“I’m gonna letcha listen. Just stand there and listen. Last night them two masked hoods, they woulda got Grogan if it wasn’t for you. That impresses Grogan. He puts you on his payroll. A few hours later you’re in this office and I proposition you to join the Squad. All right, you sign in. And you don’t say nothing about working for Grogan. That’s why Ferguson ain’t here now. That’s why Leonard Ward Ferguson was only forty-four when they put him in the box.”

There was another low-pitched growl. Corey glanced at the growler. It was Heeley. Now the same thing that had happened to Donofrio was happening to Heeley. Letting out another growl, Heeley started a move toward Corey. Moving faster, a squadman got behind Heeley and held him back.

McDermott said to Corey, “You better get outta here. The next one that flips, we may not be able to hold him.”

Corey started to turn away.

“Wait,” McDermott said. “Here’s your gun.” Going toward the door, Corey tucked the gun inside his shirt and put it under his belt. Then he opened the door and walked out.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

In the corridor, going toward the elevator, he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. As it hit him, the pain in his head went away. Then the twinge went away and the other pain came again, throbbing along the side of his head where Donofrio had clouted him, and also the searing pain in his ribs where Donofrio had kicked him. In the elevator he pushed the street-floor button. As the elevator went down he leaned back against the wall, shaking his head slowly. He had no specific thoughts, just a negative feeling, everything on the gloomy side.

The elevator came to a stop. Corey got out and walked slowly along the corridor. As he approached the doorway on the Banker Street side of city hall, he saw a framed poster on the wall. It showed a blue-uniformed policeman smiling cheerily and pointing to a large rubbish can. The caption read, “Let’s Keep This City Clean.” Underneath the caption there was a penciled comment consisting of two words.

On Banker Street, walking toward a taxi stand, Corey took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face. It was cold sweat. He told himself he needed a drink. In the taxi he said, “Second and Addison.”

The driver said, “Right.” There was no further talk. Corey leaned back, then leaned sideways, to lessen the pain in his ribs. He touched the side of his head, felt the bump and wished the throbbing would go away. Suddenly he sat up straight, forgetting the black and blue of his ribs and his bruised head. He reached for the back pocket of his trousers, took out his wallet and opened it. He looked at the police identification card that read, “Night Squad.” Then he looked at the badge.