by F. P. Lione
Leftover food smells, cigarette smoke, and booze hung in the air. Past the buffet counter and up to the kitchen door were wooden tables with wooden chairs pushed in and out at odd angles. A couple of chairs were overturned, and the floor was wet.
Toward the end of the bar we saw two men. One was in a Grinch costume, the other in a Santa Claus suit. They were pummeling each other on the floor of the bar. Beside one of the barstools, the head to the Grinch costume was lying on its side on the floor. Even in the dark bar, the face on the Grinch mask looked strange—small droopy eyes and thick black eyebrows sewn on, giving it a maniacal look.
Santa’s hat and beard were on the bar next to a glass of beer and an empty shot glass. A pack of Kools was next to the red hat, and one was smoking in the ashtray.
The bartender in his white apron was standing with his hands on his hips, watching them scuffle. Three or four people sat at the bar, giving little interest to the drama around them.
“Good!” the bartender yelled in his Irish brogue. “Now the cops are here to take your sorry hides to the slammer.”
Romano went toward them, and I grabbed him by the jacket. “Whoa, let’s let them tire themselves out a little before you separate them.” It’s been my experience that it’s smart to let them run out of steam a little so if they throw you a punch, there’s not much force in it.
“These guys stand up on 42nd Street and take pictures with the tourists,” Romano remarked.
When we got within about five feet of them, we could smell the sweat mixed with beer. Santa looked like a harmless old man, somewhere in his sixties. His black patent leather belt was broken, hanging open around his waist. The white trim on his Santa suit was now black from the dirt on the floor, and when he rolled over he had a foot print on his back. His face was blotchy where he took some punches, his left eye was swollen, and his lip was split and bleeding.
The Grinch had gotten the best of Santa; aside from a couple of choke marks on his neck and a knot over his eye, he looked okay. He was younger than Santa, heavyset with dark brown hair that was sweaty and disheveled. The Grinch’s suit was torn at the collar, revealing a white thermal shirt underneath. His hand was cut, probably from the broken glass on the floor.
“Alright, guys, it’s over now,” I said as I grabbed the Grinch. Fiore came up next to me in case the Grinch started to swing again.
“Nick, grab Santa,” I said to Romano.
“I’m not gonna lock up Santa,” Romano said, looking horrified.
“We can’t leave him here,” I pointed out.
“I want them both out of here!” the bartender shouted. “They’ve been fighting all night.”
I still had my gloves on, and when I grabbed the Grinch to cuff him, my hold was slippery on his wet fur. He smelled like a wet dog that’d been rolling in beer.
“When was the last time you washed this thing?” I asked the Grinch, wrinkling my face in distaste.
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.
Nick was standing next to Santa, making no move to cuff him. “Nick, cuff Santa,” I said. “We’ll sort this out at the precinct.”
“Great, I locked up Santa,” Romano said miserably.
“And the Grinch,” Joe added, holding the more docile Santa’s arm in back of him while Romano put the cuffs on him.
At this point the Grinch was breathing heavy, looking at Santa menacingly. He pulled away from me and screamed, “I’ll kill you!” as he threw himself at Santa.
“You’re a mean one, Mr. Grinch,” I said dryly. “Now leave Santa alone.” He hocked some spit at Santa, catching him on the front of his furry red jacket. I whipped him around. “If you spit at him again, I’m gonna put your mask back on you and you can spit on yourself.” He looked at me defiantly and spit on Santa again. I sighed and walked over to the Grinch head, pulling it a little roughly onto his head.
“He took my money!” he said. It sounded muffled under the mask, but I could hear what he was saying.
“Shut up!” I said, “Look at me.” I pulled on his cuffs to pull his stare away from Santa. I couldn’t see where his eyes were through the mask and looked in the general direction of his face. “Did you see him take your money?”
“No, but I had a twenty on the bar.”
“So anybody could have taken it. You probably drank yourself through it and don’t remember,” I said. The mask was giving him a deranged look. The eyes on the mask were nothing more than two slits and left him looking like he just shot heroin or something.
Joe got the information from the bartender: name, address, phone number, and a brief summary of what happened. Then he picked up Santa’s beard, holding it up to let the beer drip off it. He got Santa his red hat and cigarettes, and we marched them out to the RMP.
We put Romano in the backseat, crushing him between Santa and the Grinch.
“Ah come on, these two stink!” Romano said with disgust. “Why do drunks always wet their pants?” Joe and I laughed at him but rolled down the windows in the back. “You’re gonna clean that backseat, Nick,” I yelled toward the back. “I’m not smelling that all night.”
“Nick, what post you got?” Fiore asked him, calling Central.
“Robbery Post 4,” Romano said.
Fiore gave Central Romano’s post and told them he had two under, meaning two arrests. He asked them to have a bus (ambulance) meet us at the station house. Better to have these guys looked at—the last thing we needed was to have Santa Claus die while in custody.
Vince Puletti started laughing as soon as we walked through the front doors of the precinct. “I guess the Grinch made the naughty list!” he cackled, cracking himself up.
Terri Marks, an old-timer, was working the desk tonight. She’s got about eighteen years on and is probably somewhere in her midforties. Because she was inside, she had no vest on. She had a winter tan. She goes to a tanning salon regularly, sunning herself into a piece of leather. She has these piercing blue eyes, almost silver really, and her hair is dyed a dull red. I hear eighteen years ago she was gorgeous, but she looks like a hair bag now.
She kept her face impassive as we walked over to the desk. We caught Lieutenant Coughlin by surprise. He peered over the top of his glasses, then put his head down and snorted. He looked up again, straight-faced.
“Whaddaya got, Romano?”
“I got assault three on both Santa and the Grinch,” Romano said nervously. When he saw the lou looking at Santa, he added, “We got a bus coming to the house.”
“Sure,” the lou looked at Joe and me. “We don’t want Santa sick for Christmas.”
“He stole my money!” the Grinch insisted, mumbling the words.
“Uh,” Romano stammered, “the Grinch said Santa stole his money off the bar.”
I saw the look of distaste on the lou’s face as he caught a whiff of these two.
“What’s with the mask on the Grinch?” he asked, eyeing the mask suspiciously.
“He’s a spitter,” I said.
“Take them in the back and keep them separated. Then come back out and do the pedigree sheet.” He sighed, then added, “Search them good and see if Santa has any of those magic corn kernels that make the reindeers fly. My wife’s got a cat I want to get rid of.”
“Nick?” Terri Marks said seriously as Romano started toward the cells. “For the pedigree sheet, what do we got, the North Pole and Who-ville?”
“Come on, Nick, I’ll help you get them to the back,” Fiore said.
While Joe went back to the cells with Nick, I took some alcohol pads and wiped down the backseat of our car. Fiore came out, and we stopped on the corner of 35th and 9th to get some coffee.
While I was paying for our coffee, I heard Central give us a job on 35th Street between Broadway and 7th. It had come over as a 10-22, past larceny from an auto.
We drove out, heading east to the back of Macy’s where their loading dock is located. Three empty trailers were backed up into the loading dock bays behind the
store.
There was a woman talking on her cell phone, waving us down. She flipped her phone shut and walked toward our car. I pulled up behind the car she was standing next to, a black Porshe that was parked on the south side of 35th Street. Joe radioed Central, telling them we were 84, on the scene.
She was wearing a fur coat that came to about her ankles. I could see black high heels and stockings sticking out under the fur coat. She was a cool blonde, probably midforties with that well-kept look rich women have.
“Somebody broke into my car. He broke the window and took my presents,” she said, indicating the driver’s side window that was missing.
I took out my flashlight as I walked over to the car. I shone the light inside the car. In the passenger seat I saw the porcelain part of a spark plug used to break the window.
The woman was looking at us like we could do something about her stolen packages.
The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas in Mid-town are packed with people. As Christmas gets closer, shoppers and perps compete to buy or steal those last-minute gifts. Perps make the most of the season by doing some shopping as they watch unsuspecting consumers relieve themselves of their heavy packages, put them in their cars, and go back to shop some more. Then the perps usually use the spark plug to gain access to the gifts—the porcelain part is heavy enough to break any window, and you just can’t find rocks on the streets of Manhattan. The perps stand a couple of feet away from the car and throw the spark plug as hard as they can at the window, shattering it in one easy move. Then they help themselves to all the gifts and bags people are stupid enough to leave in the backseat of their car. After that, the perps use the latch inside the car to pop the trunk and make off with all the really good stuff the complainant didn’t want anyone to walk by and see in the car.
“How long has the car been here?” I asked.
“I came out about forty-five minutes ago and put the packages in the car. I forgot the table linens I needed, so I ran back into Macy’s about a quarter to twelve.” She held up a brown shopping bag. “I have the linens, but all my presents are gone,” she said with a disgusted sigh. “I was so glad to get back in the store before they closed. I would have had the table linens and the presents finished.” She shook her head, “They were already wrapped.”
I looked at my watch, it was now 12:30. “How long ago did you call?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Whoever it was, they’re long gone.” I said, looking into the car.
The glove compartment was open and a gum wrapper was on the seat, along with small pieces of glass from the shattered window.
“Not much glass in here,” I looked back at her.
“I brushed most of it out of the car already,” she said. I looked down to see glass on the street in between the curb and the car. I was wearing gloves so I wouldn’t cut my hands. I brushed the rest of it out, picking up a couple of pieces in the console. I picked up the gum wrapper and she said, “And he helped himself to my gum too.”
“Does your insurance company cover the contents of the car?” Fiore asked.
“I don’t know.” She rubbed her forehead. “Now I have to shop all over again. I had it all wrapped already, and now I have to do it again,” she repeated. “I’m having thirty guests for Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow, and I don’t have time for this.” She turned to Joe. “He took the book to my Porshe, the one you keep in the glove compartment. What is he going to do with that?”
“Maybe a souvenir,” Joe said with a shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What are you doing out so late? Couldn’t you finish this in the morning?” I asked her. I know she had to shop, but this was a dark and desolate street; you’d think she’d know better.
“I wanted to finish all my shopping so I could concentrate on dinner tomorrow.” She rubbed her forehead again and asked, “Are you going to dust for fingerprints?”
I’m glad I didn’t laugh and say, “Not for this, lady.” They weren’t coming out for a smash and grab.
Joe said diplomatically, “We’d have to see if someone from the evidence collection unit who is latent print qualified is working.”
“How soon can they be here?” she asked.
“It would take a while. Unless you’re willing to wait here for a few hours and have powder all over your car, maybe you should check with your insurance company to see if you’re covered. How much was in there?” Joe asked. “If it’s only a couple of hundred dollars in gifts that you’re probably not gonna get back anyway, it’s not worth having your car dusted for prints.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe I have to do this again.”
“Thank God it’s stuff you can replace,” Joe said. “Do you have your receipts?”
“Some of them—the rest were in the bags.”
“We’ll do a report,” I told her. “Then when you get a list for the rest of the items from your credit card bills, you can come down to the precinct and add them on. Did you use a credit card to buy the gifts?”
She nodded, “Yes.”
We took her info, she gave us an Upper East Side address and a list of the receipts she had on her.
“Thank you for your help, officers,” she said, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”
“No problem,” I said. “Merry Christmas to you too.”
We got back in the car, and a job came over from South Adam for a robbery in progress.
“South Adam to Central,” South Adam radioed.
“Go ahead, South Adam,” Central responded.
“I have a pickup of a 30, West 38th and 6th, happened two to three minutes in the past. We’re looking for a dark-skinned male Hispanic in a camouflage army jacket with a hood. Suspect armed with a machete, last seen 6th Avenue and 38th.”
A 30 is a robbery in progress, and 38th Street was three blocks from where we were. I smiled and raised my eyebrows at Fiore as I turned the car around. I pulled into one of the empty bays of the loading dock, threw my lights on, and drove the wrong way on 35th Street, toward Broadway.
2
Herald Square is between Broadway and 6th, so I figured I’d zip over to Broadway or 6th from 35th Street and maybe catch the suspect running down our way.
“You looking tonight?” Joe asked, meaning did I want to make an arrest.
“No way, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. You?” I countered.
“Can’t, lots of company coming.”
As I got to Broadway, Joe and I took a fast look up and down the block. When I proceeded to 6th Avenue, Joe said, “Wait up, Tony.”
“Whaddaya got?” I looked around, trying to see what was up.
“Look.” He pointed to Herald Square. “Someone is ducking behind the statue.”
He was talking about the statue in Herald Square of Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, holding her shield over her two bell ringers. It’s a memorial to James Gordon Bennett Sr., the founder of the New York Herald.
We were on the north side of the statue, behind it. The statue faces south. Herald Square is enclosed with a wrought iron fence, so people can enjoy the park without having cars jump the sidewalk and plow into them. The park is triangular with three exits, and he could wind up on 34th Street or on either side of 35th Street, depending on which side of the statue he ran from.
“He’s been running, I can see he’s breathing hard,” Joe said quietly.
I leaned forward to take a look. I couldn’t see the perp, just the plumes of smoke as his breath hit the cold air.
Joe got on the radio, “South David to Central.”
“Go ahead, South David.”
“We got a possible at three-five and six.”
“10-4.”
We both got out of the car. I cut the engine and took my keys. Joe and I loosened our guns from our holsters, keeping our right hands on our guns and our radios in our left hands.
We were at the opening at 35th and 6th. As we reached the sidewalk, he bolted. We could hear him r
unning and hear the rustling of a plastic bag. We stopped and hunched down to see which way he went. We spotted him running westbound on 35th Street, where we just answered the smash-and-grab job.
Good, I thought as he ran down 35th. We can trap him on this street—if he had run down Broadway, he would have had an open street with subway access. He must have panicked and couldn’t orient himself, or he never would have run this way.
Joe and I started to run after him. As I passed the RMP, I realized I’d have time to get in the car and chase him down 35th Street. Joe kept after him on foot. I jumped in the car, turned the ignition, and spun the tires.
I heard Joe radioing Central, “I’m in pursuit on 35th Street going westbound toward 7th Avenue.” The other units joined in.
“South Adam responding.”
“South Eddie going.”
“South Sergeant responding.”
I threw my lights on as I turned down 35th Street. I saw the perp running in the street about thirty feet in front of Joe, not even halfway to 7th Avenue. I was contemplating opening my door to whack him from behind when he cut in between two parked cars, slowing down on the sidewalk but still running.
As I passed him I didn’t turn to look at him, but I could see him carrying a long, black plastic bag in his right hand.
While the streets in Herald Square were shorter, this length of 35th Street was unusually long, about a block and a half, the whole length of Macy’s.
I kept him in my sights with quick glances in my sideview mirror. When I got about fifty feet ahead of him, I screeched to a halt, threw the car in park, and shut off the ignition. I grabbed my keys in case he threw me a head fake to get past me and drove off with the RMP, leaving me and Fiore swinging in the breeze.
I jumped out of the car, leaving the door open. I pulled my gun out and tried to set my eyes on where he was so I could move in his direction. He was still on the sidewalk, with Joe running about thirty feet behind him.