The mealymouthed sons were poor advertisements for their tough, energetic fathers, and Crowley wondered sometimes what the benefits of success were if one were to judge by the products he'd seen recently. The girl was about to graduate from her fine school and go on for a year or so at the Sacred Heart Academy, but what the hell, it was only until a suitable lad turned up.

The college boys who paraded through his hallway were a sorry lot who stumbled over their own tongues if he asked a direct question, turned purple at the sight of the girl and sweated a lot, hands and face. They'd been prompted by anxious fathers and showed it. Crowley knew that a great many men in high and low places would count themselves fortunate to be allied with the Crowley name. He was a power; he was a man to know. He wasn't about to hand his daughter over to just anyone; he didn't have to.

Patrick Crowley sat for a long time, bent over his walking stick, shoulders and knees aching with arthritis. He stared thoughtfully into the ashes of the huge fireplace and watched a quick flame lick to life for a burst of flame among the ashes. It burned brightly before it died out completely. He thought of new life emerging as the flame had from the ashes. From crippled old age, new vital youth. The soft chimes of the grandfather clock in the hallway interrupted his reverie.

The lateness of the hour never occurred to Patrick Crowley. He stood up painfully, his weight on the knob of the stick, crossed the massive room to his desk and picked up the telephone receiver. He dialed a certain number, was annoyed that it took five rings before a sleepy voice whispered into his ear.

"This is Crowley," he said abruptly. "Find out what there is to know about this young Brian O'Malley."

TWENTY-SEVEN.

IT WAS A MUGGY, noisy, hot June morning when Brian found the murdered body of the man known as Old Man Moses. Checking on the old man was routine, as automatic as testing a shop door on a midnight. Yet Brian could never say if he had a premonition or if his tense wariness was strictly in retrospect.

He tapped lightly with the end of his nightstick against the wooden door, then a little harder because the old man was slightly deaf.

"Hey, Mr. Moses? Everything okay in there?"

There was something ominous, almost inevitable, about the door opening at Brian's careful touch on the doorknob, something almost expected about the terrible chaos of destruction that confronted him within the confines of the tiny flat.

He had seen a few murder victims, but this was the first time he was first on the scene. The undefined area of crime encompassed him. The walls and floor and ceiling were splattered with the old man's blood. The frail old peddler was a grotesque corpse, slashed and stabbed and hacked as though it was his blood which had been sought. It congealed in a stagnant pool beneath the wooden chair on which he had been tied and gagged. The dead eyes stared in a last, unimaginable passion, and among the thoughts that seared through Brian's brain was, Christ, the poor old man didn't want to die.

The detectives arrived and complimented Brian; he hadn't ruined anything; he had preserved the integrity of the murder scene. That had been his job and he had done it properly.

There was an air of subdued rage among all of the men; not even the Homicide detectives were unaffected. Anyone who lived for ninety-odd years had a right to die unviolated.

"Jesus," one of the Homicide men observed, "how the hell could anyone think this poor old man had anything? All he had was one suit of clothes besides what's on his body now. Jeez, look at all the family pictures, prayer shawls, graduation certificates of his sons and grandsons." He scratched along his jaw and shook his head. "This is gonna be a rough one to tell to a family."

There was nothing but rotten cotton wadding inside the slashed old settee. There was nothing but horsehair stuffing inside the old mattress. There was nothing but old goose feathers inside the worn comforter and stained pillows. Under the pulled-up linoleum there was nothing but rotting wooden flooring. There had been no fortune hidden inside the old man's poverty.

Neighbors cried and pulled their hair. He was a holy man, the father of rabbis, the grandfather of rabbis. The old man had been seen the day before, on the street, with his box of needles. There was no carton of needles anywhere in the small flat. Apparently that and whatever loose change the old man had on him had been taken.

Brian stood back and watched as the experts worked, methodically, professionally, enviably. They photographed the corpse from various angles, though he didn't know why. The old man was dead from wherever you looked. They dusted for fingerprints, circled the room with tiny brushes and envelopes into which they scooped fragments and invisible bits and pieces. Carefully, they scraped black filth from the fingernails of the dead old fingers, and finally gave the okay for the body to be removed from the chalk circle they had drawn.

The stench in the room nauseated Brian but they couldn't open any windows until the lab men were finished. Even then, it wasn't a good idea. There were too many loose feathers to fly around.

The Department brass came and stood and surveyed the scene. Brian was introduced to a deputy inspector, who nodded solemnly, clicked his teeth, curtly complimented Brian for having checked on the old man. The D.I. clicked his teeth, muttered an obscenity and told the men to get the sons of bitches who did this. Then he left.

It was obviously the kind of crime some young punks would pull. The detectives rounded up every kid who had ever been arrested or who had given anybody lip for whatever reason or whose face they didn't like.

By ten o'clock, Brian was exhausted from the reports he'd had to prepare, from questions he'd had to answer and from the endless hanging around. The precinct would throb with activity in brief bursts of noise, then would fall silent Angelo DiSantini, along with three of his cohorts, was shoved up the stairs; loud voices called him and his kind nothing but bums and trouble. There were some loud scuffle sounds, a couple of smacks, then a good deal of feet sounds thudding down the iron steps in response to the command, "Get your ass the fuck outta here!" Angelo DiSantini and his friends were only too happy to comply.

Brian walked into the ready room, lit a cigarette, rubbed his sore eyes and wondered if anyone would think to tell him to get his ass out of there. He'd been on duty since eight in the morning and had an eight to four the next day. He looked toward the door and an elderly man with dark bags beneath his eyes, dressed in the strange black outfit of the Orthodox Jew, came to Brian and put out his hand. He was one of the old man's sons.

Brian felt a shiver at the wet, cold, smooth palm which grasped his hand.

"I'm Rabbi Schulman," the man told him. "Thank you very much. Thank you very much for checking on my father. The other policeman, the sergeant-you are Patrolman O'Malley, yes?-he told me how kind you were...to...to...check on my father."

"I'm...I'm very sorry for your trouble, Rabbi."

"Yes. Yes, thank you very much for everything," the man said irrationally, with great, warm fervor, as though he had no control over the flow of words. "Well. So. That's how things turned out. Well. Thank you very much."

All the time he spoke, the rabbi held Brian's hand in an iron grasp; he pumped it up and down sporadically.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Rabbi? We have some hot."

"Coffee? Coffee? No, no, thank you very much. I have things to look after. For my father. The feathers," he said suddenly, and finally released Brian's hand. He raised his arms in a wide empty gesture. "The feathers were all over the place. Did you see the terrible mess in my father's house?" His voice broke into a deep, half-stifled cry. The rabbi ground the back of his hands into his eyes for a moment, regained control and said, "I'm very sorry. I just wanted to say, on behalf of my family and myself, thank you very much for looking after my father. We know you've all looked in on him, and if there's ever anything we can do for you, please, you let me know."

Brian waited until the rabbi walked out of the ready room and across the outer room. Then he went into the bathroom and threw up.

It was nearly one o'clock when the sergeant told him to go home. The air was crisp and clean and Brian didn't get enough of it before he plunged into the clammy dankness of the subway station. He tasted the sharp black steel dust, leaned over and spit onto the tracks. From the receding rumble, it was apparent that he had just missed a train and would have a long wait.

He walked down to the center of the platform and stretched onto the wooden bench. He unrolled the Daily News, scanned it for the hundredth time. It was so familiar he could quote paragraphs from memory. He rubbed his eyelids lightly and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth; became absolutely still, listened. He gave no indication whatever that he was intensely aware, alert; he seemed to be dozing.

He saw the shadow first, then the dark quick movement as someone slid from behind one pillar to the next, moved steadily toward him. He was ready to move in whatever direction he might have to but he didn't have to move at all. When the figure came to the pillar directly to his left a voice called him by name.

"Hey, Mr. O'Malley. Could I talk to you?"

Angelo DiSantini stood uncertainly in the shadows.

"Yeah, you can talk to me, Angelo. You got something to say to me?"

The boy scanned the station nervously, even though the platform was deserted. "Look, don't get me wrong, Mr. O'Malley, but, well, I don't want to be seen with you. You know? See, I got something you should know, about that old man. Shit, that was a bad thing, but, see, I don't want nobody should see us talking, if you understand what I mean."

Exhaustion slipped away; the long hours of hanging around, repeating the same things endlessly, listening to the others, the theories, the anger, the grief, all of it disappeared and was replaced by a surge of energy and expectation. Without moving, Brian asked quietly, "You know who gave it to the old man?"

DiSantini's voice was hoarse, and before he answered, he tossed his head back, bit his fingernail, looked around. "Yeah, but look, when the train comes, could we maybe ride up a few stations, separate, you know, and then we'll get off and talk there. Jeez, you know how it is, Mr. O'Malley."

They rode up three stations when the train came, Brian in one car, Angelo in another. They got off and walked toward each other. Angelo walked on the balls of his feet, as though ready for instant flight.

"Okay," Brian said, "wanna go for some coffee? Or you wanna talk here or what?"

"Naw, here's fine." He hunched his shoulders up and jammed his hands into the pockets of his dungarees. "Hell, I ain't never done nothing like this before, but this is different. This whole thing. I mean, shit, the old guy was almost a hundred years old, you know, almost like a neighborhood landmark. They had no right to kill no old man almost a hundred years old." Angelo scuffed his sneaker along the platform; his hands fingered the rivets on the dark-green iron pillar as he spoke. "See, nobody in the neighborhood would ever mess with an old man like that. My pals, well, I guess you might say we're kind of rough in some ways. Hell, we don't deserve no medals or nothing, but hell, nothing like that. We got respect for a man like that, know what I mean?"

Brian gave the kid a cigarette. He tried to conceal the growing elation with a calm, slightly impatient exterior. Okay, Angelo, so you and your buddies are clean. Talk to me."

Angelo took two quick drags on the cigarette, inhaling as though the nicotine were oxygen. "See, there are a coupla real bums, not from the neighborhood. They started hanging around about a coupla weeks ago. Strong-arm types, coupla hustlers, eighteen, nineteen years old. Well, they just show up, see, start hanging around, telling stories about what big men they are and all. And they started messin' with the girls. Not just kiddin' around, but some strong-arm stuff, you know. Like they like to hurt people. They think it's funny." Angelo shook his head, then looked directly at Brian. "Jeez, I can't believe it's me here like this, Mr. O'Malley, but, well, you were real fair to me that time. You seen what the score was and you were fair, but I know you coulda really let me have it and you didn't."

"Okay," Brian said, "but we're talking about the murder of the old man. So talk."

Angelo nodded. "They done it, these two guys. Not that they're around bragging about it or nothing, but, you know, everyone was talking about it, you know, feeling real bad. And these two guys, shit, you just gotta look at them. At their faces, like they are grinning at each other and making remarks. I don't know, but you put your hands on these guys and you got the old man's killers."

Brian flipped his cigarette to the tracks and straightened to his full height. "Okay, Angelo. Tell me where they are."

They were holed up like two rats in the basement of a deserted tenement, exactly where Angelo DiSantini said they would be.

Brian caught them totally off guard, and when one of them tried frantically to diminish the oil lamp that provided them with an uncertain, eerie light, he kicked the murderer's temple with absolutely no compunction.

"Move again," Brian said softly, "and I'll put a bullet where my foot was."

They believed him and sat in frozen, watchful silence. He searched them quickly, took the heavy knives from their pockets and told them to sit on the floor.

"How much money did you get from the old man?" he asked.

They looked at each other, then shrugged wordlessly. Brian slid his finger off the trigger of his gun, held the revolver flat in the palm of his hand and brought it down hard on the forehead of the one he had kicked. It made a dull thud of a sound, followed by a harsh gasp from the man.

"Jeez, Jeez, you don't hafta do that. There wuz onny two fuckin' dollars was all. And the box of needles there and that's all, swear to God, that's all."

In the flickering light, he couldn't see them clearly but they were both husky, muscular guys with tough broken faces. The one he pushed around seemed a little simple. He kept touching the stream of blood with his fingertips and examining it with a slight smile. Brian wasn't worried about that one.

The other guy seemed a little brighter and he was too big for comfort. For the first time, Brian realized it was not as easy as just finding these two. The station house was only three blocks away, but he had only a come-along, the chain link that went around the prisoner's wrist while you held it. There sure as hell wasn't any telephone nearby.

The bigger guy kept watching him with sharp little eyes that moved ferretlike from Brian's face to the doorway. He wasn't as bright as Brian thought. His quick furtive glances gave him away. He lunged past Brian for the door. Brian smashed the butt of the gun against the base of the man's skull. The blow landed as hard and solid as a baseball bat against cement. The man landed face down, dead weight Christ, Brian thought, the guy'll have a double concussion, front and back. He groaned, rolled onto his back and one hand went to his split forehead.

For sheer size, he was still a dangerous son of a bitch and the only thing to do was to render him as helpless as possible.

Brian clenched his teeth, steeled himself for what he had to do. He didn't think of the terrible, sick, gut-wrenching pain; he did what was necessary. He kicked the big bastard as hard as he could in the groin.

After that, the murderers came along as docile as children.

"Jesus Christ Almighty," the sergeant said, surprised to see him back at the station house. "What the hell have you got here, O'Malley, the walking wounded?"

"What I got here, Sergeant," Brian said, "are the two bums who murdered Old Man Moses."

The Chief of Detectives thought it would be a good idea to give the kid a gold shield. Everything fell into place. The collar was made less than twenty-four hours after the hunky bastards butchered the old man. He got them cold with the goods. There were two signed confessions and two corroborating re-enactments. Murder one, from here straight to the chair.

The newspapers, every single rag in the city, had a chance for just two editions. The first announced and described the crime; the second answered the demand made in the first: the criminals were brought to justice.

It just happened that there was a vacancy in third grade. The kid, O'Malley, seemed tailor-made. He checked out with a good background; his father was killed on the job, Honor Legion. The kid's own record with the Department, in such a short time, was damn good. Generally, the Chief wasn't too enthused about headline promotions but this one looked good. Even the Commissioner thought so. The day before.

The Chief of Detectives held his hand over the burning ulcer pain along his right side. He'd long ago learned when to ask and when to keep shut. The Commissioner had his reasons for his change of heart. Whatever the hell they were.

He picked up the memorandum addressed to him, at his direction, by the captain of Patrolman Brian O'Malley's precinct. It was a recommendation that Patrolman O'Malley be awarded a Class A commendation for effecting the arrest of the two murderers. The Chief of Detectives scrawled his name across the bottom of the page under the word "Approved."

The Police Commissioner of the City of New York leaned back in his swivel chair and wondered what the hell Pat Crowley had against this young patrolman, Brian O'Malley.

The telephone conversation, short and sweet, had been right to the point.

"Well now, Johnnie, it's Pat here. How're the wife and kiddies? Ah, fine, fine. Say, that's a fine lad you've got there, been getting all them favorable headlines for the Department and himself. Good work, fine job."

"Thanks, Pat. Well, yes, it was a damn fine piece of work for that was a dirty bit of business."

"Ah, yes, yes, damn shame. Well, well, now I've read something confusing, too."

"What was that?"

"Well, knowing how opposed you are to headline promotions, I was surprised to learn-at least the newspapers quoted you, but then damned to them, the liars, they never get it straight-but seems to me it said you was planning on giving the boy a gold shield? Was that my understanding?"

Warily, warily, "Well, that announcement was premature. We're turning some alternatives over. It was mentioned there was a vacancy. You know how the public loves to see a hero rewarded, Pat."

"And deserves to be, indeed, a fine job. But it's been my feeling, you know, Johnnie, that it's good for the young fellas to season a bit, if you take my meaning. Well, that young O'Malley seems a fine young lad and could make do with a Class A commendation, if it was me had the decision. But listen, Johnnie, you know me. I tend on the conservative side."

"No sense in rushing them, Pat. Plenty of opportunity in the future."

"Ah, sure. And how did you say your dear Maureen was feeling?"

Francis Kelly commiserated with Brian over a glass of beer. "Well, at least, Bri, they didn't take the pinch away from you altogether."

"Don't think they didn't try, the lousy bastards." Brian wrapped his hands around the heavy, sweating glass mug. His head was beginning to feel heavy. "Everyone from the desk sergeant to the clerical man wanted a share. Jesus, they pinned every unsolved homicide for the past ten years on those two sons a' bitches. That would have made them murderers at nine years old. Shit, do you know that Horowitz and his partner got two collars apiece out of it? How about that, they made out better than me."

"Ah, screw 'em, Brian. The hell with it."

"Yeah. Right." He drained the glass, then let his head fall. Then he looked up, filling again with the sense of anger and frustration he had carried around all day. "They can take their Class A commendation and shove it. Jesus, Francis, the captain told me himself I had third grade. He told me he got it right from the Chief of Detectives; they were going to give me the gold shield. Bastards." He turned slowly to study Francis Kelly, then brightened. "Hey, shit, I didn't come out to play crybaby. Screw 'em is right, pal." With elaborate care, because the room seemed to be slowly tipping, Brian faced the bartender. "Hey, Charlie, did you know Francis is getting married in a few weeks, huh? Give us some real drinks, we're celebrating. On me, Francis, on me. Some whiskey to drink to Francis Kelly."

Francis Kelly had been matching Brian beer for beer and now started matching whiskey for whiskey. It was a slow and careful process. "Hey, Brian, I just thought of something that just occurred to me. You and me will be related, right?"

"Huh?"

"Well, Marylou is Billy's sister and Billy is your sister's husband. What does that make us, Brian?"

Brian flung an arm around Francis Kelly's shoulder and said, "That makes us fucking cousins, right?"

"I'll drink to that."

They had two boilermakers each before they swayed, arms around each other, from the bar. Older men watched them good-naturedly, toasted the bridegroom-to-be, winked, grinned.

Francis Kelly carefully extracted himself from Brian, pulled himself upright and forced his eyes wide. "Holy Christ, Brian, you know what I just remembered?"

"What did you just remember, pal?"

"I gotta work a midnight tonight. I forgot that I gotta work a midnight tonight. Brian, how the hell can I work a midnight, Brian? The goddamn sidewalk is as soft as oatmeal. And I gotta work a fucking midnight."

Francis Kelly carefully sat down on the curb, dropped his head between his knees and began to groan.

"Got to get it outta you, Francis. It's the only way," Brian decided. "Come on, buddy, gonna take you home and get all the booze outta you."

Kit stood in the middle of the kitchen and asked, "Hey, Ma, how come Francis Kelly is being sick in our bathroom?"

Margaret turned her daughter toward her bedroom. "You go back to bed now and mind your business."

It was rare that Margaret O'Malley's face wore a pinched, tight-lipped, angry expression but there was no question in anyone's mind that she was not to be argued with at such times. She marched after Kit and pulled the bedroom door closed, went back to the kitchen and poured two cups of hot black coffee. The sounds from the bathroom were awful.