Dark Maze

I come in, the cop with his picture in the Post when he never asked for the publicity, the guy who always brings them in, boy! And if I don’t—or if I can’t make the bust quick enough—then how can that be the fault °f somebody who does nothing?”
    “Didn’t I promise you a promotion out of all this?“
    “The promotion I’ll take. But the promise I made about having your pal the mayor tag along on my collar, forget it.”
    “I don’t have to take this, Hock.”
    “Sure you do. Slattery provokes me into a talky mood, too. You know how irritating he can be.”
    “It’s breaking my heart to see how you’re becoming more and more of a cynic every day.”
    “Eat a fig newton, then take a nice long nap,” I said. “You’ll get over it.”
    Neglio said nothing, but I knew he was steaming. I had called him on one of the small treacheries that emerge from time to time in our unspoken pact: I will use him, he will use me, back and forth and et cetera. Small treacheries, like the minor sins of marriage.
    “I have been calling you day and night, Hock, but you’re not answering, let alone reporting in. So I’m asking now, what the fuck is your progress on the case?”
    “With one or two more breaks, I think I’m close.” And I was actually beginning to imagine that was true. “Would you like to do something to help the cause?”
    “Well, I…”
    “I knew you would. Take down this name—Johnny Halo, just like it sounds. So far as I know, he’s got no aliases. He says he’s an Army veteran, second war. He owns a bar in Coney Island called the Neptune. Also the Seashore Hotel in Coney, which he recently took over and where he’s lived for a long time. I want the deep check on this guy.”
    “All right, Hock.”
    “I want to know what the guy eats for breakfast, who he sleeps with, what he’s got in his family—especially the family part. I want to know if he’s in bed with any mafiosi.“
    “ I’ll have it inside of twenty-four hours,” Neglio said-“Meanwhile, I want you to keep in touch with me, you hear, Hock?”
    “I will. But don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
    “You fucking hump, you! What am I supposed to say to the mayor?”
    “Tell him to have a buttercup day.”

    I took a look at the mail I had brought upstairs with me. There was no plain envelope with an upside-down flag stamp today, so I hoped Picasso was lying low. Con Edison sent me a second notice on my bill, which I immediately tossed since I have never seen the point of rushing these things. A magazine subscription service informed me that I might soon become a millionaire, and this I reluctantly tossed. There was finally the air letter from Ireland, postmarked Dún Laoghaire, but not addressed in my Uncle Liam’s familiar hand. I opened it and read:

    Dear Mr. Hockaday:
    I write on behalf of your dear uncle, Liam Hockaday, who has fallen ill. As you know, he suffers from a poor heart. The doctor has now confined him to bed and I have been engaged to look after your uncle’s needs and attend to any business that needs conducting.
    This letter, then, does the duty of informing you of unpleasant news. As a loyal friend of your uncle, I am, of course, terribly sorry for your troubles.
    I might add, however, that the doctor feels Liam’s life expectancy is relatively long as these things go—perhaps a year or better. And I can assure you, his only discomfort in these days is in the forced physical idleness.
    Should you wish further details, or the arrangement of a visit, I shall be only too happy to oblige at this end. I am currently in residence at your uncle’s home, here in Dún Laoghaire.
    Yrs faithfully, in the name of X,
    Patrick Snoody.

    How long had it been since I had seen my Uncle Liam, the man whose monthly checks, drawn on the Bank of Ireland, kept my mother and myself well and fed during my early years when father was gone off in the mists? Liam, who would come stay with us, and have whispered conversations with my mother in the kitchen after I had gone to bed.
    Only twice had I seen him since my boyhood. Once when he came to New York and we buried my mother in Woodlawn, up in the Irish section of the Bronx; once more when he came to the city on business he said was of no importance compared to the time we two would spend together again.
    That, in fact, was the last time. And I have never, to my regret, been to Ireland in return.
    Did I once take the chance of asking Liam about his brother—my