Sons of the City

by Scott Flander

  All over the street, police cars were squealing to a halt. The doors of the Mercedes popped open and two black kids jumped out. Both had guns, big ones. They looked around and saw that in a moment they would be trapped on all sides. And they started running toward me.

  I grabbed my gun and tried to get on my knees, so I could at least get off a shot. I looked around for Nick, he was pulling his gun out. But it wasn’t me the two young carjackers were heading for, it was the restaurant. They darted under the half-fallen canopy and disappeared through Lucky’s front door.

  Nick reached me and grabbed my arm, boosting me onto my feet. By now, cops were jumping out of their cars, un-holstering their guns. Nick and I ducked under the canopy and pulled open the door. My view was blocked by the big fountain at the entrance, and we heard the chaos before we saw it—shouts of men and women, tables being overturned, plates crashing.

  As I swung around the fountain, I saw the two carjackers careening toward the rear of the massive dining room, knocking into tables, pushing back waiters. They seemed to be headed toward the kitchen, straight back, but they suddenly darted to the left, toward a set of closed rough-hewn wooden doors. They probably didn’t notice the hand-lettered sign over the doors, but I did. In a smooth, cursive script, it said “Roma Room.”

  The kid in the lead pulled open one of the wooden doors, and they both dove inside and disappeared as the door closed behind. Bravelli and his guests were about to get a very big surprise.

  We barreled past a blur of families who were already half on their feet, clutching white tablecloths that were turning red with spilled wine. There was no direct path to the Roma Room, only around this table, back around that one. At last I reached the door. Holding my gun in my right hand, I grabbed one of the big wooden handles with my left and pulled. Nothing. Maybe you were supposed to push. I tried that, nothing again, then tried the other handle, pushing and pulling, knowing the doors were locked, not accepting it.

  “Police!” I yelled. “Open it up.”

  Something was happening inside, I could hear it through the doors. Shouting, yelling, something heavy falling. I was waiting for gunfire.

  Nick was right there with me. “How could it be locked?” he asked.

  “You think I know?”

  Cops were piling around me. Three or four of us grabbed the handle together and pulled as hard as we could.

  “Now push,” I said.

  From inside, we heard the crash of glasses and plates, and some kind of slapping sound, like a beaver’s tail hitting the water.

  We all pushed, and still the door didn’t move.

  “I don’t fucking believe this,” I yelled in frustration. “Let’s try through the kitchen.”

  A few moments later I was leading a dozen cops past big pots of steaming spaghetti sauce. We headed in the direction of the Roma Room—basically, to the left—but the kitchen was like a maze. Bread warmers, walk-in freezers, boxes of potatoes stacked to the ceiling. Twice we hit dead-ends.

  A chef was staring at us.

  “Where’s the Roma Room?” I yelled at him. He blinked and his mouth dropped open. We all waited, waited, waited. He blinked again.

  A few feet away, a wide-eyed Hispanic guy was watching us, frozen in the act of pulling silverware from a dishwasher.

  “Roma Room,” I said. “Where’s the door?”

  He shrugged. “No Inglés.”

  “Roma!” I shouted at him. “Roma! Is Roma fuckin’ English?” He shrugged again.

  We tried another route, past a wall of employee lockers, and this time we saw a set of swinging stainless-steel doors with small windows at eye level.

  “Gotta be it,” I said, and we charged ahead, pushing through the doors into the Roma Room. We were on the far end, but in the center we could see ten, fifteen guys crowded together, kicking and yelling at something. When they spotted us, they hurriedly backed off, like jackals temporarily abandoning their kill. It didn’t take long to see what they had been doing. Lying on the floor were the two carjackers, their faces bloody and contorted in pain.

  One was balled up in a fetal position, holding his side, tears and blood dripping onto the polished hardwood floor. The other was on his stomach, his left hand up, his head turned the other way. His eyes were squeezed closed, like he was waiting for the next kick. Their guns were gone.

  “Call Rescue,” I told Nick.

  I scanned the room. It was quiet now; all the men were back at the big round tables with their wives and girlfriends. They looked at us innocently, like they had showed up just a second ahead of us, and were as surprised as we were to see these two black kids bloody on the floor.

  “Anybody want to tell me what happened here?” I asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

  “I didn’t see nothin',” said a young guy sitting nearby, all serious. He looked around. “Anybody see what happened?” He waited a moment, then turned back to me apologetically. “I don’t think nobody here saw nothin', sergeant. Sorry we couldn’t be more help. Have a nice day.”

  A few titters came from around the room. They knew they were going to get away with it, they didn’t doubt it for a moment. Now I had no choice but to nail as many of them as I could.

  Goop was sitting at another nearby table. I definitely remembered seeing him in the group kicking the kids. I could start with him.

  “OK, Goop, let’s go,” I said. “Stand up.”

  “Huh?” He couldn’t believe it.

  “Stand up.”

  “You don’t got to do it, Goop,” someone yelled. I turned toward Nick. His regular partner, Steve Ryder, was with him now. He must have been part of the pursuit. “Nick, Steve,” I said. “Lock this guy up.” Goop seemed offended. “Wha’d I do?”

  “What do you think?”

  Nick and Steve reached to grab him, but he jumped up and took a few steps backward, knocking into the next table. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he snarled.

  Guys began standing at all the tables, and some of the ones at the far corners of the room were already starting to head in our direction. Most of the cops who had come into the room had already left, and there were only about seven of us now, standing together. There were maybe a hundred of these guys. Not the best of odds, and they were probably better armed than we were.

  The kids were still lying on the floor, but now they were watching us. You could see them asking, in silent questioning, What is this wasp’s nest we’ve stumbled into?

  Bravelli’s men were closing in on us, tightening the circle. Nick had his hand on his holstered gun, and he glanced at me. “Now I know how Custer felt.”

  The doors from the kitchen popped open, and Tim Timberlane came through, followed by his cameraman. The camera light flipped on, bathing the room in a garish glare.

  “Get them out of here,” I yelled. But who was I saying that to? All the cops were with me, the only people by the door were mob guys. We watched as four or five of them politely pushed Timberlane and his cameraman out of the Roma Room and back into the kitchen. I had to admit, they were a lot nicer about it than some of my guys would have been.

  Maybe the camera would have helped us, maybe Bravelli’s people would have backed off rather than taken a chance of starring on the six o’clock news. I didn’t care—whatever was going to happen was between us and them. It was private.

  I turned away from the kitchen doors, back to the menace at hand. And standing there was Bravelli himself, looking a little impatient, like his linguine was getting cold.

  “I think it would be better if you just leave now, North,” he said. “And take these two Comanches with you.”

  I ignored him, and turned to Nick. “Other than Goop, who else was kicking the kids?”

  “What’s your fuckin’ problem?” Bravelli asked. “We did you a favor. Hey, nobody got hurt, right?”

  I looked at the two kids on the floor. “Almost nobody.”

  “They didn’t deserve it?”

  “You don’t even know
what they did, why they ran in here.”

  “Like it makes a fuckin’ difference? They come in with guns, there’s women in here. You can’t do your job, North, we will.”

  “So this is just more of your vigilante shit, is that what’s going on?”

  Bravelli shrugged, like he didn’t know what I was talking about. But he knew. More and more during the last two months, people in the Italian neighborhood had been taking the law into their own hands. Whenever blacks were caught breaking into houses or trying to steal cars, people wouldn’t call the police—at least not right away. They’d dispense their own justice, and by the time we’d arrive, the blacks would be half dead.

  We all knew Bravelli was behind it. He was the one egging the neighbors on, saying it was up to them to keep the scum out of Westmount. Sometimes his guys even provided the muscle. I had no idea what Bravelli got out of it. Maybe he was just trying to be a local hero.

  Standing there looking at Bravelli, there was no way I was going to back down. Even if all we got was Goop, that’d be enough.

  Nick had his handcuffs out, ready, and I nodded to him to go ahead. Nick tried to grab Goop’s arm, but Goop—more annoyed than anything else—put his palm on Nick’s chest and pushed hard. Nick ended up three feet back, and he almost tripped over one of the carjackers.

  My cops were getting a little nervous. Bravelli’s guys were moving closer, they were absolutely unafraid of us. I didn’t want to take my gun out—my cops would have followed my lead, and then there would have been guns all over the place.

  For some reason, Bravelli’s eyes settled on the silver nameplate over the badge on Steve’s blue police shirt.

  “Ryder,” he said, taking a step forward to get a closer look. “Hmmm. Police Commissioner’s son, right? I heard a lot about you.”

  Steve stood his ground, and just stared at Bravelli. I always thought it was amazing how much Steve resembled his father, how with their easy good looks, their blue eyes and thick, dark eyebrows, they seemed like father-and-son actors out of Hollywood.

  Bravelli didn’t take his eyes off of Steve, it was weird. I stepped between them and got in Bravelli’s face.

  “Leave him alone,” I said.

  “It’s OK, Sarge,” said Steve.

  Bravelli looked at me and shook his head. “Yeah, Sarge, it’s OK,” he mocked. “Except that you should have left when you had the chance. Now you’re way outnumbered.”

  “Really?” I asked, and then clicked the microphone on my shirt lapel. I bent my head to the microphone, still looking at Bravelli, and tried to sound slightly bored. “Radio, this is 20-C Charlie, I need an assist in the Roma Room at Lucky’s.”

  I straightened my head back up. “OK, let’s do a count, Bravelli. We got seven thousand guys. How many you got?”

  I knew I wouldn’t have long to wait—plenty of cops would still be hanging around outside the restaurant. Two burst in from the kitchen, and then two more, and there was a tremendous banging on the main wooden doors.

  “They’re still locked,” said Nick, but a moment later the doors burst open, and blue shirts were flowing into the room. Nick looked at me, like, How come we couldn’t do that?

  Bravelli’s men just stood there, afraid to try anything now, but unwilling to retreat. Bravelli looked very pissed, which made me feel good for the first time all night.

  Lanier appeared next to me. “Everybody OK here?” he asked, looking around.

  “We’re all fine and dandy.”

  Two paramedics with orange first-aid boxes picked their way through the crowd and reached the two kids.

  “OK,” said Lanier, “now I want everybody out.”

  “Sure, Captain. Right after I lock up about a dozen assholes for assaulting my prisoners.”

  “No,” he said. “Once Rescue gets these two out of here, we’re leaving.”

  “Captain …”

  “No,” he said again. “There’s already a media cluster-fuck outside. I’m not going to let it get ten times worse.”

  I knew Bravelli was looking at me, waiting for me to glance over, for our eyes to meet. I wasn’t going to do it.

  Other paramedics were arriving, and everyone—cops, mob guys—watched as the kids were loaded onto stretchers and carried out of the room. When they were gone, Lanier turned to the largest group of cops and announced, “I’m canceling the assist. We’re all leaving.”

  Then he turned and walked out. Bravelli laughed, and I couldn’t help it, I looked at him.

  “You really are a fuckin’ failure at everything, aren’t you?” he asked me. Then he snapped his fingers, as if he had just thought of something. “Hey, North, why don’t you go to work for the Parking Authority, I bet you can handle writing tickets. If my dumb brother-in-law can do it, anybody can.”

  One of his pals standing near me started laughing, and I practically had to call on God to keep from smashing my first into Bravelli’s face.

  It was almost dark when we got outside. As I walked alone toward my patrol car, Lanier intercepted me.

  “I just wanted to let you know, Eddie, this wasn’t personal.”

  “Sure, Captain. Like getting me transferred wasn’t personal, either.”

  “Eddie, we’ve been over this—I had to report those calls to the bosses.”

  “No one has to report anonymous calls, Captain, and you know it. And now I’m not even in your unit anymore, and you humiliate me in there tonight, in front of all those lowlifes. You know what, Captain? You are the biggest asshole in a department of assholes.”

  I didn’t wait around for his reaction, I just turned and headed for my car.

  TWO

  When they kicked me out of OC and busted me back to patrol, they could have sent me to any district in the city. They picked the 20th, probably because it was just about the furthest place from my house up in Northeast Philadelphia, which meant a pain-in-the-ass commute. That’s how the Department usually expressed its sense of humor in dealing with people it didn’t like. If I had lived in the 20th, they would have sent me to Canada or someplace.

  I wasn’t about to admit it to anyone, but I actually liked working in the 20th. A lot happened there, which was not a bad thing, at least if you were a cop.

  It was a real cross section of the city, and had just about every kind of neighborhood. It started in Westmount, which was the largest Italian section outside of South Philly. Hardly any crime ever happened there, other than the occasional mob hit.

  As you headed east, toward the skyscrapers of Center City, you went through black West Philadelphia, a succession of poor and working-class neighborhoods. Crime did happen there, plenty of it, but there were a lot of good people, too. It was a shame to see them when they came home from work and found that some crackhead had broken down their door, torn their house apart looking for money, and then taken the VCR on the way out.

  Finally came University City, the area around the University of Pennsylvania and Drexel. Penn liked to call itself a “campus in an urban setting,” which meant that it was a place where rich kids from the suburbs took money out of ATMs in the middle of the night, and then walked away counting the twenties. They were so dumb even I wanted to rob them.

  University City was a collection of student apartment buildings, grungy beer-and-pizza joints, Indian restaurants, and computer stores. A little farther from campus were several neighborhoods with large, leafy houses where the professors lived, along with people like newspaper editors and architects. Plenty of big trees your dog could pee on.

  At the eastern end of the district was the Schuylkill River, the boundary with Center City. About the only time we ever actually went to the river was when some homeless guy decided he just couldn’t take life anymore, and jumped in from the Walnut or Chestnut Street bridge. Neither bridge was really very high, but in West Philadelphia everyone just did the best they could.

  I didn’t calm down from what happened at Lucky’s for hours, and it wasn’t until the next night, as I cruised
through the streets of West Philadelphia in my patrol car, that I finally began to relax. Maybe it was because everything was so familiar—the row houses and the stores, even the young black guys on the corners, laughing and drinking their beer from bottles in paper bags. Out here, you knew the rules. You knew whose side everyone was on.

  About nine-thirty that night, I decided to stop by district headquarters to see if Nick was around. I was hoping maybe

  I could take another shot at cheering him up. As usual, Sammy was in the operations room doing paperwork at his battered gray-metal desk. And, as usual, he had tuned the TV to a cop show.

  Sammy was a regular inside guy, one of the cops who sorted through incident reports and dealt with any members of the public who might wander in. He was a towering blond with a thick mustache, and always reminded me of a Minnesota lumberjack who should be eating pancakes. Except that he wore a blue uniform instead of a red flannel shirt, and I never caught him trying to cut down any of the scrawny trees in West Philly.

  “Sammy,” I said. “You seen Nick?”

  “Unbelievable,” he said, pointing to the TV. “This cop stops a stolen car and says to the guy, ‘Could you get out of the car, please?’ He actually said please. And this show’s supposed to be realistic.”

  “Sammy,” I said again. “Nick around?”

  He shrugged. “Must be out on the street. Look, now he’s calling the guy sir.” Sammy looked up at me. “My father’s the only one I call sir.”

  I headed over to the Shop-Now supermarket on the edge of University City, I figured some of the guys would be there. The store closed at 9 p.m., so at night the empty parking lot basically became a cop hangout. If you needed to talk to someone in the squad, that’s where you told Radio to have them meet you. A lot of times we’d sit there in our cars when things were quiet, eating our cheesesteaks and catching up on the latest gossip.