"A lot. You can thank Carella for that, too. Have you ever seen Castleview Prison, Lieutenant? Have you ever seen the place Carella sent my Frank to? It's for animals, not men. And I had to live alone, waiting, knowing what Frank was going through.
How long do you think youth lasts? How long do you think good looks hang around when you've got sorrow and worry inside you like a… like a thing that's eating your guts?"
"Castleview isn't the best prison in the world, but ..
"It's a torture chamber!" Virginia shouted.
"Have you ever been inside it? It's dirty, filthy. And hot, and cramped, and rusting. It smells, Lieutenant. You can smell it for blocks before you approach it. And they crowd men into that hot ifithy stench.
Did my Frank cause trouble? Yes, of course he did. Frank was a man,
not an animal-and he refused to be treated like an animal, and so they labeled him a troublemaker."
"Well, you can't ..
"Do you know you're not allowed to talk to anyone during work hours at Castleview? Do you know they still have buckets in each cell buckets-no toilet facilities! Do you know what the stink is like in those sufferingly hot cubicles?
And my Frank was sick! Did Carella think about that, when he became a hero by arresting him?"
"He wasn't thinking of becoming a hero. He was doing his job. Can't you understand that, Virginia? Carella is a cop. He was only doing his job."
"And I'm doing mine," Virginia said flatly.
"How? Do you know what you're carrying in your goddamn purse? Do you realize that it might go up in your face when you fire that gun?
Nitroglycerin isn't toothpaste!"
"I don~t care."
"Thirty-two years old, and you're ready to kill a man and maybe take your own life in the bargain."
"I don't care."
"Talk sense, Virginia!"
"I don't have to talic sense with you or anyone.
I don't have to talk at all." Virginia moved violently, and the purse jiggled in her lap.
"I'm doing you a goddamn favor by talking to you."
"All right, relax," Byrnes said, nervously eyeing the purse.
"Just relax, willya? Why don't you put that purse on the desk, huh?"
"What for?"
"You're bouncing around like a rubber ball. If you don't care about it going off, I do."
Virginia smiled. Gingerly, she lifted the purse from her lap, and gingerly she placed it on the desk top before her, swinging the .38 around at the same time, as if .38 and nitroglycerin were newlyweds who couldn't bear to be parted for a moment.
"That's better," Byrnes said, and he sighed in relief.
"Relax. Don't get upset." He paused.
"Why don't we have a smoke?"
"I don't want one," Virginia said.
Byrnes took a package of cigarettes from his pocket. Casually, he moved to her side of the desk, conscious of the .38 against the fabric of the purse. He gauged the distance between him sell and Virginia, gauged how close he would be to her when he lighted her cigarette, with which hand he should slug her so that she would not go flying over against the purse. Would her instant reaction to the dropped match be a tightening of her trigger finger? He did not think so. She would pull back. And then he would hit her.
He shook a cigarette loose.
"Here," he said "Have one."
"Don't you smoke?"
"I smoke. I don't feel like one now."
"Come on. Nothing like a cigarette for relaxation.
"Here."
He thrust the package toward her.
"Oh, all right," she said. She shifted the38 to her left hand. The muzzle of the gun was an inch from the bag. With her right hand, she took the cigarette Byrnes offered.
Standing at her right, he figured he would extend the match with his left hand, let it fall into her lap, and then clip her with a roundhouse right when she pulled back in fright. Oddly, his heart was pounding furiously.
Suppose the gun went off when she pulled back?
He reached into his pocket for the matches. His hand was trembling. The cigarette dangled from Virginia's lips. Her left hand, holding the gun against the purse, was steady.
Byrnes struck the match.
And the telephone rang.
Virginia whipped the cigarette from her mouth and dropped it into the ash tray on her desk.
She switched the gun back to her right hand and then whirled on Bert Kung who was moving to answer the telephone.
"Hold it, sonny!" she snapped.
"What line is that?"
"Extension 31," Kung~answered.
"Get away from this desk, Lieutenant," Virginia said. She gestured at him with the gun, and Byrnes backed away. Then, with her free hand, she pulled the telephone to her, studied its face for a moment, and then pushed a button in its base.
"All right, answer it," she said, and she lifted her receiver the moment Kung did.
"Eightyseventh Squad, Detective King."
He was very conscious of Virginia Dodge sitting at the next desk, the extension phone to her ear, the snout of the .38 pointed at the center of the big black purse.
"Detective Kung? This is Marcie Snyder."
"Who?"
"Marcie." The voice paused.
"Snyder."
Intimately, it whispered.
"Marcie Snyder.
Don't you remember me, Detective Kung?"
"Oh, yes. How are you, Miss Snyder?"
"I'm just fine, thanks. And how's the big blond cop?"
