by F. P. Lione
I went home, went to bed, and slept like the dead. I woke up to sunshine streaming through the windows. I was thankful that at least it wasn’t raining. I spent the day keeping busy. I cleaned my guns, washed my bathroom, watched the Weather Channel and Lethal Weapon 3 on cable.
I left early for work, eager to escape the quiet in my apartment. There was little traffic on the roads, and I drove through the Verrazzano, the Gowanus, and the Battery Tunnel without slowing down.
I was dressed and had already drunk a cup of coffee when Fiore got to the precinct.
I could see in his eyes that he’d already heard about the fiasco at my grandmother’s house on Christmas Eve.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Bad news travels fast,” I remarked. “I guess Michele talked to Donna.”
I could see he wanted to deny it, but he said, “Yeah, she did,” instead. “It’ll work out,” he said.
“I don’t know, it was pretty bad,” I said honestly.
Sergeant Hanrahan had approached us on his way to the podium. He cut his hair last week into a short, almost military style, showing off his blue eyes. I noticed he had put a couple of pounds on his six-foot frame.
“Hey, Tony, Joe,” he said, shaking our hands. “How was Christmas?” He looked back and forth between us.
“Great!” Joe said. “The kids loved it.”
“What about you, Tony?”
“Pretty good, boss,” I lied. “How bout you? How’s the family?”
“Everyone’s good, thanks. Listen,” he leaned in closer, and his eyes scanned the room as he spoke quietly, “there’s an overtime detail that I think you guys will be interested in.”
He said it so secretively that I nodded, leaned over, and whispered, “Who do we have to kill?”
He smiled and said, “Seriously, this is right up your alley.” “I don’t know, boss,” I said skeptically. “Sounds like work to me.”
He waved me away as he walked to the muster room podium and gave the fall in order.
He gave out the foot posts, the sectors, and the color of the day and wound it up with, “The administrative sergeant left me a message,” he continued, “that some pretour and end-of-tour overtime is available. If anyone is interested, see me after the roll call.” He closed with, “Be careful, and foot posts, make sure you pick up the jobs on your post.”
Mike Rooney, McGovern, O’Brien, Fiore, and I approached the boss after roll call.
“About the overtime,” he said. “I was told by Sergeant Bishop from the day tour that there is a detail available if anyone wants to volunteer.”
If we were being asked to volunteer, then nobody else wanted the detail. There’s a system behind the system for the way this works. The administrative sergeant on the day tour, who does the precinct stats for the CO, and the captain get the overtime order. The guys who work upstairs and suck up to him get first crack at the overtime. They buy him dinner for giving them the good details and for the most part just feed his ego. Since the administrative sergeant’s name is Charlie Bishop, we call his guys “Charlie’s Angels.”
At first I thought Charlie’s Angels had a better detail, but as Hanrahan explained the detail, I realized why they didn’t want it.
“We’re paying special attention to the parking garages in the vicinity of Times Square,” Hanrahan said.
“Special attention” means the city is on alert. The department never tells us the city’s on alert. We usually read about it in the newspaper, or like tonight, we hear at roll call that we’re paying “special attention” to something.
This year’s overtime detail, like last year’s, was checking all the parking garages in the vicinity of Times Square for bombs. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out that if we’re looking for bombs, we’ve been getting some threats again.
If no one volunteered for the overtime, the precinct would have to start mandating it. Since the week between Christmas and New Year’s is usually busy, I figured the bomb duty was an easy gig.
“Hey, Tony, you in on this?” Fiore asked.
“Sure. I could use the money,” I said, wondering what the hit would be on my Visa this month.
“Did you see Nick?” he asked, meaning Nick Romano.
“He’s not here,” I said. “He probably took off because he couldn’t get Christmas off.”
In a way I was glad that Romano wasn’t around. I wouldn’t have talked to Joe about things if he were here.
I went over to the radio room to speak to John Conte, my old partner. They had him working the radio room; I guess he was covering for Vince Puletti. Vince has so much time on, he probably hasn’t worked the holidays in twenty years.
It was John’s first day back on limited duty, and he was dressed to be inside. Long-sleeved, blue-collared shirt with blue clip-on tie, rather than the NYPD turtleneck. He had no vest on and was carrying two guns. He had his off-duty Glock on his hip, and I could see the shoulder holster under his shirt. We hugged and slapped backs when I walked into the room, and I could feel the .38 under his arm digging into my side.
“Hey, buddy,” he smiled. “Good to see you.”
“Hey, John, how you been? How does it feel to be back?” I asked.
“It was either this or get divorced,” he joked.
Most cops would have gone out on three-quarters for a line-of-duty injury like John’s. If you figure it takes us twenty years to get half pay from a job that never increases, three-quarters tax-free anytime sooner is like hitting the lotto. But John is gung ho; he would sit at a desk with his leg amputated before he’d go out, he loves the job.
John looked healthy. His color was good, not that gray pallor us midnight guys get from lack of sunlight. He was thirty, a little on the skinny side, which made him look taller than he really is. He was about five foot eleven and weighed about 170 pounds. He was Italian but with blue eyes, light skin, and frizzy brown hair. I noticed his skin had cleared up some. When he worked with me, he was always going to the dermatologist to treat his acne. I think the time away from the job helped. It could also be the fact that he lived up in Westchester, away from all the dirt in the city. The exhaust from the cars and buses alone gives you a layer of grime on your face.
I talked to him as I signed out my radio, but someone interrupted us every thirty seconds to welcome him back and ask how he’d been. I stayed for a few minutes while he gave out the radios. I watched him pull the radio from its designated slot labeled in duct tape with the radio number written in black magic marker. He had the cops sign out their name next to the corresponding number.
All the interruptions were making it difficult to catch up on what was going on with him. I hadn’t told him a lot about the changes in my life, and I was sure he’d hear some things now that he was back.
“How do you like working with Joe? He’s a good guy, right?” he asked. I almost laughed because that’s what everyone says about Fiore.
“Yeah, he is a good guy,” I said and left it at that.
“You know, you look a little like him,” John said.
A lot of people say that, but I don’t see it. Fiore is taller than I am, closer to six feet while I’m almost five ten. He’s built, but I’m stockier. We’re both dark haired, but my hair’s straight and his is wavy. He has big, dark brown eyes where mine are hazel, and I’m more heavy lidded. I have what my grandmother calls a “classic Roman nose,” whatever that means. Fiore’s nose is wider, but it fits his face. Joe came over to say hello to John before we went out.
I had a set of keys made for my RMP, so I didn’t have to get them from Rice and Beans. A cold front was moving through, and the temperature had dropped into the twenties. The wind-chill was supposed to make it to about twelve degrees. It was a biting wind that stung my face as I walked to our car. I was dressed warm, thermal shirt under my turtleneck with NYPD on the collar. I had my gray leather gloves tucked into my gun belt, folded over the front of my buckle. I didn’t wear long johns under my pants, it
would have been too hot in the car. Fiore was dressed pretty much the same as I was, except he had the longer winter jacket. The newer one that I wore was waist length while Fiore’s was pants length. Mine looks better and is easier to move in, but Fiore’s is warmer.
We cleaned out our sector car and settled our gear, hats in the backseat, radios in the doors, and handcuffs pulled to the side of our belts.
I drove to the corner of 35th Street and 9th Avenue to pick up coffee. Fiore grabbed a muffin to go with his coffee, but I didn’t get anything to eat. I still felt full from all the food I ate over the holiday. I had scarfed down leftover eggplant parmigiana before I came in tonight and couldn’t fit any more food. I drove to 8th Avenue and up to 37th Street and found a spot on 37th between 8th and 9th where we could have our coffee.
“So what did Michele say?” I asked as Fiore pulled the muffin out of its paper holder.
He seemed to stall for a minute and said, “She told Donna that she doesn’t think your family is too happy about you going out with her.”
That was an understatement.
Fiore waited a beat and added, “She also said that she feels there’s a lot of hostility there that might not be so good for Stevie.”
Michele is always so tactful, she would never come out and say they were a bunch of psychopaths.
“What happened?” he asked. “Why are things always so—”
He stopped, putting his hand up as he listened to a radio transmission that caught our attention. A North car came over the air, saying: “Central, this is North Henry. I’ve got a late model black Suburban, Ford Explorer, New York plates.” He read off the three-letter, four-number plate to Central. “It just left the scene of an accident and is westbound on 57th Street, just past 5th Avenue.” He added, “Just past 6th Avenue.”
Now, nobody’s saying they’re pursuing the vehicle, but we know they are. In New York City, the Police Department does not want high-speed chases through the streets—they can end in death to innocent bystanders and lawsuits for the city. If the North Sergeant thinks a unit is in pursuit, he’s gonna get on the radio and call it off.
The sector came back over the radio again with “Central, the black Suburban just turned south on Broadway after striking a city bus and leaving the scene just past 56th Street.”
Now he’s coming down toward us, and he is moving. The North Sergeant comes over the radio and says, “Central, this is North Sergeant, what is the vehicle wanted for?”
Central says, “I’ve run the plate, and it’s not stolen. As far as I know it’s for leaving the scene.”
The North Sergeant responds with, “Call it off, Central, call off the pursuit.”
We put our conversation to the side for now as we moved the RMP to the corner of 37th Street and 9th Avenue. I wanted to find out which direction the black Suburban was headed and position myself in case he comes this far south or west. At this point North Henry is no longer identifying themselves, and we’re hearing 55th, 54th, 53rd, 52nd, 51st, identifying the streets the black Suburban is whipping past. Someone else comes over the air, saying, “He’s blowing red lights!”
Then we hear the shrill alarm sound that Central uses when they’re saying something important. It’s only used for higher priority issues to get everyone’s attention. It’s a loud, high-pitched series of multiple short beeps followed by the message, “North Sergeant has called off the pursuit.”
Another voice followed almost immediately with, “Eastbound on 50th Street.”
Central hits the doo-doo-doo alarm again and repeats, “Call it off! North Sergeant has called off the pursuit! Is there a unit in pursuit?”
Silence follows on the radio.
“Wanna move?” Fiore asked.
“Yeah,” I said, putting the car in drive. Now that he was going east, I drove south to 34th Street. This is the fastest way across town to the East Side, where the Suburban is heading.
It was now midnight. Something was going on at the Manhattan Civic Center, with taxis and limos two deep out front. A few people were coming out of the movie theater across from the Civic Center, and pedestrian traffic was still pretty busy along this end of 34th Street. The Knicks or the Rangers must have had a game at the Garden, because a bunch of people were exiting from there and crossing both 34th Street and 8th Avenue.
As I was driving eastbound on 34th Street, I passed Macy’s on my left. It was still decorated for Christmas, so was most of 34th Street. Fiore and I were driving slow, keeping an eye out to make sure this clown didn’t come flying down to where we were. The next thing we heard was “Four-eight and 5th,” which means the driver has now made a right onto 5th Avenue and is going south. They were at 48th Street. I was one block west of 5th Avenue and 14 blocks south of 48th Street.
Central put over the air, “Is there a unit in pursuit?”
Silence.
“Is there a unit in trouble?”
Silence again. No one was going to admit to a pursuit.
It was quiet for what seemed to be three minutes, then we heard screaming over the radio.
“Someone just hit our car! Central, someone just slammed into us!”
Fiore and I sat up straighter and leaned into the radio, as if it could give us a visual. I looked at him. He shrugged and said, “What was that?”
“No idea,” I said as they transmitted again.
“Central, FTU, uh, automobile to Central!” They were yelling so loud it distorted the communication.
“Unit, identity yourself,” Central ordered.
“FTU. FTU mobile. A black Suburban just struck our vehicle.” As they spoke, we could hear shouts in the background as the radio button was held down, “He’s on 5th Avenue, he’s passing 42nd Street on 5th Avenue.”
“Unit, identify yourself,” Central ordered again.
“North Sergeant to Central,” the sergeant from the North interrupted.
Central: “North Sergeant.”
“Central, the unit is probably the FTU unit in car 4255. What is their location?” The sergeant sounded calm but annoyed.
I should probably add here that the FTU, or Field Training Unit, car held a couple of rookies right out of the Academy. They were clueless what to do here and were probably scared out of their minds right now.
Central: “FTU, what is your location?”
“Heading south on 5th Avenue approaching 41st Street,” FTU answered.
“Central, find out if their vehicle was hit,” North Sergeant requested.
Central: “FTU 4255, was your vehicle hit by the black Suburban?”
FTU responded with, “Yeah, Central, it slammed into us—and he just hit another car!” They started screaming again.
It was apparent these numb nuts had no idea this was the same car that a chase was called off for.
While this was going on, Fiore and I were driving east toward 5th Avenue, expecting to see this car at any minute. While approaching the southwest corner of 34th and 5th, I spotted the black Suburban screeching through the intersection, then making a left. They slammed into a black livery cab parked at the bus stop on the southeast corner.
“Look at this genius,” I said as the Suburban continued on without stopping, then I added, “That’ll teach ’em not to park in the bus stop.”
“You’re not kidding,” Fiore agreed.
As the Suburban made the turn onto 34th Street, we could see two people in the front seat, a white male and a hysterical white female. She was screaming and throwing punches at him as they drove past. I didn’t think this was gonna help his driving any. Then I saw her put her head between her knees like you do when you’re nauseous.
The FTU car was about fifty feet behind the black Suburban. I didn’t go into the intersection at this point. If I blew the light and got hit, Fiore and I would be walking for thirty days. At the corner of 34th Street and Madison Avenue, the light was turning red for the east-west bound traffic, including the black Suburban. The northbound traffic had four lanes. Two ca
rs were stopped at the light in the two left lanes. In the two right lanes were two cabbies that approached the intersection by slowing down but not actually stopping. They call this timing the lights, and the cabbies do it for as many intersections as they can before they have to come to a full stop.
As the traffic light turned green for the northbound traffic, the two cabbies came from behind and led neck and neck into the intersection. The cars in the left lanes hadn’t even started into the crosswalks yet.
From here on in things seemed to go in slow motion. Dread pooled in my stomach as I heard the black Suburban accelerate as it approached the intersection of Madison and 34th Street. Fiore closed his eyes, shook his head, and said, “Oh no,” and I heard the smash of the impact and the exploding of glass as the Suburban hit the rear passenger door of the cab. It knocked the first cab into the cab next to it, pushing it onto the northeast sidewalk. The black Suburban actually went up in the air when it hit the cab, and it finally stopped in the middle of 34th Street.
6
Fiore grabbed the radio. “Central, I need two buses forthwith at 34th and Madison. The black Suburban has just struck two cabs. Also have South Sergeant respond to the scene at 34th and Madison.”
There was an eerie silence after the crash. I heard sirens approaching from the east side of 34th Street, hopefully already responding to the scene. One of the FTU rookies ran over to the Suburban and pulled the driver out. The rookie didn’t realize how big the guy was. The guy fell forward on top of the rookie, and both of them hit the ground. The driver was huge, at least six foot five and built solid, like 250 pounds. The other two rookies ran over to give him a hand, turned the driver over, and pulled his hands behind his back to cuff him. He started to fight them, but I figured the three of them could handle him. They were in the westbound lane of 34th Street, and I was in the eastbound lane, before the intersection. From where I stood twenty feet away, I could see this guy was drunk and dazed. His face was bleeding over his left eyebrow, and he kept opening and closing his eyes.