Sons of the City

by Scott Flander

  As I pulled into the darkened lot, I saw two police cars and a brown unmarked car parked together. Something strange was going on, though at first I couldn’t tell what it was. Nick, Steve, and Buster, another one of my cops, seemed to be doing something to the unmarked car.

  When I reached them I had to laugh—they had covered every one of the car’s windows with big orange stickers that said “TOW.” The stickers were the kind we slapped on a windshield to let the Parking Authority know we wanted a car towed. You only needed one sticker—they were pretty big—and these guys had used about two hundred. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was going on.

  I pulled up next to the other cars and got out. “Who’s inside?” I asked.

  Steve put his finger to his mouth to shush me. He had a mischievous smile on his face, and his blue eyes were glittering with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “It’s Little Napoleon,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sleeping like a baby.”

  “You got a captain in there?” I was impressed. Little Napoleon was what everyone called Casimir Razowski, a short little dickhead who actually did look like Napoleon, or at least the pictures of him in the liquor ads. He was in night command, one of the people who was supposed to keep an eye on things when the regular captains went home. Except that the only thing Little Napoleon ever kept an eye on was his watch.

  I walked up to his car, a standard city-issue Plymouth. Buster and Nick were covering up the last little gaps on the back window. If Little Napoleon woke up now, he’d be in complete darkness, he wouldn’t know where the hell he was.

  “He’s been coming here every night this week,” said Steve. “He just sleeps for the whole shift. I have the feeling this is going to be his last night.”

  “What he means, Sarge,” explained Buster, “is that he wants Little Napoleon gone so he can come here to sleep.”

  “Wait, I thought both you guys came here to sleep,” I said.

  Buster got an indignant look. “You kidding? I always go behind the old Pepsi plant.”

  Buster was a big, likable guy, always chomping on his gum and grinning his lopsided grin. He seemed less like a cop than a big-league ballplayer just off the bus from Kansas or someplace.

  He also had the loudest mouth in the squad, which he actually put to good use when he was driving 20-17 car. Nothing in that trash heap worked—not the siren, not the horn, not even the red-and-blue emergency lights on top. Other guys driving it couldn’t figure out how to make a car-stop. They’d see someone run a red light, and just let them go. But Buster would stick his head out the window and yell, “YO, PULL OVER!” And they would.

  I noticed the silver nameplate on Buster’s chest. Instead of “BROWN,” it said “KIRK.” I looked at Steve’s name-plate, then Nick’s. They were both “KIRK.”

  “Where’d you get those?” I laughed. Kirk was the name of our captain, Oliver Kirk. I knew the idea was that if Little Napoleon woke up and read one of the nametags, he’d call up headquarters and yell he wanted the ass of some cop named Kirk.

  Steve’s eyes glittered again. “Place up on Castor Avenue, they’re the same ones who supply ‘em to the city. I got a friend who works there.”

  He reached in his front pants pocket and pulled out a whole handful of nameplates. They all said “KIRK.”

  “Want one?” he asked.

  I laughed and shook my head no. I liked Steve, it didn’t really bother me that he was the class clown of the 20th. Here he was the Commissioner’s son, and he was forever coming up with stuff like this. What made it strange was that he had the potential to be a great cop. Steve had wonderful instincts—he could look at three guys standing on a corner, and say, the one in the middle is carrying a gun. And he was always right.

  But he never seemed to take the job seriously, he was always screwing around. Maybe that’s what happens when your father’s the Commissioner. It couldn’t have been easy—any success would be attributed to the father, any failure would show that the son just couldn’t measure up. Maybe Steve, in a weird way, was just trying to be his own man.

  He looked at me warily. “This OK with you, what we’re doin'?”

  “Sure,” I said. “You guys are restoring my faith in the Police Department.”

  They laughed and went back to work on the stickers. It was funny—with the four of us standing there talking, you could almost forget that Little Napoleon was in the car. I gazed at the line of row houses across the street, and thought that if anyone looked out their window, they’d just see four cops bullshitting in the middle of an empty supermarket parking lot.

  Steve had used up all his stickers, and now was turning his attention to me. “You may be interested to know,” he said, “that Michelle’s on her way over here.”

  “Your sister?” I asked, as casually as I could. Nick and Buster were trying not to smile.

  “Yeah,” said Steve. “You know she’s in the Twentieth tonight, right?”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  “Ortiz went home sick. We were short a sergeant, so they called Michelle over from the Twelfth.” That was a neighboring district, and we often used each other’s sergeants.

  “What, when did this happen?” I asked. “I was just talking to Sammy, he didn’t say anything.”

  “Couple of minutes ago,” said Steve. “Michelle just paged me, she said Donna’s showing her around the district. I told them to stop by here.”

  “You want her to see how we do things in the Twentieth, huh?”

  Steve smiled. “So, you going to ask her out?”

  I gave him a blank look, like I didn’t know what he was talking about. Nick and Buster had big smiles now, they were just having a good old time.

  I was a little nervous, I hadn’t counted on seeing Michelle again so soon. We had met only three nights ago, at a retirement party for a detective from Central. It was held at River Fever, a huge club down in Essington that overlooked the Delaware. A real pickup place—the dance floors were jammed with hungry-eyed guys and girls from across the river in Jersey. But the retirement party had reserved the outdoor deck, which was actually pretty nice. It had a bamboo bar, and palm leaves, and a warm breeze coming off the river.

  Everyone at the party was standing around, talking shop, and someone introduced me to Michelle. We just started talking, and by the end of the evening we were at a table by ourselves, in the dark, away from the others. It was one of those deals where you feel you’ve known the person forever, where everything just seems so natural and relaxed.

  Like her brother and father, Michelle had the family’s dark eyebrows and high cheekbones, and blue eyes that were so alive they just seemed to talk to you. Her face was narrow, like a model’s, but it wasn’t hard, it seemed to have a gentleness to it. And she had shoulder-length brown hair that was so luxurious it looked like something out of a shampoo commercial.

  She told me she had just made sergeant the week before, and was starting her new assignment at the 12th. She knew she’d be filling in at the 20th from time to time—which meant she’d be supervising her brother.

  “Think that’ll be a problem?” I had asked her.

  Michelle just smiled. “I did it all the time when we were growing up.”

  I asked Michelle how much older she was than Steve. “Four years. But what you really want to know is how old I am now, right?”

  I nodded with a sheepish smile.

  “I’m thirty-one,” she said. “And you’re what, about thirty-five?”

  I nodded again. “Good guess.”

  “You’re kind of a serious person, aren’t you?” she asked. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know, you just have a way of looking at people that’s so intense. The way you kind of scrunch up your forehead.”

  “I didn’t know I did that.”

  “Well, you do. But it’s not a bad thing. I kind of like it.”

  Sitting there in the darkness by the water, we totally forgot
about the party, forgot anyone else was around. About midnight, when she said she had to go, I asked her whether she wanted to get together sometime.

  “Sure,” she said, then smiled. “But aren’t we doing this backwards?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Well usually, two cops meet on the job, and then get together off-duty. So since we’re meeting off-duty, where are we going to go on a date, a hostage situation?”

  I laughed. “That’s a good idea. We could have dinner first—Italian hoagies in the patrol car.”

  “We hear the hostage call,” said Michelle. “We rush to the scene …”

  “We talk the gunman into surrendering …”

  “Right,” said Michelle. “By offering him our food.”

  “And then,” I said, “the three of us go get some water ice for dessert.”

  Michelle nodded approvingly. “Sounds like the perfect date to me.”

  I looked at her. She was great, I couldn’t believe my luck. I hadn’t met anybody like her in a long time. Maybe not since Patricia.

  Of course, all the other cops at the retirement party saw the two of us talking and laughing together, and apparently we became a big topic of conversation. By the next day, everyone in the district had heard there was something going on between Michelle and me.

  Now in the supermarket parking lot, Steve, Buster, and Nick were looking at me, waiting for me to reveal all. I felt like I was back in seventh grade.

  There was loud rumbling and clanking, and we all turned to see a police tow truck pulling into the lot and heading toward us.

  Steve almost giggled. “This is going to be great,” he told me. “We’re having our sleeping captain towed to the impoundment lot.”

  The tow truck backed up in front of the Plymouth, and the driver, a stocky Italian guy, climbed out.

  “This is Dominic,” said Steve. “Friend of mine.”

  We all nodded hello. Steve quietly explained the situation to Dominic, whose eyes widened when he got to the part of who was actually inside the car.

  “Yo, Steve,” he said, “I don’t wanna get into any more trouble, why do ya think I’m in the Tow Unit to begin with?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Steve. “In order for Little Napoleon to jam any of us up, he’d first have to explain what he was doing sleeping in his car in the middle of West Philadelphia at ten o’clock at night.”

  It was a good point. Dominic walked over and started hooking up the Plymouth, and we watched as another police car pulled into the lot.

  “Looks like Michelle and Donna,” said Steve.

  It was the first time I had seen Michelle in uniform, and it was a treat. Police uniforms are designed for men, and they tend to flatten out the curves of most women. Michelle’s blue uniform just brought out her curves, which she had a lot of, all over her body.

  Michelle walked over and said hello to me, and I said, “Welcome to West Philadelphia.” But I was thinking, damn, I ain’t never seen no cop like this before.

  It would have been hard to imagine a more dramatic contrast between Donna and Michelle. Donna was a short, chain-smoking, smart-ass, frizzy-blond-haired cop who grew up on the streets of Philadelphia’s working-class Port Richmond section. She had a soft, friendly face—it was her personality that was rough around the edges.

  Donna was Buster’s usual partner and, as we all knew, his girlfriend. They tried to keep it a secret, but we could tell, just by the way they acted together.

  Michelle couldn’t help noticing the stickers all over Little Napoleon’s car.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Shhhh,” said Steve. “It’s a captain, sleeping. We’re having him towed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Buster said solemnly, “he is an interloper.”

  “Get outta here,” Donna said, and laughed. “You don’t even know what that means.”

  “I used it right.”

  “Sure you did. Gimme a cigarette.”

  Buster obediently reached into his blue shirt pocket, pulled out a cigarette pack, and handed it to Donna.

  Michelle was watching, amused. I wanted to talk to her, alone. About what, I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter.

  A call came over our portable radios, report of woman screaming inside a house, 5823 Tyler. It was Nick and Steve’s sector, Radio gave them the assignment. Steve clicked on his radio and acknowledged the call. “Twenty-fifteen, OK,” he said, but he made no move toward his car.

  Michelle looked at her brother, puzzled. “Aren’t you going to go?”

  “No rush, it’s just a crackhouse. We get that call every night. There’s nobody screaming, neighbors just want us to show up and scare the druggies away. This is much more important.”

  “Is this what you guys do every night?” Michelle asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Buster. “We can’t come up with ideas this good every night.”

  “But Steve is always the ringleader, right?”

  “Yep,” said Buster. “Steve’s the expert on the fun, and me and Nick are the experts on the women.”

  Donna snorted and turned to Michelle. “The only thing Buster knows about women is from those pipehead hookers on Sixtieth Street.”

  “Don’t knock it,” said Buster.

  “Hey, Buster,” Donna said, “didn’t I hear you trying to bum five bucks from someone, ‘bout an hour ago?” She looked at us. “The hookers charge five bucks, Buster’s asking around for five bucks. Think it’s a coincidence?”

  Michelle smiled at me. “Are they like this all the time?”

  “All the time,” I said, and then thought, why not ask her out now? I’ll just take her aside and ask her.

  Steve reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a couple of nameplates. “Here,” he said to Michelle and Donna, “put these on.”

  Donna laughed when she saw the name and grabbed one immediately, but Michelle hesitated. “This is the captain’s name?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” said Steve. “Isn’t it great?” He saw her expression, then added, “Or are you going to be a sergeant now?”

  Two sets of blue eyes locked onto each other for a moment, and then Michelle walked over to the Plymouth. We all thought she was going to pull open the door and wake up Little Napoleon. But she just looked at all the stickers, then turned to face her brother.

  “You missed a spot,” she said.

  Steve gave a relieved smile and took a look at where she was pointing. “Damn,” he said. “Buster, get me a sticker.”

  “Next time, Steve,” said Michelle, “call me first. That is, if you want it done right.”

  “Hey, I did OK before you came out here.”

  “Really? How do you run down the street with your shoelaces untied?”

  We all looked at Steve’s shoes—the laces of both were actually untied. Steve quickly bent down to tie them, and looked up at Michelle.

  “I was always surprised you became a cop,” he said, still bent down. “Police cars don’t come equipped with lighted makeup mirrors.”

  “At least I answer my calls when they come over the radio,” said Michelle.

  I half wondered whether Little Napoleon was already awake, and was just sitting there listening to this shit.

  Nick asked Steve something, and Buster had turned to Donna, so for the first time Michelle and I were able to talk.

  “I had a good time the other night,” I said. Michelle smiled. “So did I.”

  We took a few steps away from the others, it was like Michelle was thinking the same thing I was. We both just wanted to be together.

  When we turned, though, Steve, Nick, Donna, and Buster were suddenly standing right next to us, with innocent looks on their faces.

  “Ignore them,” I said, and we turned our backs and walked some more. When we stopped again, they were still with us, as if we hadn’t even moved.

  “Where we goin', Sarge?” asked Buster. “Pittsburgh?”

  Another call cam
e over the radio, someone was complaining about a neighbor’s loud music. Donna was assigned to handle it, which meant that Michelle would be going, too.

  “You want to grab a beer after work?” I asked her.

  “Sure,” she said.

  “That sounds great,” said Steve. “We’ll all go.”

  Michelle looked at her brother and shook her head. As she got into the car with Donna, he was just smiling at her, you could tell he was asking her to smile back. And as the car pulled away, she did, very slightly.

  When they were gone, I turned to Steve and Nick. “You guys better take care of that crackhouse call. Radio’s going to want to know where you are.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Steve. “Dom, you ready?”

  Dominic had hooked up the car and was sitting in his truck, just waiting to get out of there. “Yeah,” he said out the window. “Just put in a good word about me with your father.”

  Steve laughed. “You think he listens to me?”

  Dominic shifted the truck into gear and started pulling the Plymouth away. Steve was beside himself with joy. “Man. I can hardly wait until Little Napoleon wakes up.”

  He didn’t have to wait long. As Dominic drove out of the lot, he cut the driveway too close and the right wheels of the truck bumped down over the curb, followed by the right wheels of the Plymouth. A few seconds later, the car’s window came down about six inches, and stopped, jammed on the stickers. There wasn’t enough room for Little Napoleon to stick his head out the window, all you could see was his mouth, yelling at the tow truck. If Dominic heard anything, he was pretending not to. The last we saw of them, the tow truck, the Plymouth, and Little Napoleon’s big mouth were all sailing merrily down Spruce Street.

  Ten minutes later I was back in my patrol car, cruising aimlessly past the night-darkened row houses and storefronts of West Philadelphia, thinking about Michelle. I could hardly wait to see her again, even if we’d be surrounded by a bunch of leering, beer-guzzling cops. I checked my watch—just after ten, less than two hours to go.

  “ASSIST! ASSIST!” came a shout over the radio. There was crackling, then dead silence. Shit, that didn’t sound good, it didn’t sound good at all. I wasn’t sure about the voice, it might be Nick. Were he and Steve OK? I reached an intersection, and slowed to a stop, waiting to see which way I should go.