by F. P. Lione
It was a small room with a shrine of some sort. I couldn’t tell what it was from where I stood. It didn’t look like voodoo; I’ve seen enough of that to know it. A table holding about fifty candles in red glass containers was set in the middle of the room. Sort of like the candles you see in church. They were all lit, set up on tiers, flickering in the middle of the dark room. There were statues that I didn’t get a close enough look at, because O’Malley pointed past the candles to where a man was lying in an open casket.
The casket was light wood, and the satin lining was black. I’ve never seen anything like this at a wake, so it must have been custom-made. The guy was ghoulish looking, pale white skin and long, stringy black hair. He had some kind of Alice Cooper thing going on. His arms were folded across his chest, and his nails were painted black. He wasn’t gothic, just dawn-of-the-dead looking. He was wearing a black satin robe, making his face look like it was floating among the black fabric.
We were standing there whispering, but the guy didn’t look up. He wasn’t dead, and I doubted he was sleeping with the door open. I was sure he could hear us talking and wondered what he was up to. We watched him for a few minutes as he lay there motionless.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. The room was creepy, like it had an evil presence in it. I was gonna go in and blow out the candles, but I didn’t want to step into the room.
“Is that the fixer?” Romano asked, looking shaken.
“No, he’s over here,” O’Malley said, pointing back to the door that he had been sitting outside of.
We moved away from the door, then Fiore said, “Nick, don’t go near that room.”
“Why?” Romano asked, almost panicking.
“Because the guy is evil,” I said.
“How do you know?” Romano whispered.
“The casket and the candles are pretty good indicators that the guy likes the dark side,” Joe answered.
“What if he comes out here?” Romano whispered.
“What are you whispering for?” I slapped him on the side of the head. “Shoot him if he comes out.”
“No, seriously, Tony,” he said, ducking his head away.
“Seriously, shoot him,” I said, blankly. “You should be more concerned about the DOA—now if he moves, he’s already dead, so you could shoot him.”
When I was a rookie, something like this would have freaked me out too. Over the years I’ve gotten used to seeing freaks like the guy in the coffin.
I opened the door to the DOA’s room and walked inside. Fiore and Romano came in behind me. It was a small room, with a bathroom. There was a single bed against the far wall, a broken-down night table, and a shabby dresser. The guy didn’t have many possessions. I saw some medicine bottles on the dresser, with a wallet and an eyeglass case. There was a glucose monitoring machine and a small vial of test strips. A stack of papers was on top of the dresser, and I saw Medicare statements, some legal papers from Social Security, a Publishers Clearinghouse envelope, and some bank statements. There was a large-print word search book on the night table, a glass with teeth in it, and an overflowing ashtray full of butts. One butt had a long ash; I guess that was his last cigarette.
There was a strong smell of cigarettes in the room with the underlying smells of urine, feces, and mustiness. An old museum print with a dented brass frame was leaning against the wall on the floor. I could see the hole in the wall where the nail was.
The room was warm. There was an old steam radiator under the window, the kind my grandmother used to dry socks on. The window was open about an inch, blowing a dark green curtain. I could hear a plow truck pass below us on 43rd Street.
The DOA was in the bathroom. It was a small bathroom with the original porcelain tub and sink. A radiator about half the size of the one in the other room hissed under the bathroom window. The sink had a constant drip, leaving a reddish brown stain in the path of the water. The tub had the same stains in the drain, with a little aqua blue color mixed in. The grout was molded around the tub and in between the little white tiles enclosing the bathtub.
He must have gotten out of the tub and fallen. He had a towel wrapped around his waist. He had one black slipper on his right foot; the other lay haphazardly near his left. Urine and feces were on the floor, melting into the condensation that covered the room.
He was an elderly man, unshaven and in need of a haircut. He was heavy around the middle, with the chest scars of heart surgery. His hand had nicotine-stained fingers and long yellowed nails. There was a small tumor on his left temple, but other than that nothing notable.
There was no family and no one to notify, or the case wouldn’t have gone to the detectives to see if they could find any next of kin. The guy must have had money to live in a hotel in Midtown, no matter how cheesy it was. The welfare residents are subsidized, but the old folks have to pay. It’s sad to see someone die like this, alone without anyone but us to acknowledge his death. I said a quick prayer for the old guy, asking God to have mercy on his soul, and we went back out into the hallway where O’Malley was waiting.
Romano looked at Fiore. “Why don’t you guys hang out here awhile?”
“We gotta take O’Malley back to the precinct. We’ll come back later and check on you,” Fiore said. “If the coroner comes and takes the body before we get back, give us a call and we’ll come get you.”
“Okay.” Romano nodded. “Thanks, Joe.”
My coffee was cold when I got back to the RMP. The snow was really swirling now, and we took it slow on the way back to the precinct.
“Wow, it wasn’t even snowing when I went to the fixer,” O’Malley said, watching the blizzard around us. “I hope I can get home.”
“Where do you live?” Joe asked.
“Long Island, Massapequa,” he said.
“Good luck,” I said.
“The trains are running late, but you’ll get home. I don’t know about in the morning—it’s supposed to snow all night into tomorrow afternoon,” Joe told him.
We dropped him off in front of the stairs at the precinct, with a message. “Tell Rooney to make sure he logs in your radio.”
“Why?” O’Malley asked, puzzled.
“Tell him Tony said make sure you log in the radio, and then duck.” I laughed.
“I’m not saying anything to Rooney, I don’t have any time on yet,” he said as he closed the car door.
“What’s up with babying Romano?” I asked Joe as soon as O’Malley got out of the car.
“I’m not babying him. I think there’s a lot going on underneath the surface with him. I just want to make sure he’s okay. He’s a kid. If you were a rookie, that guy in the coffin would have spooked you,” Joe said.
“No, I would have gone in, lit a cigarette, and blew out the candles,” I laughed.
“You’re full of it, Tony, that would have bothered you,” Joe said.
“Yup, and it’s gonna bother Nick, and he’s gonna get through it. That’s how you learn,” I said.
13
We stopped on the corner of 9th Avenue for another cup of coffee, tossing the cold ones in the garbage can outside the store. I drove through our sector, then went up to Times Square. I parked on the north side of 44th Street, just west of 7th Avenue next to MTV Studios.
We sat in our car, drinking coffee and watching the light show. The super signs, NBC, Astrovision by Panasonic, the Dow Jones zipper, Budweiser, Cup O Noodles, and Coca Cola advertised their goods oblivious to the snow. The thousands of other smaller signs joined in and lit up the night with every color imaginable. The snowflakes picked up the colors from the signs until they fell out of the touch of lights.
I sat there thinking about the dinner I had with my mother, the stuff she said about how my father was about the family. I don’t know which bothered me more, that Michele agreed with my mother on the family stuff, or that I thought like my father about it. I almost brought it up to Fiore, but his cell phone rang and he was talking to Donna about his daughter
having a fever.
I looked over at Barbara Walters smiling down from the giant reader board at ABC Studios, where they broadcast Good Morning America, Nightline, 20/20, and World News Tonight from the Times Square Studios. The electronic headline that wraps itself around the building spelled out the news from around the world in moving letters. It warned us that a powerful winter storm would be arriving in New York City in the early hours of the morning. I wondered if actual scientists work for the weather bureau, since it was after midnight and it had already been snowing for three hours. The weather people are never right. We already had three inches on the ground, and it looked like the snow had no plans to stop.
The weather report went on to say that we would have gale-force wind, heavy snow, rough seas, and strong onshore winds.
The house that I grew up in, which was sold a few months ago, was right on the Narrows of New York Bay. When I lived there, I would’ve loved a storm like this and probably would’ve watched most of it from out on my deck.
“South David,” Central radioed.
“Hold on, honey,” Fiore said to Donna, then, “South David.” “10-1 the house.” Which means call the precinct.
“10-4,” Fiore said and chuckled. “I guess Rooney’s trying to figure out the radios.”
“Ignore him,” I said. We knew it wasn’t the lieutenant because he would have just transmitted as “South Base, have South David 10-1 the house.” This was Rooney waiting by the phone at the desk, panicking because he has no idea who has what radio.
Joe shut his cell phone, put it in his jacket, and asked, “How was dinner with your mother?”
“Interesting.”
“It usually is with you.” He laughed. “Want to talk about it?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of listening to my crap?”
“Nah, it breaks up the monotony. What’d your mother want to talk to you about?”
“She went to rehab.” I barked out a laugh and rubbed the back of my neck. “It wasn’t funny really, I mean, she seems to be taking it serious. She went in last July, and she’s been sober ever since.”
He nodded. “This is a good thing.”
“I know. She said she’s been going to church too. She was telling me about the rehab place she went to. She said it was helpful, I guess it was ’cause she hasn’t drank since. She looks good. She lost weight and cut her hair.” I shrugged. “She did the AA bull.”
“AA bull?”
“You know, ‘I want to apologize for all the rotten things I did to you while I was drinking,’ blah-blah-blah.”
“You think she’s legit?” Joe asked.
“She sounds legit, and I was glad when she said it, but I don’t know how much I trust her. I figure I’ll give it some time, see how it goes.” I said it lightly, like it didn’t matter. The truth was I wanted her to be legit, but our track record goes back a long way. I guess I find it hard to believe that someone could be a mean and nasty drunk for twenty years and be all better after twenty-eight days of rehab. She was mean all the time, not only when she was drunk.
“Time will tell. Did you tell your sister?” Joe asked.
“No, my mother was actually going over there tonight when she left my house.”
Fiore’s eyebrows shot up.
“Yeah, I know—I gave my mother the key to my apartment for when Denise tosses her out in the snow.” I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “I figured I’d call Denise in the morning and find out who came out alive.”
“My money’s on Denise,” Fiore said.
“Mine too.”
“God is really moving in your family.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “I mean, look at all the good stuff that’s happening.” He counted off on his fingers, “Your mother is sober and going to church, Denise is in therapy, and you’re taking a step back from the family so you’re not caught up in all the drama anymore.”
I guess this is the perfect example of the glass half full versus the glass half empty. Fiore sees things going good with the family; I see it that the family is insane and my girlfriend left me because of it. The jury’s still out on my mother, so I’m not gonna start celebrating.
We heard Central radio South Charlie to 10-1 the house.
A scraping sound, which I dismissed as a plow truck coming down 7th Avenue, was coming south toward us. As the sound got closer, I realized it wasn’t a plow truck but a guy dragging a cross through Times Square.
I’ve seen him before, usually in the nice weather. He was a male black, I guess in his late thirties, early forties. He was in good shape, about six foot with a solid build and short-cropped black hair. He’s homeless, and he’s not all there.
The cross was big, over six feet, made out of treated four-by-fours. I usually see him in the summer, when the streets are packed with pedestrians. He usually wears shorts and a muscle shirt and sneakers with no socks. Today he dressed all in black, with a black bubble jacket over his clothes.
Fiore was watching him intently as he got closer to us.
“Don’t even think about talking to him. He hates cops,” I said. “Not a happy camper.”
“You know this guy?”
“I’ve seen him around. He’s always dragging the cross.”
“It looks heavy. Where’d he get it?” Joe said. We could hear the heaviness of the wood by the scraping sound it made against the street.
“I have no idea.”
He had a rope tied around his chest, almost like a harness. The rope was tied around the “T” of the cross. He had a draw-string sack tied around his waist, over his jacket. His hands were inside the rope, and the weight of the cross rested on his shoulders. He walked with his head down, and I could see the path the wood left through the snow.
The sound of the wood was getting louder now, and the few people walking around Times Square stopped to stare at him.
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“He’s nuts,” Fiore said, and laughed. “Just kidding.” He shook his head. “I’m hanging out with you too much—I’m starting to sound like you.”
“What’s the deal with him, what’s he trying to prove?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes people take the Bible out of context. There’s a Scripture in Mark 8:34 that says, ‘Whoever desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me.’ It doesn’t mean what this guy’s doing.”
“Then what does it mean?”
“It means that if you follow Christ, you have to deny yourself, your own fleshly desires, and your own agenda and get with God’s agenda. It doesn’t mean we have to be crucified, He did that for us.”
“For our sin, right?”
“Yeah, for our sin,” he said.
“South David,” Central interrupted.
“South David,” Fiore answered.
“We have a 10-13 at West 34th and 7th in the subway.”
“What line?” Fiore asked.
“The #1 line,” Central said, giving us the location for the 1, 2, 3, or 9 trains, letting us know where in the subway.
“10-4, Central.”
A 10-13 is an officer needing assistance. It was in the subways. More than likely a transit cop put it over the radio, but all available officers respond. I drove South on 7th and made a right onto 34th Street. I parked at the southwest corner of 34th and 7th, which is the entrance to Penn Station and the Long Island Railroad.
I turned off the car and locked it up. I didn’t want someone stealing the car or hocking up a lunger on our seats while we were down in the subway. I left my car unlocked once in the winter and came back to find a skell sitting in it with the heater cranked up to keep warm. On our way into Penn Station we heard Central radio South Adam to 10-1 the house, and we laughed out loud.
We took the escalator down, taking the stairs two at a time. The Long Island Railroad was in front of us at the end of the corridor, so we were doing a quick jog. We had radios in our left h
ands, and our gun belts squeaking, and our keys jangling. Penn Station wouldn’t normally be this quiet at this time of night. I guess the storm must have sent everyone else home, it was like a ghost town.
We made a left just before the Long Island Railroad, and there were five transit cops, all male, standing in a circle outside the 1, 2, 3 line. They looked up as we came around the corner right outside the turnstiles.
“Everybody alright?” we asked.
“Yeah, everyone is accounted for, it’s unfounded,” the Transit Sergeant answered. “Thanks for showing up.”
Sometimes the “Officer needs assistance” calls are 911 pranks, or people see something and they overreact, thinking a cop is in trouble. You never know if it’s legit, so you always hurry to get there. We stayed with them for a few minutes, talking about the storm and the delays on the Long Island Railroad. Joe radioed Central to give it back 90X, unfounded by Transit.
We got a call for an alarm at 250 West 39th Street. It was an office building that was locked. We didn’t see any footprints leading to the front door, or any broken windows. We called it back 90 Nora 3, or premise secure.
At 2:30 we got a call for a car accident at West 42nd and Park. No one was there when we got there, so we asked Central if there was any other info. Central replied there was nothing further, so we marked it unfounded. We drove around the immediate area, but the streets were deserted.
I parked in a lot on 37th Street. Joe was starting to nod off, so I cranked up the heat and rolled down the window to smoke a cigarette. I thumbed through the paper, reading an article about Mayor Lindsay, who died earlier in the week. The article was about the city’s fondness for the mayor who believed in New York. It said he used to pick up litter in the streets, yell at doormen for letting limos double-park, and once walked into a bar and ordered garbage men out of the bar and back out to their trucks. Sure, they talk nice about him now that he’s dead, but I’m sure the press tortured him while he was in office.
I scanned the movie section. Michele and I had taken Stevie to see Rugrats in Paris a couple of weeks ago, and my stomach felt sick when I saw the advertisement for it. For a week after we saw it all we did was sing, “I see London, I see France, I see Coco’s underpants.”