Brian didn't know what they were talking about and when she sighed scornfully, turned her back on him by way of dismissal and went back to her work, he felt irritated and slightly stupid. His fingers pried a Necco candy wafer from the package and slid it onto his tongue. It was licorice, the one flavor he didn't like. He crunched it between his back teeth, pried the next one loose and into his mouth. That was licorice too.

That damn girl was crazy; no two ways about it. It was impossible to have a friendly conversation with her without her getting all emotional about something. Usually about being Jewish. She was some kind of nut about being Jewish; she was a Zionist or something like that and Brian figured she must be getting fed an awful lot of peculiar stuff.

Brian escorted an elderly couple to a pair of seats midway down the long sloping aisle; he held the beam of his flashlight on the dark-red carpet and stepped back professionally to let them slide in. They took the aisle seats, which would make it harder for other people taking seats: everyone would have to climb over them. It was funny how everyone wanted an aisle seat on Screeno night. Brian couldn't remember even once when a winner came from an aisle seat.

Mr. Gladner flashed his light from the balcony, playing his code game. He was as crazy as his niece in some ways, but all in all, a fairly decent guy. At least he wasn't always sticking his face up at you and telling you how Jewish he was. The blink of the flashlight asked if he had enough Screeno cards for the patrons; he flashed back once: yes.

A hand grasped his arm blindly. "Ah, is that you Brian O'Malley?"

He recognized the plump wheezy woman. "Hey, Mrs. Kelleher, how are you? Want to go down front tonight?" Carefully, he led her along the aisle to the front of the theater and gave her her Screeno cards.

"Oh, thank you, dear, thank you, you're a sweet boy," Mrs. Kelleher said and her eyeglasses glinted with the flashing of light from the screen as the newsreel unwound. "When I hit the jackpot, Brian, I'll treat you to a nice hot chocolate at Strassler's."

"I'll take you up on that, Mrs. Kelleher."

A few patrons, annoyed by the whispering, hissed at them and Brian walked back up the aisle and flashed the light on his wristwatch.

At promptly 9 P.M., houselights flooded the theater, went off, then on, then off again. A bright-blue spot picked up Mr. Gladner as he strode, smiling broadly, across the stage. He reached for the microphone, blew into it, then satisfied by the huge echo which filled the Loew's Paradise, he spoke to the audience in a rich cheerful voice.

"Well, good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It's good to see so many familiar and eager faces." He leaned forward, scanned, smiled. "Ah, ha-ha. I see some previous winners here tonight. Come to test your luck, eh? Well, well, well, here it is again, folks, Friday night, and time to p-l-a-y..." He paused as he did at exactly the same moment every Friday night, turned away from the microphone, then raised his right hand, index finger extended, and pointed at the audience. Like a pack of trained seals, they barked at him the magic word: "SCREENO!"

At this cue, the projectionist flashed the Screeno spinner on the screen. It was a huge green square with a circle of numbers fitted into it. At the center was an arrow which spun crazily, slowed, until finally it pointed to a number. The only difference between this game and Bingo was that the player had to x out seven numbers instead of five. When seven in a row (including a free center) were marked, the winner had to stand up from his seat and yell "Screeno!" All further action was held up until the winning card could be verified.

"Well, tonight, good friends," Mr. Gladner told them, "we're going to have three games of Screeno instead of the customary two. A little something extra from the management tonight, he-he. Does everyone have three cards?"

There was some commotion as the audience moved and shuffled and consulted and checked and looked around.

"Will my assistants please check over to my left?" Mr. Gladner snapped his fingers and Brian moved quickly and provided a gray-haired man with the third card to which he was entitled. "Will my assistants please check over to my right?" He waited a few minutes, then nodded. "Are we all set now?" Mr. Gladner asked. The audience made a low rumbling noise which satisfied Mr. Gladner, who gave a nod toward the projection booth. The spot dimmed and the Screeno game began.

Mr. Gladner called each number with clear and exaggerated diction. There was a growing, audible reaction from the audience with each number that came up and a resigned disappointment from the obvious losers.

"The sixth number will now be spun," Mr. Gladner said softly. He held his hand up to stay the action. "But wait; we might, just might, get a winner on this number, with the free center thrown in, right? Say, did I fail to mention," he asked, deliberately slowing the game, which was running a little too fast, "that there is a bonus of five dollars on this first game? That's right; instead of the usual game prize of ten dollars, we've added a bonus of five dollars." Mr. Gladner held his hand up to stop the applause and added, "But, I must point out that the bonus applies only if we have a winner on the next-the sixth-spin. All right now, good luck, and George, let her go!"

The pointer hovered between two numbers, trembled forward and rested on the number 2.

"For the sixth and maybe, maybe, maybe lucky number," Mr. Gladner said loudly into the microphone, "under letter o, number two!"

The houselights flashed high, then plunged the theater into total darkness, then flooded the theater with medium intensity.

"Oh, oh, oh, my goodness," Mrs. Kelleher gasped and sputtered and waved her pocketbook over her head. A spot picked her up and she stood up, her face a bright red. Brian O'Malley moved quickly to her side. It was his job to verify the numbers on her card.

He supported her up the five steps; her face was flushed with excitement and pleasure and embarrassment; she glanced toward the sea of faces in the semidarkness. "Oh, Mother of God," she whispered to Brian, "hold on to me, lad, or I'm off my feet for sure."

Mr. Gladner went through his usual routine; he scanned the already verified card through his second set of eyeglasses, which he flourished, as usual, at the audience. "These are my 'mistake catchers,' he-he. No mistakes here, none at all." He presented the $15.00 prize money with a flourish and asked for the winner's name.

Mrs. Kelleher's voice went thin and wavery and she whispered into the mike and acted as silly and foolish as a girl.

"And what will you do with your prize money, Mrs. Kelleher?"

She mopped her sweaty forehead and giggled, then her voice boomed through the microphone unexpectedly, "Oh, there's bills just waitin'."

By nine-thirty it was all over and the coming attractions were on. Those who had already seen the complete show filtered out; Brian stationed himself in the main lobby and held the exit door open. Everyone was chatting; Mrs. Kelleher was hanging on to a friend's arm, and as she went past Brian, she said, "I owe you that hot chocolate now, lad, just as I promised, oh, yes, indeed."

"Oh, now, Maureen"-her friend giggled-"that sounds like something fishy goin' on. Did young Brian there fix the win for you then?"

They poked and pushed at each other with good humor. Everyone, winners and losers, seemed happy and contented with the evening. As Brian crossed the lobby with his container of used cards, he caught the expression on Debbie Gladner's face.

It was contemptuous and scornful and angry and superior to everything around her. Brian wondered what the hell it would take to get the damn girl to smile.

SEVENTEEN.

MR. LENIHAN STOOD IN front of them, placed his hands flat on his concave stomach and sighed. He rocked back slightly on his heels and told the class, "Well, yer all good boys and I wish all of yez good luck on yer big day tomorrow. I wish to God yez could all pass the examination and the only consolation I have for those who don't make it is this: there's to be probably the greatest number of candidates takin' this Department exam as ever took it before in history, and more lads with college degrees and such.

"What I'm tryin' to convey to yez is that there's no disgrace for them who don't get on the list. Remember, there'll always be a new exam in four years!"

It wasn't exactly a high note on which to end the session but the class groaned good-naturedly because everyone liked and respected Mr. Lenihan, a retired police sergeant. He had instructed them during countless sessions on the kind of material they might encounter on the examination for Patrolman, New York City Police Department, and had regaled them with stories of his own experience. In his dry, matter-of-fact, unimpressed and unimpressive voice, Mr. Lenihan related the most intimate, unbelievable aspects of police work to them. He convulsed them with his stories of investigations that went wrong; terrified them with all the possibilities of error in judgment that might confront them when and if the responsibility for such judgment became theirs. Yet, as relaxed and casual and easygoing as he seemed, there was that about Mr. Lenihan that demanded respect and no student in his classroom ever lit the forbidden cigarette or carried on private conversations during class time; at least not more than once.

Tom Gaffiney, a beefy, hulking blond longshoreman with heavy reddish eyebrows and eyes nearly the same color, threw an arm over Francis Kelly and one over Brian O'Malley. "Well, boys, waddaya say, going down to Muldoon's for a good luck beer or two? We've invited Mr. Lenihan to drink a bit of luck with us."

They gathered, six or seven of them; they punched at each other playfully, flexed hardened muscles, bragged, called obscenities and wished each other good luck in the artificial atmosphere of confidence with which they surrounded themselves.

There was a noticeable quieting down when Mr. Lenihan joined them. It was as though they all felt the need to impress him that they were not noisy foolish boys, but men worthy of the position they sought.

Brian nursed his beer carefully and watched some of the hard drinkers: first a shot of raw-tasting whiskey, then a slug of foamy beer. Brian noted how quickly eyes reddened and speech became thick.

Mr. Lenihan knew how to drink, the way he seemed to know how to do everything else. He was a leathery, tough old guy and he didn't miss anything. He talked a lot, listened a lot and drank slowly and carefully. He held his hands around the glass, played with it, caressed it, covered it palm down at the offers of a refill. "Not this round, lads, I'm just fine."

He was fine. They all sensed that there was something in Lenihan that they wanted to find in themselves. He had an authority about him based on experience and knowledge and the testing of himself which none of them had. He was close to sixty, nearly three times Brian's age, yet physically he was pretty near the match of any of them. Occasionally, they would come upon Mr. Lenihan in the gym, easily lapping around, tapping quickly and precisely with darting gloves at the punching bag, doing fast push-ups, sparring delicately with Dugan, one of the instructors. Everything he did seemed to be easily done, with complete confidence that he could do it. Maybe that was it, Brian thought; Mr. Lenihan could look upon himself with the certainty of capability.

Mr. Lenihan put his glass on the smooth polished surface of the bar and regarded Francis Kelly tightly through narrowed eyes with a peculiar searching expression. "I've been trying to place you, lad, for the damnedest time, and it just come to me now who it is you reminded me of." They all quieted down. They knew Mr. Lenihan was about to offer them a memory. "Yes, it's come to me now, seeing you here at the bar, with a glass in your hand. You remind me of my first partner, when I was newly made a detective. Name was Clarke, yes, Jimmy Clarke it was." He nodded, smiled and shook his head fondly. "Oh, Jasus, poor James; him and me both trying so hard to do our damnedest best that time, both of us just newly appointed to the division, you understand."

Mr. Lenihan leaned his elbows on the bar and was silent for a moment, setting the event firmly in his mind. "There was a homicide, in a bar, you see." His eyes slowly scanned the length of the bar, giving his story a proper setting; they followed his glance. "Well, the squad commander sent Jimmy and me out on the squeal. We should have had an experienced man with us, one of us or the other, but as luck would have it, the two of us was all that was available that night. Let's see, now, it was a place in the south Bronx." He studied the ceiling for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, on Brook Avenue and 134th Street, a place called...yes...the Tumble Inn. Jasus, close to thirty-five years ago.

"Well, there were these two dead bodies to greet us on our arrival. The bartender had caught one right through his right eye and, you can imagine, he was a proper mess. And the woman, God knows the poor thing had only been trying to get out of the way, but the holdup man was the nervous type and mistook her movement, and there she was, a thirty-eight smack in the heart. Well then, all we were to do was to stand by and touch nothing and post the uniformed man outside and wait for the Homicide lads. I guess our CO. felt it a safe enough assignment even for the likes of us. We was of course to talk to the eyewitnesses, if any, and keep them from leaving. And of course we was to keep our ears open and our mouths shut and try to learn something. Sweet Mother of God, we learned a lesson that night."

He glanced up, nodded at the bartender, pointed around. It was his second and last drink of the night and he waited for everyone to be served, slid his ten across the bar and left the change on the counter as he spoke. He lit a cigarette and the smoke circled around his head.

"Well, there was two witnesses. As pretty a scared-lookin' couple of rum-dums you'd ever want to see. Just out for the night's refreshment they were and never did see the gunman's face; I believed them. They couldn't have seen a snowflake in a blizzard, they were that far gone. But it's an odd thing, lads, and remember this," he said reflectively, "that a man can be dead drunk one minute and stone-cold sober the next, depending on events. And these were two stone-cold-sober drunks, if you take my meaning. Well, at any rate, Jimmy Clarke and me went about our business all professional and calm and showing off to each other, all the while trying to avoid the sight of the corpses, they were that bloody and we just finished with our suppers.

"The Homicide fellas came and moved around and took charge just the way they're supposed to and we just kind of hung around and watched and, God Christ Almighty, but wasn't there a great siren blast right out front. The squad commander, looking pretty shaken, arrived and told us that the Chief of Detectives himself was right behind him and, sure enough, he was."

Mr. Lenihan shook his head at memory and smiled.

"Oh, he was a great old guy, don't get me wrong. Never did get the bloodhound out of his system, though he ended up behind a desk, may he rest in peace. Well, he was on his way home from a party, all dressed up nice in formal clothes and his wife outside in the car. He'd heard the call on the car radio and directed his driver to make a U-turn and go to the scene so's he could have a sniff of blood, so to speak. Well, you can believe everyone was being very careful and staying in line to be impressive and all of that. Yes."

Mr. Lenihan took a long, slow swallow and relished the taste, his tongue carefully touching the corner of his mouth before he winked at them and continued. "Well, the Homicide men of course needed but three minutes to size everything up. There's no description of the perpetrator, Chief,' they said, 'but we did learn from one of them witnesses that he had himself a drink at the bar before he pulled the holdup.' Now, I'll add that was more than me or Jimmy got from the witnesses. Well, the words were no sooner out of the man's mouth when Jimmy and me exchanged significant glances." Mr. Lenihan fingered an empty shot glass and placed it directly in front of him on the bar and stood up. Everyone stared at the glass, aware of it now and what it meant.

"Well, there was the glass, untouched since touched by the gunman himself."

"With a set of his prints," Brian said.

"With a set of his prints," Mr. Lenihan agreed with a nod. "Well, the Chief was down at that end of the bar." He indicated the far end, to his right. "And me and Jim was standing right here, in front of the only damn evidence. 'Bring the glass down here, lads,' the Chief called out, 'and let's get it dusted for prints.'"

"Oh, Jesus," Tom Gaffney said, "your partner grabbed it up in his hand?"

"Oh, no, no, he never," Mr. Lenihan said quietly. "We was better trained than that." He reached into his jacket and came up with a long yellow pencil. "We knew how to handle evidence, for Christ's sake. We was detectives, weren't we? Jim took out his pencil and placed it, eraser end down, into the empty glass, just as you're supposed to and nice as you'd please." As he spoke, he carefully put the pencil into the glass, deftly twisted his wrist and turned the impaled glass upside down without touching it. "Now, there's the proper way to handle evidence." Mr. Lenihan stepped back from the bar and they moved back, giving him room. "Well, sir, Jimmy Clarke was as pleased with himself as a man can be to have this rare opportunity to demonstrate to the Chief of Detectives himself what a fine clever fella he was and him just new to the division and all, and off he starts toward the boss."

Mr. Lenihan moved slowly, his eyes on the evidence. Suddenly, he stumbled over an imaginary obstacle. They all watched, horrified, as the glass hit the floor and shattered into splinters.

Mr. Lenihan regarded the broken glass for a moment, then turned and pointed to the floor. "The damned woman corpse got in his way and poor James stepped on her arm and lost his footing. He was so damned concerned with the evidence he didn't look where he was going."

"My God," Francis Kelly said. "What happened then, Mr. Lenihan?"

"Well, James Clarke turned old right before my eyes. I had an absolute clear preview of what he'd look like when he was an old, old man. And I remember, God forgive me, but all I could think was 'Oh, Jasus, I'm glad it was him and not me.'" He reached into his back pocket, took out a handkerchief, squatted over the broken glass and looked up at them so they knew the story was not quite over.

Carefully, with his fingertips, Mr. Lenihan placed the delicate slivers of glass into the handkerchief and then stood up and extended the broken glass at arm's length. "Would these be of any use to anybody?' Jimmy Clarke asked the Chief of Detectives!"

They all burst into nervous, sympathetic, understanding laughter, which grew louder and more relaxed.

Mr. Lenihan smiled, took a long swallow from his drink and waited for the laughter to subside.

"You know what, lads? Now I'll tell you something. That is exactly, exactly what happened that night. The Chief laughed first and then the squad commander and then the Homicide guys and then I joined in finally and then poor Jim himself. The two witnesses laughed hysterically, as though they feared we'd all gone mad and they'd better play along with it. I swear to God, I believe that if the poor bloody corpses could have joined in, they would have laughed too." Mr. Lenihan shrugged, held his hands out before him and said reasonably, "After all, what the hell else was there we could have done?"

On the morning of the examination, Brian woke up from a terrible dream: He had gotten into the wrong room, had lost his pencil, time ticked by, his examination paper was blank. He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes and tried to put the dream from his mind. While he was shaving, he developed a tic in his right eye.

Martin was fully dressed and looked as though he'd been up for a long time. He placed a cup of steaming black coffee on the table in front of his brother.

"Hey, thanks, Martin." He sipped the coffee, added some sugar and stirred. "Hey, what are you doing up so early on a Saturday morning anyway? What time is it?" He turned and squinted at the wall clock. It was six-thirty.

Martin shrugged but didn't answer.

Brian regarded his younger brother curiously. "You been to Mass this morning?"

Martin nodded.

"A little early, isn't it?" The soft eyes met his, then blinked. A slow, deep flush of color traveled up Martin's cheeks and Brian, puzzled at first, suddenly realized Martin had attended six o'clock Mass to pray for Brian's intention. Brian swallowed hard. Jesus, he was a funny kid; never had much to say for himself. As far as Brian knew, Martin wasn't even aware of the examination date, let alone how much it meant to Brian. They'd never discussed it. They'd never discussed much of anything. Brian studied the round, freckled face. "Hey, Martin, thanks."

Martin shook his head slightly, neither confirming nor denying. He frowned and looked unutterably sad and clenched his hands.

"What's the matter, Martin?"

Martin turned his face away. "I don't know. I guess I can't seem to do things right." Then, to answer Brian's puzzlement, he added, "You weren't supposed to know."

"Hey, kid, that doesn't spoil it for you, does it?"

Helplessly, Martin turned his hands palm up. "It's not supposed to be something for me. I don't know, it's hard to explain. But I wish you luck, Brian. You'll do fine."

Brian rubbed at his eye. "Damn it, if I'm able to see maybe."

"I think it's just because you're tensed up, Bri. It'll probably stop in a while. You're up pretty early too, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Well, I couldn't sleep. Kept having this stupid dream. God, I'll be glad when this whole thing is over." Impulsively he turned to his younger brother. "Hey, Martin? I'll probably do pretty good, don't you think?"

Martin's grin was broad and mocking; his sadness slipped away and he jutted his chin at Brian and asked, "How can you miss? You're Brian O'Malley, right?"

Brian punched him lightly on the shoulder with the side of his fist. "You're damn right," he said, and somehow they convinced each other.

Francis Kelly inhaled deeply on the stub end of his Chesterfield, then dropped the butt and stepped on it. "Sure is a big school, huh, Brian?"

"Yeah. I've never been in a public school before, have you?"

Smoke curled from Francis' nose. "Now what would I be doin' in a public school?" he asked abruptly. "Jesus, there's an awful lot of guys here."

Brian poked him. "Come on, Kelly. You and me, kid, we're gonna ram it home to them, right?"

Francis Kelly nodded weakly. They met Tom Gaffney, smoked more cigarettes, met other guys they knew, exchanged rumors, tried for false courage, then filed into the building to find assigned rooms. Floor monitors sent them all in different directions.

Francis Kelly shook Brian's hand one final time and said, "Gaffney's in bad shape, isn't he, Bri? Well, buddy, we'll show 'em a thing or two, right?"

"You betcha, kid, luck."

The room monitor checked Brian's admission card, compared his signature on the card to the one he'd just signed and assigned him to the last seat in the last row by the window. Brian was glad he could gaze away from all the tense guys shifting around in the tight seats. Jesus, all of them competing for the job he wanted more than he could understand. He'd never even thought of doing anything else with his life; it was always there, just waiting for him to grow up: the Department.

The silence in the room, when the monitor called for it, was stark and unnatural, as though they were all trying to make good impressions. Brian closed his eyes, didn't hear anything the room monitor told them in his flat emotionless voice. He didn't look at the exam booklet or the separate answer sheet; he just let them he unseen on the surface of the desk, waiting for the signal.

There was a shifting of bodies, movement of feet, stifled coughs, soft sighs, clearing of throats, flexing of shoulders, touching of good luck charms. Brian slipped his fingers to the chain around his neck and discreetly slid the Miraculous Medal to his lips, then dropped it back inside his shirt.

A tall, thin woman entered the room: an additional monitor. She took a piece of chalk in her hand, consulted her stop watch. At exactly the moment when the school bell rang, signaling the start of the exam, she wrote the time on the blackboard with a screech of chalk: 9 A.M.

As he opened the examination booklet, Brian realized for the first time that the throbbing in his right eye had stopped.

EIGHTEEN.