The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  About thirty feet from the corner on the north side, Fiore said, “Wait, we got an open door here.”

  It was a big steel door, partially opened, with a u-shaped handle and a bolt lock on it.

  “Let me just check the rest of the block,” I said, thinking that if it’s a back exit, someone already came out that way.

  We drove up the rest of the street, which is only the size of about half a city block. We didn’t see anything else that was suspicious, so I turned the turret lights on and backed the car up to the open steel door. I put the lights on in case anyone was running out from between the cars, they’d catch the lights and I wouldn’t run them over.

  I shut the lights and double-parked the RMP. We took our flashlights out, police issue black mag lights that can also double as a weapon in a pinch.

  It was a white brick commercial building, but the open door wasn’t the front entrance. There were no signs or advertisements, nothing to give us any indication what kind of business it was. There were no lights or any audible alarms, and the street was empty of pedestrians.

  Joe radioed back 84, on the scene. Next to the open door were metal shutters that were blowing warm air but gave no entry to the building. When we opened the door all the way and looked inside, there was a dim light up on the cinder-block wall. We stepped onto the landing of an oversized stairway.

  The stairs went down, with no access to any upper floors. Thick metal tube railings painted yellow ran along the metal stairs to a landing below. I went to the edge of the rail, and I saw that the landing below us was lit, but beneath it was dark. We could hear clinking and banging of machinery below us and what sounded like a compressor in the far distance.

  We walked down to the third landing and could now detect a foul stench that I can only describe as homeless. It’s a mixture of urine, feces, unwashed feet, perspiration, and bad breath magnified a thousand times. We could feel the change in temperature as we descended, and the heat from below closed around us.

  It would make sense that homeless would congregate here. Not only was it protection from the elements, but they wouldn’t be preyed upon like out in the street. It was getting darker now; the only light was from our flashlights. We were losing radio contact, and I could no longer hear Central transmitting, just intermittent bursts of static.

  We walked quietly, holding our cuffs so they wouldn’t jingle as we walked. We stopped at each landing, shining the beam of the flashlight downward, only to see stairs as far as the light would reach.

  We walked another four stories down. I was starting to sweat in my winter jacket.

  “I don’t know where this is going,” I said quietly.

  “We can’t receive transmission, and I doubt we’ll be able to transmit,” Joe said in hushed tones.

  We try to avoid any spots where we don’t have radio contact. If we ran into a problem here, no one would know where we were. There were probably a bunch of skells down there in the dark, and that wasn’t what I was here for.

  “Let’s get out of here. There’s nothing going on,” Fiore said.

  “I don’t want to find out what that smell is that we’re getting closer to,” I answered.

  We walked back up the stairs. When we got closer to the top, we could hear Central again. It was oddly comforting to hear the impassive voice that I’d recognize anywhere giving South Charlie an aided case on the corner of West 33rd and 7th. Apparently there was a heavy bleeder in front of Madison Square Garden.

  The cold air was almost refreshing when we stepped out of the stairwell. We pushed the door shut, checking that the push bar locked in. We stood for a couple of minutes, listening for sounds of trouble.

  “It probably leads underneath to Grand Central,” Fiore said.

  “It could be anything,” I said. “All the trains come through here.”

  The New York City subway system is a world in itself. Some parts of the subway line are eight stories deep. I once read that if you include underground, elevated, and open cut lines, the mainline track for passengers is over six hundred miles. If you add the New York City Transit yards, shops, and storage areas, the entire system would be over eight hundred miles. If you put it all in one stretch, it would go from New York City to Chicago.

  The busiest subway stations in New York are here in Mid-town. Times Square is the busiest, with more than 35 million people using it annually. Grand Central is second, with about 31 million, then 34th Street and Herald Square with about 23 million, and Penn Station with about 19 million.

  Joe called Central back 91, unfounded alarm, and we started back, patrolling our sector. We started at 5th Avenue, driving down to 42nd Street. We took Broadway south and made a right on 41st Street down to 9th Avenue. We do it this way, east to west, then south, west to east, then heading back north, going the long way through the whole sector.

  We were looking for broken windows, smash and grabs in stores and cars. We checked darkened doorways and alleys, looking for characters lurking there. It was cold out, so that would keep the streets somewhat quieter, but something’s always going on in Midtown.

  “I gotta ask you, Tony, did you drink?” Joe said, not looking at me. I had turned onto 40th Street and was driving east toward 5th Avenue again.

  “Why would you say that?” I asked, stalling.

  He shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

  I didn’t say anything at first, just kept driving, scanning my side of the street.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said.

  He looked over at me. “Did you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Not like the old days. I had a couple of beers, thought better of it, and went home before I got drunk.”

  I told him about Christmas Day, how Michele called in the morning to dump me. Well, not dump me, but “take some time,” which is something women say to torture us. If I didn’t know Michele better, I’d think she was playing games, but she’s not like that. I understood how she felt about having Stevie with my family, but I didn’t understand why she thought it had anything to do with us.

  “Are you craving a drink?” Fiore asked, looking more concerned than disappointed.

  “No, I drank more out of habit,” I said honestly. “I was feeling down, and that’s what I used to do when I felt down. I don’t want to go back to that, even if things don’t work out with Michele.”

  “You feeling guilty?” he asked.

  “Pretty much,” I said. “But I want to stop using it as a vice.”

  “Don’t feel guilty about it. The good thing is you made a choice not to get to the place where you couldn’t stop,” he said.

  “I guess. I think being hung over would have made everything worse,” I said.

  “Sometimes when things are put in our face, God is telling us he wants us to deal with them,” Joe said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Your family,” he said.

  “It seems to be getting worse,” I said. “I can’t believe Denise hit Marie.”

  “Things like this always escalate, Tony. You know how it is with domestic disputes. In the heat of it people don’t care.”

  “I don’t think they’re gonna kill each other,” I said, making it sound ridiculous. “They’re not that bad.”

  “Tony, when you live in the middle of something and it’s all you know, it seems normal. You’ve changed your life over the last few months. You’ve come to God and decided to live his way. Let him show you what his way is,” Joe said.

  “Do you think he wants me to leave my family?” Aside from Joe and Michele, they were all I had. Not that they did me any good, but family’s family, good or bad.

  “I think he might want you to handle them differently than you have been. You need to pray about it, see what the Bible says about family. It has a lot to say about how we should live,” he said.

  “But I can’t change them,” I said.

  “Good thing you know that right out of the gate.”

  9

  I was driv
ing westbound on 39th Street by the big needle and button statue that lets you know you’re in the garment district. I was almost past the ATM near the corner on my left when I saw a man being held around the neck next to the machine on the end.

  I slammed on the brakes. “Hold on,” I said, putting the RMP in reverse.

  A tall male black had a middle-aged white guy in a gray business suit around the neck with what looked like a knife at his throat. The perp’s left arm was around the guy’s waist, holding his left arm down. I didn’t get a clear view of the weapon, but I saw the guy in the suit’s eyes bulge when he saw us drive past.

  “He’s got him by the throat,” Joe said. “It looks like he’s got a weapon.”

  I threw it in park and grabbed the keys while Fiore radioed Central that we had got a possible robbery in progress at three-eight and Broadway.

  The ATM is a glass-enclosed lobby strictly for cash machines; it isn’t a bank. It has a round counter in the center, with pens attached to chains and envelopes for deposits. There are two big columns to support the building in the middle of the room, and a row of six cash machines against the far wall.

  Joe was fishing his wallet out of his pocket as we trotted up to the door. We weren’t concerned about the perp getting out—this was the only exit.

  “Don’t leave home without it,” Joe said, swiping his ATM card as we waited for the light on the door to turn green. We heard the beep and click of the lock opening and went inside, with Joe putting his card in his jacket pocket.

  At this point we could hear the other sectors asking Central for our location and the type of job.

  The inside was well lit. The victim was sitting in the corner on the floor. His coat lay next to him, and his tie was loosened around his neck.

  The perp was hiding behind the farther column, and Joe and I circled him. I went toward the bank of ATM machines, and Joe went by the front window. Our guns were out of our holsters at our sides. Our fingers weren’t on the triggers, but they were resting on the trigger control.

  “Police! Don’t move!” Fiore yelled. “Come out from behind the pole!”

  He came out from behind the column on Fiore’s side by the street. I was aware of the victim in the corner, but my eyes never left the perp.

  “Hey, calm down. I didn’t do nothin’,” the perp said, arms out in front of him. He was wearing a long black trench coat, dark pants, and black rubber-soled boots.

  “Up on the wall,” Fiore ordered, the two of us coming up on him.

  He complied, like a pro, someone who’d done this before. He turned against the wall between the windows and the cash machines. His arms were out, his back arched with his head looking down, and legs sprawled out spread eagle against the wall. I held my gun ready while Joe holstered his, taking his cuffs out simultaneously. Joe put his left hand on the perp’s back and told him to put his right hand behind him, which he did. When I heard the sound of the cuffs locking, I holstered my gun.

  “This is South David, slow it down, we’ve got the perp in custody,” Joe said to Central.

  I walked over to the victim while Joe patted down the perp, checking his pockets and shoes.

  The victim was still crouched in the corner, looking dazed. He looked to be in his midthirties, with thinning blond hair. As I got closer, I could see he had bloodshot eyes, and his clothes were all rumpled. He had red marks on his neck from being held, and he had a small cut on the left side of his neck that was bleeding. It wasn’t dripping blood, just congealing in the spot it was cut.

  “You okay, buddy?” I asked him.

  “I think so.” He looked dazed. “I was just getting money out of the ATM machine, and all of a sudden someone grabbed me from behind and put something sharp to my throat. He told me to give him my money and my ATM card.”

  He reeked of booze, and I couldn’t tell if he was dazed from the booze or if he was in shock. The cut on his neck wasn’t serious, and he didn’t seem to be injured anywhere else.

  “Tony,” Joe called. He held up a miniature meat cleaver, like the kind that come with a cutting board for cheese.

  “What is that, a cheese cutter?” I asked, shaking my head. “First the machete, and now this—doesn’t anyone use knives anymore?”

  “Come on,” the perp said. “I was helping the guy. Look at him, he’s wasted. He fell down, and I was helping him up.”

  “It looks like you were trying to shave him,” I said, grabbing the victim’s chin to inspect the gash on his neck, purposely letting the perp see it.

  “I found the money,” Joe said, picking it up from one of the cubbyholes where the deposit slips are held. There were five twenties, along with the bank card and receipt.

  We heard the beep and click from the door, and I saw Sergeant Hanrahan putting his ATM card back in his wallet as Noreen, his driver, opened the door.

  “What do you have?” Sergeant Hanrahan asked. We heard the beep and click of the door again, and Rooney’s bulky frame filled the doorway. He came in, putting his wallet in his back pocket, while Garcia held the door for McGovern and O’Brien, who were also making their way in.

  “I got a guy here practicing to be a barber. He left his tip over there by the counter.”

  “I never said I was a barber,” the perp said indignantly.

  Hanrahan looked confused, so I spelled it out for him.

  “This guy,” I pointed at the perp, “was yoking this guy,” I pointed to the drunk, “with that weapon. He got his ATM card and cash, about a hundred bucks.”

  “I did not, I was helping him up when he fell,” the perp said, but quieter this time, looking at his feet.

  The choke hold alone made it a robbery because of the force used. But he used a weapon, so it raises the charge to robbery one. Technically the cheese cutter is not a weapon, but it is a dangerous instrument, although it isn’t categorized as one of the seven deadly weapons.

  “Is that a cheese cutter?” Rooney asked, inspecting the little cleaver.

  “It looks like one of those Hickory Farms things,” O’Brien said.

  “Check him for sausage,” Rooney added.

  “Yeah, the summer sausage,” O’Brien said. “I love that stuff.”

  “I like the petit fours,” McGovern threw in.

  “I’ll give you a friggin’ petit four,” Rooney barked.

  “You don’t like those little cakes with the chocolate icing?” McGovern asked. “Then it has the different color icing to make it look like a ribbon.” McGovern was making a little square with his thumb and index fingers.

  “Is that what they call them?” O’Brien asked. “I always thought those were candy.”

  The perp was getting mad. He was shaking his head and working his jaw, so the sarge broke it up.

  “Do you want the collar?” he asked Fiore and me.

  “Yeah, we’ll take it,” Joe said with a nod.

  “I’ll find someone to take your place at the bomb detail in the morning,” he said.

  “I’ll take the complainant back to the house; you guys take the perp,” the sarge said, then added, “I’ll raise Central to send a bus (ambulance) to the house to take a look at his throat.”

  We had helped the victim to his feet, but he was still looking confused. The boss took his arm and steered him out toward the RMP.

  We got back to the precinct by 12:50. Joe and I talked about it in the car and decided he would take the collar so he would get some overtime and not have to work a full tour. He was missing his family and wanted to go home and see them.

  The complainant was sitting in the muster room, looking lost and exhausted. Lieutenant Coughlin was at the desk, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

  “Whaddaya got?” he asked without looking up.

  “A robbery,” Joe said.

  “Aw, come on man, you see what I get for trying to be a nice guy? This guy’s wasted and I help him up, and you’re locking me up for a robbery,” the perp said, shaking his head.

&nb
sp; The lou looked up at the guy, looked at Joe, then looked back down. Terri Marks was working the desk again.

  “Terri, can you do me a favor and run this name?” Joe asked.

  She beamed at Fiore. “If it was anyone but you, Joe, I’d tell him to get back here and do it himself.”

  “I appreciate that, Terri,” he smiled at her.

  “Hey!” I said indignantly. “You wouldn’t run it for me if I asked?”

  “No way, Cavalucci,” she countered.

  “Why would you do it for Joe and not for me?” I asked, insulted.

  “He’s better looking than you,” she said, smiling again at Joe.

  “He’s married, and I’m not,” I pointed out.

  “You asking me out on a date?” she asked.

  “No!” I said quickly, then corrected myself. “Not that there’s anything wrong with asking you out on a date, but I was looking to get you a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “I don’t put out for a cup of coffee,” she said, causing the lieutenant to raise his eyes and smirk at me. She started walking away from the desk.

  “Do you want coffee or not?” I called after her.

  “Make it a regular, and get me a buttered roll,” she called back.

  I took Joe’s gun and locked both of our pieces in the gun locker behind the desk. I walked back to the cells with Joe to make sure he got the perp to the cell without a problem.

  Once we got him in the cell, I asked who wanted coffee (including the perp to make sure I’m treating the public good, bringing up morale for police officers everywhere). I got my gun back and went down to the corner for five coffees (me, Joe, Terri, the perp, the complainant) and a buttered roll.

  I gave Terri and the complainant their coffee, and Terri gave me the rap sheet on the perp. I scanned the old dot matrix perforated sheet to see what our guy’s been up to.

  Aside from the information at the top of the page that we fed into the computer, I could see our perp had arrests dating back to 1984. He had variations in his address, and the spelling of his name was different a couple of times. The date of birth was off a couple of times, with the year changed to make him a year younger or older.