The Water-Method Man

'Dante Calicchio?' Mulcahy prompted.

'Yes, sir,' Wilson said. 'Well, the police want to know what they should do with him.'

'I already told them to let him go,' Mulcahy said.

'I know, sir,' Wilson grumbled, 'but I guess they'd like to have you confirm that personally, or something.'

'Why, Wilson?'

'Well, sir,' Wilson said, 'the guy sure did a lot of damage, even though he didn't really know who we were, or anything. He was really pretty berserk.'

'What happened?' Mulcahy asked.

'Well, some of our boys are in hospital,' Wilson said. 'You know Cowles?'

'Yes, Wilson.'

'Well, Cowles has a broken nose and a few ribs cracked. And you know Detweiller, sir?'

'What about Detweiller, Wilson?'

'Both collarbones busted, sir,' Wilson said. 'The guy was some kind of wrestler ...'

Suddenly Mulcahy looked interested. 'A wrestler, Wilson?'

'Yeah, and a boxer too, sir,' Wilson said. 'You know Leary?'

'Yes, of course,' Mulcahy said eagerly. 'What happened to Leary?'

'Had his cheekbone cracked, sir. The wop just cold-cocked him with a hook. He was mostly a body puncher, sir, but he was getting off those hooks pretty good ...' Wilson gingerly touched his stitched eyebrow and smiled a little sheepishly. Arnold Mulcahy was smiling too. 'And Cohen, sir. He threw Cohen through the windshield of a car. Cohen's got all kinds of lacerations and some water on the elbow.'

'Really?' said Mulcahy. He seemed enormously pleased.

'So, sir,' Wilson said, 'the police thought you might want to reconsider and let them keep the guy awhile. I mean, that wop's sort of dangerous, sir.'

'Wilson,' Mulcahy said. 'Get him out, tonight, and bring him here after the ballet.'

'After the ballet, sir? Yes, sir,' Wilson said. 'You just want to bawl him out a little, huh?'

'No,' said Mulcahy. 'I think I'll offer him a job.'

'Yes, sir,' Wilson said, but he seemed pained. He looked at Trumper in a surly way. 'You know, kid,' he told Trumper, 'it beats me why anybody'd want to fight over you.'

'It beats me too,' said Bogus. He shook Arnold Mulcahy's hand and smiled at Mrs Mulcahy.

'Get a new suit,' she whispered to him.

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Forget your wife,' Mulcahy whispered to him. 'That's the best thing.'

'Yes, sir.'

The thug called Wilson was holding Trumper's well-traveled suitcase, less in friendliness than as a gesture of insult - as if Trumper wasn't capable of carrying it. He wasn't, either.

'Goodbye!' said Mrs Mulcahy.

'Goodbye,' Trumper said.