The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  Romano’s father had been killed when he was shot in the face in a domestic dispute. Romano was about ten years old at the time.

  I prayed for God to give Fiore some quick thinking ’cause things were getting a little heavy here.

  “I don’t know, Nick,” Fiore said honestly. “But I know the Bible says I can call on God to protect me, and I believe he will. In fact, I know he will. He’s done it before.”

  Romano stomped away from us, walking about ten feet down 42nd Street. He walked back over to Fiore. “Let me see that.” He held out his hand for Fiore’s Bible.

  Fiore handed it to him, still open to the 91st Psalm. “Read verse eleven. ‘For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.’”

  Romano used his finger to find the spot and was reading it to himself.

  “Where can I get one of these?” Romano held up the Bible. He sounded angry and glared at Joe.

  “Take that one,” Joe said.

  “Thanks,” he said, putting it in his pocket. “You know, Joe, if it was anyone else but you, I wouldn’t listen. Not even you, Tony—no offense.” His tone was sharp.

  “None taken,” I said.

  He came over and shook our hands. “I’m gonna finish these,” he said as he held up his no parking signs. “Can you pick me up for my meal at five?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You okay?” Joe asked him.

  He nodded and walked across to the north side of 42nd Street with his signs.

  Fiore and I took the sector car and drove down to 41st Street and parked on 6th Avenue.

  “What was that about?” I asked as we walked from pole to pole putting up the signs. “You been talking to Romano about God?”

  “Yeah. He’s coming over for dinner on New Year’s Day. You and Michele are invited,” Fiore said.

  “Was this a last-minute thing?” It was the first I was hearing about it.

  “Pretty much. I was talking to him in the lounge before you came in last night. He’s all churned up inside. He says he always feels better when I talk to him about God, and when you bust his chops,” Fiore laughed.

  “Did he say that?”

  “Yup, he says when you bust his chops he knows you like him, and he doesn’t feel so detached from the cops. He said that you and I are good cops, and he appreciates that we let him hang out with us.”

  I laughed. “He’s a pretty good cop,” I said. “It’s a shame he’s going over to FD.”

  “It’s probably better. Any dispute he gets called to is gonna remind him of his father. At least with FD there’s no history there,” Fiore said.

  At 1:00 we got a call for an alarm at 29 West 38th Street. The light in the lobby of the building was on, but the door was locked and no one was inside. We gave it back to Central, unable to gain access, and went back to 41st Street to finish the signs.

  Some of the stores on 7th Avenue were already boarded up with plywood, like they were waiting for a hurricane to blow through. New store owners find out that plywood is cheaper than plate glass windows, and the couple of minutes it takes to screw the plywood into the metal frame around the windows is worth the effort. I’ve seen plate glass windows shatter from the pressure of the crowds pushed up against them.

  We finished 41st Street and were headed down to 40th Street when we got another call for an alarm from Central. This time it was a fabric storefront on 37th Street. The gates were down, and everything was locked up for the night. We could hear the alarm from inside the store but had no access to the back entrance. We used our flashlights to look through the gate inside the store, holding the lights away from our bodies as we checked the store. There was nothing going on there, so we gave it back premise secure and went back to the no parking signs on 40th and 6th, working our way toward 7th Avenue.

  We finished up and spent an uneventful night sitting in the car talking, the calm before the storm tonight, when Midtown would be a madhouse.

  I told Fiore about my dinner with Grandma.

  “Whoa, did she really call her a putana?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “Yeah, and then she said Michele was going to hell and taking me with her. She also said Stevie’s not my blood, or her blood.”

  “What did you say to her?”

  “I tried to explain to her that Michele wasn’t going to hell and neither was I but she didn’t listen. I didn’t stay long; I didn’t want to hear anymore. It’s obvious I can never go there again with Michele and Stevie, not that Michele would go,” I said.

  “What are you gonna do? Let them say this crap about Michele and Stevie and you go visit them and leave Michele home?” he said. “If you marry her, are you going to your grandmother’s for Christmas so they can call your wife a putana?” He was getting angry.

  “First of all, she’s not my wife,” I said. “Second of all, I didn’t say I’d go there without her if I got married. I don’t know what to do. I told you my grandmother’s never been like this before.”

  “I find that hard to believe. You mean to tell me she always got along with your mother?”

  “I always thought she did. Then when my mother came over for her little twelve-step talk, she said my grandmother made her life miserable. I don’t know what to believe,” I said, meaning it.

  “Yeah, well my money’s on your mother. Granny’s got a mean streak, whether or not you want to believe it,” Fiore said.

  We picked up Romano before we went in for our meal at 5:00 and slept in the lounge for an hour. Romano was out cold. It took us a couple of tries to wake him up when we went back out at 6:00.

  We stopped at a bagel store on 33rd and Madison for coffee and bagels. I got a bacon, egg, and cheese on a plain bagel, Fiore got egg whites and turkey breast on a pumpernickel, and Romano got an everything with cream cheese. The bagels were soft and fresh; mine was still warm.

  “Hey, how you doing?” Fiore asked the Korean woman behind the counter. “I didn’t know if you’d be open today.”

  “We always open,” she said. “We close early today, three o’clock.”

  I guess they got a lot of business from the Empire State Building and the apartment buildings up and down Madison and Park Avenue.

  We took Romano back to his post on 42nd and 7th and ate our breakfast in the car. Sunday morning is usually dead, but today there was a lot of activity.

  Police and Fire Department Mobile Commands were driving into Times Square and parking along 7th Avenue and Broadway between 42nd and 43rd Streets. The Fire Department was on the east side on Broadway, and the Police Department was on the west side. The Police Department’s Communications Division Command Post was there. They give out the radios to the chiefs and Brass working the detail. The command posts had a lane closed off around them, using metal barriers to keep people off the streets.

  The NYPD tow trucks were out picking up the last of the cars parked on the street and taking them to the impound. The fee for getting your car back was nothing compared to what you’d get back if your car was left there. Any cars left near Times Square that the crowds have access to get demolished. The crowds climb up on the car to get a better view of the action. There’s so many people there, you can’t tell they’re standing on a car except that a bunch of people are up a little higher than the rest. When the crowds go home, the roofs of the cars are crushed down to the seats, and the hoods and trunks are caved in. Many a Police Department car has been ruined that way.

  Sanitation trucks were collecting the garbage pails inside Times Square, and the postal workers were out locking the mailboxes. A stage was being set up around the substation in One Times Square for lights and cameras. Workers were going up and down the scissor lift next to a box truck and constructing the platform.

  There weren’t many cars out there yet, and traffic was flowing nicely through the streets. We started heading back to the precinct at 7:30. We wanted to get as much sleep as we could before the detail.

  “I can’t believe I gotta be back her
e in six hours,” Romano moaned.

  “Listen, we’ll get some sleep, we’ll do the detail, then we’re off for two days,” I said.

  The way our tours work, we have two days off one week and three days the next. Because of the New Year’s detail, we’ll only have two days off, but with twelve hours time and a half.

  I changed into sweats and a T-shirt before I went to sleep. Romano was already asleep, and Joe was still talking to Donna when I passed out. I was groggy and disoriented when Joe shook me awake at 12:20. I got clean clothes, a towel, and my soap and shampoo and used the shower in the basement. Rooney was yelling for me to hurry up, calling me a greaseball, so I peed on the shower floor before I got out.

  I smiled at him when I left and said, “It’s all yours.”

  “’Bout time,” he mumbled.

  Joe and Romano went up to the third-floor showers, which are just as disgusting as the one in the basement, and the three of us were showered and dressed by 1:00. I was warm with the thermals under my uniform, but I’d need them later. We went across the street for coffee and ham, egg, and cheese on a roll and ate by the desk at the precinct while everyone waited to go to post.

  We piled into two vans and parked on 44th Street between 8th and 9th. We walked over to 48th and 7th to muster up. We would be posted on 44th and 7th, but this is where they fall us in before we get to post.

  The streets were closed now, and the earlier detail cops were already putting people in pens. The pens were filled up from 45th Street down, and people would continue being crammed in as the day wore on.

  Rooney, Connelly, McGovern, O’Brien, Romano, Garcia, Bruno Galotti, and Fiore and I stood together talking and cracking jokes. Rooney was talking about his next-door neighbor.

  “I’m telling ya, he’s a nice guy. Every time it snows, my steps and front walkway are already shoveled by the time I get home,” he bragged.

  “Sure he shovels your steps—he’s sleeping with your wife,” O’Brien said, causing Fiore to choke on his coffee while everyone laughed.

  We stood and watched as the workers did the practice runs with the ball, lowering it down then bringing it back up.

  “Did you know that there was only one year that the ball didn’t drop?” Rooney asked us.

  “That was during World War II,” Fiore said.

  “Yeah, it was blacked out in 1943 and 1944, but that was because of the war. In 1956 there was a mechanical failure, and the ball didn’t drop. A circuit breaker blew and cut off the power. They got it working like fifteen minutes later,” Rooney said.

  The day was cold, but the heat from the sun warmed us up a little. The thermals and turtlenecks would keep us warm enough for now. We carried our memo books without the bulky holders, and our jackets were open, with our radios in our inside pockets, closer to our ears so we could hear them.

  McGovern was wearing his department issue ear muffs, he’s skinny and was already freezing. Rooney whipped out a black vinyl bomber hat and put it on, the ear flaps hanging down.

  “What is that?” I laughed, pointing at Rooney’s hat.

  “What?”

  “Your hat. You look like a psycho,” I said.

  “It keeps me warm,” he said.

  “No wonder his wife’s sleeping with the next-door neighbor,” O’Brien said, making everyone laugh.

  “Hey, O’Brien, at least my wife didn’t leave me for a woman,” Rooney yelled.

  Laughs and ooohhhs were heard all around. O’Brien turned red but still laughed.

  “Mike, what are we in Siberia? This is New York,” I said. “Yeah, wait till later when you’re freezing,” Rooney said.

  “I don’t care if my ears fall off, I wouldn’t be caught dead looking like that.”

  As we stood together before we went to post, the questions started as people walked by. We answer as best we can, then we get tired of the whole thing.

  “Where does the ball drop?”

  “See the Cup O Noodles sign? Right above that.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s New Year’s Eve.”

  “Why are all the cops here?”

  “There’s a protest going on. Hundreds of thousands of people are protesting the ball dropping.”

  “Oh.”

  “Where does the ball drop?”

  “See the Cup O Noodles sign? Right above that.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “There’s been an Elvis sighting.”

  A confused look and forced chuckle.

  “Where’s MTV?”

  “On 7th Avenue between 44th and 45th.”

  “Where’s Dick Clark?”

  “Home watching MTV.”

  “Where does the ball drop?”

  “See the Cup O Noodles sign? Right above that.”

  People wouldn’t ask Rooney. They’d pause by him and turn to one of us to ask us a question. “Where does the ball drop?” is the favorite question, and we’re asked it thousands of times while we stand there.

  When they were getting ready to move us out, two captains were talking to five lieutenants, who in turn walked over to the sergeants. Once they all knew what they were doing, a couple of Brass yelled, “Fall in, five to a line.” We lined up, and someone walked through to count the bodies: 5, 10, 15, 20, but there’s never just five. You get 4 or 6, and they tell them to slide over or move up or down.

  After they count, the sergeants take about eight cops each. Hanrahan had nine. He grabbed Rooney, Connelly, McGovern, O’Brien, Garcia, Romano, Fiore and me, and Noreen, his driver. Bruno Galotti was standing with us, trying to get in.

  “Sorry, Bruno,” Hanrahan said. “Try to get in with Sergeant Yu.”

  Bruno looked hurt and disappointed as he walked away.

  “Bruno,” I called, feeling sorry for him. “Just be careful tonight,” I said quietly when I caught up with him.

  “Why, you think something’s gonna happen?”

  “No, not at all,” I said confidently. “I’m just saying, be aware of what’s going on around you.” I shook his hand before I walked back to the squad.

  “What’d you say to him?” Fiore asked.

  “I told him if he moves out of his mother’s house and gets his own apartment, he can stay with us next year.”

  “Did you really say that?” Fiore looked doubtful.

  “No, I told him to be careful.”

  When we’re going into something like this and you know something might happen, you really do care about the people around you. You want everyone to sign out and go home at the end of the night.

  As far as Hanrahan not picking Galotti, I didn’t blame him. You pick the people you want with you if something happens, cops you know and trust. If something happened, I pictured Bruno running for his life toward the West Side Highway without a backward look.

  “Come on,” Hanrahan said. “We got 44th and 7th. We’ll head over there.”

  As we walked down, we could see there were already people in the pens below us between 46th and 43rd. The noise was higher now, excited talking and picture taking with the crowds on the sidewalks. People were wearing their 2001 glasses and already blowing those annoying noisemakers that I hate.

  People were dressed for the long hours ahead; hats, scarves, gloves, and blankets were seen everywhere.

  They’re still pumped up about being here, because it’s only been about an hour since they got their prime spots in the pens. They’ll get tired of it later on, then the closer it gets to midnight, they’ll get excited again.

  “This is our post,” Hanrahan said. “The north part of 44th Street and 7th Avenue. This pen is ours to stay around. If anyone has to use the bathroom, there’s a port o’ potty right there,” he pointed to it, “on the north side of 44th Street, just off 7th Avenue. If someone needs to use the port o’ potty, escort them there and make sure they come right back where they were. If anybody wants to leave the pen to get something to eat or drink, they’re not allowed back in.”


  There are four pens per block, with an emergency lane down the middle. The pens are large enough to hold three thousand people, but we’d only get to know people right near us in the pen. We make sure nobody comes in or out. It used to be that once the people were inside the pens, they couldn’t leave, not even to go find a bathroom. They had no port o’ potties, and people were urinating all over, stinking up the place.

  “The color of the day is orange,” Hanrahan said. “We’ll go two at a time for our meals,” he added, giving out the times.

  “Rooney and Connelly, four o’clock.” He stopped and stared at Mike Rooney. “What’s with the hat?”

  “Enough with the hat,” Rooney grumbled.

  “You look like Goofy,” Hanrahan laughed.

  “No, Goofy wore an aviator’s hat,” Rooney bit out the words, and everyone started laughing again.

  “O’Brien and McGovern, five o’clock,” Hanrahan continued.

  “Fiore and Cavalucci, six o’clock.”

  “Garcia and Romano, seven o’clock.”

  “The Times building is having a free buffet for all of us working the detail. Most of you know this already. They put out a pretty good spread, so you can go eat there if you want. Take the phone number for the command post.” Hanrahan read it off and we wrote it in our memo books. “We’re in Sector 3. If they raise us, it’s gonna be ‘Sergeant Hanrahan, Sector 3.’ If you hear that, let me know in case I don’t hear it over the noise. Our radio will be channel 11.”

  That’s the citywide channel normally used for details, and it wouldn’t interfere with Central and the other Midtown commands.

  Hanrahan posted two of us on each of the four corners of the pens. We stood right in front of the pen like thousands of cops have done for almost a hundred years before us, and waited for history to happen.

  18

  At 2:30 we relieved the post that had been at the barricade since early this morning. We talked to the cops for a couple of minutes before their sergeant pulled them out of there.

  Before we settled in, I went across the street to a deli on Broadway and 44th to get coffee for Fiore, Romano, and me. There was a line to the door, and I waited fifteen minutes to get to the counter.