Your Eyelids Are Growing Heavy by Barbara Paul Page B

regular police. Let’s see, to get to the park he’d have to go back to Oakland where he’d just come from and then take one of the Squirrel Hill busses. Gus started inching his way toward the door.
    When at last he managed to get off, he saw a bus on the other side of the street taking on passengers, headed back toward Oakland. Gus dodged his way across Fifth Avenue, drawing one angry horn blast en route.
    He climbed aboard and fumbled in his pocket for the fare. The driver had watched him get off the bus heading in the opposite direction and said, “You’re sure, now?”
    â€œI’m sure,” Gus said, dropping his money into the box and asking for a transfer.
    Thirty bus stops later Gus was at the Schenley Park golf course, and the man in the clubhouse said the park was patrolled by the city police, some of whom were assigned to a special park police detail. Gus asked where the nearest police station was.
    The Number Six Station in Squirrel Hill was at the corner of Northumberland and Asbury. Gus explained he wanted to talk to whoever had been on duty in Schenley Park the night of April 29.
    â€œThere were a lotta men on duty,” the desk sergeant told him. “That’s a big area. We send some men and the Number Four Station in Oakland sends some men, and the permanent park police detail patrols until one A . M .”
    â€œThe golf course, then. Who patrolled the golf course?”
    The sergeant squinted one eye at him. “Why do you want to know?”
    Gus told the truth. “On the morning of April thirtieth a friend of mine woke up on the fairway of the fourteenth hole, and she has no idea how she got there. She wasn’t drunk, and she doesn’t take drugs. I’d just like to know if the patrolmen saw anything.”
    â€œThis happened April thirtieth? Why’d you wait so long to come in and ask?”
    Gus grinned sheepishly. “I just now thought of it.”
    The sergeant pulled what looked like a roster toward him and started leafing through. “Nothing was reported.”
    â€œI’d just like to talk to whoever was on patrol.”
    â€œOkay, try Kirkwood and Fusaro. They come on duty in about an hour. I tell you what—the best way to catch them is to wait by their patrol car. They’re assigned number eleven tonight.”
    Gus thanked the sergeant and left. He walked over to Murray Avenue and grabbed a bite to eat, wishing he didn’t have so many books to lug around with him. At the end of the hour he was back at the station, leaning against the number eleven patrol car.
    He straightened up when he saw two cops walking toward him. One was big and blond—Kirkwood, no doubt. Fusaro had dark curly hair and lively eyes; he lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Gus waiting for them. Gus introduced himself and told them what he wanted to know.
    â€œOh, Jeez, I dunno,” Fusaro said. “One night’s pretty much like every other night. The twenty-ninth? What day of the week was that?”
    â€œSaturday. The desk sergeant said you didn’t report anything.”
    â€œWell, then, if we didn’t turn in a report …” He looked at the other cop, who shrugged.
    â€œDid anything unusual happen that night? Anything at all?”
    Fusaro was shaking his head when the big blond cop said, “Hey, wait a minute. The twenty-ninth. Wasn’t that the night some asshole got our tires?”
    â€œWas it? Yeah, I think you’re right. The twenty-ninth, right.”
    â€œWhat about your tires?” Gus asked.
    â€œOh, somebody slashed our tires while we were checking out the clubhouse,” Fusaro explained. “We had to call the station for help. We can’t carry four spares.”
    â€œSomebody slashed your tires and you didn’t turn in a report on it?”
    â€œNaw, just a requisition form,” Kirkwood said. “Happens too often.”
    Gus felt a surge of excitement. “How