Sons of the City

by Scott Flander

  “Not anymore. Don’t even bother with the uniform, just get right out there, it’s a store at Fifty-second and Sansom, supposedly some cop beat the hell out of the black store owner. It’s the last thing we need.”

  “Captain, there’s stuff I got to do.”

  “I can’t force you to work, I know that. But I got nobody else out there to go right now, and I don’t want a fucking riot. I’m asking you to do it, for me. Take the complaint, calm things down, then get the hell out of here, go home.”

  Maybe I could do it, I thought. The pressure was off to find Michelle, and I wouldn’t be meeting the Commissioner for a couple of hours. I had time to catch my breath. OK, I told Kirk, I’ll head over there.

  We were standing next to one of the glass display cases with Star Trek paraphernalia, and Kirk reached in absent-mindedly and lifted out a spaceship shaped like a shoe box.

  “This is a shuttlecraft,” he said. “The crew used it to take short trips from the Enterprise, you know, like when they visited a planet.”

  Kirk was describing it in the past tense like it was an historical artifact, the way a professor would say, “This cup was used by the Vikings to drink their enemies’ blood.”

  “How did it fly?” I asked. Now I was using the past tense.

  Kirk thought for a second, then said, “Rocket power.” He seemed a little surprised at himself that he didn’t know the answer right away. I nodded, like he had just told me something that was actually connected to reality.

  He turned to me and smiled. “I’d love to be in one of these right now, just getting as far away from this place as possible.”

  “You got room for a passenger?”

  “What we really need isn’t a shuttlecraft,” he said, “it’s an escape pod.”

  I laughed with him. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

  There were no patrol cars available, so I grabbed a portable radio and headed over to 52nd Street in my Blazer. I hadn’t gone a block when we got a report of a second complaint against the police—this one from another store on 52nd. During the four minutes it took me to drive there, two more complaints came in from different stores. Something weird was going on.

  When I pulled up, there were two ambulances already there, and another was coming down the street. People were gathering in front of a group of stores between Chestnut and Sansom, everyone was trying to figure out what was happening.

  The store that had the original complaint was actually a barbershop. I pushed through the crowd inside and walked in. On the floor next to one of the barber’s chairs, a thin black man about sixty, in a blood-covered barber’s smock, was being worked on by paramedics.

  “You a cop?” another barber asked me. I showed him my badge.

  “About time you got here,” he said. “One of your boys walked in here and beat Sonny over the head for no reason.”

  I looked down at Sonny. He was conscious, but there was blood all over the floor, soaking into the hair clippings. There were four other men in the shop and everyone tried to tell the story at the same time.

  “This cop just whacked Sonny.”

  “It was for no reason, no reason at all.”

  “I saw the whole thing—he just came in here, came right in here, hit Sonny over the head. Sonny didn’t do nothin', he was just standing right there by his chair.”

  I tried to make sense of it. “Why were the police called here in the first place?” I asked the other barber.

  “Ain’t no one called the police,” he said. “We didn’t have no trouble here.”

  A black woman, her makeup smeared from crying, marched into the store and started yelling at me.

  “When you gonna talk to me?” she demanded. She had her hair pulled back and was wearing a red apron.

  “Who are you?”

  “Who do I look like? Your cop beat my husband half to death.”

  I followed her next door—it was a small deli. There was her husband, also in a red apron, lying on the floor just like Sonny. He was holding some bandages to his bleeding head.

  “I’m Sergeant North,” I said. “What happened here?”

  “I don’t need you,” he said, “I need those fellows from the ambulance to get back in here.”

  His wife shook her head. “They come in, give my husband some gauze, and say we got somewhere else to go.”

  “Do you know what happened?” I asked her.

  “I’ll tell you what happened.” Her head seemed to be vibrating in anger. “Your cop’s been beatin’ people all the way up and down this block.”

  From what I was able to put together, some officer had gone into five stores in a row, and in each one he had simply walked up to somebody, smashed him over the head with his nightstick, and walked out without a word. Barbershop, WHACK, deli, WHACK, gift shop, WHACK, drugstore, WHACK, clothes store, WHACK. Nobody was seriously hurt, but it was a mess, there was blood all over the place. All the witnesses gave the same description of the cop—Italian, dark features. They said he wasn’t wearing a badge or a nameplate, but I didn’t need either of those to figure out who it was.

  As I walked from store to store, getting what information I could, people almost spit at me.

  “You fuckin’ racist cops ain’t gonna get away with this,” one guy shouted in my face. “We gonna fuck you up.”

  I wondered how long it would take these people to calm down, and then I realized, if this had happened in my neighborhood, I wouldn’t calm down for about a year.

  When I climbed back into my Blazer, I got on the radio and asked the dispatcher to raise Nick. He didn’t respond. Probably knew I’d be looking for him. I was going to be meeting the Commissioner, I didn’t have all night to go hunting through the streets of West Philadelphia. Maybe I should tell Kirk about Nick, have him handle it. No, I had to talk to Nick first, myself. You don’t jam somebody up without at least giving him a chance to respond.

  Buster was on the radio, asking for my location. A couple of minutes later, he and Donna pulled their car up next to me.

  “Yo, Sarge, we’ve seen Nick three or four times this afternoon—driving around the district in his red Camaro.”

  “What do you mean, driving around?”

  “Didn’t look like he was really going anywhere. You know, just turning here, turning there.”

  I told Donna and Buster about the bloody store owners.

  “I think Nick did it,” I said. “I need you to help me find him.”

  Wissahickon Creek ran through the middle of the city, surrounded by sprawling woods that were part of Fairmount Park. If you hiked on one of the trails overlooking the creek, you could imagine you were in a forest somewhere, a million miles from the streets of Philadelphia.

  When I pulled over into the gravel parking lot off Lincoln Drive, the Commissioner’s Blazer was already there, and I parked mine next to his. At the far edge of the lot, facing the woods, was the wooden shelter where we had agreed to meet.

  I didn’t see anyone around, maybe the Commissioner was taking a leak in the woods. I walked over to the shelter, listening to the sound of gravel crunching under my feet. Not something you hear in the city every day.

  As I approached, I heard a rustling in some bushes somewhere. The sunlight was fading, there were a lot of deep shadows, and I couldn’t see far into the woods. But I figured it was the Commissioner, doing whatever commissioners do in the woods. Maybe they did what bears did in the woods, I didn’t know.

  There was a bench inside the shelter, so I figured I’d sit down and wait. I took one step and there was a tremendous BOOOM! and wood splinters were flying everywhere.

  I’ve heard guns fired many times, but for a moment I didn’t know exactly what had happened. Then there was another BOOOM! and a section of the shelter a foot to my right just blew apart. There wasn’t much doubt in my mind now that I was being shot at.

  I dove straight to the ground from the bench, like taking a dive into a pool, and then slithered to the rear
of the shelter, facing the parking lot. What the hell was going on? I crouched close to the ground and peered around the corner. I thought I could see a figure in the woods, behind a tree, then I saw the flame from his gun and another shot cracked into the wood near my head. Shit, I thought, some asshole must have been hanging around the shelter, probably robbed the Commissioner, got his gun, maybe even shot him. I had left Junior Vicente’s gun on the front seat of my truck, under a newspaper. It was useless to me now.

  As I lay behind the shelter, I wondered why the shooter hadn’t charged at me. He didn’t know I was a cop, he didn’t know I had a gun—or at least was supposed to. Sooner or later, though, he would come for me. And there would be nothing I could do but flip him the finger before he pulled the trigger. I looked around. About four feet from the shelter were two trees, maybe if I could make it to them, I’d have a shot of getting into the woods. Maybe I could eventually make it back to my truck.

  Go for it, why not, what’ve you got to lose? I drove toward the trees and heard a shot and then a whizzing near my ear, like an insect. From the two trees I took another leap, into a patch of tall bushes, and then I just started running like hell. Two more shots came after me, I could hear the bullets blast through the dense leaves. I kept running, trying not to trip over all the huge roots and fallen branches in my way. There was an embankment to my right, and I ran up it halfway and hid behind a big leafy bush, squatting as low as I could. I was thinking, What am I supposed to do now, I don’t know anything about hiding in the woods. Who am I, fuckin’ Daniel Boone?

  It was that time of day when it seems to go from dusk to darkness in two minutes. But it wasn’t like being in a real forest, where it gets so black you can’t see your hand in front of your face. In Fairmount Park, the sky glowed from tens of thousands of city lights, spreading a surface illumination over the tops of the trees and bushes and branches.

  I could make out the dark shape of someone coming through the woods, carefully picking his way, like someone who thought I had a gun.

  He got closer, and for a moment he was out in the open, warily looking around. In the semidarkness, it looked like the Commissioner. Damn, I thought, that is the Commissioner, why the fuck would he want to shoot me?

  I must have brushed against the bushes, because something caught his attention and he suddenly turned toward me, crouched, and took aim.

  The hell if I’m waiting for this, I thought, and I took off and he just started blasting off the bullets, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, BLAM, I could hear him crashing through the woods after me.

  He must have figured out by now that I didn’t have a gun. Now he knew he had me, all he had to do was get a clear shot. I was stumbling every few feet, branches were hitting my face, I was just blindly charging through the woods, trying to get away. I glanced over my shoulder. Where was he? As I turned back there was a thick branch right in front of my face, and my forehead went into it and I went down.

  It didn’t knock me out, but I was on my back, and as I rolled over onto my stomach I heard the Commissioner coming, cracking the dead branches under his feet, getting closer. I froze—it was too late to get up and run.

  He headed right toward me, then stopped short, listening. He must have known I was nearby. But he had to be careful, too, he had to worry that I might jump out from behind a tree, and grab his gun and turn it on him.

  He moved slightly and I heard a snap, maybe fifteen feet away. If it had been daylight he would have spotted me, no question. But the darkness gave me cover. It was the only thing I had.

  We stayed there for a long time, I think. I breathed through my mouth, evenly, silently. I tried to keep my body relaxed. I knew he’d hear me if I shifted even slightly.

  Finally he started moving again, but he was heading back, retracing his steps. After a while, I couldn’t see him anymore, I could only hear his footsteps crunching the underbrush, the sounds getting lighter and lighter until they eventually faded away. Maybe the Commissioner was gone, maybe he was hiding, waiting for me to come out into the open.

  I waited there for five minutes, then five minutes more. The whole time, I was trying to figure out why Ben Ryder would want to kill me. There had to be some reason, but I had no idea what it was.

  Finally, I moved out from the bushes. I couldn’t go back the way I had come, I might be walking into an ambush. I was able to get to the top of the ridge, where there was a narrow trail that had been rutted by mountain bikes. Maybe I could use it to circle around and get back to the parking lot.

  I moved steadily but carefully, trying to stay low, so I wouldn’t be silhouetted against the sky. I couldn’t see the ground very well, and it seemed like I was stepping on every stick in the forest, I was making a hell of a lot of noise. But there was nothing I could do, I had to keep moving. In a few minutes I could hear the traffic again.

  Down the hillside, slowly, a step at a time. I was now twenty-five feet from the parking lot. I couldn’t see either of the Blazers—there was a big clump of trees blocking my view to where we had parked.

  Finally, I reached the lot. My truck was still there, but the Commissioner’s was gone. There was still the possibility he had just driven it a couple hundred feet down the road, around the corner and out of sight, then doubled back. That’s what I would have done.

  I pulled my keys out of my jeans pocket, and ran for the Blazer. With each step I expected a gunshot. I got to the door, put the key in the lock, turned it, pulled the door open, climbed in. Still no gunshots. I was OK. The Commissioner would’ve had me by now.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When your boss has just tried to kill you, it’s hard to know who to turn to for advice. It’s like being in a dream where you think you know where you are, but you don’t quite recognize anybody or anyplace. You’re just there, somewhere.

  Talk to Doc, I thought. Maybe he can help you make sense of it. I drove into Center City, hoping he hadn’t left work yet. As I walked into OC headquarters, Doc was coming out of his office. He spotted me and walked over.

  “Funny you should walk in here,” he said.

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “Lanier just came in about two minutes ago—he’s in his office. I’m going to have a little chat with him.”

  “About last night?”

  “Yep. And actually, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like you with me—he’ll know that two people saw him, not just one. That OK?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s do it.”

  How was I going to have time to tell Doc about the Commissioner?

  We walked over to Lanier’s office, he was just coming out.

  “Hey, guys,” Lanier said, ever cheerful.

  “If you got a minute, Captain,” Doc said. “Eddie and I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” said Lanier, still friendly, but wary now. He could tell by our faces that something was wrong.

  “In your office?” Doc asked. There was no one else around, but I knew Doc didn’t want anybody coming in off the street and walking in on our conversation.

  We followed Lanier into his glassed-in office. He sat behind his sprawling desk and motioned for us to sit, but Doc and I ignored the two padded chairs.

  “Thought you might want to know, Captain,” said Doc, “I’ve been doin’ a little informal surveillance of Sagiliano’s.” For some reason, Doc’s drawl was even more pronounced than usual. “Out back, in the alley,” he continued. “Got a microphone hooked up, so I can hear as well as see.”

  Lanier nodded, giving nothing away. He was probably a great poker player.

  “Eddie was with me last night, and we saw you there, Captain. Talkin’ to Mickey Bravelli.”

  “Really,” said Lanier. He was listening, concerned, but not as concerned as I would have expected. It was like he had just been told about a major earthquake with hundreds dead—but on the other side of the world.

  “I got to be honest with you, Captain,” Doc said. “From where we stood, it didn’t look good.”

 
“I wouldn’t imagine it did,” said Lanier.

  “But, I consider myself a fair person. I wanted to give you the chance to explain yourself before I went to the Commissioner.”

  Lanier smiled, absolutely undaunted. “The Commissioner, huh? You’re going to go to the Commissioner?”

  Doc was a little taken aback by Lanier’s reaction. “Well, yes, unless …”

  “Let me show you something,” Lanier said. He pulled a set of keys from his pants pocket and unlocked his top desk drawer. Then he opened a large side drawer, took out a videotape, and wheeled his chair over to a built-in bookcase where he had a television on top of a VCR. He turned them both on and slipped the tape into the VCR.

  There was a blank screen for a few seconds, then an image appeared.

  A brown Plymouth was approaching through an empty, trash-strewn parking lot. It looked like it had been filmed with a home video camera from the second or third floor of some building. At the bottom of the screen, in white block numbers, was the time and date—the tape had been made four years before.

  As the car got closer, the camera showed it coming past a dilapidated red-brick building.

  “That’s the old sugar refinery,” I said.

  “Good eye,” said Lanier.

  The Plymouth stopped on the edge of the lot. A man in a leather jacket was walking toward it, though you could see only his back. When he reached the car, the window came down, and the camera zoomed in on the driver’s face.

  “The Commissioner,” said Doc.

  “Don’t forget,” said Lanier, “four years ago, Ben Ryder was still a chief inspector.”

  The man in the leather jacket pulled what looked like an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Ryder. Then the car window went back up, and the Plymouth pulled away. The man in the leather jacket turned and walked back toward the camera. It was Frankie Canaletto.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I said.

  “Keep watching,” said Lanier.

  The screen went blank, but then another image appeared. Same location, same camera angle. This time a black Ford Crown Victoria was coming through the lot. The date was three years ago.