Nighthawks

Art-Inspired Fiction

Jun 05, 2023

Inspiration

shares ‘tips and tricks from the world’s best note takers’. Her piece called ‘Edward and Josephine Hopper’s New York Notes’ made me ponder what happens before and after moments captured in well-known paintings (or photographs), in this case ‘The Nighthawks’ by Edward Hopper. This is an imagining set in New York, a couple of weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941.

Jeez, it’s cold. He never used to leave the apartment without the extra layer Marge always insisted he wore. She’s not there now which is why he’s freezing his nuts off patrolling these bitter New York streets.

Murphy is a beat cop from the old school. Even on a cold December evening, he spends his time pounding the sidewalk. Not like the new kids they’ve been recruiting, wishing their shifts away in the comfort of all-night diners. Sure, he grabs a coffee from a favourite haunt if he’s passing. It’s a good chance to keep his ears open. The snippets add up in the end. Gossip is gossip but it’s good to get folks talking.

Not that it’ll matter in a couple of months. He had managed a wry smile when some joker in administration picked Valentine’s Day as his retirement date. He shakes his head at the memory, at the sad realisation that it’ll be a lonely old retirement as a widower. Maybe he should move, he thinks, but this City gets in your bones.

When he called in twenty minutes ago, the desk sergeant at the Precinct distractedly mentioned there’d been reports of someone loitering outside Phillie’s. Damn, everyone is jumpy as hell since the Japs sneaked up on Pearl Harbor. Who knows where that will end? Fewer folk are on the streets for one thing, tough for all-night businesses.

Just check it out, Murph, nip it in the bud, the sergeant pleaded, nice ‘n easy. That’s what he does. Quiet, no-nonsense police work. A smile here, a stern look there; a few well-chosen expletives, or a light touch monologue for anyone in earshot. Diffusing the potential for trouble. That’s what he does. Good old Murph, he’ll fix it.

The bright lights leave nothing hidden. He stands for a moment or two just across the street from the diner. Mac reaches under the counter as he talks to the couple to his right. Are they a couple? Who knows? He’d know soon enough. He’ll have to ask them all some questions, of course. The girl in the red dress and the two ‘nighthawks’ in dark suits. There’ll be a story, there always is. But you’re not gonna find out what it is out here, old fella, are you? He talks to himself a lot these days. Helps to fight off the biting pain of the loneliness gnawing at his guts.

He has already started to cross the street when he sees the couple in the shadows. Heads close together. Animated. Arguing, maybe? No need to alarm them for now. Keep walking, Murphy, he mutters to himself, they’ll wait.

Heads turn towards him as the door jangles. He closes it quickly, keeping the stuffy warmth in. Hey Murph, thanks for coming. Only the broad-shouldered brute with the boxer’s nose ignores his arrival. After a lifetime of police service you get to know who to leave well alone and in this borough top of the list is the hired help for the Lucchese family.

Mac pours him a coffee, slides it onto the counter by the couple. The old patrolman takes the notebook from his breast pocket, licks the pencil stub, and writes the date and time on the first empty page he comes to.

He recognises her now. Mrs Maloney. He’s heard the stories. Her husband is fond of the hard stuff and is punchy when he gets home. Pretty girl, in spite of that bruise glancing out from behind the rouge. Touching knees with that young fella who is definitely not Mr Maloney. Turns out he is a piano player at the hotel where she checks coats and cadges cigarettes from anyone with kind eyes. That valise is packed for an escape, he’s thinking. Yeah, Murph, there’s a story here but maybe it’s one that doesn’t need to be told. He snaps the notebook shut and takes a draught of coffee that’s been on the hotplate for much too long.

He doesn’t hang about. He’s seen more than he wants to. The cold night air is calling him. He’s better out there, alone with the ache of loss. Take it easy, folks. Even the ‘made man’ nods respectfully as Murphy heads out the door and crosses the street to the couple comparing notebooks.

Everything alright, folks? He keeps it light, glancing down at the drawings in the man’s book and the spidery handwriting in the other. “We’re just heading home, Officer”, she murmurs. “My husband has a picture to paint”.

As the policeman walks into the shadows beyond Phillie’s, the artist turns to his wife, “Jo, I think we’ll leave the cop out of it. It’s not really his story, is it?”