Anything But Saintly

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It was a hot, still, August day. Out in the suburbs it was probably sunny, but you couldn’t tell in town. St. Cecilia doesn’t have an anti-smoke ordinance, and the factories burn soft coal. When there is no breeze, the pall of smoke hanging over the city shuts out any sunlight there might be.

Carl Lincoln and I were playing gin in the squadroom. We’re both members of the Vice, Gambling and Narcotics Division, and at the moment we were working the prostitution detail out of the Vice Squad. We were supposed to be out trying to get picked up by streetwalkers, but had decided it was too hot and gritty a day for the girls to be working. This was only an excuse, of course. What we really meant was it was too hot and gritty a day for us to be working. It was so uncomfortable, we weren’t even up to the effort of keeping score. Instead of counting points, we were simply playing fifty cents to the low man, or a dollar for gin, and paying off after each hand.

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