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There was no question that it was not working. That, until he just now had been desperately hoping, it was not just the time required to get hot water up from the basement heater to the tenth floor. The damned water had been running full blast for five minutes and it was just as ice-cold now as it had been when he first turned it on.
A shower, under the circumstances, was clearly out of the question. Shaving was going to be bad enough (he had a beard that, even with a hot-towel preshave soak, wore out a blade every time he sawed it off); he was not going to stand under a torrent of ice water.
At least, he consoled himself, he had nobly kept John Jameson in his bottle last night. He had not so much as sniffed a cork for forty-eight hours, so he would not reek of old booze when he presented himself to Staff Inspector Peter Wohl and announced he was reporting for duty. All he would smell of was twenty-four hours worth of flaking skin plus more than a little nervous sweat. It was possible that a liberal sprinkling of cologne would mask that.
Possible or not, that was his only choice.
He had slept in his underwear, so he took that off, rubbed his underarms briskly with a stiff towel, and then patted himself there and elsewhere with cologne. The cologne, he was painfully aware, had been Little Jack’s birthday gift to Daddy. Little Jack was nine, Daddy, thirty-four.
Three weeks before, the Honorable Seymour F. Marshutz of the Family Court had awarded Daddy very limited rights of visitation (one weekend a month, plus no more than three lunch or supper visits per month, with the understanding that Jack would give Mrs. Malone at least three hours notice, preferably longer, of his intention to exercise the lunch/supper privilege) in which to be Daddy.
He tore brown paper from around three bundles from the laundry before he found the one with underwear in it, and then put on a T-shirt and boxer shorts. Then he went to the closet for a uniform.
The uniform was new. The last time he’d worn a uniform, he had been a cop in the 13th District. He’d worn plainclothes as a detective in South Detectives, and then when he’d made sergeant, he’d been assigned as driver to Chief Inspector Francis J. Cohan, another plainclothes assignment. When Chief Cohan had been made deputy commissioner-Operations, as sort of a reward for a job well done, Cohan had arranged for Jack Malone to be assigned to the Major Crimes Division, still in plainclothes. When he’d made lieutenant, four months before, he had gone out and bought a new uniform, knowing that sooner or later, he would need one. As commanding officer of the Auto Squad, it was up to him whether or not to wear a uniform; he had elected not to.
Sooner had come much quicker than he expected. Captain Charley Gaft, who commanded Major Crimes, had called him up yesterday and told him he was being transferred, immediately, to Special Operations, and suggested he use the holiday to clean out his desk in Major Crimes.
“Can I ask why?”
“Career enhancement,” Captain Gaft replied, after a just barely perceptible hesitation.
That was so much bullshit.
“I see.”
There had been a tone in his voice that Captain Gaft had picked up on.
“It could be a number of things,” Gaft offered.
“Sir?”
“You know Tony Lucci?” Gaft asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Tony Lucci, as a sergeant, had been Mayor Jerry Carlucci’s driver. When he had made lieutenant (four places under Jack Malone on the list), he had been assigned to Special Operations. The word was that he was the mayor’s spy in Special Operations.
“He’s taking over for you here, and you’re replacing him at Bustleton and Bowler. I was told about both transfers, not asked, but it seems possible to me that the mayor may have been interested in seeing that Tony got an assignment that would enhance his career.”
“Oh, it was his career enhancement you were talking about?”
“Maybe Lucci knows when it’s best to back off, Jack.”
“Are we talking about Holland here?”
“I’m not. I don’t know about you.”
Malone did not reply.
“You’re being transferred, Jack,” Captain Gaft went on. “You want a little advice, leave it at that. Maybe it was time. Sometimes people, especially people with personal problems, get too tied up with the job. That sometimes gets people in trouble. That didn’t happen to you. Maybe if you weren’t being transferred, it would have. Am I getting through to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s really a good guy. What I really did was go over his head. If you go over a captain’s head, even if you’re right, you’d better expect trouble. I went over his head, and nobody thinks I’m right, and it could be a lot worse. There are a lot of assignments for a lieutenant a lot worse than Lucci’s old job in Special Operations—whatever Lucci’s job was.
Gaft didn’t stick it in me, although everybody would have understood it if he had. Or Cohan took care of me again. Or both. More than likely, both. But there is sort of a “this is your last chance, Malone, to straighten up and fly right” element in this transfer.
“You’re expected at Bustleton and Bowler at eight-thirty. In uniform. Maybe it would be a good idea to clear out your desk here today. Any loose ends we can worry about later.”
