Read Online The Confession of Joe Cullen by Howard Fast - Free Book Online

“Why can’t you give me a break and not make me crazy? That’s all I ever asked from you. I didn’t ask for money. I never asked for anything.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œYou’re always sorry. OK, come in. Sit down.”
    He dropped into one of the armchairs. The big, square room was tastefully furnished, overstuffed pieces with wonderful fabrics, a colorful hand-woven Portuguese rug, long white curtains on the high windows — all of it making him wonder, as it always had, how a woman almost uneducated could have such good taste. She was a model at Cornich Dresses, in-house and photographed as well, and very decently paid — more so than any cop short of the commissioner.
    Sheila dropped into a chair facing him and asked, “What can I give you, Mel? A drink, sandwich?”
    â€œNothing. I just ate.”
    â€œHard day? Don’t answer. I don’t want to listen to another cop’s day.”
    â€œThis one was different.”
    â€œThey’re all different. Mother of God, you wallow in dung all day — you can’t wash it off.”
    â€œBeautiful. I need that.”
    â€œThere we go again,” Sheila said. “No. I want to hear about today. Honestly, truly. It did something to you, something deep and a little scary. Forgive me. We won’t fight tonight. Tell me about today — please.”
    â€œA man walked into the house and told us he had murdered a priest.”
    â€œJust like that?”
    â€œYeah, just like that.” And then he went on and told her all of it, and when he had finished, Sheila stared at him without commenting, and he stared back and wondered what was going on in that lovely head of hers. She broke the silence.
    â€œWhat got to you?” she wondered. “You’ve seen it all — all the blood and guts and garbage.”
    â€œSomething shattered,” Freedman said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI don’t know. I can’t get the image out of my head, the priest flung out of the plane and falling and screaming.”
    â€œI wish I understood you,” Sheila said. “I don’t think we would have made it anyway, because someone like me could never make it with a cop, not in a thousand years, but I’d feel better if I knew how it goes inside of you.”
    â€œAny more than I know what goes inside of you?” Freedman asked bleakly. “I’d quit the cops if I could have you back, but then what would I do? Who’d pay me? And for what? All I know is to rut in garbage.”
    â€œOh, shut up,” Sheila said. “Nobody goes back. Come on, Mel. Take off your clothes and take a shower and we’ll crawl into bed and weep for each other.”

Francis Luke O’Healey

C ULLEN REMEMBERED, from his very young schooldays, the apple that sat on the teacher’s desk. The custom is gone and forgotten, but in that long ago it was still observed. The apple was anonymous, a shining red object that stood there in full view of all the class, and all the class knew that whoever put it there would somehow make himself or herself known to the teacher. But then, in that long ago before a school was a battlefield, the class awaited the teacher’s response — although it was always the same and although they knew it as well as the teacher. “Indeed!” the teacher would say, picking up the apple and turning it over, and then continuing, “I see we have an apple polisher in attendance. But they do say that an apple a day keeps the doctor away, and I am sure we shall have no need of a doctor here.”
    The memory brought a smile to Cullen’s face. He had one of those broad, flat Irish faces, and its very flatness and impassiveness made his smile a total transformation. He had a wonderful smile — a good set of teeth and a smile that welcomed the world. Father O’Healey had said to him, “Joseph, you have a unique smile, and when I see it, I