The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner Read Free Book Online

there,” he said. “I thought to myself, ‘Good cop, that boy.’ I liked that.”
    Kozlowski said nothing, and Clumly glared at him, then away again, thinking. His arms and legs prickled and felt numb. He pointed at Kozlowski then and said, “You should’ve shut her down. That’s your job. You know that.” He waited, but he knew there was no answer coming. “Well all right,” he said. “All right, you use your judgment. That’s good. A cop needs judgment I like that.” He paced. “A lot of my men get the wrong idea. We do this job of ours together, protecting Law and Order. This is a democracy.”
    “Yes sir.”
    The interruption broke his train of thought. He was sweating. “This is a democracy,” he said again, more emphatically. “We’re the Watchdogs. If a man can’t trust his Force, who can he trust? All right. I’m cognizant of that. Listen.” He tried to think what it was he had to tell him, but the memory of his humiliation distracted him. The woman’s image was burned into his mind—the youth of it, the nakedness, and the righteous indignation—and for some reason the painful image released another, his wife lying still as a dead chicken in the bed, unloved, useless. Who would mourn for her? Who would mourn for Clumly?
    He went back to his desk, wincing, trying to think, and as if hoping it would help he put his glasses on again.
    “Kozlowski,” he said, “don’t quit.”
    Pitiful it sounded.
    The man waited, not saying what Clumly knew he would be thinking.
    “Too old, that must be it,” Clumly said. His chest was so full he felt like a man drowning. “Jitters,” he said. “—Miller!” He squinted at the door and called more loudly, “Miller! Come in here!”
    Miller came in, pushing his pencil down into his pocket, carrying his clipboard. Miller was Clumly’s right-hand man.
    “Miller, tell Kozlowski not to quit.”
    “Don’t quit,” Miller said. He cocked his head, grinning, looking at Clumly.
    “How long you been with us, Miller?” Clumly said.
    “Why, nineteen hundred seven thousand twenty-three million two and a half—” Miller talked, always, a mile a minute. His name was Dominic Sangirgonio, Miller for short.
    “Stop that!” Clumly roared. He banged the desk, then clung to it.
    “Long time,” Miller said.
    “Am I a rigid man?” Clumly demanded. “Am I a hard man to work for? Do I spy on my men, or ask the impossible? Tell him.”
    “Just like a father,” Miller said.
    “Miller, why do I drive my men? Why do I personally keep track of every job this Department does, from parking meters to criminal assault? Tell him.”
    “Some kind of nut.” He smiled.
    “Stop it,” Clumly said. “This man’s just tendered his resignation.”
    “Tendered!” Miller said, impressed.
    Clumly’s hand was still shaking, even when he steadied the heel on the desk—cigar ashes spattering on the papers—but for a moment longer Miller continued to watch, as if amused.
    “Ok,” he said finally, looking over at Kozlowski. “What happened? Old man make a fool of himself, you think?” He tipped his head and grinned again. “You’ll get used to it. Honor bright. Cops are bad guys. Sometimes when you start out you forget that and pretty soon— paw!— you’re dead, some good guy’s got a knife. Like the kid Salvador we got guarding the bears. He thinks they’re his friends. Gives ’em cigarettes and candy and listens to their sob stories.” He laughed, but not wholeheartedly. “One of these days he’ll get his block knocked off. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get your block knocked off.”
    “Look,” Kozlowski said.
    “Tomorrow. For now, put on the badge. Think it over.” He reached for the badge and flipped it to Kozlowski. Kozlowski seemed to consider it. Miller said, “Shut her down, paisan. For a week or two, see? Teach the little broad some respect.” Before Kozlowski could answer he bowed to Clumly and went out.
    Clumly looked at the papers,