The drinking, too, was beginning to get a little wilder.
Sure he does.
But when the wetting of a whistle led to the slitting of a whistle, it very often led to the blowing of a whistle by a cop.
All those whistles blowing gave Byrnes a headache. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate music; he simply found the whistle a particularly uninventive instrument.
So Byrnes, though devoutly religious, was devoutly thankful that Christmas came but once a year. It only brought an influx of punks into the Squad Room, and God knew there were enough punks pouring in all year round. Byrnes did not like punks.
He considered dishonesty a personal insult. He had worked for a living since the time he was twelve, and anyone who decided that working was a stupid way to earn money was in effect calling Byrnes a jackass. Byrnes liked to work. Even when it piled up, even when it gave him a headache, even when it included a suicide or homicide or whatever by a drug addict in his precinct, Byrnes liked it.
When the telephone on his desk rang, he resented the intrusion. He lifted the receiver and said, "Byrnes here."
The sergeant manning the switchboard behind the desk downstairs said, "Your wife, Lieutenant."
"Put her on," Byrnes said gruffly.
He waited. In a moment, Harriet's voice came onto the line.
"Peter?"
"Yes, Harriet," he said, and wondered why women invariably called him Peter, while men called him Pete.
"Are you very busy?"
"I'm kind of jammed, honey," he said, "but I've got a moment. What is it?"
"The roast," she said.
"What about the roast?"
"Didn't I order an eight-pound roast?"
"I guess so. Why?"
"Did I or didn't I, Peter? You remember when we were talking about it and figuring how much we would need? We decided on eight pounds, didn't we?"
"Yes, I think so. What's the matter?"
"The butcher sent five."
"So send it back."
"I can't. I called him already and he said he's too busy."
"Too busy?" Byrnes asked incredulously. "The butcher?"
"Yes."
"Well, what the hell else does he have to do but cut meat? I don't under-"
"He'd probably exchange it if I took it down personally. What he meant was that he couldn't spare a delivery boy right now."
"So take it down personally, Harriet. What's the problem?"
"I can't leave the house, Peter. I'm expecting the groceries."
"Send Larry down," Byrnes said patiently.
"He's not home from school yet."
"I'll be damned if that boy isn't the biggest scholar we ever…"
"Peter, you know he's re…"
"… had in the Byrnes family. He's always at school, always…"
"… hearsing for a school play," Harriet concluded.
"I've got half a mind to call the principal and tell him…"
"Nonsense," Harriet said.
"Well, I happen to like my kid home for supper!" Byrnes said angrily.
"Peter," Harriet said, "I don't want to get into a long discussion about Larry or his adolescent pleasures, really I don't. I simply want to know what I should do about the roast."
"Hell, I don't know. Do you want me to send a squad car to the butcher shop?"
"Don't be silly, Peter."
"Well, what then? The butcher, so far as I can tell, has committed no crime."
"He's committed a crime of omission," Harriet said calmly.
Byrnes chuckled in spite of himself. "You're too damn smart, woman," he said.
"Yes," Harriet admitted freely. "What about the roast?"
"Won't five pounds suffice? It seems to me we could feed the Russian Army with five pounds."
"Your brother Louis is coming," Harriet reminded him.
"Oh." Byrnes conjured up a vision of his mountainous sibling. "Yes, we'll need the eight pounds." He paused, thinking. "Why don't you call the grocer and ask him to hold off on delivery for a few hours? Then you can go down to the butcher and raise all sorts of Irish hell. How does that sound?"
"It sounds fine," Harriet said. "You're smarter than you look."
"I won a bronze scholarship medal in high school," Byrnes said.
"Yes, I know. I still wear it."
"Are we set on this roast thing, then?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Not at all," Byrnes said. "About Larry…"
"I have to rush to the butcher. Will you be home very late?"
"Probably. I'm really swamped, honey."
"All right, I won't keep you. Goodbye, dear."
