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say a stupid thing like that. What the hell’s the matter with you, to say a dumb stupid thing like that? Don’t say that. George!”
    He stood against her onslaught of fists and words and protests, and his mouth kept moving, saying the same words, over and over again.
    “They’re dead, baby. They’re dead.”
    Mary Hogan was a small pear-shaped woman whose delicate features bore a striking resemblance to her daughter’s. There was some confusion as to who had directed that Mrs. Hogan be picked up from the Bronx bakery where she worked and brought to the Keeler apartment. The reason was obvious: it was felt that Kitty Keeler might be needing her mother.
    Mrs. Hogan brought a Father Kerrigan from St. Simon Stock along with her. He was one of those Irish priests of indeterminate age: perpetually boyish, smooth-cheeked, tenor-voiced, a few silver speckles in his blond-red hair. He kept informing everyone that Mrs. Hogan was hard of hearing, and would we speak carefully, she was good at lip reading.
    George Keeler came from the bedroom and went directly to his mother-in-law. She virtually disappeared from sight in his embrace, and the one muffled cry came from him. She carefully disengaged herself and studied his face with great intensity. Her eyes, obviously from years of serving partially as her ears as well, were sharp, somewhat glassy, but whatever tears they contained were frozen inside her sockets.
    “George,” she said in a soft flat brogue, “where are they? Where are my little ones? George, what’s happened here?”
    Kitty Keeler staggered into the room. Her face had gone dead white. She pushed George aside, pointed at the small stiff-backed woman and said to her husband, “What is she doing here? What the fuck is she doing here?”
    While Mrs. Hogan could not see what her daughter had said, she felt the impact of her anger. As though believing that no one could hear her unless facing her, she waited until her daughter turned to her and then, softly, almost in a whisper, she said, “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. What have you done?”

CHAPTER 2
    T IM NEARY HAS BEEN one of my closest friends from the time we were kids playing street games in the north Bronx. After high school, while I was learning how to lay lines for the telephone company, Tim was spending three years at a seminary learning that he didn’t really want to be a priest. We came into the department together; Tim passed every promotion exam right at the top of the list. He’s a very deliberate, careful guy and we trust each other completely. With a few reservations.
    Sometimes what Tim Neary doesn’t say is more important than what he does say.
    “What’s this thing look like, Joe?” That’s what he said.
    “How is this thing going to bounce on me?” That’s what he didn’t say.
    “It’s a little early to tell, Tim.”
    The Keelers were sitting on the bench in the squad room. Catalano was keeping himself between them and anyone else in the squad, as though the Keelers were his private property.
    “Jesus, Joe, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
    “Want me to run over to Peck Avenue and tell those kids that their timing was pretty bad?”
    “Don’t be a goddamn wiseass, Joe. I don’t need that right now.” Then, as though he just thought of it, as though it wasn’t of great importance to him, he said, “How about that other matter, Joe? You come up with anything?”
    I reached inside my jacket without answering him; handed over my report with a shake of my head.
    “Shit. Nothing? Nothing at all?”
    “Give me a little time, Tim.”
    What Tim had assigned me to do was to get information of an incriminating nature on the District Attorney of Queens County in order to force him off the primary ballot for the upcoming mayoralty election. Tim’s wife is a law partner of the campaign manager of the D.A.’s rival. Tim and I are both eligible to retire at half pay on November 28 of this year. Twenty years down the drain. Or