Both of them young, both of them with sound bodies and sound
hearts and years ahead of them, decades ahead of them. And they chose to
throw it away! They chose to throw away what I don't have any more. Don't you
think I wish I had that choice? All right! They chose to die, let 'em
die!"
Levine was panting from exertion, leaning over
the desk and shouting in Jack Crawley's face. And now, in the sudden silence
while he wasn't speaking, he heard the ragged rustle of his breath, felt the
tremblings of nerve and muscle throughout his body. He let himself carefully
down into a chair and sat there, staring' at the wall, trying to get his
breath.
Jack Crawley was saying something, far away,
but Levine couldn't hear him. He was listening to something else, the loudest
sound in all the world. The fitful
throbbing of his own heart.
COME BACK, COME BACK
Detective Abraham Levine of Brooklyn 's Forty-Third Precinct was a worried and a
frightened man. He sat moodily at his desk in the small office he shared with
his partner, Jack Crawley, and pensively drew lopsided circles on the back of a
blank accident report form. In the approximate center of each circle he placed
a dot, drew two lines out from the dot to make a clockface, reading three o'clock . An eight and a half by eleven sheet of
white paper, covered with clock-faces, all reading three o'clock .
"That the time you see the doctor?"
Levine looked up, startled, called back from years away. Crawley was standing beside the desk, looking down at
him, and Levine blinked, not having heard the question.
Crawley reached down and tapped the paper with a horny fingernail. " Three o'clock ," he explained. "That the time
you see the doctor?"
"Oh," said Levine. "Yes. Three o'clock ."
Crawley said, "Take it easy, Abe."
"Sure," said Levine. He managed a
weak smile. "No sense worrying beforehand, huh?"
"My brother," said Crawley , "he had one of those cardiograph
things just a couple of months ago. He's just around your age, and man, he was
worried. And the doctor tells him, * You'll live to be
a hundred.'"
"And then you'll die," said Levine.
"What the hell, Abe, we all got to go
sometime.'^
"Sure."
"Listen, Abe, you want to go on home?
It's a dull day, nothing doing, I can — "
"Don't say that," Levine warned him.
"The phone will ring." The phone rang as he was talking and he
grinned, shrugging with palms up. "See?"
"Let me see what it is," said Crawley , reaching for the phone. "Probably
nothing important. You can go on home and take it easy till three o'clock . It's only ten now and — Hello ?" The last word spoken into the phone mouthpiece. "Yeah, this is Crawley ."
Levine watched Crawley 's face, trying to read in it the nature of
the call. Crawley had been his partner for seven years, since
old Jake Moshby had retired, and in that time they had become good friends, as
close as two such different men could get to one another.
Crawley was
a big man, somewhat overweight, somewhere in his middle forties. His clothes
hung awkwardly on him, not as though they were too large or too small but as
though they had been planned for a man of completely different proportions. His
face was rugged, squarish, heavy -jowled. He looked
like a tough cop, and he played the role very well.
Crawley had
once described the quality of their partnership with reasonable accuracy.
"With your brains and my beauty, Abe, we've got it made."
Now
hearts and years ahead of them, decades ahead of them. And they chose to
throw it away! They chose to throw away what I don't have any more. Don't you
think I wish I had that choice? All right! They chose to die, let 'em
die!"
Levine was panting from exertion, leaning over
the desk and shouting in Jack Crawley's face. And now, in the sudden silence
while he wasn't speaking, he heard the ragged rustle of his breath, felt the
tremblings of nerve and muscle throughout his body. He let himself carefully
down into a chair and sat there, staring' at the wall, trying to get his
breath.
Jack Crawley was saying something, far away,
but Levine couldn't hear him. He was listening to something else, the loudest
sound in all the world. The fitful
throbbing of his own heart.
COME BACK, COME BACK
Detective Abraham Levine of Brooklyn 's Forty-Third Precinct was a worried and a
frightened man. He sat moodily at his desk in the small office he shared with
his partner, Jack Crawley, and pensively drew lopsided circles on the back of a
blank accident report form. In the approximate center of each circle he placed
a dot, drew two lines out from the dot to make a clockface, reading three o'clock . An eight and a half by eleven sheet of
white paper, covered with clock-faces, all reading three o'clock .
"That the time you see the doctor?"
Levine looked up, startled, called back from years away. Crawley was standing beside the desk, looking down at
him, and Levine blinked, not having heard the question.
Crawley reached down and tapped the paper with a horny fingernail. " Three o'clock ," he explained. "That the time
you see the doctor?"
"Oh," said Levine. "Yes. Three o'clock ."
Crawley said, "Take it easy, Abe."
"Sure," said Levine. He managed a
weak smile. "No sense worrying beforehand, huh?"
"My brother," said Crawley , "he had one of those cardiograph
things just a couple of months ago. He's just around your age, and man, he was
worried. And the doctor tells him, * You'll live to be
a hundred.'"
"And then you'll die," said Levine.
"What the hell, Abe, we all got to go
sometime.'^
"Sure."
"Listen, Abe, you want to go on home?
It's a dull day, nothing doing, I can — "
"Don't say that," Levine warned him.
"The phone will ring." The phone rang as he was talking and he
grinned, shrugging with palms up. "See?"
"Let me see what it is," said Crawley , reaching for the phone. "Probably
nothing important. You can go on home and take it easy till three o'clock . It's only ten now and — Hello ?" The last word spoken into the phone mouthpiece. "Yeah, this is Crawley ."
Levine watched Crawley 's face, trying to read in it the nature of
the call. Crawley had been his partner for seven years, since
old Jake Moshby had retired, and in that time they had become good friends, as
close as two such different men could get to one another.
Crawley was
a big man, somewhat overweight, somewhere in his middle forties. His clothes
hung awkwardly on him, not as though they were too large or too small but as
though they had been planned for a man of completely different proportions. His
face was rugged, squarish, heavy -jowled. He looked
like a tough cop, and he played the role very well.
Crawley had
once described the quality of their partnership with reasonable accuracy.
"With your brains and my beauty, Abe, we've got it made."
Now
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