Skells

by F. P. Lione

  A small truck with a white cylinder on it pulled up and started watering the planters around Herald Square. It looked like a miniature fuel truck with WATER written in black letters on the side. Normally I wouldn’t have noticed it, but I was sitting there with nothing to do. The planters had small shrubs with yellow tulips around them, the only sign of spring in Midtown Manhattan. The truck had two guys, and one stood sanitation style on the back footboard, holding on to a handle. He would hop off, grab a hose, and water the plants as the truck made its way down Herald Square.

  It was a great night to be outside, warm and clear. A block over to my left, the top of the Empire State Building glowed in red with a white antenna.

  There were more people out now, standing along 34th Street but concentrated on the corners.

  At ten to one we started to see red and blue flashing lights reflecting off the storefronts on 34th Street.

  “I think they’re coming now,” Joe said, getting out of the car. He walked to the corner of 34th Street and Broadway and looked down toward the East Side. He waved me over, and I pulled the car up just shy of the crosswalk that cuts off Broadway. I got out and lit a cigarette, leaning against the hood of the RMP.

  The crowd started to step out into 34th Street to see them coming. The street had been closed off in both directions at 7th Avenue, so they didn’t have to worry about walking out into traffic.

  Two unmarked police cars, one in the eastbound lane, one in the westbound lane, were whooping their horns and had the red bubbles flashing to force the people back onto the sidewalk. People were putting their kids on their shoulders, and I could hear the rise in the crowd as the parade started.

  Bello the Clown, dressed in his showduds and sporting a six-inch blond flattop haircut, was riding the lead elephant. He was their biggest elephant, wearing a red headpiece that said “The Greatest Show on Earth.”

  Animal activists protesting the circus were running on the sidewalks on either side of the street alongside Bello and the elephant. They had that way about them that thumbs their nose at authority. A lot of them were young updated versions of the sixties protestors. They were holding signs that said “Cruelty to Animals,” and they chanted, “They hurt animals!” while chasing Bello.

  Bello, to give him credit, didn’t let it faze him. He smiled at the crowd, pointing at the people and saying, “Thank you, thank you for coming.”

  The protestors could only get the crowd’s attention for a second before they dismissed them and went back to waving at Bello and the elephant. The crowd was cheering now, yelling, “Bello, Bello.”

  Photographers were on us now, running and trying to get a picture of Bello, their press passes hanging from their necks.

  The other elephants followed a small ways back from Bello. They were cute. They walked in one line, some holding the tail of the elephant in front of them with their trunks. Some had straw on their backs, looking like there was a straw fight in the train car.

  The thing that hit me was the smell, like the worst room in the zoo. Kids were making faces and holding their noses as the line of elephants, eight in all, walked past. They were followed by five brown horses being walked by a male and female in street clothes. Next were ten white horses in headdresses. Surrounded by four trainers, they marched in pairs, doing a military-type left, right, left, right thing in unison. Last came the three miniature horses scampering along, their little legs racing to keep up. There were oohs and aahs as people pointed to the little horses.

  A Sanitation car with a couple of bigwigs, a task force car, a Sanitation van, and a bunch of task force vans followed the horses in line. At the end of the line was a little Sanitation sweeper truck. It was skinny, almost like our scooter trucks, and had the job of cleaning up the poop left in the middle of 34th Street.

  The whole thing was over in less than ten minutes, and five minutes after that the crowd was gone.

  We went out on patrol from there. I drove one block past 34th Street and up 33rd. On 33rd Street between 6th and 7th, I saw a hand-to-hand transaction outside an exit door of the Manhattan Mall. A female passed money to a male, and he dropped something into her hand.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Joe.

  “Yup.”

  They both looked up at me when I pulled in next to them and got out of the car. Their eyes widened, and he slipped his hand in his pocket while she put her hand down at her side. He seemed confused and started looking around like he was gonna run.

  The guy was grubby. Ripped jeans, holey sneakers, and in spite of the heat, he was wearing a lightweight sweatshirt with a hood.

  She had that Wall Street look about her, that competitive executive look all the downtown women have. She was nice looking, tall and thin, with long dark hair styled nice. She was wearing a light-colored silk blouse and a tailored skirt and jacket. She had high-heeled shoes on, classic type, not funk, with a matching small leather pocketbook. She reminded me of my old girlfriend Kim. I wouldn’t have pegged her as a crackhead.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as we walked up on them.

  “Nothing, Officer,” she smiled. “Just talking to my friend.” I saw she had her left hand clenched.

  “Talk to him,” I told Joe, pointing to the skell.

  I put my hand toward her shoulder to steer her away. “What’s your friend’s name?” I asked her.

  She was trying to look over at him for some help.

  “Don’t look at him, I’m asking you a question. Now what’s his name?”

  “Bob?” she said, but it came out like a question.

  “I don’t know—he’s your friend. Are you sure that’s his name?”

  She half nodded. “His name is Bob.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “I don’t know, I just met him.” She seemed high. She wasn’t getting nasty, just acting innocent, almost childlike.

  I looked over at the skell Joe was talking to. We didn’t toss him; we usually watch someone do three hand-to-hand transactions before we search them.

  “What did he hand you?”

  “Nothing,” she said, her eyes wide.

  “I saw him put something in your hand,” I said patiently.

  She opened her right hand. “See, I don’t have anything.”

  “No, the other hand.”

  She put her hands behind her back, switched it into her right hand, and put her now-empty left hand out in front of her. “See, nothing there either.”

  I gave Joe, who was hiding a smile, an “Is she for real?” look.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

  She gave me a blank look.

  “Put your other hand out.”

  She put it out, her fist clenched and pocketbook dangling. “There’s nothing in it,” she said.

  I grabbed her wrist and held it so she couldn’t pull it away. “There’s nothing in there,” she said again.

  “Open your hand before I open it for you,” I said.

  She opened up and there were four blue-topped crack vials with a rock in each of them.

  “See, nothing’s in there,” she said innocently. Sometimes I’m amazed at the crap we put up with.

  I gave Joe another look and heard him choke on a laugh.

  “Did you get these from him?” I nodded toward the skell.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “I didn’t get them from him.”

  “I didn’t give her anything,” the skell insisted. He probably figured she could get out of this on her looks. He had nothing going for him and probably had a record.

  I looked at Joe and shrugged. “Let him go.”

  The skell looked like he hit the lotto and started to take off, when Joe grabbed his sweatshirt. “Don’t let me see you out here again. If I catch you out here again tonight, I’m gonna lock you up,” Joe told him.

  “Don’t worry, Officer, you won’t see me again,” he said with meaning. “I’m going home.” He took off down 6th Avenue, walking fast.

  I was t
aking the vials out of her hand when she said, “My fiancé is a cop.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said skeptically. “Where’s he work?”

  “The six-two,” she said, talking about the precinct in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” I asked, figuring she was lying.

  She went into her pocketbook to get something. I thought maybe she’d pull out a PBA card, the cards we get from the police union. Instead, she pulled out a small phone book and turned to his name and handed it to me. It had his name with both his home number and the number of the precinct with a Brooklyn exchange. I wrote the numbers down in my memo book and said, “Okay, turn around,” as I pulled out my cuffs.

  She started to cry. “Please don’t lock me up.”

  “Listen, I’m just gonna bring you back to the precinct and give you a desk appearance ticket.”

  Reality set in when I snapped the cuffs on her, and she really started crying and pleading with me not to lock her up or call the fiancé.

  I put her in the backseat with Fiore, who was on the radio with Central.

  “South David to Central,” Fiore said.

  “Go ahead, South David.”

  “We have one under at three-three and six.”

  “That’s 0130 hours,” Central gave us the time.

  When we got to the precinct, we had Terri Marks take her in the back to search her while we did the pedigree and ran her name.

  I went into the back to the now-empty Anti-Crime office to call the boyfriend. I tried the house first, and after about six rings I got a sleepy “hullo.”

  I identified myself and asked his name to make sure I had the right guy. I asked if he knew a Renee Palmieri.

  “Yeah, it’s my fiancée. Is everything alright?”

  “I just caught her buying crack up on 33rd Street,” I said.

  “No, oh no,” he sighed and got quiet for a couple of seconds. “She just got help for that; she went away.” He paused again. “She was clean for a while.”

  “Listen, I’m really sorry to tell you this, but if you plan on marrying her, you need to know. She was with some real skell, and I don’t know where it would have went if we didn’t pick her up. Maybe you should rethink this,” I said.

  He started to cry. “Listen, I appreciate the call, you know. When she got help I thought she’d be okay, but I’m kidding myself here.”

  “It’s up to you to decide what you want to do,” I said. “I just thought you’d wanna know.”

  “I can’t keep going through this,” he said.

  “I understand,” I said with feeling.

  “Is she going through the system?” he asked, meaning is she going downtown.

  “No, I’m gonna give her a DAT and send her on her way.” A DAT is a desk appearance ticket, which is basically a slap on the wrist.

  I felt terrible telling him, but if it was me, I’d want to know before I made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I went back to the arrest room where she was cuffed to the bench outside the cell and started the paperwork on the arrest. Even though she wasn’t going through the system, I still had a couple of hours of paperwork to do.

  “I called Chris,” I told her, talking about her fiancé.

  “Why did you call him?” She looked horrified.

  “I wanted to know if this was the first time you’ve been locked up for this.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s upset.”

  She put her head down and started crying again.

  “He said this isn’t the first time. He said you just went away and got help for that.”

  I talked to her for a little while. I told her how much she’s hurting the people around her and asked her if this is what she planned on doing with her life.

  “I don’t want to do it,” she said, “but you have no idea what it’s like.”

  She said it in a way that made me think she loved the high, not that she was struggling to stay away from it. Not a good sign.

  She had no outstanding warrants, but she’d been locked up a couple of times for possession.

  Joe went across the street to the deli for sandwiches while I did the paperwork. He got turkey and cheese for himself and pastrami with mustard on rye for me. He picked up Romano at 4:30, and we slept through our meal and went back out on patrol at 5:30.

  When we were driving Romano back to post, we pulled up next to Sector Eddie, which is Rooney and Connelly. They were about thirty feet from the corner of 43rd Street on 8th Avenue. They were having coffee, their cups sitting on the dashboard of the RMP.

  “Tony, take a look at this,” Rooney said, handing something through Fiore’s window.

  Fiore looked at it and shook his head, saying, “I don’t think this is a good idea, Mike.”

  “It’s a great idea, Joe,” Rooney said.

  Fiore handed me the picture, and I barked out a laugh. It was the inspector’s face superimposed over a picture from a porn magazine. It was from one of the raunchier magazines, and there was the inspector smiling away.

  “I don’t know, Mike, it’s pretty nasty,” I said, laughing.

  “I know, this looks pretty real.” He sounded proud of himself.

  “Let me see it,” Romano said from the backseat, and I handed it through my window into his.

  A Sanitation sweeper truck came up behind us, moving slowly up 8th Avenue and cleaning the street. It was one of the bigger trucks, with an older guy driving it. It releases water while it brushes so it isn’t kicking up dust all over the place.

  “I’m gonna pull up,” I told Rooney. I didn’t want the sweeper truck to have to go around both of us, so I pulled across the street to the other side of 43rd Street.

  I pulled into the second lane, thinking Rooney would pull up behind me and let the sweeper pass. After the truck passed, he could pull up beside us again, but Rooney didn’t move. The sweeper truck pulled up behind Rooney and gave him a beep. Rooney didn’t respond so he beeped again, but still nothing from Rooney.

  The sweeper truck pulled out, and as he went to go around Rooney, the water shot out of the truck with the force of a fire hydrant.

  Rooney’s windows were open because he was talking to us, and we saw the water shoot into the car. I saw the coffee cups go flying off the dashboard and Rooney’s and Garcia’s arms go flying as the water hit them. From where we sat, it looked like chaos in the car.

  Joe, Romano, and I started roaring as the truck passed them and the water trickled back down to a dribble. I was laughing so hard my side hurt, looking at Rooney trying to wipe the water off his face.

  Rooney threw his lights on and went after the truck, yelling over the PA system for the driver to pull over. He ignored Rooney at first, then pulled over about twenty feet down.

  Rooney got out of the car and slammed the door. We laughed even harder when we saw his hair plastered to his head and the top of his shirt soaked. He stomped over to the driver’s side of the truck, and Connelly went to the passenger side.

  Rooney’s a big Irishman, about six foot two, 240 pounds. Usually he’s a good guy, but he was furious, and we didn’t want him pounding on the guy.

  I pulled up next to them, and the three of us got out of the car. Joe and I went to the driver’s side with Rooney, and Romano went to the other side with Connelly.

  Water was dripping off Rooney’s forehead, and there were streaks of dirt on the side of his face.

  He screamed at the driver, “Get out of the truck!”

  Up close, the guy looked about sixty years old. He was wearing his Sanitation greens, looking scared.

  Rooney got up on the side of the truck and opened the door.

  “Easy, Mike,” Joe said before Rooney pulled him out.

  “Get out of the truck,” Rooney said.

  The guy looked scared and confused as he got out of the truck. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “What’s the matter?” Rooney bellowed. “Are you kidding me
?” Rooney wiped some more water off his head and shook his hand. I saw the coffee stain on his pants from when the cups flew, and a soaked match was stuck to his neck.

  “You soaked me with the truck because I didn’t move!” Rooney yelled.

  “Officer, people don’t move all the time for me,” he said patiently. “Sometimes when I go around them, the water shoots out. I’m sorry.” He sounded real apologetic.

  “You had no idea the water would hit me?” Rooney let off a string of curse words, some including the guy’s mother. “I should lock you up.” Rooney was breathing heavy and took his cuffs out.

  “Officer, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” This guy was good—not even a smirk. I guess all those years of doing sanitation, you learn to keep a straight face.

  “Let it go, Mike,” Connelly, who was now behind Rooney, said. “He’s saying it was an accident—what are you gonna do?”

  Rooney stared at the guy for a couple of seconds and said, “Get in your truck and get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer,” he said again before getting in his truck and puttering away.

  Joe, Romano, and I busted out laughing again. Connelly started laughing, and I saw Rooney smirk.

  “He’s full of it! He knew exactly what he was doing,” Rooney said.

  “Next time move your car,” I said.

  “Next time I’ll lock him up.”

  “At least your car’s clean,” I said, laughing again. The car was filthy. Splashes of brown water covered everything but Connelly’s side of the car.

  “Come on, we’ll get you a new coffee,” Fiore said.

  “Nah, I’m gonna go back to the house to change and clean up the car,” Rooney said.

  Rooney radioed Central. “South Eddie.”

  “Go ahead, South Eddie.”

  “Put us out 62 at the house.”

  “10-4.”

  6

  About a half hour later, we were dropping Romano at his post when we heard Central come over the airwaves with, “South Eddie.”

  “South Eddie,” we heard Connelly answer. I guess they were already back out.

  “We got a possible EDP.” Central gave the address of one of the big hotels on a West 44th Street address between Broadway and 6th.