by J. L. Abramo
“I came to bring you my condolences.”
“IAB is going to chew Davis up and spit him out, and I’m going to be there passing the ketchup. The kid’s finished, and the streets will be safer without him out there packing a thirty-eight.”
“Don’t take it so personally, Tommy,” says Vota.
“Just how would you like me to take it, Lou?”
“I’d be more worried about what Internal Affairs has in mind for dessert after they’ve devoured the Davis kid,” says Samson.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean fuckface and fuckface are idiots, but they’re not stupid. A kid holds up in a hotel, goes out the window when the heat shows up—his brother the detective must know something about something. I want to know what you think your brother did and what you knew, Tommy. All our asses are on the line, not to mention your little heart-to-heart with Detective Rosen. IAB is going to be all over you and we’d better get this all straight.”
“Oh, that’s what you mean.”
So, Murphy tells the story again, and Vota, who already heard it, decides that he’ll call the hospital to check on Lorraine.
“Speak,” says Andre Harris, bringing the cell phone to his ear.
“I’ve been standing here for four fucking hours and this fucking cop hasn’t showed.”
“What do you want? Need me down there to hold your hand?”
“Fuck you.”
“No. Fuck you, Jefferson,” says Harris. “You want the bread, fucking wait.”
“Officer Landis?”
“What time is it?”
“After two. This is Detective Rosen. I need your help.”
“I’m off until Saturday afternoon.”
“Everyone else is occupied. Can I fill you in?”
“Not now, I’m still asleep. Give me fifteen minutes; I’ll meet you in front of my place. You can fill me in on the way to wherever it is that I’m so indispensable on one of my few nights off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. See you in fifteen.”
Sergeant Hackett looks up as Rey Mendez walks into the station at two-thirty.
“Hi, Rey. You look like shit.”
“Thanks, I resemble that remark. Did Stump call back?”
“No.”
“I think I know where to find him. If he calls again, tell him I’m headed to the White Owl.”
Vota comes back into the living room after calling the hospital. He was told by a nurse that Lorraine was asleep.
“Well?” asks Murphy.
“Sleeping.”
“Alright,” says Samson, wanting to make sure that they all have things straight. “You tell fuckface that you knew nothing about Michael’s trouble.”
“Right, I didn’t know anything and everyone backs me up, including Rosen.”
“Okay,” says Samson. “We’ll work it out.”
“Sure we’ll work it out,” says Murphy. “Meanwhile my brother is in the morgue and his mother doesn’t know about it yet, Lorraine has some kind of brain tumor and Lou would rather be here listening to us yell at each other, Territo is on the lam, some whacko is out there with a chip on his shoulder and a pair of garden shears, and you’re standing there holding that bourbon bottle like you’re waiting for fucking Christmas Eve. How do we work that out?”
“Well,” says Lou. “In the morning we’ll all go and see your mom, then I’ll go see Lorraine before they wheel her into the OR, we’ll bury Mike, and then we can go catch the bad guys. Meanwhile, break open that bag of ice and pass the bourbon.”
“White Owl, Red speaking.”
“Stump there?”
“Nobody here. We’re closed.”
“If you see him tell him Andre Harris called.”
“What am I, his fucking answering service? If you see him first, you can tell him his cousin Rey called.”
“Rey?”
“Yeah, Rey the cop.”
“So,” says Murphy, “what are you doing here? I thought we had another missing finger.”
“What we had was a very sloppy copy. Rosen’s on it.”
“Anybody got any good news tonight?”
And then the phone rings.
“Maybe this is it,” says Samson, moving to answer it. “It’s probably for me.”
Just as Andre Harris was getting into his car to head over to the White Owl on the chance that he might run into Stump and find out who the fuck Cousin Rey was supposed to be, Stump was rapping loudly on the front door of that very establishment.
“We’re closed.”
“Red, it’s me, Stump. Let me in.”
“We’re closed.”
“I need your phone.”
“Get lost.”
“I’ll give you twenty bucks.”
“Hold your horses, I’m coming.”
“That was Rosen,” says Samson, taking up the bottle of bourbon. “Seems that tonight’s victim dumped her boyfriend recently. Rosen spoke with the dead woman’s roommate who says the boyfriend has been stalking the victim since the breakup. Suspect isn’t at his residence. Rosen is staking it out with Landis. I told her to call me if he shows.”
“Any calls for me?” asks Stump as Red lets him through the door.
“I’m tired of this shit. Why don’t you get a fucking phone?”
“There’s no hookup in my refrigerator box. Who called?”
“Cousin Rey and a guy named Harris.”
“Uh-oh,” says Stump as he dials the Precinct.
“Twelfth, Hackett.”
“Officer Mendez.”
“Not here.”
“Did he get my message?”
“You Stump?”
“None other.”
“Where are you?”
“White Owl.”
“Stay put, he’s on his way over there.”
“Red,” says Stump, replacing the receiver, “let me have a beer.”
“Stump,” says Red, “let me have my twenty.”
They should probably all be somewhere else. Or at least getting some sleep.
Instead, they pass a bottle of bourbon.
They have decided, for some reason they have already forgotten or perhaps never quite knew, to exchange stories. Like kids sitting around a campfire, they are going to tell scary stories. Because scary things are happening and scarier things can happen yet.
And here is a chance to speak about fear. Aloud and in company.
And they all seem to know without saying that this is a rare opportunity and more important right now than sleep.
And the stories they tell are true stories. And they tell of the fears of boyhood and the fears of manhood. And they tell of the fears of innocence and the fears of guilt. And they speak in turn. First Vota, and then Samson, then Murphy, then Vota again. One scary story after the other, but none told with the intent of outdoing the previous one. The intention is not to compete. The intention is not to frighten but to remember fear.
And in doing so, to remember overcoming the fear.
And by the time Samson is recalling the time he lost Lucy in a department store for twenty minutes, just after Vota relived a hostage situation he was in the middle of in his rookie year, Murphy is snoring loudly on the couch.
And then the phone rings.
“We’re closed, goddamnit!” yells Red to the rapping on the door.
“It’s Rey,” says Stump. “Let him in.”
“What the fuck is this, your fucking office?”
“C’mon Red, lighten up. Be a good citizen.”
“I got your good citizen swinging. I want both of you out of here in five fucking minutes,” says Red, going to the door.
“That was Rosen, the suspect just arrived home. I’m going to head down there. You stay with Tommy. Let him sleep. Try to get some rest yourself. I’ll give you a yell if I need you; otherwise I’ll try to be back here at eight-thirty,” says Samson. “We’ll take Tommy over to see his mother.”
“Okay, b
ut you didn’t finish the story about losing Lucy in the Kmart.”
“And then I found her,” says Samson, heading out the door.
“So, who’s this guy asking all the questions about Vota and Samson?” asks Mendez.
“Harris, Andre,” says Stump.
“Should I know that name?”
“His brother was the cat who plugged you, and then your boys made Swiss cheese out of him.”
“Shit, what’s he planning?”
“No idea. He just wanted the dope on them. He didn’t say why or what for. I don’t want to know.”
“Didn’t you think you might be putting them in danger?”
“Look, Mendez, the dude hands me a C-note and I answer a few questions. It ain’t against the law and it’s not my job to worry about it. That’s why I called you. It’s your job to worry about it. So, maybe you could show a little appreciation,” says Stump, holding out his only hand.
“Can I use your phone,” says Mendez to Red.
“What am I gonna say, no?”
Mendez dials Vota’s home number. No answer.
Mendez calls the Precinct.
“Twelfth, Hackett.”
“Hackett, it’s Mendez. Where are Vota and Samson?”
“Samson’s out on a call,” says Hackett. “I’m not sure about Vota. Probably at home at this hour.”
“Vota’s not answering his home phone,” says Mendez, “can you beep him?”
“I could, but it wouldn’t do much good. He called me earlier tonight to tell me he forgot both his pager and cell phone upstairs.”
“Okay, thanks, I’m going to head over to Vota’s place in Red Hook and check it out. If you speak to Samson tell him that Harris’ brother might be gunning for him and Lou.”
“You want some backup?”
“No, I’ll call in if I need any.”
“How you feeling, Rey. I mean you just climbed out of a hospital bed.”
“I’m feeling like I just climbed out of a hospital bed, but I’m doing alright, thanks,” says Mendez, putting down the receiver and then turning to Red, “Thanks.”
“You’re very welcome,” says Red. “Now, get the fuck out, both of you.”
Junior Jefferson has been waiting outside of Vota’s house for more than five hours. He is freezing his ass off. He is calling Harris from the phone both across the street. There is no answer.
“Fuck me,” he says.
Andre Harris cruises by the White Owl just in time to see Mendez and Stump walking out together. He continues up the street, makes a U-turn and comes back. The guy who had come out with Stump is gone. Harris pulls up alongside the one-armed informer.
“Stump, get in.”
Stump takes off.
Harris doesn’t even get off a shot.
“Landis, get to the rear of the house. Rosen, come with me. Heads up.”
Samson and Rosen slowly approach the front door, which is well lit by an overhanging lamp. Samson is just about to knock when Rosen gasps.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It depends on whether or not you think it’s a human thumb,” says Samson looking down at the ground. The two detectives draw their weapons.
“Are we allowed to break the door down now?” asks Rosen.
“I’m not sure, is a thumb on the lawn more probable cause than a bloody glove?”
“Cute.”
“Let’s knock; I’m really not feeling up to kicking down this door.”
“How about I ring the doorbell?”
“Okay, Rosen, ring the doorbell.”
Rosen rings the doorbell.
The call from inside sounds a lot like Whozzit?
“It’s three-thirty in the morning and this maniac is asking who is it,” says Samson, and then raising his voice he says, “Police, open up.”
“What do you want?”
“Who is this fucking guy?”
“Name is Roland.”
“Roland what?”
“Rodney Roland.”
“You call that a name? Mr. Roland, open the door.”
“Do you have a warrant?’
“We don’t need a warrant; we just want to ask you a few questions. Rosen please put that thumb in an evidence bag before I step on the goddamn thing. Mr. Roland, I’m getting impatient.”
“I don’t have an evidence bag.”
“Have one of mine,” says Samson, pulling one out of his inside jacket pocket. “Mr. Roland.”
“I want to speak with a lawyer.”
“Do you believe this guy? Just open the door, Rodney, then you can call whoever you want. Or is that whomever?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Okay Rosen, on three. One. Two. Three.”
The door burst in under the force of two right legs. The two detectives enter with weapons extended.
They find Rodney Roland behind the door.
Knocked out cold.
“Now, I’ll have to fill out a goddamn three page report explaining why we had to trash a door to enter a suspected murderer’s residence without a warrant,” says Samson, just as Landis comes crashing through the back door.
“Make that two reports,” says Rosen, as Roland starts to moan back to consciousness.
“Cuff this guy, Landis. Read him his rights and take him to the Precinct. Make sure that a doctor looks at him. Rosen, call in a team to go over this place and wait for them. I’m going home to get some sleep.”
“How is Detective Murphy, Lieutenant?” asks Rosen, walking him out to his car.
“He’s fine, Detective. I’ll fill you in later. Meanwhile, please don’t forget what I said earlier.”
“Okay, but don’t forget what I said earlier.”
“Haven’t we been through this one before?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” says Samson, opening his car door, “and Sandra.”
“Yes, Sam.”
“Don’t forget the thumb in your pocket.”
If Lou Vota had arrived home, unsuspecting, Junior Jefferson could probably have gotten the drop on him and followed Andre Harris’ order for a hit. Instead, Mendez shows up and spots Jefferson and slowly approaches the phone booth where Junior is trying to reach Harris to complain that the mark was not going to fucking show up tonight.
“Got a match?”
Jefferson’s hand goes reflexively to the .45 tucked into the front of his pants when Mendez tackles him to the ground. Mendez has him cuffed in less than fifteen seconds.
“Got a permit for this piece, Andre?” says Mendez, taking the gun.
“Name’s not Andre. As far as a permit is concerned, permit me to tell you to go fuck yourself before I exercise my right to remain silent.”
At four-thirty in the morning, Stump is hiding in an abandoned building in Gravesend. He is praying that Andre Harris has given up his pursuit.
Mendez has deposited Junior Jefferson in a holding cell, where Junior waits for his lawyer. Mendez puts out an APB on Andre Harris, wanted for questioning, possibly armed and dangerous. Five minutes later, Mendez is fast asleep on a cot in the squad room.
Rosen and Landis are in an interrogation room trying in vain to get a coherent statement out of Rodney Roland. Batman and Robin are working on the body of Sheryl Lansing, the object of Rodney Roland’s warped affection. They had quickly determined that the thumb found on the suspect’s doorstep was a perfect match.
Thomas Murphy is snoring loudly on his sofa.
Vota is asleep in Murphy’s bed; the warm body lying beside him belongs to Ralph.
When Samson comes into his house everyone is long asleep. As he gets out of his clothing, he thinks about what he has to look forward to in the next few days.
Helping to break the news to Murphy’s mother that her other son was not coming home, ever. Watching a friend go into major surgery. Sitting by while fuckface and fuckface dragged Murphy over the coals. Hunting down Tony Territo. Trying to get hold of Gabriel Caine before there were more con
fessions and more imitators and more than enough news stories to have the entire city in a panic.
It is five minutes to five, Friday morning. Samson sets his alarm clock for 7:00 a.m. and lays down next to Alicia who sleepily turns into his arms.
TWENTY SEVEN
At 8:00 a.m., Murphy shakes Vota awake.
“Lou, I’m heading over to see my mother.”
“Wait, I’ll go with you.”
“No, it’s okay. I should do this by myself. You need to get to the hospital.”
“Are you sure? Lorraine doesn’t go into surgery for another two hours.”
“Positive. And Lou.”
“Yes?”
“Say something nice to Ralph before you leave. He always feels insecure and vulnerable the morning after.”
At University Hospital of Brooklyn, Vota sits in a chair beside Lorraine’s bed. They would be taking her down to the OR soon. Her father and mother had been there since eight, and had just left the room to allow Lou and Lorraine a few moments alone.
“Well, how do you like the new look?” asks Lorraine, moving her hand across the top of her head.
“You look pretty tough.”
“Like Sigourney Weaver in Alien 3 or Demi Moore in G.I. Jane, right?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Yul Brynner in Westworld.”
“Real cute, Vota. Don’t you have bad guys to catch?”
“I’m just kidding, Kojak,” he says.
Lorraine couldn’t help laughing.
“What time is it?” yells Samson, bolting upright in bed.
“Ten a.m.,” calls his wife from the kitchen.
“Damn. I was supposed to go with Tommy to see his mom.”
“I think it is best that they deal with this together,” says his wife, coming up to the bedroom door. “Alone.”