church in Wheeling, some people lost faith in God when they got to thinking what He did to His Only Son. Why shouldn’t I shoplift a chocolate egg from the A&P, Mindy posited, by way of example, when the Lord in Heaven bade His incarnation in flesh to bleed and suffer? She may have been right.
Manny, in any case, was not having a great week. Before Tina and
Marv’s Drano party, he’d been in five times since Monday morning. And it was only Tuesday. The idea was to keep cases working, have a reason to be out, wherever out happened to be. The catch was, the more time you spent out of the office, the more time you had to spend in it, explaining to Chief Fayton exactly what you were doing out there.
Fayton prided himself on being a hands-on kind of boss. This might have had something to do with his background. He came up riding a desk at the State Department of Motor Vehicles before switching to police administration, as Head of Personnel for the Pittsburgh Police Department. After that, of course, came the big leap to Upper Marilyn chief-hood. Never having actually arrested anyone, let alone ever set butt in a squad car, Fayton loved to hear about real police work. “I want details!” he’d holler, poised in his immaculate chief ’s uniform, in his trademark position behind his freshly Lemon Pledged desk: chin propped on his right fist, left hand mysteriously out of view.
Manny and Merch loved to speculate what that left hand was up to when they read aloud from their reports. Fayton insisted on being read to. Which made embellishment pretty much part of the job. It was important to invent an extra suspect or three, to justify floating around the city for days at a time, dreaming up ever more salacious and grip ping action to pad the paperwork. How better to account for time spent visiting girlfriends, drinking, reading back issues of Field and Stream in the library, or doing whatever else a law enforcement profes sional did when he was supposed to be working and wasn’t?
Fayton had gained his post by securing jobs for friends and family of cops in his capacity as personnel director back in P-burgh. The chief slot in Upper Marilyn was payback. Despite never having cracked a case, let alone gone out and worked one, he always had busloads of ideas on how to help the men beneath him when they came in with their reports.
What made today peculiar was that there actually was a ton of sala cious details—all real—and this time Manny would have to hide almost all of them. The 10–30,Violent Crime in Progress, had popped up on the radio right after he’d opened Tina’s envelope. “All Units to 1660 Bigelow Avenue. Seventh Heaven Senior Village. Repeat... .”
He knew Seventh Heaven because his great-uncle Clem had died
there. At the end, when Manny was nine, Clem suffered a rare form of senility that made him clap all the time. Every Sunday, when Manny and his brother Stanley went to visit, they’d stand in front of the demented old man and bow, pretending to take curtain calls while he applauded wildly.
By the time Manny stepped in to face the chief, he’d already been to the rest home and had a version of events pretty much straight in his mind—along with a respectable codeine buzz.
“Looks like you got yourself a full platter,” Fayton boomed by way of greeting. His uniform looked crisp. His Princeton had been fluffed and blow-dried to Trent Lott–level perfection. The chief propped a hand under his chin and waited.
“Two on the board in one day,” said Manny, easing himself into the plain metal chair that faced the desk. “The Seventh Heaven thing was grim. Guy named Tony Zank, a known P.A.T.”
“Excuse me?”
“Perp Around Town,” said Manny, who knew the chief would file the term away and use it himself. “Apparently, he dropped his mother out the fourth-floor window. It may have been accidental—two sides to every story—but witnesses say he kind of swung her around before he let go.
Manny, in any case, was not having a great week. Before Tina and
Marv’s Drano party, he’d been in five times since Monday morning. And it was only Tuesday. The idea was to keep cases working, have a reason to be out, wherever out happened to be. The catch was, the more time you spent out of the office, the more time you had to spend in it, explaining to Chief Fayton exactly what you were doing out there.
Fayton prided himself on being a hands-on kind of boss. This might have had something to do with his background. He came up riding a desk at the State Department of Motor Vehicles before switching to police administration, as Head of Personnel for the Pittsburgh Police Department. After that, of course, came the big leap to Upper Marilyn chief-hood. Never having actually arrested anyone, let alone ever set butt in a squad car, Fayton loved to hear about real police work. “I want details!” he’d holler, poised in his immaculate chief ’s uniform, in his trademark position behind his freshly Lemon Pledged desk: chin propped on his right fist, left hand mysteriously out of view.
Manny and Merch loved to speculate what that left hand was up to when they read aloud from their reports. Fayton insisted on being read to. Which made embellishment pretty much part of the job. It was important to invent an extra suspect or three, to justify floating around the city for days at a time, dreaming up ever more salacious and grip ping action to pad the paperwork. How better to account for time spent visiting girlfriends, drinking, reading back issues of Field and Stream in the library, or doing whatever else a law enforcement profes sional did when he was supposed to be working and wasn’t?
Fayton had gained his post by securing jobs for friends and family of cops in his capacity as personnel director back in P-burgh. The chief slot in Upper Marilyn was payback. Despite never having cracked a case, let alone gone out and worked one, he always had busloads of ideas on how to help the men beneath him when they came in with their reports.
What made today peculiar was that there actually was a ton of sala cious details—all real—and this time Manny would have to hide almost all of them. The 10–30,Violent Crime in Progress, had popped up on the radio right after he’d opened Tina’s envelope. “All Units to 1660 Bigelow Avenue. Seventh Heaven Senior Village. Repeat... .”
He knew Seventh Heaven because his great-uncle Clem had died
there. At the end, when Manny was nine, Clem suffered a rare form of senility that made him clap all the time. Every Sunday, when Manny and his brother Stanley went to visit, they’d stand in front of the demented old man and bow, pretending to take curtain calls while he applauded wildly.
By the time Manny stepped in to face the chief, he’d already been to the rest home and had a version of events pretty much straight in his mind—along with a respectable codeine buzz.
“Looks like you got yourself a full platter,” Fayton boomed by way of greeting. His uniform looked crisp. His Princeton had been fluffed and blow-dried to Trent Lott–level perfection. The chief propped a hand under his chin and waited.
“Two on the board in one day,” said Manny, easing himself into the plain metal chair that faced the desk. “The Seventh Heaven thing was grim. Guy named Tony Zank, a known P.A.T.”
“Excuse me?”
“Perp Around Town,” said Manny, who knew the chief would file the term away and use it himself. “Apparently, he dropped his mother out the fourth-floor window. It may have been accidental—two sides to every story—but witnesses say he kind of swung her around before he let go.
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