Jimmy and Will were ambitious back then, both looking to make sergeant as soon as possible. The competition was tougher than before, since Felicia Spritzer’s lawsuit in 1963 that resulted in female officers being allowed to take promotional examinations for the first time, with Spritzer and Gertrude Schimmel making sergeant the following year. Not that Jimmy and Will gave a rat’s ass, unlike some of the older guys who had a lot of views on where a woman’s place was, none of which included wearing three stripes in one of their precincts. They both had a copy of the R a copy of patrol guide, thick as a Bible in its blue-plastic ring binder, and they carried the guide with them whenever they took a break so that they could test each other’s knowledge. In those days, you had to do detective work as a patrol officer for five years before you could make detective, but you wouldn’t start bringing in a sergeant’s money until you made second grade. They didn’t want to be investigators anyway. They were street cops. So they decided that they’d both try for the sergeant’s exam, even if it meant that they’d have to leave the Ninth, maybe even have to serve in different precincts. It would be tough, but they knew that their friendship would survive it.

Unlike a lot of other cops who worked as bouncers, keeping the guineas from Brooklyn out of the clubs, or as bodyguards for celebrities, which was boring, they didn’t have second jobs. Jimmy was a single man, and Will wanted to spend more time with his wife, not less. There was still a lot of corruption in the force, but it was mostly small-time stuff. Later, drugs would change everything, and the commissions would come down hard on bent cops. For now, the best that could be hoped for would be the occasional dollar job: escorting the movie theater manager to the night safe with the day’s takings, and getting a couple of bucks for drinks left on the backseat in return. Even taking lunch “on the arm” would soon come to be frowned upon, though most places in the Ninth didn’t do it anyway. Cops paid for their own lunches, their own coffee and doughnuts. The majority ate lunch at the precinct house. It was cheaper, and there weren’t too many places to eat in the Ninth anyway, at least none that the cops liked, the ham and cheddar with hot mustard at McSorley’s apart, or, in later years, Jack the Ribbers over on Third, although eat lunch at Jack the Ribbers and you weren’t going to be doing anything more strenuous than rubbing your stomach and groaning for the rest of the day. The guys in the Seventh were lucky, because they had Katz’s, but the cops in the Ninth weren’t allowed to cross precinct lines just because the bologna was better down the block. The NYPD didn’t work that way.

On the night of the first dead baby, Jimmy was working as recorder for the first half of the tour. The recorder took all of the notes during the tour, and the driver took the wheel. Halfway through, they switched. Jimmy was the better recorder. He had a good eye, and a sharp memory. Will had just enough recklessness to make him the better driver. Together, they made a good team.

They were called to a party over on Avenue A, a “10-50,” some neighbors complaining about the noise. When they got to the building, a young woman was puking into the gutter while her friend held her hair away from her face and stroked her back. They were so stoned that they barely glanced at the two cops.

Jimmy and Will could hear music coming from the top floor of the walk-up. As a matter of course, they kept their hands on the grips of their guns. There was no way of telling if this was just a regular party that was getting a little out of hand, or something more serious. As always in these situations, Jimmy felt his mouth go dry, and his heart began to beat faster. A week earlier, a guy had taken a flight off the top of a tenement in the course of a party that had started off just like this one. He’d almost killed one of the cops who was arriving to investigate, landing just inches from him and spraying him with blood when he hit. Turned out that the flyer had been skimming from some guys with vowels at the ends of their names, Italians who were applying their business acumen to the newly resurge R aewly resunt heroin market, which had been largely dormant since the teens and twenties, the Italians not yet realizing that their time was coming to an end, their dominance soon to be challenged by the blacks and the Colombians.

The apartment door was open, and music blared from a stereo, Jagger singing about some girl. They could see a narrow hallway leading into a living area, and the air was thick with tobacco and booze and grass. The two officers exchanged a look.

“Call it,” said Will.

They stepped into the hall, Jimmy leading. “NYPD,” he shouted. “Everybody stay calm, and stay still.”

Cautiously, Will behind him, Jimmy peered into the living room. There were eight people in various stages of intoxication or drug-induced stupor. Most were sitting or lying on the floor. Some were clearly asleep. A young white woman with purple stripes through her blond hair was stretched out on the couch beneath the window, a cigarette dangling from her hand. When she saw the cops she said: “Oh shit,” and began to get up.

“Stay where you are,” said Jimmy, motioning with his left hand that she should remain on the couch. Now one or two of the more together partygoers were waking up to the trouble they might be in, and looking scared. While Jimmy kept an eye on the people in the living room, Will checked the rest of the apartment. There was a small bedroom with two beds: one an empty child’s cot, the other a double piled with coats. He found a young man, probably nineteen or twenty, and barely compos mentis, on his knees in the bathroom, trying unsuccessfully to flush an ounce of marijuana down a toilet with a broken cistern. When he frisked him, Will found three twists of heroin in one of the pockets of the kid’s jeans.

“What are you, an idiot?” Will asked.

“Huh?” said the kid.

“You’re carrying heroin, but you flush the marijuana? You in college?”

“Yeah.”

“Bet you’re not studying to be a rocket scientist. You know how much trouble you’re in?”

“But, man,” said the kid, staring at the twists, “that shit is worth money!”

Will almost felt sorry for him, he was so dumb. “Come on, knuckle-head,” he said. He pushed him into the living room and told him to sit on the floor.

“Okay,” said Jimmy. “The rest of you, against the walls. You got anything I should know about, you tell me now and it’ll go easier on you.”

Those who were able to rose and assumed the position against the walls. Will nudged one comatose girl with his foot.

“Come on, sleeping beauty. Nap time’s over.”

Eventually, they had all nine standing. Will frisked eight of them, excluding the boy he had searched earlier. Only the girl with the striped hair was carrying: three joints, and a twist. She was both drunk and R ah drunk ahigh, but was coming down from the worst of it.

“What are these?” Will asked the girl.

“I don’t know,” said the girl. Her voice was slightly slurred. “A friend gave them to me to look after for her.”

“That’s some story. What’s your friend’s name? Hans Christian Andersen?”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter. This your place?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sandra.”

“Sandra what?”

“Sandra Huntingdon.”

“Well, Sandra, you’re under arrest for possession with intent to supply.” He cuffed her and read her her rights, then did the same with the boy he had searched earlier. Jimmy took the names of the rest, and told them that they were free to stay or to leave, but if he passed them on the street again he’d bust them for loitering, even if they were running a race at the time. All of them went back to sitting around. They were young and scared, and they were gradually coming to realize how lucky they were not to be in cuffs, like their buddies, but they weren’t together enough to head out into the night just yet.