Grief Street

simply because a man called you sweety.”
    “A guy don’t say that to another guy.”
    “Oh, but I think they do.”
    “Yeah, well—you’re wrong as two left feet.”
    “Am I, Sergeant? After our first session here, exactly where did you happen to go for lunch?”
    “How should I know?” Kowalski laugh-snorted. His face turned storm purple. “I’m a big guy, I eat at so many freaking places I lose track.”
    “I’d be surprised if you ever lost track of a certain bar in Hell’s Kitchen...” Thornton paused, knowing the effect he would create. Indeed, Kowalski was humiliated. Every man in the room sensed it. “You and the bartender talked about Good Friday, the day of all those murders. Do you remember now, Sergeant?”
    Kowalski said nothing.
    “Can you remember talking about the two thieves who were crucified with Jesus?” Thornton’s tone was merciless. “Remember—Dismas, Gemas?”
    Sweat flooded out of Kowalski. In the long, gruesome moment that Thornton let him flood before speaking again, Kowalski might have lost a pound.
    “Sergeant,” Thornton said, moving to Kowalski, touching his arm. “I want you to come up to the front of the class with me.”
    “No.”
    “Think about your pension, Sergeant, and my opinion about whether or not you should get it. Or how about a more immediate thought? Such as whether or not I’ll contact this Detective Hockaday about the threatening things you’ve said in this room. I understand the detective is pushing for a disciplinary hearing against you.”
    “How do you freaking know?”
    “I do my homework, Sergeant Kowalski. I suggest you attend to yours. You’ve a lot of catching up to do. In the meantime, I believe I’ve asked you to step to the front of the class.”
    Kowalski struggled up from his chairs. Thornton turned and walked back up the aisle. Kowalski lumbered along behind him. He did not look at the other men as he passed them by, and they did not look at him. There was a shared sense of looming disgrace in the room; no matter what, Joseph Kowalski was a member of the cop tribe, and no cop enjoys viewing the degradation of another.
    Thornton stood to the side of the lectern.
    “So where do you want me?” Kowalski asked him.
    “At the microphone, of course.”
    Kowalski did as he was told. He gripped the edge of the lectern with his wet hands. He turned and said to Thornton, angrily, “The bartender, he’s got nothing to do with nothing, and so I ain’t about to discuss him here!”
    “No, that would be trite,” Thornton said. “Why don’t you tell us about her?”
    “Her who?”
    “Her as in your telling Mr. Darcy, ‘Don’t be talking about my woman.’ ”
    “How do you know—?”
    “I told you before, Sergeant—homework.”
    Kowalski just stood there, glaring first at Thornton, then at the men sitting quietly out front in rows. Thornton stepped to the blackboard again, picked up chalk, and hesitated.
    “Sergeant, so that you don’t think ill of me, I want you to understand something.” Thornton had turned from the blackboard to speak to Kowalski. What he said was meant for all to hear. “This isn’t personal between us. I’m only doing my job, which is to transform you into a receptive student. You may be interested to know that in the teaching trade, we refer to this as the bust-down. Being the first bust-down of a class is an honor you’ll want to thank me for sometime in the future. As for now—you’re a new man today, Sergeant. Congratulations.”
    Thornton smiled. Kowalski looked like a man who had just been hit in the face with a pie. Thornton returned to the blackboard. Beneath what he had earlier written, he chalked the second part of the day’s lesson: WHERE THERE IS YET SHAME, THER MAY IN TIME BE VIRTUE.

Twenty-five

    “ G o slack in the abdominals and your body invites every ache and pain that ever was...
    “Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen... Keep breathing, so long as you breathe the right way, out on the stress point, you can do it!
    “That’s it. The heart rate’s high, and we’re moving, moving... burning and burning, working on strength and flexibility at the same time... Keep it up... Having fun?
    “Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two...”
    Quent is the name of the guy Ruby found for me at the gym. He is thirtysomething, hard-bodied, fair-skinned, and dark-haired. He wears tight white denims and cowboy boots and an olive green suede jacket over a cream-colored silk T-shirt. Naturally, he