Thrown-away Child

Hippo.”
    “Well, Vi deserves it.” Hippo guzzled about a third of his whisky.
    “Oh yes, my mother-in-law is as fine as they come, black or white.”
    “That’s true!”
    “I want to shake your hand for saying so.” I stepped over and took Hippo’s hand, felt how it had gone limp from the booze the way my own hand used to.
    “Say, I ain’t poured you that fizzy water yet.“
    “That’s okay, Hippo. I’m not thirsty. You keep right on drinking, though.”
    “I’ll just do that.” He finished off the Jack Daniel’s, and poured himself another.
    “You know, there’s something that greatly surprises me about you—you being a lawyer and an elected official.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You haven’t said one word of concern about the way your boys Mueller and Eckles treated as fine a black lady as Violet Flagg. Not to mention how your good old boy Vonny LeMay called Violet Flagg’s daughter nigger right here in your office. That would be my wife Ruby he called a nigger.”
    “Does so concern me! It’s disgraceful. Didn’t you hear me say I was going to pass along your complaint!” Hippo was becoming slightly belligerent, the way drinkers will. He was also slightly nervous, which he tried covering. “By the way, how’s that Ruby?“
    “Doing fine, thanks. I don’t imagine her cousin’s doing so well.”
    “Her cousin?”
    “The one you’ve got on the run—Perry Duclat.” Hippo looked at his wristwatch, a Piaget. Nothing but the best for a lowly alderman. “I’d love to spend the whole rest of the afternoon gassing with you, Detective. But you know, I’ve got this council meeting before too long.”
    “You don’t want to talk about Perry Duclat?“
    “Want’s got nothing to do with it. All I know about that boy’s his reputation as a thief.”
    ‘‘Boy?”
    “Slip of the tongue and memory, Detective Hockaday. Last time I ever seen Perry Duclat is when he was a little shaver. Unlucky kid. Pity the way it turns out for him now—being wanted for murder and all.” Hippo shrugged, and drank. “Well, nothing you or me can do about that.”
    “I think a lot of bad luck never has to happen. I think we let it happen anyway, to some people.“
    “That badge of yours for real, Hockaday? I never heard any po-lice officer talk like you before.“
    “Neither have I.”
    “You after something from me, son, though I can’t imagine what. Only know you about as persistent as a dog with two dicks. In time, that gets irritating.“
    “Maybe I’ll just use that phone.”
    “Surely. In the outside office, if you please.” I started to leave, and Hippo said, “Like I say, it’s a pity about Perry.”
    “Maybe it’s something more than a pity.”
    Hippo’s hand shook so much now that little waves skipped over the surface of the whisky in his glass. He looked up at the hole in the window and grabbed at his heart again, then bolted down the remaining booze. This made no sense to me, since alcohol tends to go through the bloodstream like a carnival ride, making loop-the-loops that cause the heart to pump overtime.
    But then a lot of things make no sense since I stopped drinking.
    I decided to make my telephone call from somewhere besides City Hall.
     

THIRTY-EIGHT

     
    I walked past the newsstand guy chewing on the twin of the olive-and-pimento bologna sandwich he was eating earlier and wondered at the vastness of the human capacity for looking at revolting things. I could no more keep my eyes free of that newsy s mulching machine of a mouth than motorists are able to drive by automobile pileups without craning their necks for a look at somebody else’s bloody misery. I, of course, am worst of all in this human regard, since I am a cop in the city that never sleeps. I am craning my neck at other people’s misery on a twenty-four-hour basis. I even take this terrible habit of mine on the road.
    Outside, the sky had gone gray and rumbly and the air had a stillness to it. Mother Nature, hellbat that she is, was up to no good.
    I walked up on Canal Street for a while until I was tired of looking at store windows, grown men dressed like teenagers, fat ladies wearing rhinestone T-shirts, and suburban skinheads committing truancy and trying to look menacing.
    There was the balance of an afternoon to kill and then an evening before I would see Ruby again. Who knew about Claude? Bougart had arranged things so that he could contact me—period. Under those circumstances, it made sense that I