Sons of the City

by Scott Flander

  I just looked at him. I didn’t know what I wanted him to do. And now what was I supposed to do? What could be worse than him getting fired and locked up?

  Nick saw what I was thinking. “You look out for me, don’t you, Eddie?”

  I shrugged, like it was no big deal. But it was true, ever since he was a kid, he had counted on me. I was ten years older, he looked up to me. I was the one he could talk to. He never felt he could go to his father, or his brothers, Chris and Matt.

  Nick and his brothers were the only cousins I had, and our families were pretty close. Although we lived up in the Northeast, and they lived in Westmount, we were always at each other’s houses. It was like I was the Bari kids’ extra brother. Chris, Matt, and Nick were all ushers at my wedding, though Nick, to his eternal sorrow, was too young to go to the bachelor party.

  And though Nick always used to come to me for advice, I was never sure how much help I really was to him. There was the time, when he was in the fourth or fifth grade, that he had stolen a brass baseball paperweight off his teacher’s desk. The teacher suspected another student, but couldn’t prove anything.

  It was just before Thanksgiving, which was at our house that year. As soon as Nick walked in with his family, he grabbed my arm and led me back outside onto the front porch.

  He told me about the paperweight, and said, “What should I do, Eddie?”

  I was nineteen, and here I was being asked to give moral guidance to a nine-year-old. I remember standing out there with him, watching the street get dark. It was one of those clear November evenings where you can see the stars even in the city. I couldn’t wait to get dinner over with and get back out onto the street with my friends.

  I thought about telling him to just admit he stole the paperweight, and take his punishment like a man. You can’t let a friend take the rap. But I figured he had to come to that conclusion himself or it wouldn’t be worth anything.

  I ended up sounding like one of those idiot older brothers on TV. “You have to do what you think is best. Whatever feels right to you.”

  Nick nodded like he understood, and we went inside.

  When our families got together at Christmas, I asked him how it had all turned out. He told me he had thought about what I had said, and decided to keep his mouth shut. It worked—nothing ever happened to him or his friend, and he got to keep the paperweight. Though one night he was using it to knock out streetlights, and it went through a neighbor’s upstairs window. So much for imparting my wisdom.

  As Nick and I drove back to district headquarters, I remembered the paperweight. In all the times I had tried to help Nick over the years, had I ever really known what I was doing?

  Nothing much else happened that afternoon, if you don’t count the woman who came down to file a complaint against police. Her thirteen-year-old son said he had been badly beaten by two white officers during the protest march. She happened to stop by as Barney Stiller was giving a speech to the crowd outside, and he got wind of it, and got the woman to tell her story through the bullhorn. The crowd was furious, and some young guys started yelling that they should storm our building. I thought we were going to have fright night at the 20th, but things eventually calmed down.

  Kirk called me into his office, he was pissed as shit—he wanted to know who the hell those two cops were. I promised him I’d do my best to find out.

  A few minutes after eleven that night, my pager went off. It was at the end of the shift, and I was coming up the steps from the basement locker room after changing out of my uniform. I checked the phone number—it was Doc, calling from his house in Fishtown. He knew I’d be getting off work now.

  I walked into the operations room and used one of the black rotary phones. We were probably the last police department in the world to get push-button phones, except maybe for some little town in India that used cows instead of police cars.

  “Hey, buddy, I want you to see somethin',” Doc said when I called. “Need your advice.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Still wearin’ your uniform?”

  “No, I just changed.”

  “Good. Do me a favor and take a ride by Sagiliano’s. Stick your head in the door—don’t go in—just look around, see what you see.”

  “What am I looking for, Doc?”

  “You’ll see. Just don’t go in, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “I could sure use your advice on this one, buddy.”

  We hung up, and I headed outside to my Blazer. Sagiliano’s was a corner taproom in Westmount, and everyone knew it was a mob hangout. Neighborhood people mostly came there to drink, but it was also a restaurant, and there were a few booths and tables in the back. It was the kind of place that if you sat down at one of the tables, at the next one you’d see Mama making the ravioli by hand.

  I’d been there a couple of times on jobs. It had a low, wood-paneled ceiling, and the dimly lit bar was in a long, narrow U shape, so people could sit all the way around and talk to the person sitting across.

  Like most workingman’s bars in Westmount, Sagiliano’s had no pretensions whatsoever—the counter of the bar wasn’t polished oak, it was just cheap Formica, worn shiny in places by the bottoms of countless beer bottles. Against the darkened walls was the usual shuffleboard-bowling game, the video blackjack machine, the worn-out jukebox.

  No one came from miles around. There were bars like Sagiliano’s every few blocks in Westmount, and the customers all lived or worked close by. It was the kind of place where someone might suddenly walk out, leaving his beer half finished, his newspaper open on the counter. But he was just going home to take care of something, he’d be back in a minute. His bottle and his newspaper would be there waiting for him. The only distinction Sagiliano’s had was that connected guys from the neighborhood liked to drink there, and you never got into a fight because of who might be sitting on the next stool.

  I found a parking space a block away and walked up to the entrance. There was a solid wood door, so I couldn’t see inside, but it seemed pretty quiet. I pushed the door open, took a step in, and—following Doc’s instructions—looked around. The bar was mostly full. Older men with craggy alcohol-faces, younger guys with sleeveless white T-shirts, still dusty from the construction sites. The TV, bolted to the wall at one end of the bar, had a weatherman giving the five-day forecast. A couple of guys sitting near the entrance turned to look at me, and didn’t turn away—I was a stranger.

  And there, in a booth at the back, was Lenny Lanier, in street clothes, sitting by himself, a glass of beer in front of him. I saw why Doc didn’t want me to walk through the bar—Lanier might have spotted me. I quickly slipped back out the door.

  I didn’t even wait until I got home to call Doc, I stopped at the pay phone at the 7-Eleven near Penn.

  “Was he there?” Doc asked, his Texas accent making the last word two or three syllables.

  “Yep,” I drawled back.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think that Lanier shouldn’t be anywhere near that bar.”

  “It’s not like he’s undercover,” said Doc. “If he were, I’d know about it.”

  “And how would he even go undercover?” I asked. “Everybody in Bravelli’s crew knows who he is.”

  “So what’s he doing there?” asked Doc.

  “You tell me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for the past two weeks.”

  “He’s been going in there for two weeks?”

  “At least. The first time I saw him was by accident, I was just checking out the bar, just seeing who was inside. There was the captain, sittin’ in the back. I didn’t say anything to him, I just left.”

  “Was he on duty?”

  “No, he gets off earlier than me, ‘bout seven. But it seemed pretty strange him being there. So the next night I sat in my car, I guess about a half block away, see if he’d come by after work. Sure enough, he did.”

  “Have you told anyone?�
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  “I guess I could go to the inspector, but what am I gonna say? Hell, maybe he’s just drinking. Tell you what, I’m not in any particular hurry to get someone jammed up for nothing—just look what happened to you.”

  “Yeah. But I don’t trust that bastard, Doc. I didn’t before, and I do even less now.”

  “Think I should say somethin’ to Lanier?”

  “No, he knows what he’s doing, he knows he shouldn’t be in that bar socializing.”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I think you should keep a very close eye on him,” I said. “Anything else makes you suspicious—anything at all—then you go to the inspector. That way, you’ll have two reasons instead of just one.”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. I know you don’t like him, Eddie, but personally, I don’t think he’s that bad a guy.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said. “Just watch your back.”

  I hung up. It was hard to believe that Lanier really might be involved with the mob. Was that why I got kicked out of OC, just as I was closing in on Bravelli?

  I remembered that night in Lucky’s, the night Steve died, how Lanier had stepped in to prevent me from arresting anyone in Bravelli’s crew.

  Was it possible?

  NINE

  I saw Lanier again the next night. In another place I didn’t want him to be.

  This time, it was outside Lucky’s, just before Michelle and Bravelli were set to have their little dinner. I was cruising around the neighborhood in my patrol car—actually, trying to pass by Lucky’s as often as I could without making it obvious. I told myself the reason was that if Michelle spotted me, and knew I was around, she might feel safer. But I knew that what I really wanted was a glimpse of her, just to make sure she was OK.

  It was during my third or fourth swing by Lucky’s that I noticed the brown Plymouth sitting by the curb on the nearby cross street, 70th. I couldn’t see who was inside, but it was an unmarked police car, no doubt about it. I circled the block, got onto 70th, and drove past the Plymouth. As I did, I saw Lanier’s ugly face looking back at me.

  He must have gotten word Bravelli would be here tonight. I circled around again, and this time parked on 70th about a half block behind his car, out of sight of Lucky’s. As I walked up toward the car from behind, I could see Lanier watching me in his rearview mirror. I was heading over to the driver’s side to talk with him, but he called out “Get in,” and pointed to the passenger’s seat. I didn’t really feel like sitting in the same car as Lanier, but it was better than standing out in the street.

  Lanier turned to me when I got in. “You trying to ruin my surveillance, Eddie?”

  Of course, the answer was yes. Instead, I said, “I just wanted to see what you’re doing here, Captain.”

  “Why?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Just curious.”

  “You know how it is, Eddie, I can’t talk about jobs.”

  We both saw it at the same time, the black Cadillac Seville, coming down Walnut, passing by us, pulling over to the curb in front of Lucky’s.

  Goop got out from behind the wheel and opened the back door on his side, facing the street. Michelle emerged, wearing a red, sleeveless dress.

  “You know, she looks a little familiar,” said Lanier. “You ever seen her before, Eddie?”

  I pretended to study her as she waited for Bravelli to come around from the other side.

  “No,” I said. “She’s definitely a new one.”

  “I know I’ve seen her,” said Lanier. “I don’t know where, but I have, and I don’t think it was a very long time ago.”

  It wasn’t. Lanier had spent at least three minutes talking to Michelle when Ru-Wan’s body was found in the trunk. Now he was a half block away, and an inch from recognizing her, disguise and all.

  For some reason, Michelle and Bravelli were still talking by the car. I tried to will them into the restaurant. Goop was already waiting for them by the front door, ready to open it. Get over there, I thought.

  “This is driving me crazy,” said Lanier. “I know I’ve seen her.”

  “Just another Westmount girl,” I said. “I’m sure Bravelli goes through ‘em like water.”

  Finally, Michelle and Bravelli did move around behind the car, and toward the canopy. Keep going, I thought, don’t stop, just keep going. Goop held the door for them, and they disappeared inside.

  “I’m going to find out who she is,” said Lanier. “It’s going to drive me crazy until I do.” He turned to me. “That ever happen to you, Eddie?”

  I hadn’t expected this. If Lanier did learn the truth, I had to know right away, I had to be able to warn Michelle. Doc was my best shot—Lanier might mention it to him.

  But that meant I’d have to tell Doc about Michelle. I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, I’d always assumed I’d be the only one who knew who she was. But it couldn’t be helped now, I knew that.

  And so I told Doc the whole story. He understood. He was already trying to stay as close to Lanier as possible, to find out what was going on with him. He promised to let me know whenever Lanier talked about Michelle.

  From that point on, my stomach didn’t stop churning. Michelle started going out with Bravelli almost every night. Much of the time, Lanier—shadowed by Doc—was somewhere around. Doc had quickly realized that Lanier was obsessed with learning who the woman with Bravelli was. He pushed Doc to find out everything he could about her.

  I told Michelle about all this, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

  “If Lanier figures out who I am, I’ll make a decision then,” she said. “Right now, I’m not going to worry about it.”

  She didn’t seem to be worried about anything. Two weeks after her date at Lucky’s, we met again at the Carver housing project. She was jazzed.

  “I’m making fantastic progress.” Michelle said when she got in my truck. “I am really good at this. I think I must be a natural.”

  “So Bravelli’s going for it?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding? He’s crazy about me. Every time we go out he gives me a gift. See? You like this necklace?”

  It was a silver and gold job that had to cost at least a thousand.

  “Great,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it.

  “He calls me all the time, every day he sends flowers to me at Angela’s—every single day. Actually, it’s getting a little embarrassing, because everybody who comes in wants to know who they’re from, and they start asking questions. Though I guess that’s good, because the word’s getting out"—and here she started with a Southern accent—"Mickey Bravelli’s trying to win my heart.”

  She held her hands to her chest and fluttered her eyelids.

  “Give me a fucking break,” I said.

  “Actually, it’s been a lot of fun. Like when we go into Jumpin’ Jiminy’s, everybody knows him, and he’s got me on his arm, and he’s kind of showing me off. But I can tell, he’s really trying to impress me. He’s more worried about what I think than what the other people think.”

  Jumpin’ Jiminy’s was a dance club in Center City, on the Delaware River. Bravelli had taken Michelle there a half dozen times in the last two weeks.

  “Why do you think he’s so attracted to you?” I asked.

  She gave me a look. “Thanks a lot.”

  “I mean, you’re not from the neighborhood, you’re really not from his world …”

  “Actually, I think that’s why he’s interested in me. I don’t fall all over him, I don’t act impressed around him. It’s like when he told me what he does for a living.”

  “He told you?”

  “Yeah, a couple of nights ago. We went to a Phillies game, and then we got some water ice at this place on Oregon Avenue. You know that little park across the street? We went over there and sat down on a bench, and Mickey said, ‘It’s time I told you what I do. I want to know if you got a problem with it.’ ”

  “Mickey? You’re going to call him Mickey around me
?”

  “What do you want me to call him?”

  “How about shithead?”

  “C’mon, Eddie. Anyway, he said, ‘Did you ever see the movie The Godfather?’ I just played dumb, I said I’d heard of it, but never saw it. So then he asks, ‘Not even Part II?’ I say no. ‘Not even Part III?’ I shake my head no again.

  “Then he says, ‘You had to see Goodfellas.’ And I said, ‘That was that old movie with Jerry Lewis and the wicked stepmother, right?’ Mickey’s mouth dropped open, it was really funny. So then I said, ‘No, I guess I’m thinking of Cinderfella.'”

  I laughed. “Did he get it?”

  “No, but he was very patient. He went through a long list of movies, I guess every mob movie ever made. I kept saying. Nope, Nope, Nope. Finally, he said, ‘Do you ever see comedies?’ I said Sure. So he says, ‘How about Married to the Mob?’ And I said, Yeah, I’ve seen that.’ And he said, ‘Well, that’s what you’d be if you married me.'”

  “How imaginative.”

  “So I asked him, had he ever thought about going to college and getting a real job?”

  “You said that?”

  “Yeah, he laughed. I think he actually liked me asking that. I just think Mickey feels—”

  “Michelle, do me a favor.”

  “All right. Bravelli feels.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I just think he feels he can relax around me. You know, he can be more himself.”

  “Has he tried anything with you?”

  That stopped her.

  “Eddie, I’m undercover, I’m playing a part.”

  “Oh, so now you’re going to sleep with him?”

  “No, I’m not going to sleep with him, I told you I wasn’t going to do that.” She was pissed.

  “Sorry.”

  “In fact, I think that’s another one of the reasons he’s attracted to me. Because I won’t sleep with him. You know, that first date, after we went out to Lucky’s, he asked me whether I wanted to come over to his house. I said no. Second date, I said no. Third date, I said no. I think he was starting to get upset, like he was about ready to say, Forget this girl. But then, when I kept saying no, I think he respected that. He still asks every time we go out, but now I think he expects me to say no. It’s almost as if I were to say yes, he’d like it, but he really wouldn’t like it.”