PART 35 by John Nicholas Iannuzzi Page B

in action long before, to throw at your classmates. Here, everything was business. Patrolmen walked about in their uniform trousers and short-sleeved, dark-blue shirts, no ties. Some had sodas or snacks. Some were reading bulletins on the walls.
    â€œCan I help you?” the desk sergeant asked.
    â€œI wanted to go up to the squad.”
    The sergeant nodded, jerking his thumb over his left shoulder.
    The squad was the designation for the detectives, to distinguish them from the uniformed force. Without variation, the squad office was at the top of the first flight of steps in the old station houses. Sandro made his way to the end of the long counter and saw the stairs, with their polished brass handrails. Just to the rear of the stairs, a number of patrolmen sat in a large room skylarking, sipping coffee or Cokes.
    At the top of the first flight he saw a sign with a hand pointing to a doorway— SQUAD OFFICE. AS he entered, he came up to a waist-high rail that kept visitors at bay. Within the large room, many desks, some with typewriters, some with phones, all with papers and files atop, stood vigil, a long vigil from the looks of them, having been manned constantly for more than thirty or forty years, twenty-four hours a day, having the histories of pain, anguish, and joy, too, thrust upon and into them, handled and abused by hundreds of men in that time, all wearing badges, all carrying guns, listening to bizarre accusations, justifications, confessions. To the side of the large rooms, two small offices, with doors ajar, housed the squad commander, usually a lieutenant, and the squad clerical office. Between them was a two-way mirror for witnesses to observe suspects without fear that the suspects could see their accusers and perhaps retaliate. These offices were also painted light green; they were drab, old, dusty, with the same wooden floors. In one corner was a cage, called a detention cell. A man was lying quietly on the floor there, his back to Sandro. On one wall was a fingerprint board.
    â€œCan I help you?” asked one of the detectives. He was in shirtsleeves. A Chief Special .38 was strapped to his belt on the right side.
    â€œTom Mullaly?” Sandro inquired. He had checked, and learned that Lieutenant Garcia was the commander of the Seventh Squad detectives and that Detective Mullaly was in charge of the Alvarado case.
    â€œMullaly,” the detective called out.
    A tall, powerfully built man with thinning red hair looked up from typing. His face was smooth, wide, his lips thin.
    â€œYeah?” He rose and walked over to where Sandro stood. He was about six feet three inches. Sandro gauged him for 225 pounds. There was a .38 on his hip. He looked like a cop—like the cop Alvarado had described. Whether men who look like Mullaly are more attracted to the job, or whether the job, with its daily crises and dangers, carves its own inimitable visage on the men who hold it, is hard to know. Mullaly looked at Sandro, somewhat hostile, skeptical.
    â€œMy name is Luca, Alessandro Luca. I’m one of the lawyers in that Alvarado case you’re carrying.”
    Mullaly’s face was blank and didn’t change. He was, however, quickly assessing his adversary.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Counselor?” Mullaly’s words slipped out between motionless lips. He had sized up Sandro and apparently decided he was a pushover kid. He seemed to like that idea.
    â€œSince you’re carrying the case, I thought I might come over and chat with you,” said Sandro. “See if there’s anything I could pick up to expedite the case, you know.”
    â€œThere’s not much to chat about,” Mullaly said. He obviously thought the word chat was just grand. “You appointed counsel?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œThey stiffed you this time. A real loser.”
    â€œHow’s that? What’s it look like? I don’t want your investigation, just maybe some of the