But somehow he understood why she wanted him to do her hair immediately. It was for him, to demonstrate her willingness to please him, to make up to him for misunderstanding.

She raced into the kitchen, took all the various items off the top of the tub, knelt, ran the water, scrubbed billows of soap into her hair, rinsed, prepared herself for him.

She made the solution and he poured it over her head and worked it into her hair; he kneaded and pressed and squeezed and felt a deep sensual pleasure, but beneath that was a deeper, calmer, kinder pleasure as his fingers moved slowly along her skull.

"Close your eyes; you'll get this stuff in them. Will you stop peeking at me and close them?"

She squealed at the sharp stinging pain, reached out for the towel he handed her.

"I told you to close your eyes. You're really a baby, Rita, you know that? Why the hell did you take your shoes off to kneel over the tub and wash your hair?"

"Gee, I don't know. I just never washed my hair with my shoes on. Is it time yet, Brian? Can we rinse it off yet? Did you time it? Is it five minutes? Come on, the directions say to rinse it now in cold water until the water runs clear. Oh, Brian, that cold water gives me chills right down to my spine!"

The rinse toned her hair to a golden glow; it softened her, enabled the young girl to shine through. She pulled a comb through the damp hair, then reached for her round compact.

Brian caught her wrist. "Don't, Rita. Don't put any of that stuff on."

"But gee, Brian, I don't want you to see me like this. I feel funny if you look at me and I don't have my 'face' on."

He tilted her clean face upward. "Nothing," he told her, "nothing at all, not even lipstick. Baby, you don't need a thing. You taste like soap and water and Rita." He nuzzled her, tasted her cheeks and neck, then whispered, "No make-up, okay?"

"Anything you say, Brian, anything you say."

He never saw her when he worked the eight-to-four tour. It just didn't seem right: in the daylight. His tours were opposite to Arthur's and they rarely met; if Arthur happened to be home, they spent a few hours just visiting and Rita prepared coffee and sandwiches and they waited until the next time when they knew Arthur wouldn't be around.

She never questioned him; she seemed to receive the part of himself he offered to her with pleasure and gratitude.

She was a simple, generous girl, warm, uncomplicated, easily delighted, somewhat stupid and shallow. Yet, at the same time, she was complex, shrewd, a knowing woman who would withdraw sharply, unexpectedly, completely at something he said, something she interpreted as threatening or an intrusion on the fragile, secret, private part of herself which she would not allow him.

Rita was rarely moody or tense yet on occasion she was both. He resisted the temptation to probe her moods as conscientiously as she tried to conceal or overcome them. They both knew that they could exist for each other only through the voluntary suspension of reality. Any violation of this fantasy, either through his questions or her replies, would shatter and destroy what they had created for and with each other.

It lasted through three cold, bitter winter months and ended as spring invaded winter. The end was directly related to his job.

TWENTY-TWO.

BRIAN LIKED WORKING THE midnight-to-eight tour. There was something exciting and secretive and special about starting out when everyone else was ending the day. The few subway riders he encountered on his way to work were hunched in the corners of wicker seats, eyes heavy, mouths pulled down with weariness, heads nodding, folded newspapers dangling. They traveled toward gray and unexciting routine. He moved toward possibilities they could not begin to imagine.

Though generally nothing very much happened, he knew that anything could happen, and more importantly, he knew that if anything did happen, he would be the one responsible for taking action: would know what to do.

The day had been lightly crusted with winter, but beneath the freeze, touches of spring came through. The sky had been blue before it turned gray and the midnight sky was pierced with bright March stars. Some of the men turned out with raingear and complained when the sergeant informed them it wasn't going to rain. They knew damn well it was going to rain; they'd be stuck on patrol in heavy, wet uniforms.

Brian walked his post with a growing sense of familiarity and ease. The day and evening people were gone. The night people, arriving, leaving, hanging around, established time as accurately as his wristwatch.

Two cab drivers on Eldridge Street, a father-and-son team, worked twenty hours between them. As the father pulled up to the curb, the son strolled over, listened to whatever instructions or comments his father had, nodded, and took off. The old man, cap pulled over one eye, hands jammed into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched, invariably said the same thing to Brian.

"Tough way to make a buck, huh, officer?"

Invariably, Brian answered, "Yeah, I guess so."

The newsy on Delancey Street put in about fourteen hours a day but half the time he seemed to be asleep. Most people thought he was blind because of the huge German shepherd who shared the booth with him, and he'd confided to Brian that he didn't go out of his way to correct the false impression. "It makes 'em feel they're doin' a good deed. So what's the harm?"

Three old women walked together slowly on feet that ached but their faces were animated and they argued and laughed good-naturedly, before they entered three different tenement buildings, all in a row. Cleaning women, returning from a round of office buildings. Brian wondered what they said to each other, what would make three tired, hard-working old women laugh as though they were carefree schoolgirls. They always greeted him in a language he couldn't understand but which sounded friendly and he always touched the brim of his cap to them and slowed his pace until all three were inside their houses.

Rain started without warning and he ducked into a doorway to wait it out. There was a rawness in the wind and he felt his skin pull away from all the heavy layers of his clothing and tingle with coldness. All the street people who had a place to go disappeared; the few derelicts found places for themselves. The empty streets became lonely and he tensed, listening to the sound of running. A man, young, wiry, swift, sure-footed, ran toward him, stopped some distance away, waved his newspaper over his head in a sort of salutation. Brian followed the direction of the gesture; there was a woman, seated at a window, waiting for him, relieved to see him home. A wife or a mother, or whoever she was. Probably had something hot for him to eat, to warm him up.

The rain didn't slacken for more than an hour and a half, but the wind increased and that kept the streets cold and unpleasant. Brian walked from doorway to doorway, slowly down the street. He tossed his nightstick into the air from the leather thong around his wrist and caught it in the palm of his hand. It was a tricky maneuver, not as easy as it looked. He tapped the stick against a lamppost, then flipped it quickly.

The end of the nightstick caught him across the bridge of his nose and brought tears to his eyes. Christ, it hurt. Stupid damn thing. Goddamn stupid thing.

Brian jammed his hands into his heavy coat and fought the tears and hoped he wouldn't have a lump on his nose: it felt bruised back to his sinuses. His feet were wet and numb, his ears ached with cold, he was hungry, and Rivington Street was black and slippery and lonely as hell.

A bony, wet tomcat slunk from beneath a parked car and Brian watched him forage expertly through an unpromising garbage can. The cat dropped to the sidewalk, raised his quivering tail and sprayed the can before he disappeared into an alleyway.

Dampness penetrated his bones. His uniform smelled of wet wool. There wasn't a goddamn spot in the whole sector where he could creep in and get warm. He checked a few doorways, entered a hallway briefly and ducked out just as quickly. It smelled of cat piss and worse. There were a few lights up and down the row of tenements. Brian didn't envy any of those occupants their warmth. He had grown familiar with the inside of those houses and understood why the people took to the streets at the first sign of good weather. They were crowded and bug-infested and reeked with a special aura that spoke of time and place.

He dug inside the bulky coat and carefully slid a cigarette from the pack, cupped his hands against the wind and lit it. He held the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, hidden within the palm of his hand against the wind. Shit.

The sergeant seemed to have a way of timing his periodic "look." Brian carefully squeezed the lit end of his cigarette and hastily stepped on the bright embers as they hit the sidewalk. He put the remains into his coat pocket.

Sergeant Horan was a tense man who leaped out of the patrol car almost before it halted completely. He expected, constantly, to come upon evidence of some grossly irremediable dereliction of duty not just from the newer men, but from all of the men who worked under him. He saw his mission as one of tremendous responsibility not only to the Department, but toward the men who must be protected from their own shortcomings.

"Well, O'Malley," Sergeant Horan sniffed suspiciously, "how's things?"

"Quiet, Sergeant. Just me and some stray cats on the street tonight."

Horan scanned the street, then examined Brian. "Where are your gloves, officer?"

Brian dug in his coat pocket and pulled on the heavy woolen gloves. "I took them off a few minutes ago, Sergeant. When I made my ring."

The sergeant consulted his memo book and looked up puzzled. "But you made a ring twenty minutes ago."

Brian answered innocently, "Is that a fact? Boy, time sure flies."

Horan leaned closer, wrinkled his nose. "You've been smoking, Patrolman O'Malley."

"Since I was thirteen years old, Sergeant."

Horan shook his head impatiently. "No, no. What I mean is, you've been smoking recently. I didn't see you do it, O'Malley, but I can smell it on your breath. I assure you, O'Malley, if I did see you with a cigarette on your post, I'd write you up. It would be a violation. It wouldn't look right for a citizen to see a police officer smoking while in uniform."

O'Malley was about to ask exactly what citizens the sergeant was talking about, but decided he'd better keep his mouth shut.

"So you watch yourself, O'Malley, because I might be back; you never know how many looks you might get. Let's have your memo book, so's I can sign it."

He criticized a few of the routine entries before signing his name and the time of his inspection. As soon as Sergeant Horan's patrol car turned the corner, Brian hunched over the butt and inhaled it back to life. He flipped it quickly behind the garbage cans immediately; the patrol car had merely circled the block. Brian saluted the car as it drove past him; a surly Sergeant Horan hadn't caught him.

Shithead, Brian mouthed as the car continued down the street for as long as he could see it. When it finally turned off, Brian glanced around, then went over to the garbage cans and discreetly splattered them with the same disdain the alley cat had shown when he relieved himself.

It started to rain again, hard, long frosty slashes of rain which iced the streets and beat against storefront windows. Brian leaned into the recessed doorway of a dirty-windowed button store and miserably looked at his wristwatch. A half hour until meal relief. The all-night greasy spoon on Delancey Street was no bargain but at least Jake, the owner, kept a pot of soup hot. Probably kept it hot from the end of one week to the beginning of the next, but what the hell.

He stared at the heavy bursts of rain, intermingled with large, shapeless snowflakes as they fell within the yellow glare of the street light. His eyes ranged the black expanse beyond the light. Absently, he counted windows, left to right, top to bottom, six across, four down, cellar windows not counted.

Fire escapes were illegally blocked, cluttered with bottles of milk and cartons of food and other nondescript items. Things. What the hell was that on the third-floor fire escape?

It was a man, hunched down, face to window, back to street. Brian kept his eyes on the figure and moved carefully and silently, though noise wouldn't have mattered. The wind covered all sound. The guy wasn't cautious at all; never looked around, never checked the street, just leaned his face against the window.

Housebreaker? Housebreakers were cautious, quick-moving, alert.

Jesus, was it just a bundle of old clothes or newspapers, after all?

The dark, shapeless figure shifted slightly. Brian caught a flash of lightness; the guy's hands emerged from the sleeves of his dark coat, then he settled again and concentrated at the window.

Brian entered the building, took the stairs two at a time. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his ears, a hard thumping sound which he didn't even feel in his chest. The metal door on the roof flew open at the touch of his palm, caught by a gust of wind. Brian closed it carefully, walked across the roof and peered down among the maze of fire escapes. He saw the figure, squatting and motionless on the third-floor landing, oblivious to anything but whatever he watched inside the window.

Resolutely, Brian lowered himself over the side of the roof. He felt the slippery rungs of the ladder against the heavy leather soles of his shoes and his gloved hands grasped the pipelike ladder which led to the uppermost fire escape. His foot missed one of the rungs; he slid, scraped his uniform coat, felt a button twist off; he grasped frantically to keep from falling.

In spite of a few near slips, his descent had been almost silent He considered himself very lucky to reach the fire escape without having been detected; he felt clumsy and inept and wondered how the hell firemen could go up and down those damn iron staircases with people over their shoulders. As he reached the fire escape where the suspect was crouched, his nightstick swung loose and hit the railing. He quickly retrieved it, reached out and grabbed the suspect, who turned a stunned, rain-dripping, pale face to him. For about three seconds, the man's long white hands continued to masturbate, but the naked flesh went limp and he hastily tried to cover the front of his body. Brian yanked him to his feet and the man's trousers fell down around his ankles.

"Jesus," Brian said, "pull them up. Now button them. What the hell were you looking at in there?"

The white face was blank and expressionless. Brian had a good grasp; his fingers clung to the leather belt around the man's trousers. He leaned toward the window. Inside the tiny bedroom, two small girls slept, their innocent faces illuminated by a night lamp. The one nearest the window was eight or nine years old; she was partly uncovered, exposed from thigh to ankle. An inch or so of cotton underpants showed beneath her nightgown as she moved in sleep. The smaller child, about five or six, was on her back, one small hand thrown over her forehead.

"You fucking bastard," Brian whispered. "Don't make a sound. You wake them up and I'll drop you to the sidewalk."

The descent was tricky. Brian put handcuffs on the prisoner and descended first, his hand making contact with the man's foot. He hoped at each step the guy wouldn't kick out at him. At the first-floor landing, Brian had to unhook the ladder and lower it to the sidewalk. His prisoner didn't make a sound. He slipped a few times, lost his footing, his ankle turned when he hit the sidewalk, but he went down in a silent heap and Brian stood back and let him get up without touching him.

"Stand there," Brian instructed. He pointed to the wall of the building. "Face the wall; just stay there while I get this ladder back in place."

The saliva began to flow again. Brian directed the prisoner to walk alongside of him. At the corner call box, he notified the sergeant that he was bringing in a degenerate. When the desk sergeant asked if he wanted a squad car, Brian declined. This guy wasn't any trouble at all.

They went half a block when the man stopped and said, "I want to go home now."

He was a well-built man, about Brian's height. His voice had an odd, flat, persistent quality. His eyeglasses were beaded with water and he peered dully over the rims.

"Can you see without those glasses?" Brian asked solicitously.

"I can't see without my glasses." The answer came in a singsong cadence.

Brian took out a handkerchief. "Give them here a minute. I'll wipe 'em off for you."

The man handed Brian his eyeglasses and Brian wrapped them up in the handkerchief and put them in his coat pocket. The prisoner's head swung around and his hands came up as though he was preparing for a fall.

"Hey, I can't see. I can't see nothing."

Brian released his breath. "Good. You'll get these back at the station house." He took a firm grip on the prisoner's right arm and felt a little more in command of the situation.

As they entered the station house, the man mumbled something which Brian couldn't understand.

"Go and stand in front of the desk," he instructed the prisoner.

Detectives Kelly and Meehan leaned against the iron railing which separated the high desk from the rest of the hollow, high-ceilinged room.

"This the bum likes to play with it and look at little girls?" Kelly asked conversationally.

"Yeah," Brian said, "this is him."

Kelly sauntered over to the prisoner and thrust his face up, close to the blank, unseeing eyes. "What's the matter, buster, ain't it big enough for real women?"

The prisoner mumbled something, then said calmly, "I want to go home now."

"Why?" Meehan asked. "You got some little girls at home to play with?"

The prisoner shook his head, then said to Sergeant O'Connor, whose long horse face peered down disapprovingly, "My brother is a captain."

"Yeah? Of what? A shithouse?" Sergeant O'Connor asked.

"No," the prisoner told him reasonably. "My brother is a captain. In the Police Department. My brother is a captain in the New York City Police Department. Can I go home now? I'm very tired."

Captain Peter Toomey came within the hour; within another thirty minutes it was all straightened out.

Captain Toomey reached for Brian's hand for a hard, man-to-man grasp, told Brian he "had a friend" and "wouldn't be forgotten." He was a tense, soft-spoken man who exuded an air of complete self-confidence based largely on his complete confidence that everyone would do exactly as he expected him to do.

"I'll take care of Michael," he assured Brian. "He won't be involved in anything like this again." The captain turned to his brother. "Michael, where are your eyeglasses?"

Brian reached into his overcoat pocket, pressed each lens within the folds of his handkerchief until he could feel glass break and shatter between his thumb and index finger. Some glass pierced his finger and he sucked the blood quickly.

Captain Toomey reached for the glasses, frowned, held them up to the fight. "What happened to his glasses, O'Malley?"

Brian's face was expressionless and his voice was polite and official. "They were like that when I collared him, Captain. That's why I took them away from him. Figured he might get blinded or something."

Captain Toomey studied Brian for a moment, nodded slightly with a slightly harder acknowledgment. "I see. Yes, very thoughtful of you. Come on, Michael. Let's get you home."

When he worked the four-to-twelve tour, it seemed to Brian that the entire day was a steady, relentless preparation for the moment when, at three-thirty, he reported to the precinct. If he had a collar the previous night, he spent the morning hours waiting in holding pens, complaint rooms or court corridors, gossiping, griping, exchanging rumors and good-natured insults with other policemen.

If he hadn't made a collar, he had a half day to kill one way or another.

Brian heard the kids getting ready for school; he yelled at Kevin to pipe down and stop slamming bureau drawers and doors. He fell asleep again and woke several hours later, slowly, lazily.

He heard his mother moving around the living room and his grandmother in the kitchen. He heard Roseanne, her voice sharp and edgy as she spoke to her son Billy, barely two years old, then crooning as she tried to settle the baby, Tommy.

His mother's voice was low and gentle as she spoke to Billy. "Oh, that's a fine big boy, Billy. Would you like your grandma to give you a nice carrot? I bet Nana has one for you in the kitchen. Roseanne, you shouldn't give him the chewing gum; his teeth will rot. I'm surprised at you."