“Garbage,” Frank said scornfully.
“It’s the way I feel.”
“Let me give you a warning.”
“Go ahead.”
“The best advice you’ll ever get.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you think there’s really something called love, if you honest-to-God believe there’s actually a thing called love that’s as strong and real as hate or fear, then all you’re doing is setting yourself up for a lot of pain. It’s a lie. A big lie. Love is something writers invented to sell books.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“The hell I don’t.” Frank glanced away from the road for a moment, looked at Tony with pity. “You’re how old–thirty-three?”
“Almost thirty-five,” Tony said as Frank looked back at the street and pulled around a slow-moving truck that was loaded down with scrap metal.
“Well, I’m ten years older than you,” Frank said. “So listen to the wisdom of age. Sooner or later, you’re going to think you’re in true love with some fluff, and while you’re bending over to kiss her pretty feet she’s going to kick the shit out of you. Sure as hell, she’ll break your heart if you let her know you have one. Affection? Sure. That’s okay. And lust. Lust is the word, my friend. Lust is what it’s really all about. But not love. What you’ve got to do is forget all this love crap. Enjoy yourself. Get all the ass you can while you’re young. Fuck ’em and run. You can’t get hurt that way. If you keep daydreaming about love, you’ll only go on making a complete goddamned fool out of yourself, over and over and over again, until they finally stick you in the ground.”
“That’s too cynical for me.”
Frank shrugged.
Six months ago, he had gone through a bitter divorce. He was still sour from the experience.
“And you’re not really that cynical, either,” Tony said. “I don’t think you really believe what you said.”
Frank didn’t say anything.
“You’re a sensitive man,” Tony said.
Frank shrugged again.
For a minute or two, Tony tried to revive the dead conversation, but Frank had said everything he intended to say about the subject. He settled into his usual sphinxlike silence. It was surprising that he had said all he said, for Frank was not much of a talker. In fact, when Tony thought about it, the brief discussion just concluded seemed to have been the longest they’d ever had.
Tony had been partners with Frank Howard for more than three months. He still was not sure if the pairing was going to work out.
They were so different from each other in so many ways. Tony was a talker. Frank usually did little more than grunt in response. Tony had a wide variety of interests other than his job: films, books, food, the theater, music, art, skiing, running. So far as he could tell, Frank didn’t care a great deal about anything except his work. Tony believed that a detective had many tools with which to extract information from a witness, including kindness, gentleness, wit, sympathy, empathy, attentiveness, charm, persistence, cleverness–and of course, intimidation and the rare use of mild force. Frank felt he could get along fine with just persistence, cleverness, intimidation, and a bit more force than the department thought acceptable; he had no use whatsoever for the other approaches on Tony’s list. As a result, at least twice a week, Tony had to restrain him subtly but firmly. Frank was subject to eye-bulging, blood-boiling rages when too many things went wrong in one day. Tony, on the other hand, was nearly always calm. Frank was five-nine, stocky, solid as a blockhouse. Tony was six-one, lean, rangy, rugged looking. Frank was blond and blue-eyed. Tony was dark. Frank was a brooding pessimist. Tony was an optimist. Sometimes it seemed they were such totally opposite types that the partnership never could be successful.
Yet they were alike in some respects. For one thing, neither of them was an eight-hour-a-day cop. More often than not, they worked an extra two hours, sometimes three, without pay, and neither of them complained about it. Toward the end of a case, when evidence and leads developed faster and faster, they would work on their days off if they thought it necessary. No one asked them to do overtime. No one ordered it. The choice was entirely theirs.