proud of it.
"You understand, Willie? None of us wants to hurt anyone. That young boy’s life is lost now, and the men who had to kill him have to live with that fact. It's not easy. It's hard, real hard.”
The excitement went out of Willie’s eyes and his face changed into a sad, serious expression. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s okay, Willie. I just don’t want you to think a policeman is some kind of god. We make mistakes and we suffer. We try to do our best to protect society and ourselves at the same time. Sometimes it’s not just or fair, it’s dirty and sad.”
“Well, then.” Mrs. Lawrence bustled around the table and began to remove the margarine tub and empty orange juice glasses. “I’m telling you they’re going to razz cop DeShane if he don’t get himself moving. Time’s wasting and the morning’s waning. And ain’t that the truth,” she added as she went into the kitchen.
Jack and Willie finished their eggs, grits, bacon, and toast in silence. Mrs. Lawrence would never admit it, but she was battling her own demons on injustice, prejudice, teenage death, and world chaos as she scrubbed the skillets and pans until they sparkled. These people need me , she told herself. They need my schedules and my strength, yes they do. They’re nothing but babies, both of them, and the big one don’t even know it, no sir.
Jack rose from the table and adjusted his holster. He gave Willie a warm smile and pressed down the obstinate cowlick as he rubbed his son’s head. “Do what you’re told,” he said, donning the visored cap that all policemen despised.
“Don’t worry, he’ll do what’s told him,” Mrs. Lawrence called after him. Impulsively she winked at the boy.
“Bye, Dad.”
“See you later, jock.”
As the front door closed, Willie tried to make a quiet exit from the table.
“Whoa, boy. Pick up the mess first. You know the rules. You can’t fool Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Aw, geez. I feel like a girl when I gotta clean the table.”
“Didn’t your daddy tell you about what is and what ain’t fair?” She stood over him, her hands on her hips.
“Well, what ain’t fair is leaving me to the messes when you’re perfectly capable of helping. And what is fair is doing some work, picking up after your ownself.”
Willie knew there was no way out of it, so he started stacking the plates and forks.
“Now ain’t that better? That’s a whole sight better than lazing around. He’s a good boy,” she told the saltshakers.
CHAPTER 6
SAMUEL BARTHOLOMEW watched Jack DeShane’s departure for work more out of habit than anything else. His life had narrowed to such inconsequential pastimes. It was depressing, but not likely to change anytime soon.
At seven-forty while Sam stood patiently in front of a second-floor lace-curtained window, Jack DeShane opened his front door and crossed the old-fashioned porch. On the bottom step he eyed the street from one end to the other before going down the brick walk to his 1974 lemon-cream Monte Carlo.
Sam liked the way Jack walked. It was the satisfied walk of a man in tune with his world. The young cop had not yet been muddled and confused by his police work. He still saw the world broken up into two categories; good and evil. Sam saw in Jack the reflection of his own past.
Th Monte Carlo roared off down the street toward the precinct station. Sam stared after it for a long time, then went to the bed stand where a fresh pot of coffee brewed in a percolator. Coffee in his room was Maggie’s idea. She had supplied him with all the utensils and a can of Maxwell House. She had even found her late husband’s favorite mug, the one with the lifelike tits sticking out on one side, and presented it to Sam with a peculiar smile. Sam was not fond of the mug--who needed chunky pink tits on a coffee cup in the morning? But he would never hurt Maggie’s feelings. Besides, she was exciting in bed and what sixty-year-old retired, disillusioned, lonely cop
"You understand, Willie? None of us wants to hurt anyone. That young boy’s life is lost now, and the men who had to kill him have to live with that fact. It's not easy. It's hard, real hard.”
The excitement went out of Willie’s eyes and his face changed into a sad, serious expression. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s okay, Willie. I just don’t want you to think a policeman is some kind of god. We make mistakes and we suffer. We try to do our best to protect society and ourselves at the same time. Sometimes it’s not just or fair, it’s dirty and sad.”
“Well, then.” Mrs. Lawrence bustled around the table and began to remove the margarine tub and empty orange juice glasses. “I’m telling you they’re going to razz cop DeShane if he don’t get himself moving. Time’s wasting and the morning’s waning. And ain’t that the truth,” she added as she went into the kitchen.
Jack and Willie finished their eggs, grits, bacon, and toast in silence. Mrs. Lawrence would never admit it, but she was battling her own demons on injustice, prejudice, teenage death, and world chaos as she scrubbed the skillets and pans until they sparkled. These people need me , she told herself. They need my schedules and my strength, yes they do. They’re nothing but babies, both of them, and the big one don’t even know it, no sir.
Jack rose from the table and adjusted his holster. He gave Willie a warm smile and pressed down the obstinate cowlick as he rubbed his son’s head. “Do what you’re told,” he said, donning the visored cap that all policemen despised.
“Don’t worry, he’ll do what’s told him,” Mrs. Lawrence called after him. Impulsively she winked at the boy.
“Bye, Dad.”
“See you later, jock.”
As the front door closed, Willie tried to make a quiet exit from the table.
“Whoa, boy. Pick up the mess first. You know the rules. You can’t fool Mrs. Lawrence.”
“Aw, geez. I feel like a girl when I gotta clean the table.”
“Didn’t your daddy tell you about what is and what ain’t fair?” She stood over him, her hands on her hips.
“Well, what ain’t fair is leaving me to the messes when you’re perfectly capable of helping. And what is fair is doing some work, picking up after your ownself.”
Willie knew there was no way out of it, so he started stacking the plates and forks.
“Now ain’t that better? That’s a whole sight better than lazing around. He’s a good boy,” she told the saltshakers.
CHAPTER 6
SAMUEL BARTHOLOMEW watched Jack DeShane’s departure for work more out of habit than anything else. His life had narrowed to such inconsequential pastimes. It was depressing, but not likely to change anytime soon.
At seven-forty while Sam stood patiently in front of a second-floor lace-curtained window, Jack DeShane opened his front door and crossed the old-fashioned porch. On the bottom step he eyed the street from one end to the other before going down the brick walk to his 1974 lemon-cream Monte Carlo.
Sam liked the way Jack walked. It was the satisfied walk of a man in tune with his world. The young cop had not yet been muddled and confused by his police work. He still saw the world broken up into two categories; good and evil. Sam saw in Jack the reflection of his own past.
Th Monte Carlo roared off down the street toward the precinct station. Sam stared after it for a long time, then went to the bed stand where a fresh pot of coffee brewed in a percolator. Coffee in his room was Maggie’s idea. She had supplied him with all the utensils and a can of Maxwell House. She had even found her late husband’s favorite mug, the one with the lifelike tits sticking out on one side, and presented it to Sam with a peculiar smile. Sam was not fond of the mug--who needed chunky pink tits on a coffee cup in the morning? But he would never hurt Maggie’s feelings. Besides, she was exciting in bed and what sixty-year-old retired, disillusioned, lonely cop
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