His father looked a little blurred. Aaron moved the fingers of his uninjured hand and his father took the hint and reached for it and stood awkwardly. Generally, he stood behind his wife; it was she who held hands and touched and surrounded. Alone, he seemed slightly at a loss.

"So, you're okay, Aaron?"

There was a deadness in his father's voice as he searched for words; his father was not an articulate man but Aaron sensed what was happening to him. He was struggling, choking on words that did not come easy.

"Papa, I'm okay. Look, this whole thing-it's going to be all right."

David Levine fingered the brim of his hat restlessly. "Everything is going to be all right," he said flatly. He addressed the floor or the bed or his hat "Bullets in my son's body, and everything is going to be all right."

"Papa, it was just one bullet. Not bullets."

His father spoke to the floor again. "Not bullets. Just one bullet in my son's body. That makes a big difference."

He began to choke, the words turned into one huge but silent sob, and he pressed his hands and his hat over his face. The sounds that escaped, the words, were what Aaron had been afraid of. "Mine fault...my son...a policeman...wrong...from the start...mine fault."

Finally, his father snorted into his handkerchief, pushed at his reddened eyes, turned to Aaron, patted his cheek. "They taking good care of you here, Aaron? You need something maybe?"

"Not a thing, Pop. Listen, Pop. I'm gonna say it. Don't turn away from me. Look, it was my decision to take this job..."

"Sure, sure, your own decision. I maybe could have made enough money to pay Morris' medical school, you maybe wouldn't have made your own decision to have such a life for yourself."

"Papa, it was all worked out; it was all discussed. For two years, then Morris will finish and I'll go back to school and he'll help me. Papa, please, don't start. Don't make it harder."

His father nodded briskly. "Okay. Okay, I won't start. But I'll say this, two years. No more, Aaron. And then, your turn." His father took a deep breath and whispered, "This I swear to you!"

"Right, Papa, then a lawyer I'll be." He lapsed easily into his father's pattern of speech: "And the father you'll be of a doctor and a lawyer. All you'll need is an Indian chief."

"What? What Indian chief?"

"A joke, Pa."

"A joke. He lies in that bed and makes jokes at me. A bullet in his body, he makes jokes." He kept his face down and spoke quickly. "Aaron, this morning I went to schul, Aaron, and I thanked God you were not killed because if that had happened to you...all those other men killed..."

His father leaned over quickly, pressed his wet face against Aaron's, kissed his cheek. "Later, Aaron. I see you later. I come back more calm, I promise. You rest now. You rest."

When he was a little boy, when his family had just moved to Flatbush, there was a boy named Sheldon Cohen who caused terror in the heart of Aaron Levine and all of his other playmates. He was a tough, swaggering, muscular bully who enjoyed punching and twisting and jabbing at others, and though Aaron and his friends took pains to avoid this boy, Aaron had been secretly fascinated by his behavior.

Patrolman Sam Feldman, president of the Sholem Society, could have been Sheldon Cohen, all grown up. He was a compact, solid, lithe man of about forty. His gray hair was neatly dipped close to the scalp of a large round head; his eyes were the same steely gray. His nose was short and pugnacious and he held his head slightly to one side so that he seemed always to be regarding those about him with a wary, suspicious glance. He had been a semiprofessional boxer in his youth and there was a persistent, if unfounded, rumor that he had once killed a man in the ring. Aaron didn't know which of the stories he'd heard about Feldman were true but there was definitely an aura of controlled violence and secret anger surrounding the man who stood beside his bed.

"Well, hero, how you doing, kid?"

Aaron shrugged without thinking and the gesture sent pain shooting down from his shoulder to his wrist. He bit his lip and tried not to let Feldman see his discomfort but Feldman seemed to feed on it.

"Hurts, huh, kid? Damn right it hurts. Gonna hurt for a long time, too. You did some job last night, kid, I'm here to tell you."

Aaron wondered if Feldman knew his name; he was sure he'd been told, but probably forgot; or maybe he called everyone kid; Aaron wished he'd just give his message and leave.

Feldman leaned close and spoke in a deep-throated rasp. "Listen, kid, there's stories going around, you know? Rumors. There's always rumors from these bastards, which is why I want to get it direct Like from the horse's mouth, you know. They're trying to downgrade your part of last night, which is why I'm here. They take care of their own, we take care of our own. There aren't many of us, kid, but we got it up here." His index finger tapped his forehead. He spun around, moved on the balls of his feet across the room, picked up a chair which he carried to the bedside. "Okay, Levine, what's the story?"

He arrived on the scene; there were wounded, dead and dying all around; he exchanged shots with the culprits; he was hit; they were hit; they died; he woke up in the hospital. What more story? That's what happened.

Feldman, restless, filled with a thoughtful energy, drew himself from the chair, paced around the room, scratched his scalp vigorously. "What they wanna do is, they wanna give all the big awards to the dead guys and hand you off a Class B commendation. Make them all big heroes posthumously; which is okay with me, don't get me wrong, as long as they take care of you. If it was one of them survived and one of us killed, they'd switch it around, you can bet your ass."

Aaron felt exhausted and disinterested and puzzled over Sam Feldman's apparent agitation and anger. A medal, a commendation; let the dead have it; he just wanted to rest, to sleep a little, but it seemed to mean so much to Sam, like they were personally cheating him. If the truth were known, Aaron didn't want to think too much about last night; didn't want to think about the fact that he, Aaron Levine, had killed two men.

Feldman was going on and on and only sporadically did his words penetrate Aaron's growing lethargy.

"...they figure maybe a Class A for Sullivan, but they're set on the Honor Legion for O'Malley."

"O'Malley?" O'Malley? What happened to Sergeant O'Malley? "What about Sergeant O'Malley?"

Feldman shrugged. "Well, being he was the sergeant on the scene, I don't object to his getting the posthumous. My main concern is just that they don't screw you..."

"Posthumous? For Sergeant O'Malley? He's dead?"

"Ya didn't know? Yeah, sure, he was killed too."

Aaron remembered sitting in the patrol car, hearing the call, driving away. And leaving Sergeant O'Malley behind. "But...how was he killed, Sam?"

Feldman squinted at him. "How the hell do I know, kid? I wasn't there."

But neither was Sergeant O'Malley, Aaron thought.

EIGHT.

PATROLMAN PATRICK QUADE, PRESIDENT of the Irish Society, felt the blood fill his face. "The stupid dumb son of a bitch," he said for the third time.

"If you're looking for an argument on that point, you'll not get one from anyone here, so why don't you just sit down?" Captain Peter Hennessy said. He watched as Quade dropped into a chair and twitched his fingers over the kitchen table. "We're all agreed, Pat. Brian O'Malley was a dumb bastard. Alive or dead, Brian was a certain lad for causing trouble to those around him. The point now is that we've got to go about getting him safely buried with all the honors we'd want our families to see for ourselves. He was our past president and we've that to consider."

At a signal from Hennessy, Patrolman Charlie Gannon reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured a generous amount into each of the four glasses on the kitchen table. He caught a sharp look from the captain and pushed his own glass toward the center of the table. "I don't really think I'll have anymore myself, Captain."

It was Charlie Gannon's kitchen and Charlie Gannon's whiskey, but still and all, it wasn't a social gathering. It was a meeting, if unofficial and closed and secret, it was still a meeting and there was a certain decorum prevailed.

"Well, let's hear your thinking in the matter, Ed," the captain said to the fourth man present. "You've been silent and thoughtful for a while. What are you turning over in your mind?"

Lieutenant Ed Shea was a lean man, with black hair and brows and dark-brown eyes and a thoughtful, careful way of speaking. "We've two things to attend to, seems to me."

"And what might those two things be?"

Carefully, Ed Shea took a swallow from his glass, exhaled with a sigh. "Aside from everyone getting nice and calm, that is," he said to Pat Quade, who nodded. "Yes. Well, the first thing is, we've to pay a little visit to our young Jewish friend in the hospital and offer him our congratulations on a nice job well done. And have a friendly little conversation with him. The Jews are a sentimental race and very understanding about families. He'd not be denying that Brian, for the sake of the family that's left, should be given all suitable honors. Brian being such a hero and all that."

Captain Hennessy moved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. He wasn't worried about the Jew. "What's the second thing, then, Ed?"

"Well, this might be a bit risky." He turned to Pat Quade. "We got someone in the Property Office, someone who doesn't have a big mouth?"

Quade's hand covered his eyes for a moment, then his face brightened. "Yes, sure, we've got Michael Smith. You could leave your life in Michael's hand and it'd be safe."

"What's this all about then, Ed?" Captain Hennessy asked.

"Well, here's what I've been turning over in my mind, Captain. Brian's revolver and Patrolman Levine's revolver are being held in the Property Office, along with the guns of all the other poor lads was shot last night, may they rest in peace."

Automatically, around the table, the men murmured "Amen."

"Well, then, just to be on the safe side all around, I think that when young Levine is on his feet again, and goes to reclaim his revolver, I think he should be handed Brian's revolver in place of his own weapon."

Pat Quade nodded slowly; Charlie Gannon looked blank; Peter Hennessy frowned. "Now, why the hell would we do that, Ed?"

"Because, Captain," Pat Quade said, "the bullets in the dead niggers came from the sheeny's gun. If he should decide to make any trouble, why the bullets can just be dug out of them bodies and matched up to the gun they came from and it won't be the gun Levine is holding." He had latched on to the logic immediately and approved.

"What a devious mind you do have, Ed," the captain said quietly. "I personally don't think it will be necessary at all because that Jew cop looked scared of his own shadow when I seen him behind the wheel of Brian's car last night."

"That was before he killed two men, Captain," Ed Shea pointed out.

"True. Yes, that's true, very true," Hennessy said quietly. "However, it's been my experience, you understand, that a Jew is a Jew. But, as you say, we might as well touch all the bases and do the job properly, so to speak." He turned to Pat Quade. "And the matter of the registration of the weapons we're speaking of?"

'It'll be taken care of, Captain."

"Good. Good." There was a heavy silence in the small kitchen before the captain spoke again. "Well, now, I guess there's no need to say to anyone in this room that what we've spoken of this day goes no farther than is absolutely necessary, which is to say"-he raised his face toward Quade for confirmation-"just Michael Smith, and no one else is party to anything said here. You all take my meaning?"

No one said anything, except Charlie Gannon, who said loudly in the silence, "Oh, yes, absolutely, Captain."

Captain Hennessy said, "Drink your whiskey, Charlie."

Marvin Gutterman pushed his eyeglasses up along his nose but they slid down again the half inch to the thin line across the bridge of his nose. He considered his cousin, Aaron Levine, a faraway look across his face. If you didn't know him, you'd think it was a blankness, but Aaron knew Marvin and Marvin's steel trap of a mind.

"And you didn't tell this joker, this Sam Feldman, not a thing about your sergeant staying behind?"

"No, like I told you, Marvin, when it started to come back to me, I just told Sam my head hurt and I had to go to sleep and then I had the nurse call you."

"And nobody's seen you; just me, after Sam?"

"Right, right."

Marvin sucked at his eyetooth a few times, then pointed at Aaron. "Answer, please, as carefully as you can. First, you're positive of the address where your sergeant went in?"

Aaron nodded. "Yeah. I was sitting in front of 212. He went two doors past that: 210, 208. Yeah, it was 208."

Marvin nodded. "Good. Good. Now, you're sure that the fat captain said something about a 'nigger whore' in connection with Sergeant O'Malley?"

"That's what he said. Marvin, by now I'm sure of everything I told you. I just don't understand how you connected it to some woman falling to her death."

"Look, I'm in Legal Aid; I read the Daily News, the Minor; I read every rag in the city. You never know who you're going to have to defend, so I like to read about prospective clients in advance. You know me, with this crazy trick brain filled with all kinds of useless garbage. Occasionally, something worthwhile is tucked away with all the rest."

While he had been telling Marvin of the night's events, soliciting his cousin's advice, since Marvin was his closest friend as well as his cousin, there had come a sudden moment when Marvin held his hand up, squinted, frowned, left the room, returned with a wrinkled copy of the morning paper, searched frantically for an item and read it to him: "'An unidentified colored female, age about thirty to thirty-five, was found in the air shaft of 208 East 129th Street early this morning. Police say she apparently jumped or fell from the top-floor flat.'"

"But assuming that Sergeant O'Malley was up there with that woman, we still don't know what happened, Marvin."

Marvin Gutterman ran his fingertips lightly along a tube which was filled with colorless fluid which filtered into his cousin's arm. "But we do know one thing, Aaron. He wasn't on the scene last night where all the shooting took place. I want you to listen to me, Aaron, and then think very carefully about what I'm going to suggest."

Aaron Levine listened in alert and respectful and awed silence for the next half hour while his cousin gave him detailed advice regarding his future.

Lieutenant Shea carried a chair across the room for the captain. Aaron could feel the animal heat rise from the fat man next to him. It was amazing the way he gave off such a strong essence of himself. The captain's face was a dark flat red and he pursed his lips several times and said, "Well, well, well, now. He's looking very well, wouldn't you say so, Lieutenant?"

Lieutenant Edward Shea stood at the foot of the bed and nodded. "Yes, Captain, I would."

"We're just on our way to the wake of poor Sergeant O'Malley. We've spent most of our day just visiting with bereaved families. And how is your family, Patrolman Levy?" At some slight sound from Ed Shea, Captain Hennessy swung around. "What? What? Levine is it, yes, of course. They must he proud of you, your people, eh?"

"Yes. Well, you know. They were a little upset."

"Well, certainly, why wouldn't they he? If it'd been you was killed, your people would have you in the ground already, or that's my understanding of the situation. Is that the way your people do it?"

Aaron wasn't sure how to answer. The captain spoke with a barrage of words; his statements were like so many challenges. Aaron's arm and shoulder ached, his head hurt, his stomach was loose and making noises. "Well, yes. It's our religious custom to bury the dead within twenty-four hours."

"Seems fast, seems like a fast way to do things."

The small beadlike eyes glistened; the heavy face tilted, waited for an explanation.

"Well," Aaron explained, "then after the funeral, we sit shivah for seven days."

"Sit and shiver do you?" Hennessy said, deliberately misunderstanding and taking no pains to hide the fact.

Lieutenant Shea, unexpectedly, spoke. "Much the same as a wake, Captain, but the corpse isn't present. Everyone comes to the deceased's house to pay respect to the family."

Aaron was unnerved by the conversation; he could almost see Captain Hennessy handing a cakebox offering to his mother; scanning the room, noting the strange customs: all the mirrors covered, are they? sit on little wooden boxes, do you? no shoes on your feet? hair all undone? Strange people, ah, yes.

He studied Hennessy now as though all that he had visualized was true and he felt anger along with repulsion but Hennessy seemed totally unaware of any feeling directed at him. He was oblivious to anything except his own purpose and everything that had gone before was part of the process leading up to what was to follow.

"Well, you've done a nice bit of work, officer," Hennessy said, "and it was a sad night. Yes, very sad for all concerned. Well, are you comfortable here, is the room all right, are they treating you well? You see," he continued without pause, "the Department takes care of its own. And you are one of our own, Patrolman Levine."

Dully, Aaron said, "Thank you, Captain."

"It's us owes you the thanks, lad," Hennessy said. He shifted his weight, relieved first one heavy buttock, then the other, resettled, squinted toward Shea, then stared back at Aaron. "Yes, your name has been put in for a commendation and you can be assured you'll receive...Class B was it, Ed? Yes. Now, that's a fine start for a young man like yourself. I imagine you'll be looking forward to taking promotion examinations as they come along. You people are good at that, and the commendation will provide you with an additional point right at the start." He slapped his knee with the flat of his fleshy hand as an indication that he was finished; the matter was finished.

Right up until the exact moment he opened his mouth and spoke, Aaron Levine didn't know he was going to speak, hadn't decided, hadn't felt strong enough to confront them. Maybe it was because they were so sure of him or because Captain Hennessy had been so blatant and crude, his every remark piercing through, below, some surface of Aaron's being. Maybe because of some loyalty to his cousin, who had talked to him so logically. Or maybe in some tired, weary recognition that what at first had seemed to him so unbelievably corrupt an action for him to attempt now seemed to him merely pragmatic.

At first, it was just a sound in his throat, his attempt to speak, to tell Captain Hennessy and Lieutenant Shea that matters were not quite settled. Captain Hennessy had actually stood up, turned from him. It was Ed Shea who studied him, whose face tightened with recognition at something he saw on Aaron Levine's tired but tense face.

"Captain," Shea said softly, "I think there's something Patrolman Levine wants to say."

"What? What's that?" Hennessy turned ponderously, toweringly, peered forward as though at some audacious bit of misconduct. "Something you want to say?"