Badge of Evil

by Bill Stanton

  “Is there a problem?” A. J. asked, his mind racing, trying to figure out what he did wrong.

  “I’ll be right back,” the cop said. A. J. watched in his side-view mirror as the officer walked away and then started talking into his walkie-talkie, apparently giving A. J.’s information over the radio.

  • • •

  Bishop was rocking down Fifth Avenue, past Tiffany, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, and Saks. The car’s satellite radio was blasting the songs of the seventies, but he was laughing so hard thinking about that tight-ass A. J. Ross steaming while the cop checked his paperwork that he was having trouble singing along to “Brick House” by the Commodores. He turned left on Fortieth Street by the New York Public Library and then made a right onto Park Avenue.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, A. J. was still sitting and waiting. Finally, after nearly eight minutes, the cop returned and told A. J. everything seemed to be in order. He handed him his documents back and said, “Have a good day and please ride safely. Oh, and be sure to give my best to Frank Bishop next time you see him.”

  A. J. shook his head. “Fucking Bishop,” he muttered. He was fuming, but he was also just a little impressed. For a guy who looked like he could have been Stallone’s stunt double in the original Rocky—the one where he had the really thick, beefy body—Bishop was apparently pretty clever. A. J. slammed his face shield closed, fiercely twisted the throttle, and popped the clutch. The Ducati practically exploded forward, and A. J. was an instant blur, screaming across the park nearly fifteen minutes behind Bishop.

  Bishop was all the way down in Chinatown, heading across Canal Street toward the Manhattan Bridge. When A. J. finally made his way across town, he decided to take the highway. He knew Bishop wouldn’t take FDR Drive because he’d guess it would be too congested with traffic—congested for cars, that is. For A. J., though, it was like a live-action video game as he rolled down the highway, lane-splitting and threading the needle between the cars. He leaned the bike one way, then the other, working the controls with both hands and both feet, his timing exact and his rhythm, even when he slowed down, as perfect as if the whole thing were choreographed to music.

  A. J. was quickly making up time and closing the gap with Bishop. By the time Bishop was getting on the bridge, A. J. could see it less than half a mile ahead. Knowing it would be a pain in the ass to access the Manhattan Bridge from the FDR, A. J. opted for the Brooklyn Bridge.

  • • •

  Bishop, doing nearly eighty, was already across the Manhattan Bridge and making a sharp turn onto Tillary Street, but he was driving so fast that even though he was listening to his GPS for directions, he made a wrong turn. Cursing, he punched the steering wheel several times while waiting for the GPS to reconfigure so he could find his way onto the Brooklyn–Queens Expressway.

  • • •

  A. J. was now on the Brooklyn Bridge. He had his face shield open so he could feel the cool air on his skin. He was wearing sunglasses but his eyes were still tearing from the wind. He was totally jazzed; he knew he was catching up.

  • • •

  When Bishop finally got onto the expressway, it was heavily pockmarked with potholes, making it very hard for the low-riding Boxster to maneuver. He was only a couple of miles from the destination. Ahead of him traffic was moderate to heavy. Bishop knew that if A. J. had any real skills on the bike he’d be closing in on him by now. Sure enough, at that moment, with the Gap Band’s “Burn Rubber on Me” blasting from the speakers, Bishop spotted the Monster’s single orb of a headlight weaving in and out of the traffic about a quarter of a mile back. He knew he was in trouble.

  With A. J. gaining ground quickly, Bishop decided to use his secret weapon. He hesitated a moment, unsure if it was worth the risk. Fuck it, he thought. Losing to this prick is not an option. He reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the red light used on an unmarked detective’s car. He plugged the cord into the cigarette lighter and put the big red cherry on the roof. He flicked the toggle switch, the light started flashing, and the siren sounded.

  The light and siren worked like the parting of the Red Sea. Not only did it clear the way for Bishop, but the cars immediately closed in and filled the gap as soon as he passed, effectively blocking A. J. from advancing too quickly. As soon as Bishop got off the highway, he quickly put the light and siren away. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over for impersonating a cop and risk losing his gun license, his NYPD parking permit, his Taser, his pepper spray, and a host of other not-quite-legal gadgets and privileges.

  As he made the turn onto Fifth Avenue, he spotted A. J. again, coming up fast. Son of a bitch. Where the fuck did he come from? Panicked, Bishop downshifted to first and floored the Boxster. But he let the clutch out too fast and stalled. He could hear the Ducati now, getting louder and louder. He fumbled to restart the car and managed this time to take off without stalling. He screeched up in front of 6807 Fifth Avenue less than ten seconds ahead of A. J. He was stepping out of his car with a huge grin on his face as A. J. rolled up.

  • • •

  A. J. parked the bike, took off his helmet and gloves, shook out his hair, and walked over to Bishop’s car. As he approached, Bishop took a couple of steps toward him, stuck out his hand, and said, “Nice race.” A. J. just gave him a long, hard stare. “Okay,” he said finally, “now I know who I’m dealing with.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bishop asked, almost sounding hurt. “I did what I needed to do to win.”

  “That’s my point. No rules, no boundaries. The end justifies the means.”

  “Fuck you. Let’s just say the better man won and leave it at that.”

  • • •

  Both men were silent for a while, content, apparently, to collect themselves and let their heart rates return to normal after the adrenaline rush of the race. Bishop, of course, spoke first. “Guess you owe me dinner, biker boy.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” a still-annoyed A. J. responded. “Why’d we come out here anyway? We’re blocks from the apartment.”

  “I want to get a sense of the neighborhood, you know, get a feel for the place and the people. I’m sure you do the same thing when you’re working on a story.”

  Fifth Avenue in Bay Ridge, between Sixty-Fifth and Ninety-Second Streets, is one of those colorful, messy, taken-for-granted New York commercial strips that go unnoticed but are a daily testament to the city’s diversity. In the immediate vicinity of where Bishop and A. J. had parked, there was McCann’s Pub, Jerusalem Hair Stylist, Cleopatra’s, and China Pagoda, a restaurant whose sign also featured large Arabic script.

  After about an hour and a half of canvassing the area, talking to local shop owners—at least the ones who spoke English and were willing to engage—Bishop decided it was time to hit the hookah bar.

  The Magic Carpet, which had a red light over its front door, was at Fifth Avenue and Eighty-First Street, across from a pizza joint and right next to a cab company. Inside, it looked like a small Mediterranean restaurant with Moroccan-style chairs and about a dozen tables. There was a counter at the back and the three tables closest to it were occupied by dark-haired, heavy-bearded men of various ages drinking tea and smoking water pipes. Bishop and A. J. took a table near the back. If Bishop went a couple of days without shaving, he could’ve fit right in—dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, heavy beard, and a generally swarthy look. A. J., on the other hand, stuck out like a priest at a strip club.

  An unsmiling waiter in his midtwenties asked them in a heavy Arabic accent what they wanted. “I’ll have a Coors Light,” Bishop said with great cheer. A. J. just stared at him in disbelief. “We do not serve alcohol,” the waiter said curtly. A. J. ordered a pot of the house tea and Bishop, somewhat sheepishly, asked for the same. When the waiter returned with the tea, Bishop whipped out a photo of Ayad Jafaari and asked if he knew him. Without answering, the waiter turned and walked over to a large, heavy man sitting at the corner table in the back. He wh
ispered in his ear and then disappeared into the kitchen. All of the men were now staring at A. J. and Bishop.

  “You know,” A. J. said, leaning across the table, “I’m really starting to feel like I’m in the presence of a master. Subtle, graceful, amazingly skilled at making people feel comfortable and coaxing information from them. No wonder the best lawyers hire you. Are you nuts?” A. J. hissed. “You ask for a beer? Have you done any homework? Do you have any clue about what you’re doing?”

  “Sit back and learn,” Bishop said as he got up and walked over to sit down at the big fat guy’s table. “I’m not sure if you speak English,” Bishop said, breaking the ice, “but you’re obviously the man to talk to around here. My name is—”

  The fat guy, whom Bishop decided looked like Chris Christie’s darker, fatter, sweatier brother, held up his right hand, motioning for Bishop to stop. He was in the middle of a long, deep draw on his water pipe. Bishop complied. He smiled to try to conceal his disgust at the man’s cheap white shirt and dark suit, his long dirty fingernails, and the thick stubble on his greasy-looking face. Finally, he exhaled a huge plume of smoke, most of which was blown right in Bishop’s face.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Bishop, and I have no interest in talking to you.”

  Bishop turned and gave A. J. an everything’s-under-control wink. Turning back to the fat guy, Bishop said, “If you know who I am, then you know I’m trying to help someone from your community and you should cooperate.”

  “Cooperate? I don’t think so. I’m a businessman. I have enough headaches without you.”

  “I’m trying to help one of your—”

  The guy cut him off. “Do not treat me like a fool, Mr. Bishop. You used to be a police officer. Why would you help Ayad? This would only make trouble for the police who shot him. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  “Wait a minute,” Bishop said in a suddenly aggressive tone. “Every time I talk to you people I get the same shit.”

  “What do you mean, ‘you people’?”

  “All you motherfucking Muslims say the same shit, whether it’s on the news, picking me up in a cab, or selling me a fucking shish kebab on some street corner at one in the morning. ‘Oh, we love America. Muslims are a gentle, peace-loving people. The terrorists should be punished.’ Well, you’re just proving yet again that it’s all bullshit. You have a chance here to either help one of your own prove his innocence or, if he’s guilty, to help lock up a terrorist. Yet you won’t even answer a few questions. I’ll tell you what. Give me ten minutes and I’ll buy the next bong. Whaddaya say, Muhammad?”

  “My name is not Muhammad. This conversation is over, Mr. Bishop,” the shop owner said, nodding almost imperceptibly to the waiter, who scurried into the back again.

  Three big, bulky men came in the front door led by the waiter. Bishop, still sitting at the table with “Muhammad,” had his back to them but sensed their presence even before he saw their reflection in a silver platter mounted on the wall. As the biggest of the trio, who looked to be about six feet four, two hundred fifty pounds, moved forward, Bishop got up, pushing the table with his hips directly into “Muhammad” in a single fluid movement. He kicked the chair out behind him with his right leg, startling the big Muslim coming at him, and then grabbed a cup of scalding tea, spun around, and threw it in the guy’s face. As his attacker clutched his face in pain, Bishop punched him in the throat with everything he had. One down.

  With the biggest dog out of the fight, Bishop was feeling pretty good as the two other guys approached. One veered off toward A. J., his hand already raised. A. J. said something to him in what Bishop figured was Arabic, and the guy turned back toward Bishop. His partner charged Bishop, who delivered a front snap kick directly to the guy’s groin, but he kept coming and he grabbed Bishop’s midsection, driving him backward. Bishop was able to spin around and use the guy’s own momentum to throw him directly into the table where he’d been sitting and right on top of “Muhammad,” who hadn’t gotten up from the table yet.

  Looking around for A. J., who was apparently gone, Bishop saw the remaining thug coming at him with a chair. Expecting Bishop to back up, he was quickly moving forward with the chair held directly over his head. Bishop closed the distance between them and landed a right hook directly on the guy’s jaw. He went down almost comically with the heavy Moroccan-style chair falling right on top of him. Bishop’s amusement, however, was short-lived.

  An angry crowd of twenty-five or thirty people had gathered outside the tea shop to watch the ugly melee. Now some of the crowd was coming inside and Bishop began to backpedal. Now what? he thought, running through a mental checklist. In high-stress situations like this, Bishop would get strangely calm. He remembered that when he was a cop, whenever he got in a jam, he’d begin to see things like there was a strobe effect—as the action sped up, he actually saw everything moving slower. He was running through his checklist now: Any sign of a gun or a knife? Who looks like he’s going to make a move first? What’s my exit strategy? Do I pull my weapon?

  Bishop knew that once he broke leather and the .45 came out, everything would go to a different level. There were now at least half a dozen of the angry onlookers inside, shouting at him in Arabic. Bishop decided to move first. He held up the index finger of his left hand, leaned forward in a boxer’s stance, threw back his jacket, and pulled up his T-shirt to reveal the gun. His right hand was on the grip now and his thumb was already disengaging the safety. From this position, he could draw the weapon and get off several shots in mere seconds. The gambit didn’t work. Several of the men began to move toward him.

  Without hesitation, Bishop pulled out the .45 and grabbed “Muhammad,” who was just now stumbling to his feet, around the throat with his free arm. With the gun pressed against the man’s temple, Bishop started moving forward and screaming, “Out, cocksuckers. You hear me? Get the fuck out. Now!” He didn’t know how many of them spoke English, but apparently they all got the idea. When the last guy was on the street, Bishop locked the front door. He then dragged “Muhammad” into the kitchen area.

  Bishop began to hear sirens. He didn’t have much time. “Okay, fatso, let’s see how tough you are now. It’s time for us to have a conversation.” With the sirens getting louder, he pulled “Muhammad” over to the stove and pushed his face down close to one of the open flames—so close that some of his hair began to singe. “Start talking,” Bishop commanded. “Why the strong-arm? Why try and play it so tough?”

  Sweat was literally pouring off the guy now and Bishop thought he might be having a little trouble breathing. Through clenched teeth he said, “It was your people who told me not to talk.”

  “My people?” Bishop said incredulously. “The fuck you talkin’ about, ‘my people’?”

  “The cops. They threatened me—”

  Just then Bishop heard the sound of breaking glass and the front door being smashed in. “Shit,” he said out loud, “I guess your friends are back.” He also heard the sirens out front now and the sound of screeching brakes. Keeping the gun against the head of his hostage, Bishop moved back into the front room, where nearly thirty people were screaming and yelling and on the verge of starting a riot with Bishop at the center. Then there was a sea of blue pushing through the mob. Bishop shoved “Muhammad” toward the enraged Muslims and quickly holstered his weapon.

  Raising his hands high above his head, he started yelling, “I’m retired off the job. I’m retired off the job.”

  The sergeant came over to Bishop. “Ever think of becoming a diplomat?” he asked him. “What the hell happened here? Never mind, I don’t wanna know. Did you call in the ten-thirteen?”

  “A ten-thirteen?” Bishop said, repeating the urgent radio code used when an officer needs assistance. “I didn’t call any ten-thirteen in. But I’m pretty sure I know who did.”

  • • •

  About forty-five minutes later, the crowd had been uneventfully dispersed, police were taking statements, and Bishop wa
s sitting in the back of a patrol car two blocks away, hands cuffed behind his back. He was tired and dirty and his side ached where one of the Muslim goons had rammed his shoulder into him. But more than anything else, Bishop was worried about damage control. He’d have to call Victoria, a call he dreaded, because he knew she’d go nuts on him. And what could he say? How would he explain what happened? Fuck, he thought, this is a disaster. Bishop was angry with himself for letting it happen—no, for making it happen. He had too much at stake now to eagerly get into these kinds of brawls. But he kept pushing anyway. It was like he couldn’t stop himself. It was time to grow up. He rubbed his side where it was sore. He wished he had some Motrin.

  He also wished he could bitch-slap that arrogant little prick A. J. Ross for bolting on him when things heated up. Not that he was expecting any help, but still . . . On the other hand, he did call in a 10-13 to bring out the cavalry. Whatever. He needed to focus. Maybe he should call Chief Fitzgerald. Why would the cops threaten “Muhammad” and tell him not to talk? Just then, the car door opened and a big man with broad shoulders that spanned a good portion of the front seat got in.

  “You really fucked up, Bishop,” the man said in a deep voice without looking in the rearview mirror to make eye contact with Bishop. “Big- shot PI. Always on the cable shows shootin’ your mouth off, gettin’ mentioned in the papers. This time you went too far, jerk-off. You’re sticking your fuckin’ nose in shit that doesn’t concern you.”

  “Are you reading that off your sleeve or did you memorize it?” Bishop asked.

  “That’s funny, dickhead. But we’ll see who’s laughing at the end of the day.”

  “Who the hell are you and why are we sitting in the car?” Bishop asked, thinking maybe the guy looked and sounded familiar. He was huge, about six feet six, and black.

  “Shut up and do as I say or you’ll end up at Central Booking, which is where you belong. Here’s how it’s gonna work. We’re going for a little ride. There’s someone who wants to talk to you,” he said, starting the car.