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Cops don't like other cops to get it. It makes them nervous. It makes them feel they are in a profession that is not precisely white collar, despite the paperwork involved. It makes them feel that at any moment someone might hit them or kick them or even shoot them.

It makes them feel unloved.

The two young sportsmen who had unloved Carella so magnificently had broken three of his ribs and his nose. They had also given him such a headache, due to concussion caused by a few well-placed kicks to the medulla oblongata. He had gained consciousness shortly after being admitted to the hospital and he was conscious now, of course, but he didn't look good, and he didn't feel good, and he didn't feel much like talking. So he sat with Teddy beside the bed, holding her hand and breathing shallowly because the broken ribs hurt like hell. The detectives did most of the talking, but there was a cheerlessness in their banter. They were suddenly face to face with violence of a most personal sort, not the violence they dealt with every working day of their lives, not an emotionless confrontation with broken mutilated strangers, but instead a glimpse at a friend and colleague who lay in battered pain on a hospital bed while his wife held his hand and tried to smile at their feeble jokes.

The four detectives left the hospital room at twelve noon. Brown and Willis walked ahead of Hawes and Kling, who trailed behind them silently.

"Man, they got him good," Brown said.

The seventeen year old dropout was beginning to scream Miranda-Escobedo, quoting rights like a lawyer. Genero kept telling him to shut up, but he had never really understood the Supreme Court decision too well, despite the flyers issued to every cop in the precinct, and he was afraid now that the kid knew something he didn't know. He was overjoyed to hear the ring of footsteps on the recently painted iron-runged steps leading to the squadroom. Willis and Brown came into view on the landing first. Kling and Hawes were behind them. Genero could have kissed them all.

"These the bulls?" the dropout asked, and Genero said, "Shut up."

"What's up?" Brown asked.

"Tell your friend here about Miranda-Escobedo," the kid said.

"Who're you?" Brown asked.

"He delivered an envelope," Genero said.

"Here we go," Hawes said.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Give me some advice on my rights," the kid said.

"Tell me your name, or I'll kick your ass in," Brown said. "How do you like that advice?" He had just witnessed what a pair of young hoods had done to Carella, and he was in no mood to take nonsense from a snotnose.

"My name is Michael McFadden, and I won't answer no questions without a lawyer here," the kid said.

"Can you afford a lawyer?" Brown asked.

"No."

"Get him a lawyer, Hal," Brown said, bluffing.

"Hey, wait a minute, what is this?" McFadden asked.

"You want a lawyer, we'll get you a lawyer," Brown said.

"What do I need a lawyer for? All I done was deliver an envelope."

"I don't know why you need a lawyer," Brown said. "You're the one who said you wanted one. Hal, call the D.A.'s office, get this suspect here a lawyer."

"Suspect?" McFadden said. "Suspect? What the hell did I do?"

"I don't know, kid," Brown said, "and I can't find out because you won't let me ask any questions without a lawyer here. You getting him that lawyer, Hal?"

Willis, who had lifted the phone receiver and was listening to nothing more vital than a dial tone, said, "Tie-line's busy, Art."

"Okay, I guess we'll just have to wait then. Make yourself comfortable, kid, we'll get a lawyer up here for you soon as we can."

"Look, what the hell," McFadden said, "I don't need no lawyer."

"You said you wanted one."

"Yeah, but, I mean, like if this is nothing serious …"

"We just wanted to ask you some questions about that envelope, that's all."

"Why? What's in it?"

"Let's open the envelope and show the kid what's in it, shall we do that?" Brown said.

"All I done was deliver it," McFadden said.

"Well, let's see what's inside it, shall we?" Brown said. He folded his handkerchief over the envelope, slit it open with a letter opener, and then used a tweezer to yank out the folded note.

"Here, use these," Kling said, and took a pair of white cotton gloves from the top drawer of his desk. Brown put on the gloves, held his hands widespread alongside his face, and grinned.

"Whuffo does a chicken cross de road, Mistuh Bones?" he said, and burst out laughing. The other cops all laughed with him. Encouraged, McFadden laughed too. Brown glowered at him, and the laugh died in his throat. Gingerly, Brown unfolded the note and spread it flat on the desk top:

"What's that supposed to mean?" McFadden asked.

"You tell us," Brown said.

"Beats me."

"Who gave you this note?"

"A tall blond guy wearing a hearing aid."

"You know him?"

"Never saw him before in my life."

"He just came up to you and handed you the envelope, huh?"

"No, he came up and offered me a fin to take it in here."

"Why'd you accept?"

"Is there something wrong with bringing a note in a police station?"