New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  There was no response. Carter sighed, then kicked the door in.

  “Fuck me, it’s empty,” he said, peering inside. “Guy did a Houdini. Where’d he go?”

  “Hey, detective,” called a uniform from the first bedroom. “Take a look at this.”

  They all crowded in. There was a floorboard that wasn’t quite flush with the rest. The uniform pulled, and a section of floor came up. The hole underneath was ringed by a dozen brick-sized packages wrapped in layers of plastic.

  “Crawl space,” said Carter, shining a flashlight into it. “Looks like it goes all the way to the elevator shaft. He’s probably gotten to the basement by now.”

  “Not one of our finer days,” said Michaels.

  The EMS crew came in and went to work on the wounded man. Michaels took his first deep breath, regretting it immediately. He pried the bullet out of his vest and tossed it to one of the uniforms.

  “Bag this,” he ordered. “Bag the coke. Get Evidence Retrieval in here for prints. I’m gonna ride along with the Swiss guy.”

  “I thought he was Latino,” said the uniform. “How do you figure he’s Swiss?”

  “’Cause of all the holes in him,” said Michaels.

  The ambulance screeched up the ramp to the emergency room at Queens General, with Carter’s Corvette pulling up right behind them, his bubble light flashing on top. Two RMPs brought up the rear.

  “I want him guarded 24/7,” said Carter to the uniforms. “Two men at all times, and heads up. If this guy wants to finish the job, he’ll come in blasting.”

  They followed the gurney inside. There was a flurry of green scrubs and shouting, then the doors to the OR hissed shut, leaving the two detectives standing with a surgeon.

  “How long for the operation?” asked Michaels.

  “To take the bullets out, not long,” said the surgeon. “But we got to get Neuro down to take a look at the spine. I don’t think the guy walks again.”

  “He wasn’t going anywhere, anyways,” said Michaels. “We’d like him alive and talking.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s what we do,” replied the surgeon. “Welcome to Gunshots ’R’ Us.”

  He vanished through the doors. Carter tugged on Michaels’s arm.

  “What?”

  “I figure that adrenaline rush you’ve been coasting on is about to run out,” said Carter. “Let’s get you looked at before you crash and get all whiny with it.”

  Cracked rib, said the ER nurse. Cracked rib, said the X-ray tech. By the time an actual doctor came by and peremptorily taped him up, the formal diagnosis was an afterthought. The doctor pulled out a prescription pad, then looked at him quizzically.

  “How much do you want it to not hurt?” he asked.

  “What’s the tradeoff?” asked Michaels.

  “You have any desire to be awake anytime in the near future?”

  “Actually, I do,” said Michaels. “But give me something for when I need to sleep without screaming.”

  The doctor scribbled something. “You’re a lucky man today,” he said as he handed it to him.

  “I guess I am,” said Michaels. “Not really feeling it yet.”

  He walked out of the ER. Carter was waiting for him.

  “They told me you got a cracked rib,” he said.

  “So I heard,” said Michaels. “How’s our boy?”

  “Still in surgery,” said Carter. “And Birnbaum’s here.”

  “He wants to debrief us?”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  Birnbaum’s moods were measured on the Richter scale. From the looks of his complexion, which was veering into the deep-purple end of red, there was major activity happening along his faultline.

  “Routine execution of a search warrant, that’s what you said,” he fumed. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, captain,” answered Carter.

  “And now I got an escaped cop-shooter with no description,” said Birnbaum. “Wonderful. Let’s call the Post and share our little victory.”

  “I didn’t really get shot,” explained Michaels. “I got shot at. The bullet did not technically enter my body.”

  “And my foot will not technically connect with your ass,” retorted Birnbaum.

  “We did get twelve keys of coke off the street,” pointed out Carter. “And one guy to charge them against.”

  “Oh, that was good work,” said Birnbaum. “Did he put up a struggle as you put the cuffs on, or was he too busy bleeding on the floor? Get Portillo, and then I can start sticking medals on someone.”

  He stormed away.

  “Ain’t no winning with this one, is there?” said Carter.

  The surgeon came out. “You need these for evidence or something?” he asked, holding out his hand. There were two bullets in it.

  “Yeah, thanks,” said Carter. “How’s the patient?”

  “He’ll live, but he won’t be out of a wheelchair until someone figures out how to reconnect spinal cords.”

  “That sucks,” said Michaels. “How long until he wakes up?”

  “Should be soon.”

  “Okay, doc, thanks,” said Michaels. He turned to Carter. “So now that they’ve sewed him up, let’s go see if he’s willing to spill his guts.”

  “Not until I talk to him about his condition,” said the surgeon. “He hears that from me, not from you.”

  “Look, doc, this is a serious case here,” said Michaels. “We got a shooter on the run.”

  “My house, my rules,” replied the surgeon. “I’ll let you know when I’m through.”

  About fifteen minutes later, he came out and gave them a nod. They went inside. The man was stretched out on a bed, a number of different monitors beeping and blinking around him. He was staring up at the ceiling, but rolled his eyes toward the two detectives as they pulled up a couple of chairs to the bed. One of his hands was handcuffed to the siderail.

  “How’s it going, John?” asked Michaels.

  “Who’s John?” whispered the man.

  “That’s how they got you listed,” said Michaels. “You’re John Doe 375 until they find out your real name. Sorry about your situation. Guess your partner figured he didn’t want you talking.”

  “I’m not talking,” said the man.

  “Look at that loyalty, will you?” beamed Michaels.

  “Impressive,” said Carter. “Gets shot in the back by his own boy, and still won’t give him up.”

  “John—screw that, give me a name,” said Michaels. “We’ll have it by tonight with the fingerprints, so you might as well.”

  “Santos,” said the man.

  “Okay, Santos, nice to meet you. Here’s the thing,” said Michaels. “We took twelve keys out of the floor in the bedroom. That puts you deep into A-1 felony weight, which in real terms means a whole lotta years to life. Not only that, you get charged for what your buddy Portillo did when we came in the door.”

  “What do you mean?” wheezed Santos.

  “I mean two counts of attempted murder in the— Hey, I guess it’s first degree, isn’t it?”

  “He was shooting at police officers,” said Carter. “Hit one. That makes it first degree in my book.”

  “So that makes it another whole lotta years to life consecutive to the first whole lotta years to life,” continued Michaels.

  “I didn’t shoot anyone,” protested Santos.

  “Yeah, but it’s this whole acting-in-concert thing,” said Michaels. “Legal stuff, but I’m saying it means you go down for everything here.”

  “He’s not my partner,” said Santos.

  “Then you shouldn’t give a shit what happens to him,” said Michaels.

  “I wouldn’t,” added Carter.

  “You see, here’s what I’m saying, Santos,” Michaels continued. “We can give up on him and let you take the weight, and that’s a win for us. We go on to the next case, and you go upstate into maximum security . . .”

  “That’s on account o
f it being a violent felony,” explained Carter.

  “Where you will spend the rest of your life not being able to walk, piss, shit, or . . . which one am I missing?”

  “Fuck,” said Carter.

  “Oh yeah, fuck,” said Michaels. “On the plus side, when you get gang-banged, you won’t feel a thing. You could get some reading done while it’s going on.”

  “You are going to be one well-read man,” said Carter.

  “But, as you might have figured out by now . . .” started Michaels.

  “Because you are an intelligent individual . . .” said Carter.

  “There is a way of making this situation a whole lot easier.”

  “Portillo,” said Santos.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you give me what? Witness Protection Program?”

  “Not likely,” said Michaels. “But we could just charge you with the drugs, and there’s a lot of flexibility in the sentencing. Even probation comes into play if your info is good.”

  “I can get out?”

  “We could drop it down a grade or three depending on the level of cooperation we get,” explained Michaels. “This is Queens. We got a deal going with the Narcotics DA. Doesn’t mean you can go back to selling, but yeah, you can get out.”

  Santos lay there, his eyes closed. “Am I ever gonna walk?”

  “Not according to your doctor,” said Michaels.

  “Fuck Portillo,” said Santos. “Fuck him up bad.”

  “We’ll do our best,” promised Michaels. “So what have you got?”

  “His sister’s kid,” said Santos. “He’s in Little League. He’s a pitcher. Portillo was always bragging on how great his nephew is. He was talking about going to see him pitch on Saturday. There’s a playoff game. He wouldn’t miss it if every SWAT team in the world was after him.”

  “When? Where? What’s the sister’s name?”

  “I don’t know,” said Santos.

  “What’s the nephew’s name?” asked Carter.

  “Portillo just called him Junior.”

  “And that’s all you got? There are a thousand Little League fields in this city. How we gonna find the right one?”

  Santos thought for a second. “Jews,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He came back from this one game, I think it was last Tuesday night, and he was laughing about seeing all these Jews lining up for a bunch of school buses. He thought it was the funniest thing he ever seen.”

  “Jews in New York,” muttered Michaels. “Well, that should narrow it down.”

  * * *

  “You got him yet?” asked Birnbaum when they entered his office.

  “We know where he’s gonna be, sort of,” said Michaels. He summed up their information.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, so far,” said Michaels. “Doesn’t really help. There are a lot of baseball fields and even more Jews to track down. Not sure how to narrow this one down in time.”

  “Maybe by asking the only Jew in the room, who has risen to his position of authority over you shmucks by means of superior intelligence,” said Birnbaum.

  “Enlighten us, captain,” said Carter.

  “When you or I say Jew, we’re talking about a whole range of things,” said Birnbaum. “But if a guy named Portillo is laughing about seeing Jews on a bus, he’s means old-school Jews. I’m talking Hasids here.”

  “Those guys in the black coats and hats with the beards and the curly things on the sides,” said Michaels.

  “That sensitivity training really paid off for you,” sighed Birnbaum. “Yes, those guys. Lubavitchers, Satmars, whichever sect, that’s probably who he was talking about.”

  “So we’re looking at Williamsburg or Crown Heights?” guessed Carter.

  “Not necessarily,” said Birnbaum. “They’ve branched out into a lot of neighborhoods. But if they’re getting on school buses, it probably means either a synagogue or a seminary. Start calling precinct captains—those guys should be able to tell you if there are Hasid places near Little League fields.”

  “We’re on it,” said Michaels.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Carter hung up his phone and sighed. “Damn, when Cap’s on, he’s on. Got a likely from the 112.”

  “Forest Hills?” said Michaels.

  “Forest Hills, Rego Park,” answered Carter. “Proud home of the Forest Hills Youth Athletic Association, which is in Rego Park. They have their own fields on Fleet Street, and first round of playoffs is this Saturday.”

  “And?”

  “Around the corner on Thornton, there’s a Hasidic seminary. School buses line up to take the students back to wherever they live. The Captain at the 112 says they sometimes got complaints about the street getting blocked.”

  “Let’s go take a look,” said Michaels.

  They drove to Fleet Street. There was a high mesh fence bordering the sidewalk, a concrete bunker of a clubhouse on the right. It was Friday, around noon, and the field was being mowed by a guy on a large riding mower. There was an old railroad bridge, overgrown with bushes and trees, and abandoned tracks ran along a path off the street, parallel to the left field line. Signs from local sponsors decorated the outfield fence.

  “Looks doable,” said Carter.

  “Harder than it looks,” countered Michaels. “There’s another field there.”

  They strolled through the gate and up a hill. Sure enough, a second baseball diamond was set up above the first, and they could see two more past that one. A path stretched between Fields 3 and 4, running to residential neighborhoods in both directions.

  “What’s past that field?” asked Carter.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  There were woods, and a clearing. The tracks continued in that direction, heading toward a tunnel by the Long Island Rail Road tracks. A commuter train roared by as they watched.

  “Someone’s been having a party,” observed Michaels, pointing to some empty beer bottles and crack vials scattered around a fallen tree.

  “Our boy, or just the locals?” wondered Carter.

  “Who knows? This could be a nightmare. We got three street entrances, the whole woodland frontier at the back, four fields going simultaneously for however many games, one very dangerous and armed cop-shooter, and civilians everywhere. Child civilians at that.”

  “Portillo spooks, there could be some bad headlines on Sunday,” said Carter. “Shoot-out at a Little League game. Won’t do anyone any good.”

  “We’re gonna need a big team. Let’s talk to the captain.”

  * * *

  Saturday morning at 6:00 a.m., Michaels handed out satellite photos of the field that he had downloaded. “First games are at 8:30. Four fields going, and a new game every two hours until sunset. Every field will have two dozen kids, and three times as many family members watching. We’re looking for a phenom, a Latino pitcher called Junior, and when we find him, we narrow down on that location and look for his uncle. We got twenty-five cops here. I want a car at the two side entrances at Thornton and Alderton, four guys up in the woods near the old railroad tunnel, two cars at the main entrance, and the rest of us wandering the location. If you see him, just phone it in. We’ll grab him once he leaves. We don’t want him to start anything when there’s kids everywhere. Everyone got their cell phones charged up? We’ll be keeping them on walkie-talkie mode.”

  “Won’t that look kind of obvious?” asked a cop.

  “Every parent on that field is gonna be giving play-by-play to Grandma,” said Michaels. “We’ll fit right in.”

  * * *

  Sleepy six-year-olds wearing primary-colored jerseys and black pants over cups they wouldn’t need for several years waddled up the hill to the T-ball field. Older children warmed up on the larger fields while their parents unfolded a wide variety of collapsible chairs. The caretaker trundled the chalk spreader from field to field, leaving foul lines in his wake. The tiny green snack shed’s shutters
opened, and the smell of coffee and hot dogs began to permeate the atmosphere. Michaels bought his first cup of coffee and promised to pace himself. There were going to be no bathroom breaks today.

  International League. Pan-Continental League. Major League. Grandiose titles for small players, wearing their sponsors’ names with pride. T-Bone Diner. Hancock Law. Fast Break—that was the best name for a team, Michaels thought. A basketball team, but still. He wandered around, listening in on coaches’ instructions, looking for Junior.

  “It’s a beautiful day for a ballgame,” came Carter’s voice over his cell phone. “Let’s play sixteen.”

  A burst of Spanish chatter caught his attention. A family had settled in to cheer their daughter on. A young woman, a young man, an older woman. The man had a beard. In the brief glimpse he’d had of Portillo, he hadn’t seen a beard. He had a vague impression of height.

  “Girls generally don’t get named Junior, do they?” he asked into his cell phone.

  “I’d say not,” replied Carter. “Unless she’s a real Griffey fan. But Santos did say nephew.”

  “Right,” said Michaels. “I’m hanging by Field 3, Mom. I’ll let you know when little Barney comes up to bat.”

  There were bleachers along the third base line, but he chose to stand by the fence near first. Families were still coming in as the pimply teenager who was umpiring the game yelled, “Play ball!”

  Michaels glanced over the crowd, then watched as the pitcher plunked the first batter with his first throw. The crowd oohed in sympathy, then cheered as the batter swallowed hard to keep from crying and jogged down to first base.

  “Settle down, Danny!” shouted a mom. The pitcher ignored her, and hit the next batter.

  “One more and he’s out,” said a man sitting on a lawn chair by Michaels.

  “That’s the rule?” asked Michaels.

  “Yeah, you can only hit two kids per inning. Safety thing.”

  “I guess you save it for the ones you really don’t like,” said Michaels.

  “Yeah,” said the man. “That’s my boy in left. Which kid’s yours?”

  “Still on the bench,” said Michaels. “They’ll probably put him in halfway through.”