The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  I looked at Joe and back to the clock to see how much time we had left. We weren’t intimidated by the frenzy, we just weren’t consumed by it yet.

  Romano looked unsure as he watched everything around him. I caught his eye and looked over at the clock. I held up my finger, one minute left I showed him.

  During the final minute, while the ball made its way down the flagpole, the crowd seemed to swell and strain against the barriers. Time was suspended as the constant frenzy worked its way toward midnight.

  I was aware that the clock read thirty seconds. There was nothing discernable until twenty seconds, when part of the crowd started to count. At fifteen seconds more joined in, and by eleven seconds, five hundred thousand people in Times Square and a billion others around the world counted with us.

  “Ten-Nine-Eight-Seven-Six-Five”—the confetti flew—“Four-Three”—the balloons dropped—“Two”—and the crowd rose.

  You don’t hear the “One,” just a chorus of “Happy New Year!” filled the air around us, and the fireworks exploded on top of One Times Square.

  A blizzard of confetti and balloons floated around us as the surround sound blasted Frank Sinatra. I could hear the music over the din and the first words to the song, “Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today, I want to be a part of it, New York, New York.”

  With an eye on the crowd, in the middle of the pandemonium I wished Fiore a Happy New Year. As we went to say Happy New Year to Romano, we noticed a small crowd was using the corner of our barrier to boost themselves onto the traffic signal pole on 44th and 7th.

  They were stepping on the barrier and grabbing the signal box. Two of them had gotten on top of the signal post and were climbing onto the metal part of the pole that hangs the signal light, which was over the middle of the barrier.

  Three more had climbed onto the signal boxes and were pumping up the crowd below them. The poles weren’t meant to hold this kind of weight and were starting to give way. The crowd was cheering and taking pictures of them, not realizing the pole could come crashing down on top of them.

  Joe, Romano, and I rushed over and moved the barrier out of the way to get to them. We used our nightsticks to poke the three on the “Don’t Walk” sign, hitting the part of their feet that was sticking out. As we were trying to knock them off there, we heard a hollow thud behind us and a rise in the cheers from the crowd. We turned our attention back to the guys on the pole and gave them another jab with our nightsticks.

  “Okay, okay,” one yelled as he started to climb down. The other two climbed down after him and ran westbound down 44th Street. The other two knuckleheads were dangling from the overhang part of the pole. One of them was using it as a chin-up bar, inciting the crowd below him. The other guy wasn’t that strong. He hung there for a couple of seconds before he fell and his buddies grabbed him. The chin-up guy showed off for about fifteen seconds, then let go. He was more athletic than his buddy and fell with more agility.

  Hanrahan was in the barriers now with Rooney and Connelly. He was screaming, “If anyone tries to pull a stunt like that again, lock them up!”

  We didn’t even try to chase them. We turned our attention back to the crowd that had gathered while we were up on the pole. We heard the hollow thud again and watched as a throng of merrymakers entertained themselves by upending the port o’ potty about twenty feet away from us. They had it rocking now, and we heard “One” as it rocked forward, “Two” as it rocked back, then they yelled “Three” as it toppled. Whoever was inside there went one of two ways, face first or backward.

  The crowd was cheering now, arms up and whooping as someone jumped up on the overturned potty and put his fists up in the air. There were about a hundred of them, and we have no way of knowing which ones tossed it.

  Hanrahan was already storming over, dodging the surging masses that were wishing him a Happy New Year. He zigzagged through them as we followed him, until we all gathered around the port o’ potty. We heard a thump and a muffled “Help!” from inside the upturned bathroom.

  “Unlock the door!” Hanrahan yelled as he pulled on the door.

  “I can’t open it,” the muffled voice said.

  “I have to shoot the lock!” I yelled.

  “No! I’ll open it!” the guy sounded frantic as he fumbled with the lock.

  We heard faint grunts as he strained, and he bumped around a little before we heard the click of the latch.

  Hanrahan pulled the door open submarine style, and we saw one arm come out and hold on to the side, then the other. The right arm had wet blue toilet paper stuck to it, and we saw his head emerge like he was coming out of a manhole. He was about twenty years old, drunk out of his mind and stumbling to get out.

  “Did you see who did this?” he demanded.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “We already cuffed him.”

  “Good, ’cause that was so wrong,” he shook his head.

  “You ain’t kidding,” Romano said, reaching under his arm to help him out.

  We all gave him a hand getting out, careful not to touch his hands, which seemed to get the worst of it.

  “What a way to end the night.” He looked depressed now.

  “At least it wasn’t anything serious,” Fiore said.

  He nodded, “Thank you, Officers. Happy New Year.” He walked toward 44th Street, shaking out his hands as he went.

  At 12:15 Hanrahan gave the order, “Start moving everybody down 44th Street to 8th Avenue.”

  We moved a couple of the barriers and started directing people westbound on 44th toward 8th. As our pen emptied, people were coming from every direction now.

  “Come on, show’s over,” we said as we waved them out of Times Square.

  “Happy New Year!” they’d yell.

  “Yeah, Happy New Year, keep it moving.”

  After a couple of minutes of trying to direct people down 44th, we were overcome by the crowd. We made our way to the building line and put our backs against 1515 Broadway, which is actually on 7th Avenue.

  We watched the crowds as they filtered out, with most of them walking in the middle of the street down 44th.

  As the crowd thinned, a group of females walked over and started yelling, “Happy New Year, Officers!” There were about eight of them in various stages of inebriation crowding around us. One came up and kissed my cheek, while another planted one right on Romano’s lips, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “Get a room!” Rooney yelled.

  Joe held up his hands. “Hey, I’m married,” he said as a nice-looking blonde approached him.

  Someone yelled “Smile!” as the women stood around us to take a picture.

  Romano looked embarrassed, and I rubbed my hand over my mouth, showing him he had lipstick on him.

  They moved on, and we stood against the building and watched the mob disband. They yelled to us as they walked by, “Happy New Year! You guys did a great job tonight.”

  “Yeah, thanks, keep moving,” we’d answer.

  A few of the drunk ones gave us kisses, although nobody kissed Rooney—he was still wearing that stupid hat.

  “Come on,” Hanrahan said. “Let’s go break down the barriers.”

  We walked back to the barriers and started breaking them down, grabbing the leg with one hand and the police line with the other.

  We stacked them on the corner of 43rd and 7th while standing ankle deep in garbage and confetti. We went back to the building line and leaned against the building to hold us up. We lit cigarettes now, which Hanrahan ignored. He knew we were all exhausted, and he wasn’t about to bust our chops.

  “Did you know the first time they used the pedestrian signal boxes was on New Year’s Eve?” Rooney asked us.

  “What are you talking about?” O’Brien snapped at him. “We’re exhausted here, and you’re still blabbering with this crap.”

  “No, really, the first time they used them was in the 1940s. They put them on the four corners of 45th Street and timed them with the tra
ffic lights,” Rooney said.

  “Fascinating—now can you shut up?” McGovern asked.

  It was now 1:30, and most of the crowds were gone. We heard the brushes on the Sanitation sweeper trucks as they came down Broadway and 7th. They came into view about a minute later, sweeping along the side of the street while eight guys with brooms swept alongside them. We heard the occasional clink of them sweeping up a bottle; there’s always a couple that get through.

  “Keep a heads-up for the captain to relieve us,” Hanrahan said, meaning the captain would call him over the radio when it was time to go.

  “Hey, Boss,” Fiore asked, “did they ever find that missing kid?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything that they found him. She should be back at the house. We’ll find out when we get there.”

  We stayed there until 1:40 when the captain radioed Hanrahan and four other sergeants to meet him at 46th and 7th. Hanrahan walked up there, then came back about ten minutes later.

  “The detail’s over at zero two hundred hours,” he said. “Your travel time is until 2:45,” which is when we’d stop getting paid.

  We stood there trying to get the energy to move. “Come on,” Hanrahan said. “Let’s go back to the precinct and sign out.”

  We walked down 44th Street toward 8th Avenue. The street was dark as we made our way back. The lights of Times Square gleamed behind us as we walked.

  When we got back to the precinct, I went up to the detectives unit on the second floor. I talked to Lenny Mancuso, one of the detectives working the missing kid case.

  “Did they find the kid?” I asked.

  “No, actually she never had a kid,” he said, running his hands down his face, looking tired.

  “What?” I said, my voice rising.

  “Yeah, her girlfriend comes to the precinct looking for her ’cause she never came back into the pen. We told her everyone was out looking for her friend’s little boy, and the friend told us there was no little boy. Ms. Gibbons here left the pen to see if she could get closer to the action, and when the cops wouldn’t let her back in, she told them her son was in there.” He shook his head in disgust. “The cop took her back into the pen and asked her where the kid was, and she said he was missing.” He nodded his head over to where she was now sitting in handcuffs, crying.

  “You’re locking her up?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said, calling her a few appropriate names. “Are you for real, lady?” I asked, furious. “We had so many other things to deal with tonight and you caused all this panic, taking cops off their posts so you could get a closer shot of the ball drop? You deserve to get locked up.”

  I was still seething when I went to the locker room to change. The adrenaline from the night was wearing off, and the guys were pretty quiet. The only sounds we heard were the rustling of clothes and gun belts, the metal latches on the lockers as they gave, and the vibration of the doors when they opened. There were about twenty of us down there.

  “Get a load of this,” I announced as I came in. “Remember the woman who lost the kid?” I paused until I had their attention. “There was no kid. She left her pen, and when they wouldn’t let her back in, she made up the whole story about the missing kid to get back in Times Square.”

  This worked everyone into a frenzy and they ripped her apart, calling her every name in the book. I listened to them as they trashed her, and I started feeling bad about it. I was thinking, how would I like it if I did something wrong and someone broadcast it all over the place? I guess God was letting me know I was wrong, either that or I was turning into a friggin’ bleeding-heart liberal, feeling bad for the perps instead of the people they hurt. It was her stupidity that caused a massive search for that kid involving hundreds of cops.

  Fish, who usually works inside in the cells, said he was up at 57th Street when the crowd broke through the barriers. He said Frankie Amendola, who works at our precinct, was injured when he tried to hold the barrier in place to control the crowd. The barrier was knocked on top of him, and he got stomped as people ran over him.

  “Is he okay?” I asked, concerned.

  “He’s down at Bellevue right now. He cut his head, and I think he broke some ribs,” Fish said.

  “You know it only takes fifteen pounds of pressure to break a rib,” Rooney told us.

  A shower of pennies came over the top of the lockers from where McGovern changes. We keep pennies in our lockers to throw at people for this kind of thing.

  “How about fifteen pounds of pennies, Mike, will that break a rib?” McGovern yelled as he sent another shower of pennies over. You could hear laughing and the ping of the pennies hitting lockers and rolling onto the floor.

  “McGovern, you’re a dead man,” Rooney threatened.

  “At least if I’m dead, I won’t have to hear any more of your crap,” McGovern countered.

  After I changed, I said good-bye to Fiore. He was heading up to Penn Station to catch the 3:00 train. I started to walk out the front door and turned around and went up the stairs to the second floor. The woman was still sitting there, crying and looking miserable.

  “Tony, can you watch her for a couple of minutes while I get some coffee?” Mancuso asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What made you say you lost your kid?” My tone was even now, not angry.

  “They wouldn’t let me back to where my friends were. I thought they’d just let me back in. I didn’t know all this was gonna happen.”

  “Then why’d you keep lying?” If she told everyone sooner, before it got to the point where there was a massive search, she wouldn’t have gotten arrested.

  “I wish I never said it, alright?” She was really crying now. “I didn’t know it would get so out of control. Then when all the cops got involved, I didn’t want to tell them I lied.”

  “Everybody lies. I’ve lied plenty of times, the only difference is now I answer to God, and I’m learning how to tell the truth again.” I sounded like Fiore now, and she probably thought I was some psycho after I yelled at her before, but she surprised me by saying, “I don’t know if God can forgive me for this.”

  “He can forgive us for anything,” I said, wishing Fiore was here so he could talk to her, but I was on my own here. “He’s forgiven me for plenty of things, probably worse than what you did tonight, only different.”

  I wound up talking to her for about ten minutes, until Mancuso came back up. She said a woman she worked with had been talking to her about God, asking her to go to church with her.

  “He’s reaching out to you,” I said.

  “Yeah, I think he is,” she said, nodding.

  “Don’t turn him down,” I said, feeling better that I didn’t leave without talking to her.

  I went back downstairs. As I came out of the stairwell across from the muster room, I saw Romano come out from the stairwell by the front doors.

  “You going out to Fiore’s house tomorrow? I mean later on today?” Romano asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “What a night, huh? At least we didn’t get blown up,” he said.

  We signed the detail roster at the front desk and walked out the doors together.

  “You see, Nick,” I said. “Everybody signs out.”

  Epilogue

  I went to Fiore’s on New Year’s Day. Michele and Stevie came, along with Fiore’s parents.

  It felt like a year instead of a week since I’d seen Michele and Stevie. When I walked in Fiore’s house and they were standing there, I felt like I took a sucker punch somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. If it was possible, Michele got better looking and Stevie got taller. I pulled Michele into the bathroom a couple of times to make out, but Stevie wouldn’t let me out of his sight and kept knocking on the door.

  Romano was there too. He seemed a little uncomfortable at first, but as the day wore on, he seemed to relax. Romano hit it off with Lou Fiore, Joe’s dad. We talked baseball for a while, and I thought I fin
ally had Fiore’s dad when I asked him the name of the Broadway play Harry Frazee financed when he sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees and mortgaged Fenway Park.

  “Hold on, I know this,” he held up his hand. I thought I had him when it took him a couple of minutes to answer. Then he looked at me and smiled, “No, No Nanette.”

  “Was that it?” Fiore asked.

  “Yeah, that was it,” I said. I don’t know if I’ll ever get him. Fiore’s dad was talking to Romano about going from New York’s Finest to New York’s Bravest. Somehow the conversation changed, and Romano started talking about his daughter and about his father getting shot. It turned out his father was killed on December 26. He said his mother has never gotten over it, and this time of year is hard for them.

  “I’m sorry, Nick,” Lou said.

  “Mr. Fiore, I know you believe like Joe does,” Romano said, looking like he was controlling his anger. “But God should have protected my father.”

  “You have a right to feel how you feel, Nick, and I understand your anger,” Lou Fiore said. “But God is always good, and having a young man taken so brutally from his wife and children is not God’s way.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” Romano said, choked up. “But I’m having a hard time believing it.”

  “I know,” Lou said seriously, “but just because you don’t believe it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  Toward the end of January, Denise came to see me. She was waiting in her car when I came home from work one morning. She followed me into my apartment, complaining that she still didn’t have a key and could freeze to death waiting for me.

  She had a cardboard coffee holder and a bag from Starbucks in one hand and a large manila envelope in the other.

  “What’s this?” I asked, suspicious. She’d been acting weird lately, cool and evasive on the phone with me.

  “It’s coffee and biscotti,” she said, setting it down on the kitchen table. She looked around as she took off her coat. “Not much for decorating, are we?”

  “I don’t have time to decorate,” I said.

  “No, I guess that’s what the little woman is for,” she said sarcastically.