Chapter Seven
"On behalf of a grateful nation, I present this flag in appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one."
The middle-aged Army chaplain who had conducted the graveside service was on one knee in front of Harding, presenting the American flag that had draped his father's casket to him as next-of-kin. Harding fought to focus his attention on the flag, precisely folded into a neat triangle, so tightly that not a thread of red was visible. There was only the blue and white, a night sky full of stars.
How many times had he seen this done? How many times had he watched the young wives of slain cops, mothers, daughters and sons, crushed in their grief as they accepted the condolences of the city? And here he sat, stone-faced and empty-hearted while the chaplain knelt and waited.
This wasn't his place. The flag was for the eldest son. . . .
He shook his head with confusion. Where had that thought come from? He was the eldest son, he had been for years. Decades.
When had he last seen his father? For six, seven years after his mother's death he had dutifully visited his father at least three times each year: on his birthday, Christmas, and Father's Day. Gradually the visits became phone calls, then the phone calls became greeting cards. For the last few years he had often forgotten to even send a card.
The chaplain continued to wait patiently for Harding to work through his grief. Some of the other guests shifted their weight from foot to foot as they wondered how long this part of the ceremony could last. Still Harding sat, motionless as a stone, eyes fixed on this token of thanks that he could not bring himself to accept.
Wilson coughed gently and leaned forward slightly in his chair. The chaplain understood the signal, and turned his body a few degrees so he could offer the flag to the son who actually showed some interest in accepting it. Wilson cradled the flag in his arms, and murmured, "Thank you."
The service was over. Harding stood when Wilson did, and together they turned to greet the small group of people, several of them retired Chicago cops, who had come to mourn for Art Welsh. Among them, the slight blonde woman in the Commander's uniform stood out as being by far the youngest person at the graveside.
"Harding. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Commander. I'll be back to work on Monday."
"He was your father, Harding. Take your time, the 27th isn't going anywhere."
Wilson said his good-byes to Ralph Molloy, then joined Harding and the Commander. He held out his hand to her, and she shook it warmly.
"Commander, this is my brother, Wilson. Uh, this is Commander Sherry O'Neill, my... uh..."
"You're his boss."
"I try to remind him of that at least three times a week." She smiled, and looked pointedly at Wilson's brown uniform. "Is it--Sheriff Welsh?"
Wilson ducked his head modestly, tugged at the brim of his hat, and gave that countrified cornpone look that made him such a heartbreaker down on the farm. "Yes, ma'am. I'm the Sheriff of Willison."
"Willison?"
"In Wisconsin."
"Sheriff Wilson Welsh of Willison, Wisconsin?" She couldn't help but chuckle.
oooooo0oooooo
"It's a couple hours northwest of here. Population six thousand. Get this, Harding--they got more cows in Willison than people!"
Harding pushed his empty glass across the bar and the bartender replaced it with a fresh beer. "So what counts as a crime wave out there? Couple kids out tipping cows on a Friday night?"
"Go ahead, laugh. The next time some junkie vomits on your shoes, you'll wish you were in Willison," laughed Wilson as he popped a peanut into his mouth.
They had met at shift's end, as they often did, for a couple of beers at McGinty's--a tradition that would come to an end that summer of '71. Wilson was almost incoherent with joy about his new job, and had babbled on for the last twenty minutes about nothing else. Harding listened stoically to the news, concentrating hard on the level of beer in his glass.
"Well?" Wilson asked.
"Well, what?"
"Aren't you happy for me?"
"What, that you're going to move to Mayberry and change your name to Barney Fife?"
"Well, thank you very much," Wilson said, in a voice that meant no such thing.
"What do you want me to say?" Harding slammed his beer down on the bar. "How exciting for you? What a great career move?"
"Yes!"
"That's a load of crap!"
"You don't understand, Harding. This is exciting for me. The Willison Sheriff's office has only four deputies. Four! Sheriff Hayden is a great guy, and he'd be my only boss. Think of that, Harding--no departmental politics, no long chain of command, no shit rolling downhill--just the Sheriff and his deputies." He gripped his brother's arm. "In ten or fifteen years, if I play my cards right, I could be Sheriff myself. The boss of my own department! You think I could ever have that here?"
"Sure you could. You're a Welsh! There are two Lieutenants and a Captain in your family tree. Somebody has to uphold the family traditions in this generation."
"Why not you?"
Harding dismissed the idea with a snort, "With my record? Yeah, right."
Wilson shook his head sadly, his point made. "You're right--not in this department. I'm not a fool, Harding--I can see what the score is. I don't know what 's keeping you here, but I can't wait to get out of this stinkin' force. We got a leadership of bootlickers and thugs, and I don't want any part of it."
"Don't you think you owe this city something?"
"For what?"
"For training you! For making a cop outta you!"
Wilson took a sip of beer and spoke quietly. "I signed a contract, Hardy. I signed the same contract you did. It says that the price for an Academy education is one year." He held up a finger for emphasis. "One year's service on the force, and then I'm free to go work wherever the hell I want to."
"Damn you. Leave me alone here. . . ."
"Then quit! What's keeping you here?"
"Loyalty!" Harding raged.
"Loyalty? To what?"
"To this city."
"Oh, please! Harding, if there is one thing I've learned in the last two years, it's that there is a hell of a lot more to the world than just Chicago, Illinois. There are all kinds of interesting places to live and work, and yes--people do sometimes change jobs and move to new cities. Just because you work for the Chicago P.D., and Pop works for the Chicago P.D. and every other man in the family worked for the Chicago P.D. doesn't mean that I have to work for the Chicago goddamn P.D!"
"Wilson..."
"Look around you. Look at this city. Look at what this city has done to Pop. Ten years to retirement--do you think he can make it? Ten more years on the force, serving the people of Chicago from the inside of a bottle of gin? This city did that to him."
"He did that to himself."
"This city is dying. It has decay in its heart and corruption in its soul."
"This city is my home."
"It doesn't own you. Lincoln freed the slaves, Harding; you can work anywhere you want to.
More to the point, you don't owe this city anything more than you've already given--hell, you've already given it far more than it deserves. Look at you! You're holding your beer left-handed. Your hand's giving you trouble today, isn't it?"
Harding lifted his aching right hand onto the bar, and flexed his fingers slowly. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"That's what this city has done to you. What more do you owe?"
"Oh Jesus Christ, Wilson! That was three years ago--and it wasn't the city's fault."
Wilson recited, "The skull fracture was caused by a long, cylindrical weapon."
". . . possibly a baseball bat or a lead pipe," Harding retorted.
". . . possibly a police officer's nightstick."
It was not the first time that Wilson had said it, nor the first time the Harding had considered it. Harding shook his head, he knew the next part too well. "Possibly my own nightstick, which I had dropped and which was never recovered."
"Which wouldn't have happened if the cops weren't stampeding a terrified mob through the broken window of the Haymarket Lounge. From where I was standing, it sure as hell looked like the city's fault."
"As I recall," Harding said bitterly, "where you were standing was in my apartment."
"Oh God! This again?" Wilson slapped his hand on the bar in frustration, drawing the attention of most of McGinty's early-afternoon patrons. Even the ragged drunk who had been sleeping at the end of the bar pulled his head up from his beer to listen. "How many times do I have to say it before the debt is paid? How many times?"
"Wilson. . . ."
The young man jumped down from his barstool and raised his voice dramatically, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. "Thank you! Thank you for the warning. Thank you for the advice. Thank you for worrying about me, thank you for looking for me, thank you for trying to protect me. And God--don't let me ever forget, thank you for defying your orders, violating your suspension, and fucking up your precious record on behalf of my sorry ass!"