by Robert Cea
John came in about an hour early to scan the arrest reports and 61s and wanted photos; to us, not only was knowledge power, but it also protected us in the street. I walked him to the back stairway and told him what Mahoney had relayed to me; he did not seem bothered by this information in the least, or if he was he put on a hell of a performance for me. We tooled up and began our tour.
I was fixated on how easily Cholito could find a vein and bang a powerful dose, all within a matter of seconds, though once that juice hit the spot, he would try and capture that first buzz by pulling back on the syringe’s plunger, drawing blood, then he’d squirt what was left back into his arm or leg or foot. John found it, and him, distasteful. He thought that Cho was beneath him, though if he wanted to know something that the Shah might have been holding back, he’d try and worm it out of Cho, waiting of course till after Cho had slammed. This would reassure John that the lies would not be so overwhelming. I, on the other hand, thought it better to talk to him sober, because Cho had to know we were playing him, especially when we’d give him some bags to trade for the info we were seeking. He had to know that we thought he’d be more honest while he was high. I figured that this was an insult to his street smarts, so I generally took what he said high as half-truths, and when he was straight I’d get better street data. Any way you looked at it, it was always touch and go. We took what we could from everyone, then cross-referenced all of the street talk and tried to decipher which information matched. Tonight was no different.
Conroy turned to Cholito after the smack had reached its mark, blanketing Cho with velvety softness. He fell back in the rear seat as if he’d just had a powerful orgasm, drooling like he always did when the boy came home. “How was that?” Conroy asked, not caring that he sounded like he didn’t really give a shit.
“Ahh shit, Con, now on, just bring me this TKO.” He laughed, very slowly; his eyes remained closed. “Bring this ma’fucker to me, son, yeah, boy, bring it! Shit, everything else up in here don’t even come close. Let them nonconnoisseurin’ white ma’fucker’s from Manhattan shoot that rat mix these niggas be slingin’. I know my shit, and this shit got me down below twelve a day, you ma’fucker’s performing a public service. You…what they call it…yeah, you weanin’ me off the boy…yeah, you is.” He opened his eyes. They were glassy, his pupils like pinpoints. “This is what you boys should be gettin’ them medals for, all this good shit you be doin’ up in here. You my niggas…”
Conroy had had enough of Cho’s chatter. “Who got straps out here today?”
“Tell you what, yo, I’d love to do.” He looked at Conroy and smiled. “Now I know this field nigga your boy and all, but fuck him, I’d love for you to bum-rush his spot, as long as your number one German is here to get me’s mines. ’Cause like I said, this TKO is why ma’fuckers like me get high in the first place, you know what I’m sayin’.” This was the second time that Cho had offered up the Shah to the cops. I knew that sooner or later he was going to roll hard on his boss, and that eventually someone was going to take him up on it, and why, I thought, shouldn’t that be us? “But we can, you know, blow that bridge up, you know, when it’s time to…”He started to nod again; Conroy hit the police siren, jolting Cho back awake; he laughed. “What you want…my attention? You got it, son…what you need, bodies—”
“Cho, quick and fuckin’ easy, who’s got a strap tonight?”
“That Rudy ma’fucker over there down Gowanus, he pulled out on me today, frontin’ for them Aunt Jemimah–lookin’ hos, you know, wearin’ them hoops and what not in their—’
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Hour ago, front of that Jamaican place…”
“Tuff Gong?” Conroy asked impatiently.
Cho tried to snap his fingers; he laughed when he could not. “See how this shit do, can’t even…” He tried to snap his fingers again, could not, and just stared at us. He suddenly became melancholy; maybe there was just a glimmer of clarity left inside him, maybe he realized how fucked he was. Then another wave of “ope” rocked him and he was smiling again.
I wrote the names Rudy and Tuff Gong down in my book, and was expecting Conroy to send him on his way. Then, he asked in an even tone, “Cho, anyone out here asking you anything about us?”
I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. I now knew that this investigation was for real and that we very well could have been in some powerful gun sights. I didn’t look at Conroy or at Cho, but I listened carefully.
“What you mean, like these niggas out here. Shit yeah, they wantin’ to know whenever you’s two is ridin’, you know how it be out here, you the ma’fuckers . . .”
“No, Cho, not the workers, the buyers.” I understood his logic. It wasn’t a homegrown street snitch out here, they all knew our game. If it were the job, they’d send in a UC, pretending to buy, or they’d send in a UC from narcotics to collar everyone up and then debrief them all separately. We knew that Cho was collared along with most of the other workers out here. Conroy wanted to know if anyone had broadcast it to him that they were questioned.
“Nah, Con, not that I know of, but you know me, I’m a keep my shit down to the ground. I hear anything, I’m a give you the four ’leven.” He reached over to shake Conroy’s hand, but he just looked away. I quickly took his hand and shook it.
“You are the cumumba out here, Cho, you know that. You the number one German.” He laughed at my atta-boy. Conroy blinked slowly. He reached behind him and opened the door for Cho to leave. I did not like the way Conroy treated him. He was my guy and did me many solids, but I don’t think that John ever got over the fact that we got to his main cumumba, Shah King, before he could, to get the jump on Griffin. This I kept to myself, but I started to see cracks in John Conroy’s armor: John did not like to share his King Kong stature with anyone. Cho took it all in stride, did what he did best, rolled with it.
Cho laughed, looked at the open car door. “Ahh, here’s your hat, what’s your rush, that how it is?”
Conroy just looked out into the dark night, and said, “Why should it be any other way?” Then he turned to Cho, his stare icy. Cho was afraid of Conroy. They all were afraid of John Conroy. Cho didn’t say another word; he slid out of the car and disappeared into the night.
We parked on Pacific, just off Smith Street. Tuff Gong was a block east, so we walked with our heads down. Technically, we were not allowed to enter any establishment that served liquor unless we were in the presence of a boss. We also were aware that if we were being watched, this would be a ground ball for IAB to tag us with, so we used the cover of darkness, a back exit of one of the bodegas, and if we were tailed, we lost them easily. Our other motive was simply good street tactics; we didn’t want to raise anyone up inside the bar. We wanted the element of surprise on our side, not the other way around.
The first person we saw when we walked in was Cholito’s new steerer, Borges. Peculiar, because this place did not cater to Hispanics, it was a hard-core West Indian club. The occasional homegrown would stop in for a drink or to cop some weed, but this was strictly for Jamaicans. The second we walked in, the mood turned dark. The bartender from our past encounter at the bar was not happy to see us. No one inside the place was happy to see us, but we peacefully inched our way in between the throngs of dreads and gold. The room took on a whole different look with people in it. It seemed a smaller and a much more dangerous place. It was filled with thick clouds of reefer smoke; Conroy smiled as he inhaled deeply. “See now, that’s some good weed, Rob.” One of the dreads who knew Conroy stepped out from behind a pillar, holding a monster joint. He blew a thick ring at us; Conroy laughed and banged fists with the man. He then whispered something in his ear and the man discreetly raised his eyebrows at the bathroom door. I followed him in.
The lock was broken on the door. We entered quietly. It was the only bathroom in the place, so men and woman used it, and for more than just relieving themselves. You name it, it happened in that squal
id little two-stalled room. A woman was applying makeup when we entered with our guns drawn. She didn’t look at us twice. But she sucked her teeth at the inconvenience, picked up her makeup bag, and walked out. I smelled that familiar ghetto street smell. A combination of butane and crack; it always made my eyes water and my nostrils flare. Not a pleasant odor. I wanted to move this along quickly. We saw two sets of feet behind the closed stall door. John lifted his gun, head high, and pulled open the door, to reveal Rudy lighting the glass stem of the pipe for a tall, muscular bass head, or free baser, with pockmarked skin. Both of them looked like they’d been grinding for days. Rudy was one of the homegrowns from Gowanus who sold coke and crack and was good for the occasional info, but only if it worked to his benefit, like someone moving in on his real estate who he wanted taken out. We used Rudy more than he used us, and we would collar him in an instant if he were found dirty.
The pipe slipped from the tall, muscular man’s hand, crashing to the ground. He first went to try and salvage what he could of the crack on the floor, but decided it was best to just raise his hands in the presence of two cops with their guns drawn. Rudy was pissed. He shook his head quickly, motored by the hits of crack he’d just inhaled. “Now where in the fuck I’m a get another stem, you clumsy ma’fucker?” He looked at Conroy, aggravated and speedy. “Damn, Con, this shit couldn’t wait?”
“Shut up, Rudy, and put your hands up.” He looked at the tall, ugly bass head. “You move once and I’m gonna open you up, you hear me?” The man dropped his head and nodded quickly. John holstered his gun and slid it toward his back so neither man could grab it when they were being tossed. He led Rudy out of the stall by his bicep and placed him up against the dirty sink. He was shaking, and Conroy just laughed. “Damn, Rudy, you need to start cutting that shit you smokin’ with less speed, or are you just scared?”
“All of a sudden you gonna give me tips on how to cook up? You do what you do best, Con, and that’s fuckin’ up the party.”
“Mind your Ps and Qs ’cause I will slap the candy out your ass.” Conroy said this half joking, though it was full of menace. Rudy knew he could go only so far with us, so he allowed Conroy to frisk him. John looked at me; then at the tall cat. “Toss this animal.”
“You got any needles on you? I get stuck, you in for a world of pain,” I said as I moved to him. His body odor was the worst I had ever smelled, his hands were caked in dirt, and his fingernails and fingertips were chewed down to bloody stumps, caked in soot from working the butane lighter. He was almost in tears, shaking and moaning as I patted him down quickly. Rudy had no time for this.
“Oh, motherfucker, stop that squawking, you punk-ass bitch.”
“I’m sorry… Got a problem with this shit, I know . . .” The tall guy’s teeth were chattering from the come down, so we really couldn’t understand what else he was saying. Rudy suddenly swung wildly at the man’s face, connecting an open fist above his nose. The tall dude fell back against the wall and continued to cry; Conroy pulled Rudy back against the sink.
Rudy screamed, struggling against Conroy’s grasp. “You’s a cunt, punk-ass nigga. I see you out here again you gonna get got, you cryin’ little bitch. Put you in a ma’fuckin’ pair a panties and lipstick, do some knee work.”
John had had it. “Rudy, shut the fuck up! Rob, he clean?”
“Yeah, John, he’s good to go.”
“Good.” He looked at the man whose head was down. “So go, you fuckin’ animal.”
Oddly, the man turned off the tears. He still didn’t look at us as he said, “Ahh, thank you, Officer, you know I got—”
Again Rudy tried to swing on the man. I pulled open the door and pushed him out, then slammed it shut and stood in front of it. Rudy started to laugh; he pulled six jumbo vials from his pocket. “Yo, thanks, Con, that dumb ma’fucker paid for the party that you almost fucked up.”
Conroy slapped the vials out of his hand, pointed in Rudy’s face, and said, “Motherfucker, I will flush that gack, then send you after it, you don’t shut the fuck up, you hear me?”
“Cool, Con, you right, I gotta walk correctly, you right.”
“Where’s the gun, fuckhead?” Conroy was still in his face when he asked.
“What gun?”
He slapped Rudy so hard he was lifted off the floor and slammed into the tiled wall. Rudy took it in stride, like most street guys. This was just part of the game. “Oh, that gun.”
“Yeah, that gun.”
Rudy pointed to the door. “Sold it.”
“To who?”
“To that squawkin’ motherfucker you just let walk out a here.”
Conroy looked at me in disbelief. I was embarrassed and pissed. “You saw me toss him, John.”
Rudy laughed as he spit out some blood in the sink. “You didn’t toss his balls, C.”
We exited the bathroom; the bar was now almost empty. The bartender sneered at us and pointed around the empty room. “You the white bumba devils. Stay the fuck out, man.”
Conroy was still reeling behind my fuck-up in the bathroom. He casually walked to the bar, picked up a Heineken, and launched it into the mirror above the bar, sending huge shards of broken glass everywhere. He then slowly raised his middle finger at the bartender. Before we reached the door, Borges was laughing at the whole episode he’d just witnessed. We walked past without acknowledging him, and out the door we went.
As I walked to the unmarked on Pacific Street, I started to get angrier and angrier; the last person I wanted to show any weakness to was Conroy. He needed to know I was as reliable a backup as anyone he worked with. “John, let’s go to Gowanus, where Rudy deals. If the mope is gonna be looking to get his jumbos back from him, that’s where he’s gonna go.”
He smiled at me. “You lookin’ for a little redemption behind that abortion, Rob?”
He was half sarcastic, and I didn’t like it, especially since it was at my expense.
“Let’s just go and see if he’s out there, okay?”
Before he could answer, central tried to raise us over the radio: “Zone crime, K.”
I picked up the radio. “Go for crime, K.”
“Ten-two the seven-six, K.” That meant we were being summoned into the station house to do a face-to-face visit with whoever was summoning us. Whenever a cop was 102 to the station house, it was always an uneasy ride in. Guys that were about to be arrested were 10-2’d to the station house, or if they were to be suspended, or if they were to be questioned in regard to a major fuck-up in the field, they were 10-2’d to the station house. Needless to say, I started to feel the paranoia that was sure to come behind all of our street antics. We headed back to the house not speaking to each other. I think that neither one of us wanted to raise the other one up, that we actually were frightened of what was in store for us at the house.
As we approached the precinct, we looked around for any unusual and out-of-place sedans on the block. There were none, which gave us some comfort, but not much. We parked and walked in. Sitting in the muster room was the lieutenant of our detail, Nicky Tanner. He was younger than Conroy and young to be a lieutenant, twenty-eight. He was good-looking in a collegiate way. He was a detective by the time he was twenty-four, passed the sergeant’s exam first shot, then passed the lieutenant’s exam in the top twenty. He hit the tests right and was making the job work for him. He was on a fast track and this detail was good for him because most of the guys in it were salty and would only make him look good. It was win-win for him, so the last thing he was going to do was let anything get in the way of his greatness at the porcelain palace: One Police Plaza as a chief. John smiled at the boss when he saw him; he knew that if it were serious and about him, he would’ve been beeped to an untraceable phone booth; so he figured one of two things: I was the reason we were pulled in, or he just wanted to ride with us for the evening. He was right the first time—I was why we were pulled in. John and Tanner shook hands. He smiled at me and tilted his head toward the captain�
�s office. “What’s up, Bobby?” I hated the name Bobby, but I gave him the cushion of calling me it because it wasn’t done with any animosity at all; he just thought that was my name. “I need a few with Bobby alone, John, like ten minutes. You cool with that?”
The walk to the captain’s office felt like I was marching to the electric chair. So many things started to play off in my head. I suddenly saw every perp that I’d fucked over, every dime bag of dope I’d given my snitches, I heard Conroy call after us before we entered the office, “Hey, Rob, don’t forget to tell him about the little episode with Rudy.” I heard him laugh as the door was closed behind me. The office was empty. It was the first room in the precinct, to the right of the desk, with a wall of windows that looked out onto the front of the precinct. Captains have a lot of real estate to protect, just like the Shahs and Rudys of the world, I thought. They wanted to see exactly what was going on in front of their territories.
We sat down in front of the big wooden desk with its pictures of children of various ages. It also held a large paperweight with the captain’s four shields encased in glass. The room was city green with beige linoleum tiles. I felt as though I was about to get a rectal examination.
“So, Bobby, you put in for narcotics after your shooting, yes?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. This was about the request for transfer that I’d applied for with the integrity review board. Much the same as the bribery collar, once you get into a shooting and it is deemed clean, the job feels obliged to reward you. I had forgotten about the transfer request because I did not have to be reinterviewed, as I had been there behind the bribery, so it was just a UF57, or a request for transfer to narcotics through the police mail. Tanner, being my immediate boss, had to okay the request, so he had to sign off on it, which is what he did. Here’s what happened.
“I think you are an excellent street cop, Bobby. Mahoney gives you above standards every evaluation. Conroy swears by you, and all the other guys in the teams dig you. You make unbelievable collars, never had a complaint substantiated.”