Year of the Dragon (9 page)

He went immediately home. He lived in a three-story brick house in a row of similar private houses on a hill on Park Terrace West in the Inwood section of Manhattan. It was the same neighborhood and parish in which he had grown up, though not on a street as fine as this one, for his father had been a liquor salesman. He had bought his house during the fifth year of his marriage with a down payment borrowed from his wife’s father. He had paid that loan off, and in two more years his mortgage too would be entirely paid off. The slate-roofed house had a small garden, almost all of which cowered under a weeping willow tree. The willow was stately, even noble, but under it grass struggled and mostly failed to grow. Even flowers would not grow, and Powers sometimes thought its domination of his garden resembled the police department’s domination of his life.

During Powers’ boyhood, Park Terrace West was where the rich kids lived, doctors’ and lawyers’ sons, kids whom he played with but secretly detested, and whose existence he imagined to be idyllic. From grade school on he had coveted the life style they would accede to, and therefore their houses, and he had brought Eleanor by to look them over in the early days of their courtship. By that time the neighborhood had deteriorated somewhat, most of the rich kids and their parents had moved away, and such a house was no longer impossibly beyond the dreams of a young policeman who intended to rise swiftly within the department. Powers’ youthful ambitions for the most part had been in no way original. He had wanted to marry the best girl, and live in a big house on Park Terrace West, and he had achieved both those goals reasonably early in life, though not his third goal, which was to attain the rank of chief of detectives at least. He had hoped one day to be named police commissioner too, but had realized from the start that this would take luck. The PC was a political appointee. Merit helped a cop only as far as captain, a level one achieved principally by passing examinations. No high-ranking officer or commissioner could intervene. Powers’ rise to captain had been inexorable. But all ranks above captain were appointed by whoever was PC that year. Each one promoted officers for his own reasons, or for reasons advanced by advisers who had his ear, mostly the latter. PCs came and went, but the advisers tended to remain. Cliques formed and, for as long as they lasted, reigned. Sometimes merit counted and sometimes scores were settled. Some officers advanced and some did not, and that was that.

Powers, entering his solid brick house, found his wife in the kitchen putting away groceries.

“You came home to surprise me,” she said. “I’m to have the pleasure of making your lunch.”

Powers smiled. Glum as he felt, it was nice that she was there and that he liked her so much.

“I came home to lay my head in your lap.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

Hanging his jacket and gun belt over the back of a chair, sitting down heavily, Powers began to describe his interview with the PC.

“I feel like a fighter who just lost every round,” he said.

“But you did take the job.”

“I didn’t see where I had any choice.”

“It’s a precinct,” his wife said, moving behind him, and embracing him from behind his chair, her cheek against his. “You’ll do fine. I know you will.”

“It’s an impossible situation in there.”

“I’ll make you an omelet. Then I have to leave.” Earlier Powers had gone to the public library on Forty-second Street where he had collected a number of books on Chinese history, on the Chinese language, on the Chinese experience in America. When his wife had gone out he put on his half-glasses, opened to the first page of the first tome, and attempted to wade into his new life’s work. It was like wading through mud. He felt dull and unwilling, like a schoolboy forced to ingest a subject not only beyond his understanding, but also beyond any conceivable interest to him, now or ever. It was an emotion Powers thought he had seen the last of twenty-five years earlier. Like a schoolboy he wanted to rebel, but he would have to do the work eventually or go under, and he refused to go under - the instinct to survive was stronger than any other, stronger than humiliation, stronger than pain.

To help the people of Chinatown he would first have to find out who they were, and he kept reading.

The volume in his lap was as thick as a blacksmith’s anvil and as heavy, as was its prose. Presently he put it down, and got up and went to stare out the window. What he needed was to talk, not study, to unburden himself of these violent emotions, principally anger, that churned around inside him. He wished his wife were there to talk to, and he resented her for being out of the house, focused on her own life, and not his.

She had worked as a nurse until their first son was born, and now that both boys were in college she had gone back to it. She managed an entire floor at St. Clare’s hospital on Fiftieth Street, and at first she used to come home and regale him with tales of each day’s heartbreaking cases. They were descriptions he did not wish to hear, and she soon came to understand this. The result was that she no longer talked about her work at all, any more than Powers talked about his. The world was full of malignancy, some of it deliberate, and one simply lived with this, one could not turn it into cheerful conversation, and had best not try. Her hours had now become as erratic as his - hospitals, like police stations, were busy around the clock. Each knew vaguely what the other’s schedules were, they made their off-duty hours coincide as much as possible, and for the rest they came together at odd times as they could. But more and more Powers hated the fact that she wanted to work. He longed for the old days when Eleanor’s life had revolved totally around him, and he hoped she would see this for herself without his saying so, though so far she had not.

For most of the afternoon he remained at the window, watching the cars go by. Despite himself he kept replaying in his head every line from that morning, reliving his humiliation. In terms of moving men to action, humiliation may be the strongest of human emotions. It causes not only the blood to boil but also the brain, so that a man’s paramount desire becomes to strike out in some way. Any action becomes better than none. It was out of humiliation that, late in the afternoon, Powers decided to risk more of the same. He telephoned Carol Cone.

“I thought you might like to get your coat back,” he said when she came on the line. He had kept his voice bright and cheerful so as not to scare her off. He could not stand it any longer inside this house and inside himself. But to go out he needed a destination.

“By now I thought maybe you had sold it.”

He managed a light, confident laugh. “So just tell the delivery man where to take it.”

He had thought to meet her downtown, perhaps in a restaurant near her network. But she was off that night and on her way home, she said. To his surprise she told him that she lived in Bronxville, a rich Westchester suburb. Why didn’t he come for a drink about six?

Why not indeed?

HER CAR was in the driveway, an open, very expensive Mercedes. He parked his four-year-old Mustang behind it and got out. He supposed it was her car. The plates read CC-44, her initials plus the number on the door of her house. Who else could it belong to?

Despite his age, he was no more sure of himself as he approached this woman, than he might have been at twenty Did the new sexually liberated generation, exposed (literally) to dozens of girls and women from adolescence on, approach them with more confidence? He didn’t know. Hesitating still, Powers found himself patting the skin of the ostentatious car in front of him. Real leather seats. Chrome. Did she leave it out to impress him? He walked across the lawn and rang her bell.

She wore tight blue jeans and a loose blouse. He carried her raincoat clutched in his fist and it preceded him into battle like a weapon or a shield. It masked his vulnerability, like something with which to ward off blows.

“Thank you,” she said, and disarmed him. “Well” she said, “come on in.”

The house itself unsettled him further. It was big. He had to come to terms with the idea that its owner was an unattached woman. She ran this house and household, occupied space in the world exactly the way a man did. He had never thought of a woman in this light before and it was difficult for him. She was not a man. She would not know how to fix a leaking faucet, and she would be subject to all of a woman’s curious vulnerabilities. Or would she? She was too new to him. He could not be sure.

Did her house give any clues? In her living room stood two barber’s chairs. They were low leather chairs out of some rich men’s club probably. They shocked Powers. So did a Wurlitzer jukebox that served as her sound system. So did what it was playing: rock music.

“I was listening to the Bee Gees,” she said. “Do you like the Bee Gees?”

As a conversational opening this reminded Powers of his adolescence, and as music the Bee Gees did not match his age - or hers. He was glancing around, trying to learn about her from the decor. But there was no one style here. Nothing matched. Real Persian rugs on the floor. Abstract paintings on two of the walls. Signed photographs on a table of Carol interviewing celebrities, including the President of the United States.

“Would you like a drink? What would you like?

He looked her over. She wore a lot of makeup today too, and looked younger than he remembered. She had rather more bosom than he remembered as well. She had a nice figure.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

He followed her into the kitchen where she took a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge. He followed her outside onto a terrace. Long shadows on her lawn. She opened and poured the wine. There was a short upsweep of grass and then flowers amid rocks. He stared into the cold white wine. She must pay a gardener plenty, he thought.

“Is that nicer than Chinese champagne?” she said, and he laughed.

There were certain questions that had to be asked immediately. Otherwise no relationship of whatever kind was possible. He began to ask them.

“Do you live alone in this big house?”

The house, she said, was for her daughter, because all children should grow up in houses, not apartments, didn’t Powers agree? Her daughter, who was away at college at the moment, was eighteen. Carol added quickly, “I was married very young.”

So she was sensitive about her age, whatever it was.

“You never remarried?”

No. She was perfectly willing to talk about her life, much of which, he supposed, had appeared in gossip columns. Her concept of privacy was not the same as his. She had been divorced fourteen years, and had since lived, she said, four years with one man, almost five with another. She had almost married the first one. They had taken out a license, a date was set. Powers did not ask what went wrong and she did not tell him. Instead she peered wistfully off into the middle distance.

“And you? Are you still married to the same woman?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not even seeing anybody now,” she said. “You’re the first man I even felt like talking to in over three months.”

He weighed these words. Maybe she felt sex-starved. Or found him attractive. It was possible. Maybe she still hoped to make use of him professionally. Maybe she was only making small talk. Powers felt like a student staring at symbols on a blackboard. He couldn’t decipher any of them.

From time to time Carol leaned forward to refill their glasses.

“You’ve killed two men. What did that feel like? To kill somebody?”

Powers looked up sharply. “The first was a psycho who had already killed three people. The other was a guy sticking up a store.” He stopped.

“We’ll talk about it another time, maybe.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He did not want to relive those emotions. It was too complicated to explain to someone who had not been there.

“Whenever you feel you can.”

“Sure.”

Carol jumped up. “Would you like to see my house?”

Her eyes looked to him either preoccupied or unfocused. In any case, over bright. He set his glass down with great care. The glass was fragile and so was whatever mood she was in. He did not want to risk breaking either. “I’d love to.

He began to trail her through rooms. She talked as steadily as a tour guide, but her voice had gone off fractionally. He watched her.

They stood in her bedroom, a bright airy room with chintz curtains at windows that were partly open. The bed was queen-sized - rather a large bed, he thought, for a lone woman. It was like an empty arena. It existed to be used. Without two struggling gladiators, and the grunts of combat, it did not make sense. In itself it seemed an invitation. He wondered if he was supposed to make a try here.

But she never stopped talking, and instead led him through a short corridor into what must have been a boudoir originally - a small room outfitted as an office. “Here’s where I do a lot of my work,” said Carol. Boudoirs have changed Powers thought, but women have not. All roads still lead to the boudoir, he thought. He could measure his progress toward it with a ruler. Afterwards, to determine the magnitude of his victory, he can make a body count.

There was a desk and typewriter. There were stacks of books and papers on the floor. Against the wall was a daybed, and Carol sat down on it. When Powers sat beside her, she threw him a shy smile.

“You are a beautiful woman.”

“Well, thank you. What a nice thing to say. Thank you very much.”

He decided to take up both her hands, but she disengaged them.

Powers was not sure what to do next.

“I feel there’s something between us, don’t you?” she said. “Maybe it’s just that we’ve been shot at together. I don’t know what else it could be, do you?”

Powers felt like a man whose letter was in the mail. His message would reach its destination eventually. Repeating it now could do no further harm.

He said, “I want to go to bed with you. I want to go to bed with you right now.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Carol said. “That won’t be possible.” She frowned, then smiled, then frowned again.

Powers said nothing.

“It isn’t,” she added, “because I don’t find you attractive. I find you very attractive. You’re a very attractive man As a matter of fact, I’m flattered to be asked. I’m sure any woman would feel flattered, an attractive man like you. Thank you for asking me.”

Powers stared at her; his face felt set in cement.

“So tell me about yourself,” said Carol nervously Did you go to college?”

The question hung there, as red and tender as a bruise.

“Did I go to college? What kind of question is that? What do you take me for? For some stupid flatfoot? Is that who you think you’re dealing with? Of course I went to college. And got a degree. And law school. And got a law degree. You want to know something? Some cops can read and write. Try getting to know a few. You’d be surprised.”

“You’re a lawyer then. I didn’t know that. I didn’t know you were a lawyer.”

“I’ve got a law degree. I’m not a lawyer, I hate lawyers.

“But I don’t see why,” she said nervously, triumphantly, “why you went to the trouble of getting a law degree. If you didn’t intend to practice law, that is?”

“Because if a man wants a big career in law enforcement a law degree helps.”

“Is that what you want, a big career? In law enforcement?

“I have to shove off.”

Carol, in a small voice, said, “I seem to have led you on. I’m sorry. I’m really terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

Powers, on his feet, stepped toward the door.

“There’s a very nice restaurant in the village. Would you like to go out to dinner? As my guest, of course,” she added.

“You want to know something else? I can afford to pick up a restaurant check, too.”

“Then you’ll come?”

He strode out of the office, out of the bedroom and into the hall outside, where he got lost, and was obliged to wait for Carol to lead him to the stairs. At the front door he said goodbye and kept moving. As he backed out of her driveway, he caught a glimpse of her standing m the doorway. He thought he saw her wave but did not wave back.

LATER, POWERS in pajamas came to bed carrying a heavy tome on China. His glasses upon his nose, he sat down against the headboard.

“I always have enjoyed a little light reading in bed,” he said to his wife beside him.

“Don’t be worried, honey, it will work out.

She put her magazine down.

He looked at her. He saw where her knees rose up under the covers, the rumpled hills and valleys of the country he knew so well and in which he felt safe. He was glad to be home and in bed with her.

“I’m going to have an awful lot of studying to do,” he said.

She reached to switch off the light.

“Study the Chinese tomorrow. For tonight, how about studying your wife?” As she turned toward him, the tome fell off the bed onto the floor.

“Hey,” he said, “you made me lose my place.”