He pointed to it. "Hold this," he said. "There will be a new editorial."

"Sir?"

"I'm not going to let the G.o.dd.a.m.ned cops get away with this," Arthur J. Nelson said. "Not on your G.o.dd.a.m.ned life."

Louise Dutton slipped out of her robe, draped it over the water closet, and then slid open the gla.s.s door to her shower stall. She giggled at what she saw.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" she asked.

Peter Wohl, who had been shaving with Louise's pink, long-handled ladies' razor, heard her voice, but not what she had said, and opened his eyes and looked at her.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Shaving."

"In the shower? With your eyes closed?"

"Why not?"

"You look ridiculous doing that," she said.

"On the other hand," he said, leering at her nakedness, "you look great. Why don't you step into my office and we can fool around a little?"

"There's not room for the both of us in there," she said.

"That would depend on how close we stood," he said.

"Hurry up, Peter," she said, and closed the door.

She wiped the condensation from the mirror and bent forward to examine her face closely. She looked into the reflection of her eyes. She felt a sense of sadness, and wondered why.

Peter came out of the shower.

"I left it running," he said, as he reached for a towel.

Louise gave in to the impulse and wrapped her arms around him, resting her face on his back.

"The offer to fool around is still open," Peter said.

"What's this?" she asked, tracing what looked like a dimple on his back.

"Nothing," he said.

"What is it, Peter?" she demanded.

"It's what they call an entrance wound," he said.

"You were shot?" she asked, letting him go, and then turning him around so she could look into his face.

"Years ago," he said.

"You're not old enough for it to be 'years ago,' " she said. "Tell me!"

"Not much to tell," he said. "I was working the Ninth District as a patrolman, and a lady called the cops and said her husband was drunk and violent and beating her and the kids up; and when I got there, he was, so I put the cuffs on him, and as I was putting him in the backseat of the car, she shot me."

"Why?"

"She wanted the cops to make her husband stop beating up on her," Peter said, "but arresting the love of her life and father of her children was something else."

"She could have killed you," Louise said.

"I think that's what she had in mind," Peter said.

"Did you shoot her?" Louise asked.

"I don't even remember getting shot ... I remember what felt like somebody whacking me with a baseball bat, and the next thing I know, I'm being wheeled into a hospital emergency room."

"How long were you in the hospital?"

"About two weeks."

"But you're all right? I mean, there was no permanent damage?''

"All the important parts are working just fine," Peter said. He moved his midsection six inches closer to Louise to demonstrate. "See?"

"Why, you dirty old man, you!" Louise said, and turned and went into the shower.

When she came out of the shower, she could smell both frying bacon and coffee, and smiled.

Peter Wohl, she thought, the compleat lover, as skilled in the kitchen as the bedroom.

Then she went into her bedroom, and saw that he had left his uniform tunic, and his uniform cap, and his gun, on the bed.

She walked to the bed and picked up the hat first and looked at it, and the insignia on it, and then laid it down again. Then she leaned on the bed and examined the badge pinned to the uniform tunic. And finally, she looked at the gun.

It was in a shoulder holster, of leather and stretch elastic that showed signs of much use. The elastic was wrinkled, and the leather sweat-stained and creased. She tugged the pistol loose and held it up to the level of her face by holding the grip between her thumb and index finger.

It was not a new pistol. The finish had been worn through to the white metal beneath at the muzzle and at the front of the cylinder. The little diamonds of the checkering on the grips were worn smooth. She sniffed it, and smelled the oil.

It's a tool, she thought, like a carpenter's hammer, or a mechanic's wrench. It's the tool he carries to work. The difference is that the function of his tool is to shoot people, not drive nails or fix engines.

She put the pistol back into the holster, and then wiped her hands on the sheet.

Then she got dressed.

He had made bacon and eggs. He was mopping the remaining yolk from his plate with an English m.u.f.fin; her eggs and bacon were waiting for her.

"Your eggs are probably cold," Peter said.

"I had to take a shower," she said, a shade snappishly.

"Not for me you didn't," he said. "You smelled great to me."

"Don't be silly," she snapped, and this time the snappishness registered.

"Coffee?" he asked, a little coldly.

"Please," she said.

He went to the stove and returned with a pot.

"Did you ever kill anyone, Peter?"

His eyebrows went up.

"Did you?"

"Yes," he said. "Lovely subject for breakfast conversation."

"Why?"

"Because I think otherwise he would have shot me," Peter said. "Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?"

"An interesting scenario popped into my mind in the bedroom," Louise said.

"That happens to me all the time," he said. "You really thought of something we haven't done?"

He smiled, and she knew he was pleased that he thought she had changed the subject, but she knew she couldn't stop now.

"There I am, sitting in my rocking chair, knitting little booties, in our little rose-covered cottage by the side of the road," Louise said, "while our three adorable children . . . You get the picture."

"Sounds fine to me," Peter said.

"And the doorbell rings, and I go to answer it, and there stands Hizzoner the Mayor Carlucci. 'Sorry, Mrs. Wohl,' Hizzoner says. 'But your fine husband, the late Inspector Wohl, was just shot by an angry housewife. Or was it a bandit? Doesn't really matter. He's dead. Gone to that Great Roundhouse in the Sky.' "

It took Peter a moment to reply, but finally he said, "Are you always this cheerful in the morning?"

"Only when I'm on my way to see a severed head while en route to a funeral," Louise said. "But I'm serious, Peter."

"Then I'll answer you seriously," he said. "I am a Staff Inspector. I don't respond to calls. Supervisors supervise. The guys on the street are the ones that have to deal with the public. That's for openers. And most police officers who do their twenty years on the street never fire their pistols except on the range."

"That's why you carry a gun all the time, right?" Louise countered.

"I can't remember the last time I took it out of the holster except to clean it," Peter said.

"I can," Louise said. "The very first time I saw you, Peter, you were jumping out of a car with your gun in your hand."

"That was an anomaly," Peter said. "Dutch getting shot was an anomaly. He's probably the first captain who fired his weapon in the line of duty in twenty years."

"That may be, but Dutch got shot," Louise said. "Got shot and killed. And there you were, with your gun in your hand, rushing to the gun battle at the OK Corral."

"What did you think when you saw me getting out of my car?"

" 'Where did that good-looking man come from?' "

"How about 'Thank G.o.d, it's the cops'?" Peter asked, softly.

She met his eyes for a long moment.

"Touche" she said, finally.

"That's what I do, baby," Peter said. "I'm a cop. And I'm good at what I do. And, actuarially speaking, I'm in probably no more of a risky occupation than a, h.e.l.l, I don't know, an airline pilot or a stockbroker.''

"Tell that to Mrs. Moffitt," Louise said.

"Eat your eggs before they get cold, baby," Peter said.

"I don't think so," she said, pushing the plate away. "I think I would rather get something to eat after I look at the head."

"I'm sorry, but that is necessary," Peter said.

"Peter, I don't know if I could spend the rest of my life wondering if I 'm going to be a widow by the end of the day," Louise said.

"You're exaggerating the risk," he said.

"Is it graven on stone somewhere that you have to spend the rest of your life as a cop?"

"It's what I do, Louise. And I like it."

"I was afraid you'd say that," she said, and got to her feet. "Go put on your policeman's suit, and take me to see the severed head," she said.

"We can talk this out," Peter said.

"I think everything that can be said on the subject has been said," Louise said. "It was what Daddy was talking about when he said the idea of us getting married was a lousy one."

"Come on, baby," Peter said. "I understand why you're upset, but-"

"Just shut up, Peter," Louise said. "Just please shut up."

Antonio V. "Big Tony" Amarazzo, proprietor of Tony's Barbershop, stood behind the barber chair, swinging it from side to side so that the man in the chair could admire his handiwork. He had given the large man under the striped bib his very first haircut, twenty years before, the day before he started kindergarten.

Officer Charles McFadden looked into the mirror. The mirror was partly covered by the front page of the Four Star Edition of the Bulletin, with his picture on it, which had been taped to the mirror below the legend (lettered with shoe whitener) "OUR NEIGHBORHOOD HERO CHARLEY MCFADDEN."