"Not on my round you won't."

"And wasn't Father Sebastian in rare form this afternoon, Father?" That was the captain.

Brian recognized Father McCarthy's voice. It seemed somewhat mellowed by whiskey. "Ah, yes, he's a fine one, all right. Gets you so worked up there isn't a man jack of you doesn't want to stay in that confessional booth for an hour and a half. By the time he gets through with you lads, you've gone all the way back to confessing the time you wondered what was beneath Sister Ann-Jeanine's flowing black habit, and that's a fact. All very well for him," the priest observed dryly, "he comes from his fine Jesuits and talks all hell and fire and leaves the bloody lot of you to us. My head aches for three days after the bunch of youse leave. Well, God knows, I need this bit of relief that you've kindly brought around with you. Here, now Sean, pass that over to me like a good lad."

Carefully, aware of the weight of his body along the straining muscles of his arms, Brian lowered himself to the floor. He leaned his forehead against the rough-textured whitewashed wall for a moment and felt the blood rush painfully with sharp needle bursts through the veins of his arms. He accepted the unpleasant sensation as penance for the unnatural pressure he had exerted on his arms; it was punishment for having listened to talk that did not concern him.

It was an offering in hope that through the graceful acceptance of this physical reminder of his imperfection, he could he restored to the incomprehensible state of innocence and trust and faith and purity and belief in which he had dwelt for most of the evening.

Or that he could fall onto the narrow cot and plunge into dreamless and uncomplicated sleep.

He recognized the hulk and voice of the man from his shadowy view of the garden the night before. He recognized the deep-red flush, the small beads of eyes from some other time he could not immediately recall.

"Jasus, I'd swear his father stood before me, he's that much Brian O'Malley," Captain Peter Hennessy said to the two men flanking him.

"He is, oh, yes, indeed, Captain, he is that," Patrolman Charlie Gannon eagerly agreed.

Brian recognized Lieutenant Shea from his silent, alert presence at his father's funeral more than three years ago.

"Well, Brian," Lieutenant Shea said easily, "you remember Captain Hennessy and Patrolman Gannon of course."

He did it smoothly and easily and Brian shook hands with the three men. "Yes, sir, of course. Captain, how are you, sir?"

"On the job are you, lad?" Captain Hennessy asked pointlessly. His large, soft, fat hand was moist and held Brian's for a moment.

"Well, yes, sir. Class of'40."

Hennessy turned to Shea. "Well, what do you think, Ed? The living image, wouldn't you say?"

Shea nodded. Charlie Gannon's eyes danced over Brian, then darted to Hennessy. He grinned. "Well, well, so here we have Sergeant O'Malley's son. Yes, isn't that fine, then."

"You've a lot to live up to, O'Malley," Captain Hennessy said. "Wouldn't you say so, Ed? Huh, Charlie?"

Shea didn't move or change expression. Gannon's grin pulled uncertainly at the corners of his mouth until he caught the dead earnestness of the captain. "Oh, yes, indeed, Captain, for wasn't poor Sergeant O'Malley a very fine man."

Gannon, at some barely communicated signal, retreated a few steps behind them. Hennessy motioned Brian to walk along the broad tree-lined path through the monastery grounds. Though they were supposed to be spending the hour before lunch in quiet, solitary contemplation, Brian noticed that most of the men had fallen into groups of three or four and some of the conversations were very animated, then suddenly broken off in realization of the inappropriateness of loud voices.

Brian was uncomfortable in the presence of Captain Hennessy. The penetrating stare did not intimidate him though Brian knew it was meant to. But it seemed that something had been indicated without having been expressed, that Gannon and Shea and Hennessy searched him for something known only to them, each in his own way. Hennessy regarded him with a curious, open hardness; Shea with a subtle blankness; Gannon with quick uncertain glances.

"Well, isn't this a lovely place to be?" Hennessy said. "I'll just stop and sit on this little marble bench for a moment and breathe in some of the fine clean air. Well, the Fathers of Holy Contemplation have a fine place here and that's a fact."

Brian took his cue from Shea and remained quiet while Gannon, apparently unable to bear a moment of silence, nodded vigorously and agreed with the captain. "Yes. Oh, yes, indeed, lovely, lovely."

"Take a nice walk for yourself, Charlie, and we'll see you at lunchtime," Captain Hennessy abruptly instructed Gannon. Gannon nodded and took off immediately.

Hennessy was seated in the center of the marble bench, which would accommodate three normal-sized men, but which at the moment accommodated the massive flesh of Peter Hennessy. He studied Brian, then asked him a series of abrupt, unconnected questions, as though testing his alertness.

"And how is your mother getting on?"

"Fine, thank you, Captain."

"There were a great number of Jews in your class at the Academy, weren't there?"

"Yes. I guess so."

"You've some younger children still at home, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. My oldest sister is married and has two kids of her own. I've a brother in the seminary and a brother and sister in school."

"Where is it they've got you working?"

"Clinton Street station, Captain. Ninth Precinct."

"You've not been active in the Holy Name, have you, O'Malley? And why is that?"

"Well...this is my first retreat. I guess I'm just getting around to it, Captain."

"You've got to he tough on the younger ones, lad. Got to keep them in line."

Brian licked his lips and played safe. "Yes, sir."

"Well, you've something fine to live up to, haven't you, O'Malley? Dad was a regular hero then." The small eyes radiated at Brian. "I was with him at the moment he died. You knew that, didn't you?"

Before Brian could respond, Captain Hennessy leaned heavily forward, one hand on each widespread knee. He exhaled a huge gasping sound and said, "We got them nigger bastards, don't worry none about them." His full mouth bunched as though he was about to whistle, but he didn't. "Poor Brian, may he rest in peace. Did you ever see the young Jew was with your dad that night? His driver, if you please?"

Brian could recall nothing and shook his head.

"Levine was the little kike's name. Your dad might be alive today if it hadn't been for him, isn't that a fact, Ed?"

Brian noticed that Shea said nothing, neither confirmed nor denied.

"Yes," Hennessy went on as though Shea had given him full agreement, "your dad caught some bullets meant for Levine."

"Well, he got shot too, didn't he, Captain?" Brian asked carefully.

Hennessy's face pulled upwards; his massive cheeks raised and the corners of his mouth pulled into a grimace. His eyes were lost somewhere in the flesh. He raised his arm and grunted as though he was strangling; it took Brian a moment to figure out what the gesture meant: Hennessy was pointing to his own back.

"He caught a bullet all right, lad. He caught a bullet through the back of the shoulder. Notice I said through the back of the shoulder. Running from the scene, which shouldn't surprise anyone's had any dealings with the race. Maybe your father, may he rest in peace, maybe had one of his own been on the scene at the crucial time, he'd be alive and well and here with us in this holy place. Ah, isn't this a fine, grand garden though?"

Hennessy gazed around with pleasure, resettled his hands on his knees, then said, "Now this Patrolman Aaron Levine," he drawled the name slowly, with distaste, "He's got himself set up quite nicely. God knows how he pulled it, but somehow or other, he got himself assigned to steady midnights at a clerical job out in Brooklyn. In one of them nice quiet Jew neighborhoods where he can probably sleep his eight hours. And in the daytime, if you please, our Mr. Levine goes off to Brooklyn College. That's where he goes, isn't it, Ed?"

For the first time, Shea spoke. "Yes, Captain. He's got his bachelor's degree and now he's going for his master's degree."

"God love us, whatever they may be, they're not for the likes of us, for we're but simple policemen trying to do our job with God's help. Isn't that the truth of the matter, O'Malley?"

Brian had the uncomfortable feeling that Hennessy was playing with him, that he might be led to say something, anything, at any given moment, which would cause the small sharp eyes to pin him to the wall. He glanced at Shea: non-committal, expressionless. He nodded senselessly.

"Ah, lads"-Captain Hennessy stood up noisily-"we are most fortunate to be here, to be part of this, hey?" His hand waved expansively and the gesture included not just the garden, the retreat, but the larger domain which Captain Hennessy claimed on their behalf.

"I just thought of something, Captain," Lieutenant Shea said. "I could use young Brian for that special assignment I've got coming up next Friday night."

Hennessy sucked air in, then blew it out through pursed lips before he turned his bright eyes from Brian to Ed Shea. "What might that be, Ed? Remind me; what assignment are we talking about?"

"The senior dance for the girls at the Holy Mary Academy. I was to the wall. He glanced at Shea: noncommittal, expressionless. He at the school that night."

Hennessy nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes, by God. He'll do. He'll just do fine. Give his C.O. a call when we get back, Ed. And you mind yourself, O'Malley, and something might be worked out for you." He pulled his mouth into a wide smile which showed a collection of tiny teeth, then pursed his lips again; it hadn't been a smile, just a characteristic tic. "We owe it to your poor dad, may he rest in peace, to look after his son. Isn't that a fact, Ed?"

By late afternoon Saturday, the second day of the retreat, Captain Hennessy was rushed to the nearest hospital by ambulance for emergency treatment of a bleeding ulcer. As the two ambulance attendants, assisted by a white-faced Charlie Gannon, struggled with the dead weight from infirmary to ambulance, Hennessy turned his face to one side and with hardly a sound vomited a huge puddle from which emanated powerful whiskey fumes.

Rumors of a fistfight between two detectives from the Bronx made the rounds. There are many versions of what had occurred and they ranged from several good punches thrown to a .38 detective special being pressed against the loser's forehead and an apology the price for its withdrawal. Speculation as to the cause of the altercation included mention of a certain female who had bestowed her charms on a rotating basis between both men.

Those who knew the true facts didn't tell; those who didn't know caught on to bits and pieces and concocted their own more complicated versions.

Father McCarthy wandered the grounds distractedly, hands clenched and lips moving. The young seminarians watched from beneath lowered eyelids. Father McCarthy explained to them, though some were the sons of policemen and needed no such explanation, that their weekend retreatants were a rough group of men, used to facing up to violence as a way of life and it was a miracle and a blessing that they even made any attempt at all periodically to try to get their souls in order somewhat.

"We can't judge them harshly and that's a fact," Father McCarthy said as he eyed a group just behind the outdoor statue of St. Francis. The gestures and postures of the men could hardly be mistaken for piety. "Well, there's not many of us would stand in their shoes and it's not for us to judge them, lads."

Brian blinked and squinted against the strong sunlight, made stronger by contrast to the darkness of the small chapel where he had spent the last hour and a half. He had listened in a paralysis of rapidly dissipating good intention and steadily growing boredom to some heavily accented, middle-aged, monotoned monk who called upon them to devote the first Monday of every month to the recitation of a rosary for the conversion of Russia. In a calculating glance at the few others present beside himself, Brian figured maybe one guy would keep the pledge they all made to the monk. And that was a tall, bald guy with rimless glasses named Joseph Burns.

Joseph Burns was born Joseph Bernstein. When he married an Irish girl some twenty years ago, he took instruction and was simultaneously converted and disowned by the Bernstein family. Though legally his name had been changed to Bums, and his six children were all born to that surname and into the faith and were educated in parochial schools, Bernstein the convert was always spoken of, somewhat derisively, as Bernstein the convert. He never missed Mass, attended every Communion breakfast, every retreat, gave to the parish and to the missions. It was said his oldest daughter had a vocation. If at times a somewhat bewildered exasperation filled him, Bernstein the convert could hardly be blamed for not understanding what more it was his colleagues and coreligionists wanted of him.

They could not put it into words themselves.

As Brian walked across the sun-blazing quadrangle toward the meal hall, he was surprised when Tommy Quill, the P.B.A. delegate, caught up with him. Tommy Quill was generally sought after, not a seeker. He could rarely be found alone; he was generally at the center of an earnest circle.

"Hey, O'Malley. How you doing, kid?"

Quill ran to flesh around the middle, which made him look older than he was because of his poor posture; shoulders hunched forward, knees bent, head ducked down. "Hey, you been in there listening to old Brother Reubin having at the Red Communists? Jesus, the stories I heard about him. I heard that he was a distant relative of the Czar of Russia and once tried to claim some of them jewels. You know, like that nutty dame who keeps popping up and claiming to be Anna something, one of the daughters."

"Really?" Brian said, noncommittal, wondering what Quill wanted.

"Well, kid, how's it going?" Quill said again.

Brian shrugged, which was always a safe response when you weren't too sure what the question was. "Nice place here, Tommy."

"Yeah, sure," Tommy said absently. He jabbed at Brian with an elbow and winked. "Hey, you're pretty cute, O'Malley, huh? You catch on fast."

"What do you mean, Quill?" Brian asked in a tone of voice that indicated he knew exactly what Quill meant, even though he didn't have the slightest idea. He'd learned that much: Pretend knowledge, never ignorance.

Quill winked again slowly, held the wink, nodded like an owl, snapped his eyelid up on a startled gray eye. "I seen you walking with Captain Hennessy and Lieutenant Shea this morning after Mass. Smart, kid, smart." Quill tapped his forehead. "Them guys are always good to have on your side, if you know what I mean." Quill glanced over his shoulder, jerked a thumb toward the men who waited for him. "Jesus, these guys don't lemme alone for a minute. Everybody got something he wants done. It's good to see a kid who can take care of himself, O'Malley. Well, duty calls." He sighed wearily but Brian knew it was an act. Quill loved every minute of the attention which was showered on him. "Well, back to the wars, God help us. No rest for the worthy, right, O'Malley?"

Everybody was wheeling and dealing. Practically nobody attended any more of the scheduled talks although everyone strolled the grounds with the printed program of events either clutched in a hand or tucked in a back pocket for easy visibility. Men talked in small groups and the sharp observer could quickly size up the key man in any group. He was the one who affected a bored or blank countenance, upon whose shoulder friendly hands were placed, into whose unwilling ears confidences were offered, pleas were whispered, contracts were arranged.

No one looked anyone else directly in the eye; distances were scanned rapidly and continuously as though in search of hidden and deadly enemies. Out of hearing range, it was difficult to ascertain exactly who was talking to whom; men seemed to address vacant space from lips hidden by cupped hands, as though great and terrible secrets were being cast out for grabs.

The informal meetings began as the reluctant participants were en route, in good faith, to a scheduled talk. Slowly, languidly, kicking pebbles from the path in semblance of serious spiritual contemplation, the policemen, dressed casually and comfortably, moved toward one building or another but were detoured by the call of their name, by the touch of a hand; were drawn into discussions of assignments, details, commendations sought, wrongs inflicted, rights demanded, a little favor or consideration to be arranged. They wandered, drifted, vaporized, never reached their sincerely sought original destination.

The cold salt air had a slight tar flavor, and the raindrops, as they mingled with the spray, tasted to Brian of the ferryboat itself. He didn't want to sit inside the smoky cabin where most of the men were. He felt slightly queasy and his head ached with the constant drone of conversation, which somehow, inside his brain, mingled with the toneless chant of prayer.

Too much of anything was bad for you, whether it was whiskey or women or talk. Taken as a large, uninterrupted dose, the retreat had been too much for Brian. He had attended every lecture, every talk, every Rosary, every confession, every Mass, true to the vow he had made his first night. Though his intention had been pure, the actual quality of his presence violated that intention.

Through narrowed aching eyes, Brian looked toward Manhattan: Sunday-dark concrete forms disconnected from the vast green sweep of Staten Island. He fell into a sad, vacant uneasiness, aware yet disinterested that the clumsy vessel made thudding contact with the heavily padded slip, first one side, then the other. There was a decisive roar of engine, a dark churn of water beneath his feet, then he felt the solid joining of ferry to dock.

"Well, it's always good to get away from all this, to have a chance to straighten yourself out with God," Bernstein the convert said quietly at his elbow.

Brian turned toward the rain-dampened, slightly tense face behind the glinting eyeglasses. He nodded and as noncommittally as possible he said, "Yeah. Yeah, sure is."

TWENTY-FIVE.

THE HOLY MARY ACADEMY stood dark and ominous, a medieval stone castle covered with twisting ivy which nearly obscured the stained-glass windows set high and unobtrusively. From where he stood, the building could have been a mausoleum.

Brian ran a finger inside the collar of his tunic, loosened the hook and eye which bound it closely around his throat. For this crummy assignment, he'd gotten his uniform dry-cleaned and pressed. And his mother had washed his white cotton gloves so that they practically shined in the dark. He studied the fingertips; they were filthy from his thoughtless, admiring touch on the fender of a shining black Chrysler. Most of the cars were Chryslers or Oldsmobiles. There were one or two Lincolns and Cadillacs.

From the parking lot behind the school, Brian could see nothing of the bright lights which pierced the damp May night like slashes of jewels, filtered spotlights of red and blue and gold shining from a rotating disk on the ceiling of the gymnasium. He could hear faint bits of music, just a high flight of trumpet occasionally, then, after a while, the hum of faraway applause.

Special assignment. Big-deal special assignment. Standing guard over the fancy shined-up cars of a bunch of spoiled rich girls. The sergeant, a guy named McCallahan, addressed them like they were hand-picked troops, which they were, of course, but what the hell had they been hand-picked for? To be car-lot attendants, doormen, play nursemaid to a bunch of rich kids, make sure nobody got out of line and if some kid had more to drink than he could handle, smooth it over, take care of things.

Well, Jesus, they all looked spit and polish and not one of them under six feet tall or over twenty-five. What the hell did the school do, put in an order, select them to specification?

"Your job," Sergeant McCallahan had said, "is to insure the safety and well-being of these young people, whose parents are some very important people and who will take a personal interest in how well this here assignment is carried out."

Brian kicked his shoe against the heavy rubber tire of a year-old four-door navy-blue Chrysler sedan. Damn parking-lot attendant who couldn't even risk sitting on a back seat for a break because the s.o.b. sergeant gave him a look every forty minutes or so. That's how much he had to do.

"Hey, you O'Malley?"

He turned, coughed to cover the fact that he'd been taken by surprise. "Yeah, that's me."

A hand was thrust at him and Brian returned the hard handshake. "Hi ya, I'm Ed Shea," the familiar but slightly off-center face told him.

"Ed Shea?"

"Yeah. I'm from the Forty-eighth. Sergeant McCallahan sent me out to relieve you. They've got some sandwiches for us in the basement." He pulled a mouth, then grinned. "Better than nothing, but that's about what they're better than. I understand the young ladies made them with their own dainty hands. Don't try the devil's food cake-tastes like the devil's revenge."

"Okay, thanks for the warning." Brian hesitated, then asked, "Ed Shea? You related to Lieutenant Shea?"

"Only by birth. He's my father."

"Jesus, you're a ringer for him."

Shea took off his hat and scratched his curly dark head. "I'm himself less twenty years," he said good-naturedly. "Well, what do you think of this special assignment, O'Malley?"