Neal Pollack

Some time later, Ward returned from his shower and was dismayed to find the Police Superintendent stretched out on the cot, arms folded pretzel-like behind his head, not unlike how Ward himself might have been positioned in times past, less somber days. The mattress sagging under him, its white bottom almost touching the dark floor. The Superintendent’s breathing did not come easy, a labored wheezing and blowing, some beached sea creature. He made several slight shifts and turns of the body, incremental adjustments of arms, torso, legs, a model responding to a pain'ter’s instructions. The bedsprings strained and squeaked. It was only then that Ward saw a white derby adorning his windowsill, drawing attention like some ill-placed trophy.

Ward stood there, astounded. “Glad you see fit,” he said.

The Police Superintendent turned his head and looked Ward up and down in disgust, an action of such surprising force that Ward’s lips parted.

“Have a seat.”

Ward collapsed into the chair beside the bed.

“Crazy damn hours.”

“Don’t blame me.”

“No, I won’t. I can send your friend a note of thanks and—”

“He’'s not my friend.”

“Oh no, then how would you describe him?”

Ward sat there watching his other.

“Please, hold nothing back. I wish to make every effort to understand.”

Ward shrugged the shawl from his shoulders onto the chair back and bent forward, his plastic-lined shoes at his feet. “There’s nothing to understand.”

“No?”

“No.” Ward tugged and pulled at the tongue of one shoe, as he began to squeeze and wiggle and stomp his foot inside it.

“Indeed. Not surprising, your curious—”

“Why don’t we just go?”

“—range of reasoning.”

“Kindly spare me the sermon.”

“Certainly. They don’t pay me to preach. What would you care to hear? You would care to hear that—”

“We have someplace to go.” Ward squeezed in the second foot and stood.

“No? Perhaps if I kneeled down and—”

“You wallow!”

The Police Superintendent popped upright on the bed. “Nothing could wallow like you.” He sat there on the bed staring at Ward.

“Are we going to sit here all day?”

“May you rot.”

“Take comfort in the thought.”

Ward lifted his overcoat from its closet hook and slipped inside it, his body mockingly insubstantial, the padded wrapping loose on his frame like a hospital gown. But the Police Superintendent made no effort to move, anchored to stubborn place, unable to pull his hate back inside him, link by link.

“Why don’t I meet you downstairs,” Ward said.

These words might have gone unheard, escaped comprehension. It was only when Ward started for the door that the Police Superintendent took to his feet and blocked his exit. He smacked his palms against his trouser legs to rid them of lint, shook the lapels of his overcoat, and brushed his hair flat with the sides of his hands. Then he eased around Ward, lifted his white derby from the windowsill, and fitted it on his head. He pulled the door open, without hurry, and motioned for Ward to go through.

The winter sky was high and clear above short snow-banked streets. Pancake-like flakes falling in rapid succession and blowing aloft again in fierce gusts. A car waited, idling. The hard-of-muscle young officer tugged harder at Ward’s elbow. Ward bent into the car and settled back onto the rear passenger seat. The officer slammed his door tight against the wind and cold. At the same moment, the front passenger door hinged open, snow rushing in with malicious intentions of beating the Police Superintendent to his seat. Only when his door slammed shut did he thoroughly examine his white derby for damage. The young officer seated himself next to Ward and shut the door. He turned his face to the glass, a full yard of leathered space between their bodies.

A second uniformed officer positioned himself behind the steering wheel and eased the smooth running car forward. “Coldest day of the year,” he said, black-gloved fingers drumming on the wheel.

Ward brushed snow from his coat, removed his own gloves, and blew hot air into the well of his joined hands. The wipers switched back and forth across the windshield. A second car moved ahead of them, venting smoke. A third car behind.

“Coldest so far.”

“You’re a genius,” Ward said. “Now turn up the goddamn heat.”

“What?” The driver craned his neck to look back over the seat. Perhaps he would steer the car with one hand and shoot Ward with the other. “You want to repeat that?”

“You heard me.”

“Officer,” the Police Superintendent said. “Do the honor. Turn up the heat.”

The driver shot a quick unprotesting glance at his superior and clicked on the blower.

“Thanks, you cocksucker.”

The Police Superintendent looked at Ward’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Take a moment or two, if you must.”

Ward offered no reply, only sat rubbing his palms together. The blower roaring like an untamed beast.

“That warm enough for you?” the driver asked.

“No. Have your mother send up a faggot or two from hell.”