God, kids were dumb. He'd never told anyone about that, as though it were a terrible fault he should keep private.

Pete flipped the cigarette out the window and wondered who was pulling up in the dark Oldsmobile. Must be the owner of the shop. A tall, slim, dark figure of a man. One of the patrolmen came over to the car and stood beside the man, talking. Then the patrolman touched his cap and went back inside the shop. It seemed a little strange. If he was the owner, why didn't he go inside the shop?

Pete slid down, pressed his shoulders against the back of his seat and watched. After about five minutes, the patrolman came out of the shop. He carried a large box, which the other man put on the fender of the car. He examined the contents of the box and seemed angry about something. The patrolman shrugged, gestured over his shoulder. The other man shoved the box at the patrolman, looked at his wristwatch, lit a cigarette while he waited again.

Johnnie Morrison came out in a few minutes. He carried a huge box in two hands and he and the other man examined the contents. As the taller man bent toward the box, Johnnie's hand patted his shoulder, then they both stood up and Johnnie seemed to be explaining something. The other man tossed the box onto the back seat, said something, listened, said something else, then extended his hand for a handshake. Johnnie looked around casually and watched the man get into the Oldsmobile and drive away.

Pete slumped way down in his seat and watched the driver as his face hit street light. It was the lieutenant in charge of the precinct's detectives.

Pete got out of his car and walked to the front of the store. The uniformed patrolman stiffened, then recognized him as Johnnie Morrison's partner and he brought his hidden cigarette to his mouth.

Pete jerked his head in the direction that the Oldsmobile had gone. "He's a tough man to please, huh?"

The patrolman hesitated, then grinned. "Well, fuck him. He wants dark mink, he oughta risk his ass and go and pick his own, ya know?"

Pete shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shrugged. He glanced across the store and noticed that the sergeant seemed very angry and Johnnie Morrison seemed very calm and pacifying as he helped the sergeant make a careful selection of merchandise. When Johnnie looked up and saw Pete, his expression never changed and he continued to pack and tie the large box which he handed to the sergeant, who handed it to a patrolman, who carried it outside and put it in the trunk of one of the patrol cars.

The owner of the store arrived shortly after; he was plump and pale and had the look of a man who had been disturbed by terrible news in the middle of the night.

"The gonifs, the goddamn gonifs. They'll raise my insurance again. Third time this goddamn year I been hit."

"I don't think it's too bad, Mr. Levin," the sergeant said quietly. "By the looks of it, they couldn't have got much. At least they didn't mess up the place on you this time. And what the hell," he said reasonably, "you're insured for anything that's missing, aren't you?"

Johnnie Morrison began to feel a little more comfortable with his new partner. The kid kept his mouth shut and his eyes open and those were two of the most important qualifications a guy could have. Not that he trusted him completely, but he was easing him along, testing him, trying him out. After all, the kid had to learn the setup and Johnnie had to make sure he learned it right. He'd taken a big chance tonight and the kid still kept his cool, just stood by, waited without a word.

Johnnie indicated that Pete should take the wheel. He settled alongside him and studied the bearded face. "You wondering how come we didn't lock that bastard up?"

Pete turned the key, started the motor. "I figure you got your reasons. I mean, we got him with more than a half ounce of suspicious white powder. We caught him dead flat out, so I figure there must be a good reason why we didn't bag him."

Johnnie Morrison considered the bland, expressionless face for a moment, then nodded. "Well, we're gonna see some action in about five minutes. This little bag here"-he held the glassine envelope by a corner-"this here little bag is just insurance. Just in case we need it. See, what we're going to do now is, we're going to teach some little fuck-off a lesson. We got a message needs gettin' around, and when you wanna make a public announcement, you do it in public. You know where Gomez' bar is? On the corner of Ninth and Twenty-eighth Street?"

It was a small, dingy neighborhood bar and they parked across the street from it and sat for a moment just looking around. Morrison narrowed his eyes, seemed able to penetrate the filthy window even from that distance.

"Yeah," he said finally, "the little bum's in there. See that mutt tied to the lamppost? That's Juan-o, Rodriguez' dog, and he always leaves it there. Half the time the dog is crocked. They slip him beer to keep him happy, the stupid bastard." He looked at his wristwatch. "Good timing. We'll get to make Night Court, then we can break. Okay, kid, all you gotta do this time out is, you gotta look and learn."

"That's what I'm here for, Johnnie," Pete Caputo said quietly.

They took him with a great deal of sound and commotion and shoving and yelling. Rodriguez was small and wiry, with ratlike darting black eyes and fluttering hands which went up instinctively to Morrison's huge hands, which wrapped around his throat.

Johnnie Morrison roared, "Hey, what the fuck is this, Rodriguez? You resisting?" He turned and said to Pete Caputo, "You witness this, Pete. This little bum is resisting!" He practically choked the man, threw him against the wall and warned, "You little turd, I'll break your arms and legs, you try resisting arrest."

"No, no, I no resist, no resist."

The others in the bar stood quietly where they'd been told and watched as Morrison crashed into stools, knocked over drinks and with a great flourish whirled Rodriguez against the wall and patted him down.

It was obvious to anyone who was watching closely, and they were all watching closely, that Johnnie Morrison planted the bag on Rodriguez.

"Well, you little spic bum," Morrison said loudly. "Look what he had stashed on him. You here to sell, Rodriguez?"

"Oh, no, hey, man, I'm clean." He turned to face Morrison and he lowered his voice to a loud, hissing whisper. "Hey, man, we can talk, yeah? Oh, don't take me like that, man. Jesus, we can talk, you know?"

Johnnie Morrison leaned in close and rammed his fist into Rodriguez' stomach. "I'm talkin' to you, bum. You understand English good now, huh? You didn't hear me last time I talked to you. This time, you'll hear me real good." He turned to Pete. "Okay, let's get this little piece of shit down to the station house."

Juan Jesus Rodriguez had been arrested seventeen times for a variety of offenses ranging from selling to possession to impairing the morals to assault with a deadly weapon (knife) to gambling and a variety of disorderly conducts; he had three felony arrests and one conviction on the sheet; he had served a combined total of upwards of seven years in various institutions on various charges.

In the squad room, he quieted down and said in a reasonable tone of voice to Johnnie Morrison, "Hey, look, Detective Morrison, you lemme talk to the boss, see, I make things square. Hey, Johnnie, you gimme a break, I make it up to you. See, my lungs been so bad with the asthma, you know, I gotta spend so much as one night in the slam, I'm likely to choke."

"That's okay with me. That'll be one more good spic."

"Ah, come on, don't be like that. Look, I had some trouble at home, you know. The kid been in trouble and it costs."

Morrison went on typing the arrest report with two index fingers picking and tapping. His mouth pursed over the words and he seemed to go deaf.

The desk sergeant was as unimpressed by Rodriguez as was Morrison. "Why don't you just shut the fuck up?" the sergeant asked mildly.

Finally, Rodriguez was reconciled to his plight. He was quiet during the ride to Police Headquarters, where he was photographed, and throughout the court proceedings, where he was held in custody in lieu of a thousand-dollar bond.

"You're okay, kid," Morrison told Pete Caputo. "You been learnin' real good." He cast a speculative eye over Pete. "You know, kid, you oughta take more of an interest in clothes. I mean I guess you dress kind of hippie for the job, like nobody makes you for cop, but Jeez, listen, I gotta guy I go to, you know. I mean I don't own a suit costs less than three hundred bucks, but this guy, he gets them for me for under sixty. Look, you go into any store, good store, you know, and pick out what you like. See this sports jacket? Costs hundred and fifty bucks at Saks Fifth; I paid thirty-five. You pick out what you like, and then you tell this guy, see? Within a coupla days, he has it for you. Listen, kid, you let me know when you're ready, right?"

"Okay, Johnnie," Pete Caputo said, "I'll let you know when I'm ready."

The friendship between Patrick O'Malley and Pete Caputo grew and solidified, not only in the classroom but afterward, over endless cups of coffee. They fell on the same side in all the classroom arguments and discussions and they each noticed that the other clammed up at precisely the same point. It was as though there was a point beyond which neither of them trusted himself to venture. Some of the older men in the course plunged on, blandly sure of themselves, seemingly unaware of the remote, mutual silence among the younger students.

Mel Arden noticed the reticence of the younger students and he didn't think it was capitulation to the more outspoken and boisterous older students. He sensed it with sadness. It was almost a sense of despair, as though they realized, these younger men who'd been to Viet Nam, that they had no common language with this older generation.

Patrolman Kelly grew red in the face with the force of his conviction. "I still say we shoulda used whatever force it took to effect a complete victory. For God's sake, we're the strongest country in the world."

Professor Harley Taylor shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The group discussion always got off the topic the minute the war was mentioned. It started this afternoon with a casual remark from one of the men about the students demonstrating against the war. He was one of the men who'd been assigned to a demonstration at Foley Square. From there to nuclear weapons was a fast step in Patrolman Kelly's mind; he felt the demonstrators should be annihilated, the sooner the better.

"Well, one of the speeches made at the rally," Dr. Arden said quietly, "relates to the corruption prevalent in the Thieu Administration, Mr. Kelly. Do you think that corruption is a genuine concern of ours, since we're largely responsible for the establishment and maintenance of that Administration?"

Patrolman Kelly's red face jutted across the table and he said loudly, "We just oughta go and do the job the right way, that's all there is to that."

Pete Caputo smiled tightly and shook his head.

"Mr. Caputo, do you have a comment?" Dr. Arden asked. He didn't miss much.

Pete didn't look up. His voice, soft, aimed at the surface of the table, could hardly be heard. "Oh, no. No. I don't have any comment at all." He looked up finally, turned his light-blue eyes on Kelly, then smiled.

In Viet Nam, Pete Caputo, assigned to ordnance, had had a sickening firsthand opportunity to observe black-market corruption which involved millions of dollars' worth of stolen supplies. He'd seen privates, corporals, lieutenants and captains grow rich through the medium of stolen drugs and materials intended for relief supplies or basic supplies for either the civilian or the military. He'd witnessed an operation so vast and finely tangled that he had no idea where it began or how it would ever end.

One day Private Caputo was shot in the knee by a sniper as he walked toward his office, which was on the outskirts of Saigon. In retaliation for the injury of a good, closed-mouth, cooperative man, his sergeant caught and lined up sixteen male civilians, aged fourteen to sixty-two. All were suspected V.C., therefore all were presumed guilty of subversion, perversion, corruption and murder. Within sight of the suffering Private Caputo, in a planned and well-coordinated action, each man had his right leg shot up by the sergeant and several of his men.

That action was supposed, somehow, to help Private Caputo's leg to heal faster and better. It was his sergeant's contribution to the war effort, outside of the fast fifty thousand bucks he'd made from the black market.

"Well, what the hell are you grinning about?" Kelly asked, a dangerous note in his voice.

Caputo shrugged, let his hand fall open on the table, leaned back in his chair. He exchanged glances with Patrick O'Malley, across the table from him. He'd told Patrick his experiences; they'd exchanged confidences. They knew it was no use.

"Speaking of corruption," Professor Harley Taylor, in his innocence and through a genuine desire to know and to understand, asked the class at large, "could anyone explain to me exactly what is 'the pad'?"

There was a stark silence, a few grins, then a series of wisecracks, insinuations, protestations. The discussion turned sharply to the articles in the Daily News, which alleged that pay-offs, bribes and graft were a daily fact of life in the New York City Police Department.

Patrolman Finn, a fat man with the look of a stereotype, asserted flatly, "It's a goddamn figment of that freak reporter's imagination, that's what it is." He glowered around the table in an attempt to control and direct whatever was to follow.

"Yeah, Finn, he made the whole thing up."

Finn rubbed one hand over the other and directed his sidelong glare at the young policeman to his left. "Okay, do you know of any so-called pad?"

The young policeman pulled a mock-innocent face. "Who? Me? Listen, I don't know from nothing."

Dr. Arden looped an arm around the back of his chair and spoke through teeth clenched on the stem of his pipe. "For clarity's sake, will someone spell out exactly what's meant by being 'on the pad'?"

Lieutenant Palmer, a fingerprint specialist from the Bureau of Criminal Identification, young, crisp, sharp, articulate, stated, "The allegation is that there exists a list of personnel within the particular division to whom regular pay-offs are made for a variety of reasons, mainly to prevent the enforcement of certain laws. Generally, the nonenforcement relates to gambling and vice but could include liquor-law violations, construction-law violations, et cetera."

Conversationally, Dr. Arden asked, "Would there be a nice line drawn, say for the sake of a kind of morality, where drugs are concerned? Or where a serious crime involving injury is concerned?"

Lieutenant Palmer shifted in his chair and leaned forward.

Before he could answer, Pete Caputo said in a clear, cold voice, "The line isn't drawn anywhere there's money to be had."

FORTY.

THERE WAS SOMETHING A little disturbing about Pete Caputo's preoccupation with what was happening around him on the job.

"I'm telling you, Pat," he said vehemently, "there isn't an honest guy in the division. They steal everything they touch. Christ, Morrison told me that it's hot stuff when they get a call on a men's wear store. He says some guys were actually trying on shirts and jackets to make sure they get the right size."

As he spoke, Pete tapped a small black-leather notebook along the edge of the table.

"What the hell is that, anyway?" Patrick asked finally.

Pete Caputo hunched over the scarred wooden table, scanned the coffeehouse quickly and said in a hoarse voice, "This is it, buddy. I got it all down here. This beauty, Morrison, is the goddamn bagman. I've been keeping a list of who he collects from. What I haven't got so far is the other side of it, the pad, the names of everyone on the take."

Pat ran his hand over his face and said calmly, "Okay, Pete. Now the question is, What are you going to do with all this? Isn't that what you're leading up to?"

Caputo nodded briskly and slipped the notebook into the breast pocket of his Army fatigue shirt. "You don't think I'm going to anyone in the Department with it, do you? Look, what I figured is, this guy, you know, this reporter, Jerry Smith. He dropped just a few hints compared to what the real story is. I figure I'd go to him and let him open up the whole damn division."

Patrick O'Malley slowly shook his head and in a low and tense voice said, "I think you'd be making a mistake that way, Pete. I really do. Look, from what we can figure, this guy Smith is nothing more than an opportunist. Any guy that thinks he's exposing a city department after spending two months, hell, he's hit and run. I'd bet you anything you want that he wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole."

Caputo's expression tightened; his hands played the cup of coffee back and forth until some sloshed over the rim and onto the table. "Jesus, I don't know, Pat. See, the thing is this. I don't trust the district attorney. Hell, I've made some anonymous inquiries, you know? Just kind of scouting it out, and researching past investigations about departmental corruption. You know whose ass gets dragged? Same as always, same as anywhere else, the low man on the totem pole." His pale eyes glazed over, became as remote as glass, as though he were seeing right through Patrick to another time and place. "The brass always gets away with it; no matter what, the higher-ups never get touched. They get theirs and get out, and if anyone gets caught, it's the lowest guy." His hands tightened around the cup as he spoke, spasmodically, with a life of their own. "Sometimes...sometimes I think there's only one way to get them. Just that, you know? Get them."

That was when Patrick O'Malley went to his father.

Brian O'Malley had very mixed feelings about the whole thing. He thought his son's friend, Pete Caputo, was very tense and tight and secretive. It was obvious he was distrustful, but for Christ's sake, when you go to someone for something, you have to give a little.

"How about letting me in on what it is you've got, as far as something concrete?" Brian asked.

Caputo pulled on the end of his beard, rubbed his fingers into the furry dark growth. He looked from Patrick to his father, back to Patrick, then he studied the carpeting and shook his head.

Brian crushed out his cigarette and tried to stay very calm. It had been a long time since Patrick had been home; it had been longer than he could remember that his son had come to him with any problem. He wanted to be very careful; he sensed this as an opportunity to build something between them. He only wished to hell it could have been something involving just the two of them.

"Okay, let me get it clear in my mind what it is you want, Pete. You'd like an investigation into your division relative to what you allege is the existence of an operating pad. You don't want to talk to anyone about it."

"Chief O'Malley, it would get squashed at patrolman level; everyone would pull back. You'd end up with a handful of guys and they'd catch it and that would be that. I've read up on this," Caputo said, waved his hand vaguely. "Sure, Internal Affairs would ask me to wear a wire, catch a few guys making admissions. Big deal. They'd take a fall and the whole operation would go on. I'm telling you, Chief O'Malley, the scale is one hundred and fifty a week to start, up to triple shares for brass."

"That's a pretty rough allegation, Caputo," Brian said sharply.

Pete Caputo leaned back in the leather chair and wearily scanned the room and wearily wondered how the hell Brian O'Malley could afford a house like this, in Riverdale.

"Dad," Patrick said, "Pete has his reasons for not wanting to talk directly to Internal Affairs. Couldn't they handle it just on information from you?"

Brian stood up, jammed his hands into his trouser pockets, played some coins between his fingers. "Looks like that's how they'll have to do it if you don't want to 'get involved.'" His sarcasm was lost on Caputo.

He kept the telephone conversation light-handed. He didn't know much about this guy Aaron Levine. He remembered certain allegations from years back, but they didn't have any meaning to Brian. There were always allegations when a guy got a special assignment.

"I would guess there might be something to what my informant says, Chief," Brian said carefully. "Of course, he just might have misunderstood certain things said to him, or misinterpreted or something, but I thought I'd pass it along to you."

He'd done it smoothly; no names, just some casual information relative to some alleged corruption within the division that should be kept "within the family."

"Chief O'Malley, I appreciate the information. It will be looked into right away and thoroughly. Tell your informant not to worry, it's in our hands now."

Aaron Levine's hand lingered on the telephone receiver for a moment and he stared thoughtfully at the dial. It was ironic; son of the father; and now he had to call Ed Shea, another son of a father; all of them, after all the years between, connected again, one to the other.

On the second ring, Inspector Ed Shea picked up the telephone.

"Inspector Shea? Aaron Levine here. Listen, Ed, I've just gotten a bit of a rumble that there's something going on in your division among the plain-clothes people. I don't know how much there is to it, but in view of the fact that the news media have been stirring things up, I thought you'd want to look into it yourself rather than have me send any of my people on it. You'll keep me informed, right?"

Inspector Ed Shea assured the Deputy Chief Inspector in Charge of Internal Affairs that he would conduct a personal investigation relating to any allegations of corruption in his division.

Ed Shea hung up the phone and softly cursed.

The stupid greedy bastards. They were all getting careless, and if they didn't watch it, they'd all hang together.

Karen Day ran her fingers through her long hair casually as she considered the young man across the desk from her. He leaned forward, lit a fresh cigarette from the stub of another, then forgot to squash the stub. Acrid smoke curled up thinly in front of his face. He had an uncomfortable way of staring; his eyes held hers with an intensity that both interested and disturbed her.

"Suppose you tell me why you've come to me? I mean, me in particular?"

Pete Caputo's light-blue eyes flickered, narrowed against the smoke he exhaled. His mouth pulled down and he rubbed his hand roughly over his chin. "I've been watching your new show. I've been following the expose on the housing inspectors. Hell, that's been going on for years. It's been an open secret for years, and it's only just getting some official attention since you put it on TV." He tapped his fingers on her desk; he seemed in need of constant physical movement. He stood up, sucked the cigarette, turned and abruptly stubbed it out. "Look, Miss Day, I've exhausted my resources. I went to a high-ranking superior officer over one month ago and nothing's been done. Absolutely nothing."

"How can you be sure of that?" She questioned him crisply, professionally, sharply. "If there is an investigation, it would be undercover and you'd have no way of knowing about it, right? If it was done properly."