The Man Who Shot Lewis Vance by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

Angeles police stations had been told to replace bulbs as they died with ones with lower wattage. The result was an estimated saving of $18,000 a year in electric bills and the medical loss of about $24,000 from overage and overweight cops and robbers falling down unlighted stairs or plowing into the walls of darkened toilets.
    My brother’s office was upstairs and down the hall to the right. He had graduated from the cubbyhole inside the squad-room he had had as a lieutenant to this private space across the hall.
    I knocked. He didn’t answer. I knocked again.
    “Who the hell is it?” he shouted.
    “Toby,” I said.
    “Shit,” he shouted.
    I opened the door and stepped in. Phil gave me a gray look and swiveled in his chair, the phone in his hand pressed against his ear. I sat down in one of the two wooden chairs in front of his desk. The room looked like a monk’s cell. At least it looked like the monks’ cells I’d seen in a few movies. It was big and empty, with the exception of Phil’s desk, the chairs, and a cabinet in the corner. The windows had incongruous curtains made by Phil’s wife, Ruth. Instead of brightening the place, they reminded the visitor of how much in need of work the rest of the room was. The wooden floor was uncovered and worn from the weight of cops and robbers crossing it since the turn of the century. Phil fit the room perfectly. He was pushing 240 pounds, fifty-two years, and a bad temper he had trouble keeping in check. His steel gray hair was cut short and bristly. Phil ran his hand over it absently, when he wasn’t adjusting his tie or rearranging his desk, while he talked or worked. His hands longed for the old days on the street when he had been able to reach out and put his pulpy fingers around the neck of some grafter, grifter, or grabber and teach him the error of his ways. Promotion and respectability were ruining Phil, and the increase in salary wasn’t compensating. The conversation he was having on the phone seemed a case in point.
    “That’s the shore patrol’s job,” he said, pulling at his collar. “I didn’t tell them to put those thirty-two taverns and bars off limits … I know. I know, but before, it took us five officers to patrol Fifth and Main Street. If we enforce this, it will take fifteen officers. I don’t have fifteen officers to change diapers for swabs and GIs.”
    Whoever was on the other end of the call took over, and Phil had to sit and listen, nodding his head and looking at me with distaste. I shrugged and examined the decor, the dirty walls, the backs of the photographs of Ruth and his three kids on his desk.
    “I know there’s a war on,” Phil got in. But whoever the other person was, he took over again and I could see that Phil was losing. Phil hid his impending defeat well, but, as his brother, I could tell the truth from subtle hints like the gritting of his teeth and the hurling of a pencil across the room. I watched the pencil fly like an anemic miniature javelin, mark the wall with a small graphite check, and clatter to the floor.
    I got up, retrieved the pencil, and returned it to the desk. Phil took it and aimed his next throw at the wall behind me. I let the pencil lie there this time and sat quietly, my hands folded in my lap till the conversation ended and Phil hung up.
    “They’re fine,” he said before I could ask about his family. “What do you want?”
    “Well—” I began, but he stared at the phone and interrupted me.
    “Where am I going to get six policeman a night?”
    I shrugged.
    “I’ve got a multiple murder in the valley,” Phil said, turning his back to me and talking to the curtains. “I’ve got kids, little kids, seven-, eight-year-olds down at the fanners’ market, dozens of them stealing anything that isn’t nailed down. You know how many policeman are needed to patrol that?”
    “Seven,” I guessed.
    Phil swiveled around and plumped both hands on the desk.
    “Who asked you?”
    “You did,” I