Officer Murphy

The fog hung heavy along the river, six blocks away, Officer Murphy strolled along the sunny side of the street. He was a big man, his red hair showing around the edge of his blue cap. The brass buttons on his coat were polished till they sparkled, his badge flashed in the sunlight like a mirror on his broad chest.

As he walked his nightstick trembled at the tips of his fingers. A leather strap around his wrist held the stick in place. The sunlight flashed and sparkled on the polished black wood like jewels in a king's scepter. Indeed, Murphy was a king and this was his domain. When he wanted to show off a little, he could spin his stick one hundred twenty times a minute. Sometimes he could let the tip of his stick click against a lamp post, keeping time as he whistled "My Wild Irish Rose."

Twirling a nightstick is not just what the word implies. It was a trick of spinning the stick in one direction, stopping it with the fingers, then sending it back in the opposite direction, and Murphy was good at it.

Everyone knew officer Murphy; they smiled, waved, and spoke to him as he walked by.

"Top of the mornin' to ya' Mrs. O'Neil. See you getting a little sun, good for your rumitisem it is." "Ah, Mrs. Maklusky, an' how's little Jimmy doin' these days, a fine boy"

So he would go, down the avenue, like he was the mayor out for a Sunday stroll.

Sometimes he would see a stranger on the street, he would stop for a moment like his mind was making a mental note of it, then walk on.

You would always tell when Murphy was in deep thought. His club would stop moving and the handle would land with a smack in his hand.

All the kids in the neighborhood knew this. If that club stopped with a smack every kid in the block would start searching his soul for a thing wrong he had done in the last week. Not that Murphy would use the club on anyone. The kids knew that too. To Murphy the club was a symbol, not a weapon.

If Murphy caught a kid doing something wrong, he would likely warm his bottom, then set him down on it for a good talk.

When Murphy started to talk, the "villain" would start to wiggle and look at the ground, then his eyes would dart around to see if anyone was watching. But soon Murphy's soft Irish brogue would break down the barrier, and he would have more attention than Father O'Toole ever got in his pulpit on Sunday morning.

That kid would learn about right and wrong in words that would bring Father O'Toole to his knees in prayer for hours. But this was the street language the kid understood. At the end of the lecture Murphy would extend his big hand, the boy would timidly take it. Murphy's face would light up in a big smile. He had made another lifelong friend.

No kid would tell his parents about one of these talks. If he did he would likely get a razor strap used on him for bothering Officer Murphy.

This was a time when a pig was something in a butcher shop, a cop was something in the funny papers, and an officer was a friend on the street.