“You know, of course, that you’re supposed to live in Chicago if you’re on the force,” he went on. “But the Chief fixed that for me. It’s only a rule; not a law.
“The Chief and I,” and his tone became reminiscent, “were on the force together when we were young. We were in one fight which the Chief won’t forget. Nor I, either.
“There was a tough gang down by the river. A shooting had been reported. We got there on the double-quick; too quick perhaps. We met ’em coming up the bank, all armed. They didn’t wait for words. Just started in shooting. They got me in the shoulder first round. But I stood up to ’em and let ’em have it back. So did the Chief. One man went down.
“Of a sudden the bullet I had in me made me dizzy. I spun round and went down.
“The Chief stood up to ’em. A dozen rounds were fired before my head cleared. When it did, I propped my eyes open just in time to see one of them bending over the Chief, taking deadly aim. The Chief was down with a bullet in his back. That shot never was fired.”
“You—you got him.” It was Johnny who spoke.
“You said it, son.”
“And that,” said Herman McCarthey, “is why the Chief lets me live where I please.
“But that,” he went on after a moment, “is not why I live here. Of course I’ve always loved the quiet peace of the open country. You need it after the day’s rush and noise and all the squalid fuss you endure as a police officer. Somehow I have a notion that if a lot more of those city cave-dwellers lived out in places like this we wouldn’t have so many to run down and put in jail. But who knows?
“That’s not the whole reason either.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I live here because it’s the place where I spent my honeymoon.”