When the war ended in 1945, Dominic returned home and used his welding skills to land a job on the elevated train line running through Chicago. He was only twenty-two when he fell in love with sweet Adriana, a girl from the same neighborhood. Within four years they had three children. The last of the three was a boy. Anthony.
With a wife and three kids to support, Dominic took all the overtime he could get repairing and adding to the elevated line. It wasn't easy for Adriana either. She became a seamstress, working full-time in a factory making raincoats and the rest of the day taking in tailoring and mending jobs at home.
At ten years of age, little Tony, Adriana's youngest, spent a lot of time on the streets. A little too much time. Without a great deal of parental supervision, and with a lot of ‘help’ from the older boys, Tony learned to steal fruit and bread from the sidewalk vendors and open trucks that came by. He begged for money by making believe he was blind. He helped old ladies home with their bags of groceries only to run away with the goods before they got to the front door. But he never missed church every Sunday with his family at Our Lady of Pompeii.
After church one Sunday, Father O'Brien called Dominic aside to talk about young Tony. Words like ‘out of hand’ and ‘juvenile delinquent’ were used. That's all Dominic had to hear. The rules at the DiSantis house changed that very day. Thanks to Father O'Brien and father Dominic, young Tony followed a more-or-less straight-and-narrow course after that. At least for a while. Under the tempting influence of some hoodlum friends, Tony made forays now and then; shoplifting, swiping hubcaps, picking pockets, simple con games. But he still went to church every Sunday.
All of a sudden, Tony was eighteen. And through all those years, he had somehow succeeded in never getting into real trouble. Although the same can't be said for many of the young thugs he hung around with. Some of them had drifted deep into the dark world of gambling, prostitution, drugs and racketeering. Tony just drifted.
At twenty years old, history repeated itself. Just like his father, Dominic, Tony was drafted into the military. Vietnam had been a grueling, deadly, frustrating, endless war. The unwinnable war. But the Tet Offensive, the bloodiest battle, had just ended. The worst seemed to be over. After basic training, Tony shipped out for Cam Ranh Bay and served as an M.P. for his entire tour of duty.
In Nam, Tony busted up lots of bar room brawls. He busted lots of heads. He busted lots of non-coms for misappropriated supplies. But he never busted anyone for drugs. In Nam, pot, hash and cocaine were medicinal. They were rewards. They were necessities. They were relaxants, diversions and amusements. They were recreation and desperation. Within the insanity of each day they reversed the polarity, making everything seem safe for a while, turning constant, paralyzing fear into soothing softness. In Nam, it would have been ridiculous to bust anyone for “normal” drug use. And Tony never did.
Tony finished his required twelve months in Nam with practically no scars either inside or out. So he re-upped for another two years of stateside duty. Easy stuff after Nam. He took the time to decide what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
When Tony got back to his old stomping grounds, he was determined to make something of himself. Using his M.P. experience, he joined the Chicago Police Department. He hated being a rookie, but four years went by in a blink. That's when he met Camille. The next three years all led up to marriage.
The years that followed were good years for Tony and Camille. They had two children, bought a small home in Oak Park and, as the pay raises came, improved their home and their lives.
In a big city, policemen work hard, and Tony was no exception. In fact, Tony worked even harder than the others. For sixteen years, he volunteered for overtime, took duty others shunned, and won more commendations than most. He moved steadily up through the ranks. He became a detective. And seven years after that, a Lieutenant.
In an about-face from his tolerance of drug use in Nam, he gained a reputation as a cop who went after drug dealers with an unusual zeal. He dug in. Got the facts.
Now, after all these years, it seemed ironic that the ‘chooches’ he had grown up with worked on one side of the law, and he worked on the other.
And he still went to church every Sunday.
Seven
The fronds of the palm trees hardly moved at all in the bright sub-tropical sun outside the office window. A man in a light blue dress shirt and loosened tie stood there, looking out toward Biscayne Bay. The man spoke without turning. "We just got a report of a small plane crash out there in the most inaccessible part of the Glades. Don’t know how long it’s been there. They said it looks fairly fresh."
Craig Mulholland and Armando Diaz stood in front of the man’s wooden desk. Mulholland wore a red Hawaiian shirt. Diaz wore a white guayabera.
"Bingo!" said Diaz.
"Not bingo. Maybe bingo," said Miami police Lieutenant Tom McGuire as he turned away from the window. "We don't know who went down out there. It could be a student pilot and his instructor for all we know. Naples P.D. is sending a chopper out there."
"Naples P.D.?" Craig Mulholland took a step forward. "I don't want those amateurs screwin' up my case! My collar! This one's ours! It wouldn't have taken that much longer for us to get a chopper out there, Tom!"
"Back off, Craig. Naples is closer to the coordinates that we were given by the old couple who spotted the plane."
"But if they make an arrest and it's..."
"Make what arrest? You don't know if it's, what's his name? Galvo?"
“It all ties together!” Mulholland said. “The timing, the approximate location, the fact that Galvo’s a pilot!”
"Look, if it is Galvo, he’s probably dead. But it’s probably some innocent son of a bitch who just ran out of gas. You’re getting obsessed, Craig. And that’s dangerous.” McGuire sat down.
"And if it is Galvo?" Mulholland couldn't cool down. "And if he is alive, then what, Tom? We're supposed to lose this prick? They don't know who he is or what he's done. They haven't been on his ass for eight months, Tom! They don't know what to look for!"
"So we'll tell them, Craig! We'll tell them, OK?"
"Tom, in Naples a big bust is grabbin' a high school kid smokin' a joint in the men's room at the public beach."
"You made your point, Craig. I'll call them personally. I’ll make sure they know all about Galvo and this might, I emphasize might, be him. And I’ll tell them the guy is slippery, dangerous and we want him alive. How’s that? Now get outta my face!"
"We’ve worked too hard to let this get screwed up, Tom. We should be sending our own chopper out there.”
"You don't have to tell me how to do my job, Mulholland. But I'll tell you how to do yours, you hear me?" McGuire's heat was rising with his voice. “I'm not about to authorize the expense and the use of a chopper to fly out to God-knows-where when we have more important reasons to keep it right here! Am I making myself clear enough for you, Mulholland?"
Mulholland and Diaz just stared at him. The worst was over.
"Look," McGuire said sitting down, "if it turns out to be Galvo, I'll make sure you two go over to pick him up. I'll work it out. Now, go ruin somebody else's day."
Mulholland and Diaz were full of nervous energy. They walked quickly down the hall, away from Tom McGuire’s office.
"I'm sick of that jerk. I've had it." Mulholland looked like he meant it.
"That's just his way of showing affection. "Mulholland sneered at Diaz in disbelief.
"I'm serious, we Cubans do that all the time. It's good to get a little hot once in a while. Gets the juices flowing. Hot blood. It's healthy."
Mulholland stopped. He had the look of someone who just stepped in dog poop. "Whose side are you on anyway?"
"Hey, man, let's be honest," Diaz had just the slightest hint of a Cuban accent, "you jumped on his ass pretty hard about that chopper. He was just defending himself and protecting his own ass, that's all. Don't take it all so serious."
"I just don't wan
t to lose this one because of someone else's stupidity. We've worked too long, too hard and too smart to have it all slip through our fingers."
"It's too late to worry about that. Let's just wait and see what they turn up."
"Yeah, well, what's the alternative?"
They reached their unmarked car in the motor pool.
"What do you want to do now, Detective Mulholland?"
"Go kick the shit out of some skanky, low life minority scum bags!"
"Fine, but just remember partner, this is Miami. And in Miami, you is the minority, you wise-ass anglo mutha!" Diaz gave Mulholland a toothpaste commercial smile.
Eight
Everything was red. As if a red filter had been put over the lens of a camera. The way everything would appear looking through red sunglasses. Red mangroves were motionless in the still heat. The surface of the iridescent pond reflected points of red light in the late afternoon. A small flock of red-feathered egrets ascended from the red jungle to the red sky.
The whites of Malcolm's eyes were a brilliant blood red, his irises the color of beets, and his pupils tiny pinholes of black. The blood that had run out of his eyes and nose after the impact of the plane crash had long since dried and turned into crinkled, caked, purple lines that clung to his face.
He was huddled under the right wing of the small plane. The old army blanket he had found in the plane was wrapped around him, even over his head. It was hot inside the blanket. But it was his only protection from swarms of buzzing mosquitoes.
Malcolm sat there like this, a hunched-up green mummy, for more than three days now. Waiting. Praying. Wanting to cry, but unable to. Listening, always listening, to the chirping of birds, the eerie calls of owls and the incessant buzzing of the blood-sucking insects that could drive a man crazy.
As dangerous a place as this was, the acrid smell of the escaping steam, the hazy white smoke, aviation fuel and leaking oil kept predators at bay. However, nothing stopped the ever-present mosquitoes.
But now, there was something else in the air. Malcolm cocked his head and listened. The sound of it was muddled in the sound of the mosquitoes. Then the rhythmic sounds became stronger.
The police helicopter appeared suddenly over the trees on the opposite side of the swampy mush. The wash from its rotor blades bent the small branches of trees and blew loose debris everywhere. The mud was the only place the chopper could put down. There was a metal rack, meant to carry bodies, permanently mounted above each of the chopper's large pontoons.
The chopper rotated slightly on its vertical axis and alighted on the vague line of mud and shallow water. Two men, one a pilot-policeman with gun drawn, the other a paramedic carrying a large first-aid box, jumped from the pontoons of the chopper and sank ankle deep in ooze.
Malcolm just sat there, looking at them, his chin quivering with emotion. Then, as if suddenly comprehending the reality of the situation, he came out from under the wing and rose to his full height. He extended his arms to welcome his rescuers. With the blanket still over the top of his head and hanging from his arms, with his blood-red eyes in black 'n blue sockets, he looked like some horrible man-monster risen from an ancient crypt. He scared the hell out of the two young men. They jumped back in fright. The policeman's gun fired into the air as they both fell backward into the black, watery muck.
"Stop! Get your hands up! Stop!" the policeman yelled.
"Don't try anything! We heard all about you and the drugs 'n all!" The paramedic hid behind the policeman.
"Help me!" Malcolm bleated like a little sheep. "Help me, please!" Malcolm tried to raise his hands. The officer began reciting Malcolm's rights.
"My God, look at his eyes!" They got closer. "Jesus! Can you see?" the paramedic asked Malcolm.
"Not very well."
"Check the area, will you, Jim? Quick! We don’t want any surprises!" the policeman said urgently.
Jim quickly searched the small area, then the plane. "Yeah, there's one in here." He saw the steering shaft coming out of the back of the man hunched over in the pilot's seat. "He ain't goin' nowhere."
"Please, I can't hurt you, put the gun down, I need help." Malcolm said, his voice breaking as he tried to speak and hold back tears. "You must think I had something to do with this drug smuggling thing, but I..." the two men looked at each other.
"Oh, you had nothing to do with anything. You just happened to be walking along out here one afternoon and an airplane fell on your head. We understand. Now, don't try anything stupid or I'll ease your pain permanently. OK, drop the blanket and turn around. I've gotta get some cuffs on you."
The blanket fell to the ground and Malcolm slowly turned. His shirt was torn open at the back. His gray work-type pants and black shoes were soaked and muddy. The officer squinted at the fat on Malcolm's body. His eyes widened when he saw the long, bloody, rectangular patch on Malcolm's back the length of his spine. This is where a half-inch of skin and fat had been sliced away in the crash. Body fluids oozed out everywhere on the raw, seven-inch wide strip. Parts of his spine, nerves, and blood vessels seemed to be right at the surface. Mosquitoes and flies had collected on the ghastly looking wound. Maggots were already forming and moving. The policeman grimaced.
"Forget the cuffs for now. Get the stretcher, Jim. This poor bastard does need help. Get whatever you need, quick!"
Jim seemed to be back in an instant. He used a scissor to cut off the remains of Malcolm’s shirt. The officer and the medic spread the stretcher on the ground. "Now, sit down on the stretcher. No, in the middle," Jim instructed. The paramedic reached down into his large first-aid box. He put on latex gloves. He cleaned the wound on Malcolm’s back with a solution from a bottle. Then, he squeezed a clear, gelatinous ointment from a tube, carefully smearing it all over the red, oozing flesh. Malcolm winced repeatedly at the slight touch of the paramedic’s fingertips. The policeman, gun now holstered, helped the paramedic dress the wound with sterile bandages and they stretched medical tape all across Malcolm's back.
"This stuff will kill anything that might infect the wound. For a while, at least." The paramedic then stuck a syringe into a very small bottle, which he held in front of his face. "I'll give him a good, strong dose of tetanus. That'll fight any infection he's got in his body right now." Then the paramedic applied drops to Malcolm's painful looking eyes and patched them over with gauze and tape.
"Now, lie down on your side on the stretcher,” the paramedic instructed Malcolm, “I'll start an intravenous line. He's probably lost a lot a blood, fluids and everything else," he said to the officer.
Malcolm lay quietly on the stretcher, as he was told. The intravenous bottle was already dangling over his head, dripping into his blood stream.
With Malcolm lying quietly, the two rescuers walked two dozen feet away. The policeman lit a cigarette and inhaled heavily, as if relieved. The paramedic sprayed himself with mosquito repellant and spoke quietly. "He won't give us any trouble, we're the best thing he's ever seen. He'd a been dead without us. And we're his only ticket out of here. Besides, he doesn't look so dangerous to me."
"That's the way all the bad ones look. Then they get you in the back."
Malcolm could hear every word they said. Perhaps it was the fact that his sight had been nearly taken away that enhanced his hearing. He listened intently.
"This humongous fat-ass is going to burn. And the fat will just make him burn that much faster," the policeman said.
"Burn? You mean the chair?”
"When I spoke to Miami they told me they've been working on nailing this certain drug group for more than two years. And working on getting one of these guys, Galvo, for eight straight months."
"I wonder which one is Galvo?"
"I'm sure the dead one is Galvo. Because they said Galvo is a pilot, and the guy in there, from what I can see from here, is sitting in the pilot's seat."
"Right. The steering wheel stuck him right through the chest, like a shish-ka-bob."
"And this oth
er guy is probably just as bad.”
“But this guy looks kinda on the young side, doesn't he?"
"How can you tell, his face is all swollen and puffy. He knew all about the drug deal, didn't he? You heard him say it yourself. You can't believe a thing he says. He'll lie to your face and stab you in the back."
"Man, this could be a fantastic collar for those guys in Miami!" said the paramedic.
"Miami, my ass! We got the collar, we get the credit. I don't care what anybody says. Just comb your hair before they take the pictures for the paper. The women will be all over us like flies."
"Yeah, and speaking of flies, we've got to get that guy, who you say is probably Galvo, outta that plane and onto our chopper. We need him for a positive I.D."
"Hold it, Mr. Medic, you're forgetting something much more important. The drugs and the money."
"The drugs you can have. The money is another story."
"I know. I know. It's tempting, isn't it?" The officer said.
"It sure is. It could be hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"You mean millions. Millions!" Said the policeman, drawing hard on his cigarette.
"God, imagine the two of us finding it!" The medic said.
"Yeah, I've imagined getting my hands on big money for a long time now. Never had the opportunity so I never had to worry about it.”
"Well, there's only the two of us that have to worry about it." The medic was testing the police officer.
"Three of us," the officer corrected, his eyes moving to Malcolm.
"Yeah, three of us."
"But if we find the money, there could be just two of us." The officer took a last drag and flicked the butt into a puddle.
Malcolm’s bloody head tilted very slightly in the direction of the two men. His ears strained to hear their subdued voices. Fortunately, he heard every word.
Their conversation started to sound like a plan. They shook hands. Then they moved toward Malcolm.
"Let's get the body out of the plane first so we can search for the money inside without looking at it and smelling it," the medic said.
Saving an Innocent Man Page 5