did you read that memo?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, Captain, I did read it. It just slipped my mind, sir. I’m so used to doing it the old way…”
“Curdy, there is no ‘old way.’ There is a right way and a wrong way of doing things. And ‘Two five one’ is the right way in my precinct. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up and went back to his wife. In the New York Police Department he was known as “Iron Balls” Delaney. He knew it and didn’t mind. There were worse names. “Everything all right?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Who has the duty?”
“Dorfman.”
“Oh? How is his father?”
He stared at her, eyes widening. Then he lowered his head and groaned. “Oh God. Barbara, I forgot to tell you. Dorfman’s father died last week. On Friday.”
“Oh Edward.” She looked at him reproachfully. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I
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