The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  The next thing I knew, someone was tapping on the window of the RMP. I jumped at the sound; I guess I fell asleep. I looked at the clock, 3:45. Joe was snoring, his head back against the headrest. I lowered the window to a preppy-looking guy walking a medium-sized black dog.

  “You guys okay?” he asked. He looked concerned. Who knows, maybe he thought we were dead.

  “Yeah, just working late. Thanks,” I said.

  I got a better look at the dog. It was an ugly dog. The guy looked like a do-gooder, the kind who would go to the pound and save the ugly beast from annihilation. As he walked the dog out toward the street, the dog squatted to do his business. The guy pulled a paper plate out of the plastic bag he was carrying and put it under the dog’s backside. When the dog finished, he bagged up the goodies and tied them up in the plastic bag. What a model citizen; they should all be like him.

  Fiore was still snoring away when “South David” came over the air. Without skipping a beat, Fiore put the radio to his lips and answered “South David” into the receiver.

  “We have a dispute at 330 West 30th Street, Apartment 214.”

  “10-4.”

  The building was between 8th and 9th Avenue, a residential block and the site of the old French Hospital.

  “Those are the French apartments,” I said, “the old French Hospital where Babe Ruth was. I think he died there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I wonder if your Dad knows that?” I said. Fiore’s father knew more about baseball than anyone I know.

  “I’m sure he does, but you could try and ask him.”

  Fiore’s dad and I have this ongoing contest where I try to come up with a question about baseball that he doesn’t know the answer to. Over the last few months I’ve spent a lot of time at Fiore’s house. Fiore’s close with his dad, so I see him a lot. He’s a Mets fan, and Fiore and I are Yankee fans. He’s obsessed with baseball and the Brooklyn Dodgers. We talk baseball all the time, and he’s amazing with what he knows. I found a book on baseball trivia at a newsstand on Broadway. I went through the whole book, everything from batting averages, World Series, All Star games, and career stats, and I couldn’t get him on one question. I even started going to the library to find something to stump him.

  “I think I found a question your father doesn’t know the answer to,” I told Fiore.

  He laughed. “Sure you do.”

  “Seriously, I ran into this old guy at Montey’s last week. We were getting sandwiches, and he and Montey were talking about the Yankees signing Mike Messina from Baltimore. Anyway, this guy reminded me of your father, and I told him I was trying to come up with a question he didn’t know the answer to. The guy was a Yankee fan, and he gave me something good about Babe Ruth.”

  “Tony, my father knows everything about Babe Ruth.” “Maybe not,” I said.

  I pulled up in front of the building. It was a long, white brick building that at one time was connected to the building next door. It was five stories high, a security building with a guard in the lobby.

  The security guard buzzed us in. He was an older white guy who looked to be in his early sixties.

  “How you guys doing?” he asked as we brushed the snow off ourselves.

  “Pretty good. We got a call for a dispute in apartment 214,” Joe said.

  “Take the elevators over there,” he pointed across the lobby, “and make a right when you get off the elevator.”

  “Thanks,” we said.

  The elevator was waiting at the ground floor, and we took it to the second floor. The hallway was carpeted, muting the sounds of our footsteps as we walked. It was quiet in the building, and aside from the occasional TV I heard as we passed an apartment, there were no signs of a dispute.

  “So what’s the question about Babe Ruth?” Fiore asked.

  “It’s not about Babe Ruth, but it’s about the curse of the Babe. When Harry Frazee sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees, I think he mortgaged Fenway Park to finance a play on Broadway.”

  “Tony, he knows all that.”

  “What was the name of the play?” I held my hands out. “Hah—don’t know, right?”

  We stopped outside the door to listen, positioning ourselves on either side of the door frame. We didn’t hear any sounds from inside the apartment, so I tapped the door with my nightstick and called “Police!”

  Anywhere else in the world, people would open their doors to see what’s going on, maybe be concerned for their neighbors, but not here. This was New York City; no one wants to know.

  “Who is it?” a female voice called from inside, as if she didn’t hear me the first time.

  “Police. We got a call for a dispute here,” I said.

  “Everything’s okay,” the voice said. That’s what they all say.

  “You still gotta open up,” Fiore threw in. “We got a call for a dispute, so we have to check it out.”

  We heard the dead bolts unclick and the chain slide. She pulled the door open about halfway.

  She was in her late twenties, about five foot five with long, black frizzy hair falling out of a clip on top of her head. She had olive skin, I would guess Italian or Spanish. She was one of those women whose every move is orchestrated to seduce. She wasn’t good-looking enough to do it without props, so she had to resort to other things, like answering the door naked.

  “Ma’am, can you put some clothes on please?” Fiore said politely. He kept his eyes above her neck.

  Not me, I checked her out. Michele needs some time? Fine, all bets are off.

  She turned around and walked back inside, so I got the whole deal.

  It’s not uncommon for us to answer jobs and find people in various stages of undress, but this was the first time someone actually answered the door completely naked.

  Fiore was looking inside the apartment, his eyes fixed on the pair of legs sticking up in the air as a pair of boxer shorts was put on.

  The small kitchen was to the left of the front door. Straight ahead was the living room, with a hallway to the right that I guess led to the bedroom.

  A bunch of blankets were on the floor of the living room, where a light-skinned Spanish man who looked to be in his midthirties was sitting on the floor, holding his pants. He had short brown hair and a medium build. He turned down the Toni Braxton tune on the stereo and stood up.

  “Who called us?” I asked. No one looked like they were in trouble. She walked over to the blankets on the floor and bent over to pick up a white nightgown. She pulled it over her head. It barely skimmed the tops of her thighs and was see-through—not much help there.

  “I called,” she said, facing us now.

  “If you knew we were coming, why weren’t you dressed when we got here?” Joe said.

  No answer from either of them.

  “So what happened?” I said a little sharply. It’s a friggin’ blizzard out there, and I get called in for some psycho’s head game.

  “We had a fight, and I told him I wanted him out,” she said, looking at me.

  “Is this your apartment?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she nodded as her boyfriend stepped into his pants.

  “What was the fight about?”

  “It’s personal,” she said as she lit a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

  “Did he threaten you or hit you?” Fiore asked.

  “She started hitting me, and I threw her onto the couch,” the guy answered, pretty low-keyed.

  “I told him to get out, and he threatened me.” She sounded bored.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  She looked up at the ceiling as if trying to remember what he said. This was getting us nowhere.

  She shrugged. “He threatened me, that’s it.”

  “What did he say to threaten you?” I said louder. “Uhmm,” she was drawing the words out. “Heeeeee said he was going to hit me.”

  I looked at the boyfriend, who rolled his eyes as if to suggest she was lying.

  “Well, it didn�
��t look like you were kicking him out when we got here,” Fiore said. “How do you know him?”

  “We’re friends, okay?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “It looks pretty friendly.” I smiled at her negligee.

  She gave me a disgusted look and blew out some more smoke.

  I smiled. “This is what we’re gonna do.” I pointed at him. “You’re getting dressed and leaving. Do you have a way home?”

  “I have my car outside,” he said quietly.

  “Finish getting dressed, get your keys, and let’s go.” I pointed to the door.

  She sat down on the couch and crossed her legs. She took the last drag off her cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. He put his shirt, shoes, and jacket on and bent down to pick up some CDs off the floor.

  “Those are mine,” she snapped.

  “Whatever,” he said, putting his hands up in the air.

  We walked him out. He left without a word to her. On the way to the elevator, Joe asked him what was the deal with her.

  “We’re just friends,” he said as we got on the elevator.

  “Come on,” I said. “You’re both naked when we get there. Married people don’t even battle naked, do they, Joe?” I asked Fiore.

  I could see him thinking. “No,” he shook his head, smiling.

  “She just gets crazy sometimes,” the guy said.

  “You married?” I asked, “Is this something on the side?”

  He shrugged and didn’t answer. We walked out of the elevator and back to the lobby. We threw a wave to the guard and went back out into the snow.

  “Listen,” I said, “if she calls you, maybe you should think about staying away from her.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, but he didn’t look happy about it.

  He crossed the street and got into an older blue Honda Accord. He started the car and got back out with a scraper. Joe and I got back into the RMP and watched him clean the snow off his car. We saw him stop and pull his cell phone out of his jacket and start talking on it.

  “I bet he’s talking to her,” Joe said.

  He threw a look at us and got back in his car. He wouldn’t go back in because we were sitting there. About five minutes later, the girlfriend came downstairs wearing a long, black wool coat and pink fuzzy slippers. I could see her legs, and I guessed she was still wearing the peekaboo nightie underneath the coat, probably freezing her tail off.

  He rolled the passenger-side window down, and we saw them talking.

  “Let’s go check on Romano,” I said. “This clown doesn’t know when to go home.”

  We drove back to Romano’s fixer and found him sitting on the chair outside the room, reading the Post. He jumped up, happy to see us. “Hey, Joe, Tony.”

  “How’s the ghoul?” I nodded to the doorway where the coffin sleeper was.

  “He hasn’t come out, I don’t hear anything coming from there.” The candles were still flickering in the room.

  “I called the coroner’s office,” Romano said. “They said it would be a while, backed up because of the storm. They’ll probably show up when I’m relieved by the day tour.” He looked miserable.

  “At least you’re not out in the snow.” Joe said.

  “Yeah, what are my choices? A dead guy and a vampire or a blizzard—I hate this job.”

  “You want coffee?” I snickered, thinking his choices were pretty funny.

  “Yeah, can you get me something to eat?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t eat dinner. Get me a sandwich, Boars Head baloney, American cheese, mustard, and tomato on a roll.” He handed me five bucks. “And get me a Kit Kat bar. Bruno’s gonna relieve me at five, so I can go back to the house with you for my meal.”

  I went downstairs and crossed the street to the 24-hour deli on the same block of West 43rd Street. I got the sandwich, three coffees, and the Kit Kat bar. When I got back upstairs Bruno Galotti, frozen like a popsicle, was in the hallway with Fiore and Romano.

  “What, were you outside the whole night?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, I think I got frostbite,” he said, blowing on his hands and stomping his feet. “My toes are numb.”

  “You need to hang out with these two,” Romano said, nodding his head toward me and Fiore. “They’ll teach you the three things a good cop never is.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Galotti said, shivering.

  “A good cop is never cold,” he counted off one finger, “wet,” he counted off another, “and hungry.” Romano held up his three fingers. “Right?” he asked me.

  “That’s right,” I said. “But you look frozen, soaked, and hungry,” I said to Galotti.

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Galotti asked.

  “How many places on your post are open?” I asked. Galotti’s post was 8th Avenue between 42nd and 45th Streets.

  He shrugged, “I don’t know.”

  I named one of the porn places on 8th Avenue between 42nd and 43rd. “You could stand under the overhang and not get wet, and if you get cold, go inside and stand by the front door. They like having a cop there. It’s good for business, makes the customers feel safe.”

  “But I’m supposed to be working,” he said.

  “You’re working—working at staying warm.” We all laughed, but he looked confused.

  “I don’t want to stand in the porn place,” he whined. “Then stand in one of the hotel vestibules. The Milford Plaza’s nice,” I said.

  “I’ve hung out there,” Romano said. I was glad to see the kid was listening, learning how to make the job work for him.

  We left Galotti at the hotel to thaw out and took Romano back to the precinct with us. The radio room was closed; I guess Rooney finished figuring out the radios. We went downstairs to the lounge, and I stood over Rooney, who was asleep on one of the benches.

  He must have sensed someone was there, because he opened one eye and looked up at me.

  “Shouldn’t you be upstairs making sure everyone signs out their radios?” I mocked.

  “Wise guy,” he mumbled. “I’ll get you back.”

  “Sure you will,” I chuckled as McGovern and O’Brien said, “Shhhh, we’re trying to sleep here.”

  14

  It was ten to five when we shed our gun belts, jackets, vests, and shoes and stretched out on the benches. I was asleep almost immediately. The last thing I remembered was hearing the beep on Fiore’s watch as he set the alarm for 5:55. I didn’t hear the alarm go off, and the next thing I knew, Fiore was shaking me awake.

  “Tony, come on, wake up.”

  I sat up and nodded.

  “You awake?” he asked. He’s done this before and walked out of the room, and I’ve gone back to sleep.

  “I’m up,” I snapped.

  “We’ll meet you upstairs,” he said as he and Romano left the lounge.

  I sat there orienting myself, trying to figure out what day it was, pretty sure it was Thursday.

  I used the bathroom and washed my face. My hair was smashed in a little on one side, and I had five o’clock shadow. I shuffled upstairs, wanting coffee and a cigarette before I had to deal with anyone.

  Romano was standing by the front doors, yawning and stretching. Fiore was annoyingly chipper, waving to Terri Marks, who was beaming at him like she was madly in love.

  “Man, it’s coming down harder than before,” I said, holding my hat over my eyes to keep the flakes from hitting me in the face. We stopped to talk to Hector, the maintenance worker at the precinct. He’s a Spanish guy, about fifty years old. He’s short and skinny with receding black hair and an attempted mustache. He’s got extensive tattoos with elaborate artwork on his arms, hands, and neck. He’s a hard worker, always smiling and happy. I don’t know what he’s so happy about, but hey, whatever works for him. He had shoveled the front steps of the precinct and was whistling as he worked on the sidewalk when we came outside.

  “Hey, Tony, Joe,” he said as we sho
ok hands. “Is this beautiful or what?” He looked up at the blizzard and smiled. “I love the snow.” Like I said, he’s a happy guy.

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful,” I said dryly. “Give it an hour. It’ll be a nice shade of grime.”

  Hector smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Tony, you’re always looking on the bright side.”

  “Hector, do you know Nick Romano?” Fiore cut in. Maybe he thought I was gonna say something to Hector.

  “Nice to meet you, Nick. I’ve seen you before,” Hector said, shaking Nick’s hand.

  Hector went back to his shoveling, and we could hear him start to whistle again as we cleaned the snow off our car, using our hands and jackets ’cause the city’s too cheap to give us scrapers.

  There was about half a foot of snow on the cars that were there all night. The street had been plowed once about three inches ago and was due for another scrape.

  We drove over to a bagel store on 33rd and Madison. The windows were steamed when we came in, and I could smell the coffee and the bread baking. We went over to the coffee counter, and Fiore and I made ourselves a 16-ounce cup. Nick got coffee and added French vanilla syrup in his. It smelled good, but I like my coffee regular.

  There were no everything bagels ready, so I got a toasted bialy with butter. A bialy is a cross between a bagel and an English muffin, with onions baked into the center. Nick had a poppy seed with butter, and Fiore had pumpernickel with cream cheese.

  We dropped Romano off at the hotel, telling him to send Bruno down so we could drive him back to post.

  We dropped Bruno off on 8th Avenue, giving him a couple of tips on staying warm and dry, and drove back to our sector. We parked on the corner of 7th Avenue and 35th Street behind Macy’s, past the loading docks.

  The sky was lit up from the city lights reflecting off the snow coming down, and the streets were still deserted. The occasional bus or cab driving by with its chains clicking made up the morning traffic. The radio was quiet; I guess all the bad guys were snowed in.

  “I’m gonna miss church this week,” I commented as I lit a cigarette.