Glad to See You—Dead!

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Frank Ward. Glad to See You—Dead!

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GLAD TO SEE YOU—DEAD!

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“All right,” I said. I took out my lighter and touched k to a cigarette, the wind fanning the bright little core of flame, and chewed on the bitter smoke. “All right,” I said. “Stop fanning your mouth like that. You get on my nerves, saying I’m cooked, I’m cooked. Shut up.” I walked away from him a few yards and turned the light on Hanrahan again, on everybody’s pal, Hanrahan, the cop with his hand on everybody’s shoulder and his hand in everybody’s pocket, the cop with one eye on the captain’s door and the other eye on the captain’s wife, or on anybody’s wife. I looked at him and remembered what he had told me about women, on the nights I had ridden with him along the night patrol. The cop who made every decent cop wish he were out collecting garbage or pushing a broom around after the milk carts. I spat on the wet road. I said to Ackerman, “Tell me again. Give it to me once more, Connie.”

He looked at me, just a big, dumb guy with his feet too big and his belly pushing out against his coat and his sad wet eyes scared now. “I didn’t do it, Nick. Not even to him, not from behind. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

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