"Where's what?"
"The birds."
"They flew away when we got up there."
"I thought they didn't know how to fly."
"Who said that? You said that, not us."
A man came down the iron-runged steps leading into the muster room, and the men at the desk turned momentarily to look at him. He was well-dressed, clean-shaven, with eyes that slanted to give his face an almost Oriental look. He wore no hat, and his hair was a sandy brown, cut close to his head, but not in a crew cut. He was reading something, some form or other, as he crossed the room, and then he folded the form and put it in his inside jacket pocket and stopped at the desk. The sergeant looked up.
"Dave, I'm going out to lunch," the man said. "Anybody calls for me, I'll be back around one-thirty, two o'clock."
"Right, Steve," the sergeant said. "You recognize these two?" he asked.
The man called Steve looked at Mancuso and Di Paolo and then shook his head. "No," he said. "Who are they?"
"A couple of pigeon fanciers." The sergeant looked at the patrolman, and the patrolman laughed. "You don't make them, huh?"
"No."
The sergeant looked at Di Paolo and said, "You see this fellow here? He's one of the meanest cops in this precinct. Am I right, Steve?"
The man, who was obviously a plainclothes detective, smiled and said, "Sure, sure."
"I'm only telling you this because if you're smart you'll give your story to me, and not wait until he gets you upstairs. He's got a rubber hose up there, right, Steve?"
"Two rubber hoses," the detective answered. "And a lead pipe."
"There ain't no story to give," Mancuso said.
"We was going up after the pigeons, and-"
"See you, Dave," the detective said.
"-that's the truth. We spotted them on the roof from where we was flying the pigeons-"
"So long, Steve. In February?"
"What do you mean?"
"Flying your pigeons on a day you could freeze your ass off?"
"What's that got to do with…"
Roger stood up suddenly. The detective had gone through the door, and was heading down the front steps of the building. The desk sergeant looked up as Roger reached the door, and then - as though noticing him for the first time - asked, "Did you want something, mister?"
"No, that's all right," Roger said. He opened the door quickly. Behind him, he could hear Di Paolo patiently explaining about the pigeons again. He closed the door. He came down the front steps and looked first to his left and then to his right, and then saw the detective walking down Grover Avenue, his hands in the pockets of his gray tweed overcoat, his head ducked against the wind. Swiftly, he began following.
He could not have said what it was that had forced him to rise suddenly from that bench. Perhaps it was the way they had those two fellows trapped, the way they were trying to make out those fellows had tried to rob the dress loft when it was plain to see that all they'd really been after was their pigeons up on the roof. Perhaps it was that, or perhaps it was the way the detective had smiled when the sergeant said he was one of the meanest cops in the precinct. He had smiled and said, "Sure, sure," as if he wasn't really a mean cop at all, but simply a guy who had a job to do and the job only accidentally happened to deal with men who maybe were or maybe weren't trying to break into dress lofts.
There was something good about that detective's face, Roger couldn't say what. He only knew that there were bums in this world and there were nice guys, and this detective struck him as being a nice guy, the same way Parker in the luncheonette had struck him immediately as being a bum.
He sure walks fast, though, Roger thought.
He quickened his pace, keeping sight of the gray overcoat. The detective was tall, not as tall as Roger himself, but at least six-one or six-two, and he had very broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and he walked with the quick surefootedness of a natural athelete, even on pavements that were getting very sloppy with fallen snow. The snow was still wet and heavy, large flakes filling the air like a Christmas card, everything gray and white and sharp, with the buildings standing out in rust-red warmth. Everyone always thought of the city as being black and white, but during a snowstorm you suddenly saw the colors of the buildings, the red bricks and the green window frames and the yellows and the blues of rooms only glimpsed behind partially. Tcvece \ias co\ot Vn. X\\e, Following the detective, he began to feel pretty good again. He had always liked snow, and it was beginning to snow pretty heavy now, with the streets and sidewalks turning white, and with the snow making a funny squeaking sound under his shoes as he walked into the large swirling flakes. In Dick Tracy, whenever it snowed, the guy who drew the cartoon always made these big round white circles, they filled the whole page almost, he sure knew how to make it snow. It snowed in Dick Tracy sometimes three, four times every winter.
