by F. P. Lione
“No! I’m not going.” He coughed again and let another stream of blood loose into the basket.
The basket was getting full now, and I was thinking, We better get this guy out of here. He’s bleeding from somewhere and pukes every time his stomach fills up with blood.
They put him on a fold-out chair and strapped him in. The friend grabbed a pair of sneakers for him, no socks, and a wool jacket. We all crowded into the elevator and went back to the lobby. They had given him a small plastic basin to hold, and so far he hadn’t used it. The guard waved to us in the lobby, holding the doors open as we took him outside.
The ambulance was double-parked next to our RMP. Fiore found out his name was John Russell and was talking to him as we walked outside.
“You okay there, buddy?” he asked.
He nodded. He was shivering now, almost uncontrollably, and he looked ghostly in the shadow of the streetlight.
They pulled the chair over to the back of the ambulance. The male EMS worker opened the door and stepped backward into the ambulance, holding the back of the chair. The female EMS worker took the right side of him, I took the left, and we hoisted him up into the ambulance. They strapped him to a gurney as he started to retch again.
Joe climbed into the ambulance with him and the friend, and he radioed Central to tell them we were taking the aided to St. Claire’s. I drove to 50th Street, just before 9th Avenue and parked outside Claire’s emergency room and followed Joe and the two EMS workers with the gurney. The blast of heat from the blowers hit us, a welcome change from the cold outside.
We walked down a ten-foot hallway to where the triage nurse sat. They brought him right inside, and he was in a bed within two minutes. He was looking really bad now, and he had a gray cast to his skin. They started hooking him up as the doctor came in, and I heard the doctor tell the guy they’d have to pump out his stomach. He was complaining that he didn’t want them to do it. “I’m fine, I’m telling you, just give me something for my stomach.”
The doctor insisted, and after a few minutes of bickering the puker let them pump his stomach. They used a tube attached to a cup on the wall behind him that works as some kind of vacuum. As soon as they put the tube in his throat, I saw the stream of blood flow from the tube into the cup on the wall.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask the Doc.
The doctor was a male Asian, kind of compact. “It’s common with alcoholics,” he said, not looking at me. “The blood vessels in the esophagus bleed.”
Fiore was watching them suction him. I guess the suction was working because he became quieter, and his eyes were heavy. I heard Fiore say “Doc” as the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. Then a long beeeeeeeeeeeep as the alarm went off when he flatlined. I turned to Fiore to say “Everyone’s buying it tonight.” But his head was down, and I saw he was praying. I wondered why he’s always thinking to pray for somebody and I never do. I bowed my head and prayed to God that he would let this guy live, and I thanked him that we didn’t blow this off back at the apartment.
We stepped out of the way as seven or eight people descended on him. I heard the “Clear!” as they zapped him, and his body came up off the table. They had to zap him again, and then they got a heartbeat.
It took a little while for him to be conscious again. They had oxygen on him now, along with an IV and a mess of other things. They had shot him up with something through the IV, and I guess it woke him up. He had a “What happened?” look on his face and was frightened for the first time tonight. He was staring at Joe and me, his eyes going back and forth between us.
“Yeah, you’re fine, buddy,” I said sarcastically. He looked confused, so I added, “You just died, and they had to zap you twice to get you back. Make sure you thank the Doc for saving you.”
He nodded and didn’t say anything. Central called “South David” over the radio, and Fiore walked out of the room. I heard him answer “South David.” He went over to the nurse and asked if he could use the phone at the desk. When he came back over, he said, “I just talked to Sergeant Hanrahan; he wanted to know if we were coming back anytime soon.”
The clock over the bed said 7:50. We finished up at the hospital, Joe notified the puker’s friend, who was out in the waiting room, that he was now stabilized in the ER and they’d be getting him a bed. We went back out to the RMP. It was light out. The sun had come out, but it was still freezing. Rush hour was starting, and the streets were filling up as we made our way back to the house.
Sergeant Hanrahan was by the front desk when we got back.
“Joe, Tony, I’m glad you made it back,” he said. “Take Rooney and go over to the parking garage at 243 West 43rd Street. Relieve the guys that are there, let them take the car back. You’ll get relieved by the four-to-twelve guys.” He rubbed his hand over his face and stretched his neck from side to side. He looked tired as he continued. “I’ll be out there later to sign your books. Split up your meals. When I come out there, let me know what time you’re taking your meals.”
We called Rooney away from Kathy Brodsky, a female cop from the day tour that he was talking to in the muster room.
“I’m serious, my grandfather had five wives,” he was saying. “All of them dead. The last wife was thirty-eight years old.”
“How did they die?” she asked, her big blue eyes widening. She smiled at Fiore and me as we walked over, a woman used to getting attention from men. She was about twenty-five, tall and thin with shoulder-length blond hair.
“No one knows. I think he poisoned them,” Rooney said. “He was loaded. I think he didn’t want any of them to get his money.”
“Didn’t anyone question that all five of his wives died?” Kathy asked doubtfully.
“Not that I know of,” Rooney said. “He lives way upstate in the boonies. They don’t even have a Police Department where he lives.”
“Mike, we’re heading out, you coming with us?” I asked. I’d heard this story before, another one of his many tall tales.
He left with us, telling Joe the story of his grandfather and the five dead wives on the way. The streets of Midtown were packed as we took 8th Avenue to 44th Street and drove around the block. We parked in front of the garage next to the Times building.
Rice, Beans, and Carl Beers were there. Carl Beers, who we call Six-pack, works midnights but is in a different squad than us. Last night was his RDO (regular day off), but he worked it for the overtime.
“Six-pack my man!” Rooney yelled as we entered the garage.
Six-pack and Beans were searching a car as we came in. They had the doors and the trunk open, and Beans was on the floor, looking under the car. They joined us when they were finished, shaking hands all around.
“How was it?” I asked about the overtime detail.
“It’s been dead most of the night,” Rice said. “But it’s cooking up now.”
“We did a perimeter check,” Six-pack said. “We checked all the cars that were parked in the garage when we got here.”
“Good enough,” I said.
“We split it up into teams. Two of us work for an hour, then we each get a half hour break. There’s a heater in the office, works pretty good. Three guys work here. The older guy is in the office, and the two younger ones park the cars,” Rice said. He had his own set of keys to the RMP, and he waved to the older guy, who nodded at them as they left.
The three workers were all Spanish. The two younger ones didn’t speak much English. The older one who stayed in the office was about fifty years old with curly salt-and-pepper hair; he was overweight and cranky. He took care of putting the parking stubs in the cars while the other two moved them. He kept barking out orders at the other two in Spanish and moved with a lot more speed than his age and size would have suggested.
The garage was four stories and worked with elevators instead of ramps. There’s two elevators that they drive the cars into to take them to the other floors. A hanging black cable is suspended from the ceiling and connect
s to a box. The box has two buttons to move the elevator up or down. There’s a scissor gate that is opened and closed manually when the elevator’s in use.
The front of the garage was wide open, giving us no sunlight and a lot of wind. There were signs posted giving hourly, daily, weekly, and monthly rates. The daily rates were broken down into day, night, and weekend prices. The garage offered storage parking and discount cards for long-term users, but everywhere you looked signs were posted: “We Are NOT Responsible for Articles Left in Vehicles.” They requested that keys be left in cars because I’m sure plenty of bozos drive up in their cars and walk away with their keys, leaving their car blocking the entrance to the garage.
Joe and I took the first car coming in, a black BMW. We checked under the seats, then we checked the rear seat for a false backing. We did a cursory look at the glove compartment and console, can’t fit much explosive in that, and checked the trunk. We got down on our hands and feet push-up style to check under the car, and then we let the guy go in. The owner of the car didn’t even question why we were checking, he was talking on his cell phone the entire time.
Rooney came back with our breakfast. A bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll for me, two ham, egg, and cheese on a roll for him, and a turkey with egg whites on a roll for Fiore.
“Are you sure you’re not on a diet, Joe?” I asked. “First a veggie wrap and now egg whites.”
“I’m trying to eat right, cut the cholesterol, and keep the protein,” he said defensively.
“My grandfather,” Rooney cut in, “the one with all the wives. He smokes, drinks, eats butter, bacon, all kinds of crap, and he’s still alive at eighty-three.” He shoved his second roll in his mouth a half at a time. Joe looked at me and shook his head.
“It must be killing all those women that’s keeping him young,” I said.
He shrugged. “I think it’s good genes. Everyone in my family lives long. My other grandfather is ninety-two, lives down in Florida. Still healthy.”
Rooney and Joe took the first shift while I napped in the office on an ancient swivel chair with a slit on the seat and the foam exposed. It was a rickety old thing, and if I leaned back enough, it would’ve tipped. Rooney knocked on the glass at 9:30 to get me up, and I smoked a cigarette and drank the rest of my now cold coffee to wake me up.
Rooney and I took the next hour while Joe took a break. By this time the lot was filling up, and there was a line to get into the garage because we were stopping all the cars. The cement was cold through my gloves as I checked under the cars, and I could smell the oil and exhaust from the cement floor. I could hear the cars honking their horns for us to hurry up, but I ignored them.
People were surprised that we were checking the cars and asked us things like “What’s going on?” and “Is everything okay?” We told them nothing was wrong and we were just checking for explosives all this week for New Year’s Eve. For the most part, everyone was good-natured about things and didn’t complain. The ones who said “What if I don’t want you to search my car?” were the ones we played with. A woman in a power suit, complete with briefcase and cell phone attached to her ear, huffed that this was “inconvenient and unnecessary.”
“If you don’t let us search your car, you can’t park here,” I said professionally.
She got out of the car, but she sighed loudly and looked annoyed, so when I went down to look under her car, I yelled to Rooney, “We’ve got wires under here.” She looked surprised and a little scared, and I saw her bending down to try and peer under the car.
“Step back please,” I said to her. “Mike, take a look at this.” He knew what I was doing and came around to look. He pretended to write something in his memo book, glared at her, and told her to go ahead.
“What about the wires?” she asked.
“I’d get that looked at if I were you.” He waved the next car in, trying not to let her see him smirk.
About ten minutes later, this guy in a dark blue Infinity starts joking with us.
“Should I call my lawyer to see if this is legal?” he joked. “Go ahead, give him a call,” I said.
“If you find my wife’s body in the trunk, am I in trouble?” He laughed.
“Not if she deserved it,” Rooney countered.
We had the doors and trunk open, and I stood behind the open trunk and took my Glock out of my gun belt. I picked it up by two fingers and held it up to him. “What do we have here?” I said seriously, pretending I found it in the car.
I saw the blood drain from his face as he said, stunned, “That’s not mine!”
“Is this your car?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, his mouth open in surprise.
“Did you lend the car to anyone?”
“No.” His voice cracked. I could see him panicking as he thought who he might have lent his car to.
“Oh look, it must be mine,” I said easily as I turned to reveal my empty holster. Rooney and I cracked up.
His shoulders slumped as he whooshed out a breath in relief, and he said, “You guys are funny.” He started to chuckle as we waved him on.
“Good one,” Rooney said.
“I know. Did you see his face?” I laughed.
Joe took Rooney’s place at 10:30. Sergeant Hanrahan came out to sign our memo books and make sure we were on post. Things started to slow down by 11:00 and stayed at a good pace for the rest of the day. The four-to-twelve detail would get busy when everyone picked up the cars later in the afternoon.
Although we were checking each car that entered the garage, there was something more specific we were looking for. We weren’t too concerned about the business people or the reporters from the Times who questioned us the most. I think they smelled a story and wanted to make sure they knew what was going on. We were looking for Middle Eastern men in rented trucks or vans like the one they used to try and blow up the World Trade Center in February of 1993. That’s when a Ford F350 Econoline van rented from a Ryder agency in Jersey City exploded in the second level of the parking basement in the North Tower of the World Trade Center. The rear cargo of the van was loaded up with fertilizer-based explosives and blew a 150-foot hole, blasting through five floors of the tower. Six people died, almost a thousand were injured, and fifty thousand had to be evacuated. The blast busted two main sewer lines for both towers and the Vista hotel and poured out two million gallons of water and sewage.
The schmuck who rented the van had the brass to call Ryder in Jersey City and ask for his deposit back. “Sure, no problem,” they told him and had the FBI waiting for him when he got there.
If any vehicle came in and refused to be checked, we would document the description of the driver, the tag, the make and model of the vehicle, and identification of all persons in the van. It turned out we didn’t have any problems, and for the most part the day went without incident.
Fiore and I found a hot dog cart in the corner of the third floor and took it apart looking for explosives. We were careful not to key our radios while searching anything suspicious. The frequency of the radio is said to be able to trigger an incendiary device.
At 1:30 when Rooney and Joe were changing shifts, we were talking in front of the office window when we heard a witchy voice cackle, “Hey! Does your friggin’ radio have to be that loud?”
“Whoa,” Rooney said, actually taking a step backward.
The Spanish guy in the office was leaning toward the window, trying to get a look at the getup this woman was wearing. She was about four foot eleven, wearing a black floral house dress with a brown tweed men’s suit jacket. Her hair was set in bright yellow curlers with a hot pink kerchief holding them in place. She had a face full of psych-ward-quality makeup, complete with eyebrows drawn on crooked. She was wearing black padded slippers and white Champion knee socks.
“Hey, lady,” I called. “What’d you lose a bet with that outfit?” We all cracked up, even Fiore. If we weren’t so tired, it probably wouldn’t have been that funny. She must have come out
of the welfare hotel next door, because the rest of the block is commercial. The other Spanish guy who was parking the car stopped to look at her, made the sign of the cross, and mumbled something in Spanish, pitching us into hysterics again.
Joe turned around to keep her from seeing him laugh.
“I said turn down those radios!” she yelled.
I turned up the volume and said, “What? I can’t hear you, my radio’s too loud,” sending all of us into another fit of laughter. Fiore tried to ask her how she could hear our radios over all the other noise in Midtown Manhattan, but he kept cracking up. Rooney was just holding his side, telling us to stop. I probably shouldn’t have goofed on her, but we were tired and she was busting our chops.
She shuffled away in her slippers, cursing us until she was out of earshot.
It was almost 4:00 when the four-to-twelve detail arrived to relieve us. Joe decided to come back to my apartment to shower so he didn’t have to battle the fungus in the shower stalls at the precinct. We would probably only get a few hours sleep, but my couch is a lot better than the precinct’s lounge downstairs.
By the time we left the precinct, it was 4:20. It was still cold, but the temperature had risen to about thirty degrees. The sky was light blue with airbrushed streaks of white. The late afternoon sun warmed my steering wheel and showed all the salt and dirt on my truck. I took 9th Avenue down to 34th Street and made a right, and by the time I hit the West Side Highway, Fiore was asleep. There would usually be more traffic at this time of day, but the schools were closed for the holiday and a lot of people took off from work this week.
There was no traffic until Liberty Street, where there are two left turn lanes by the World Trade Center buildings and traffic usually bottlenecks. Of course, there was bumper-to-bumper on the lower level of the Verrazzano Bridge, where they will be doing construction for the rest of my life.