Read Online The Sunlight Dialogues by John Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Gardner
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that. Not now. “As near as we can estimate,” Mayor Mullen said, “every cop on your Force costs us nine dollars an hour. Nine dollars, Clumly. Think of it. That’s taking account of the overhead—buildings, cars, gadgets, the whole gambit—including salaries. So I put it to you: I want time-sheets, Clumly. And I don’t want you hiring a lot of office help to figure them. No sirree. I want a paying operation, and I want it now. Here. Put it this way. Say a merchant gets robbed at his store and he loses nine dollars. You know what that’s worth in Police Department time? One man for one hour. Period. Or two men for a half an hour. Case closed.” Mayor Mullen patted his stomach. It made sense, of course, like everything Clumly found disagreeable in the times. You couldn’t catch all of them anyway, might as well put your time where it meant good business. Nevertheless, it grated on him. He’d run a tight ship, in the old days. No figuring the odds, no punching a clock each time you started and stopped an investigation. A man could build up pride in his work. It was a service. Do ministers keep time-sheets, Mr. Mayor? Or schoolteachers? And doctors? But he hadn’t asked it. He had a suspicion they did.
And so (he brooded) he would visit the Woodworth sisters, soothe them with lies, invite them to visit the jail sometime and look at the thief they had locked up in another connection—Walter Boyle, if that was really his name—knowing all the time that it wasn’t Walter Boyle, he was no “wildman,” a smart old pro—and knowing too that the Woodworths couldn’t come down to the jail anyway, they never got out of the house any more: if the sun hit the Woodworth sisters they would shrivel up and disintegrate like corpses in a vacuum casket when you cracked the pane of glass.
The shiver of a hare-brained idea ran up Clumly’s back. Why not? he thought. The idea startled him, and he crossed quickly to the window and bent toward it to peer out, as if seeing if anyone had observed him thinking it. But the more he thought about it the clearer and simpler the plan seemed, however irregular. He’d have done it without a moment’s thought in the old days. He was Chief of Police, wasn’t he? Why not? It was four-fifteen.
Salvador handed the keys to him without even looking up from his paperwork. Miller was nowhere in sight. Clumly hurried down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder once or twice, to the cellblock. “You,” he said. “Up on your feet.” He unlocked the cell. The thief, Boyle, looked up at him over the top of the Daily News he was reading and, after a moment, stood up. He was short and fat, slightly humpbacked, still wearing the suit they’d arrested him in—brown trousers, black and gray suspenders, a dark tie of uncertain color. His suitcoat was neatly folded on his pallet.
“Get your coat,” Clumly said.
Boyle turned slowly, blinking his heavy-lidded eyes, and ran one hand over his thin, graying hair. He got into the coat, glanced furtively over at the others, and came out of the cell.
The bearded one grinned like a mule and closed his eyes. “God be with you.”
The thief, Walter Boyle, ignored him. He held out his hands for the handcuffs automatically, and Clumly snapped them on.
On the way to the street they passed no one but Salvador, still working on his papers, the radio chattering and spitting behind him. “I’ve got the prisoner with me,” Clumly said. “Checking an identification.”
Salvador glanced up, slightly surprised, then nodded. It was a new one, no doubt, but everything was new to Salvador and would be for a long time. He was slow.
But there was another complication, it came to Clumly as he was getting into the car. He looked up at the toy-castle towers of the police station, the gaping stone archway over the porch, the barred windows to the rear. He groped with the problem, scowling fiercely as he started up the engine, and at last he saw that he’d left
And so (he brooded) he would visit the Woodworth sisters, soothe them with lies, invite them to visit the jail sometime and look at the thief they had locked up in another connection—Walter Boyle, if that was really his name—knowing all the time that it wasn’t Walter Boyle, he was no “wildman,” a smart old pro—and knowing too that the Woodworths couldn’t come down to the jail anyway, they never got out of the house any more: if the sun hit the Woodworth sisters they would shrivel up and disintegrate like corpses in a vacuum casket when you cracked the pane of glass.
The shiver of a hare-brained idea ran up Clumly’s back. Why not? he thought. The idea startled him, and he crossed quickly to the window and bent toward it to peer out, as if seeing if anyone had observed him thinking it. But the more he thought about it the clearer and simpler the plan seemed, however irregular. He’d have done it without a moment’s thought in the old days. He was Chief of Police, wasn’t he? Why not? It was four-fifteen.
Salvador handed the keys to him without even looking up from his paperwork. Miller was nowhere in sight. Clumly hurried down the hallway, glancing over his shoulder once or twice, to the cellblock. “You,” he said. “Up on your feet.” He unlocked the cell. The thief, Boyle, looked up at him over the top of the Daily News he was reading and, after a moment, stood up. He was short and fat, slightly humpbacked, still wearing the suit they’d arrested him in—brown trousers, black and gray suspenders, a dark tie of uncertain color. His suitcoat was neatly folded on his pallet.
“Get your coat,” Clumly said.
Boyle turned slowly, blinking his heavy-lidded eyes, and ran one hand over his thin, graying hair. He got into the coat, glanced furtively over at the others, and came out of the cell.
The bearded one grinned like a mule and closed his eyes. “God be with you.”
The thief, Walter Boyle, ignored him. He held out his hands for the handcuffs automatically, and Clumly snapped them on.
On the way to the street they passed no one but Salvador, still working on his papers, the radio chattering and spitting behind him. “I’ve got the prisoner with me,” Clumly said. “Checking an identification.”
Salvador glanced up, slightly surprised, then nodded. It was a new one, no doubt, but everything was new to Salvador and would be for a long time. He was slow.
But there was another complication, it came to Clumly as he was getting into the car. He looked up at the toy-castle towers of the police station, the gaping stone archway over the porch, the barred windows to the rear. He groped with the problem, scowling fiercely as he started up the engine, and at last he saw that he’d left
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