Skells

by F. P. Lione

  They do that to make you feel like you were doing something wrong by discussing it with the ADA. If you say no, they’ll say, “Do you expect us to believe you didn’t say a word to each other?” and we’d dance from there. When he saw I wasn’t falling for his crap, he switched to, “Isn’t it true that you didn’t find the gun on my client?”

  I took a sip of water and looked innocent. “On his person?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I said.

  “So where did you find the gun?”

  I took another sip. “On the floor of the cab.” I looked at the judge as I talked to include him in the conversation.

  “On the floor of the cab that he stepped out of?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “What color was the gun?”

  Sip. “A silver-colored 9 millimeter Beretta.”

  “So you found a silver gun in the cab and not on my client?”

  There’s the bait again. If I said silver, he’d say how did I know it was silver and was I an expert in metals that I could make that kind of statement.

  Sip. “No, I found a silver-colored gun in the cab and not on your client.”

  “Did you see my client put the gun there?”

  I sipped and cleared my throat. “Your client was moving around in the back of the cab. We had to give him two commands to put his hands on top of his head.”

  He went on, firing away at me with the questions. “Isn’t it true that anybody could have put it there? How do you know the gun came from my client? Isn’t it possible the person who was in the cab before him left the gun?”

  I answered and sipped until he finally ran out of steam when he realized he couldn’t get me and wound it down with, “What’s the complainant’s name?”

  “Jon Orlostanzki,” I said, remembering how the complainant pronounced it.

  “Nothing further,” he said.

  The second lawyer came up now. “Did the complainant ever point out my client as having the gun?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing further.”

  I walked back out to the waiting room, and the ADA came out a couple of minutes later.

  “I’m sorry I kept messing up the complainant’s name,” Romano said.

  “Don’t worry about it, you got the point across. Good job, guys.” We shook hands all around. “I’ll be in touch.”

  We went down and punched out at 2:00. We walked back up to Chambers Street and caught the train uptown. When we got back to the precinct, we took our meal, but since we’d already eaten, we went down to the lounge to sleep.

  9

  We woke up at 4:30 and went upstairs to sign out. Brian Gallagher’s retirement party wasn’t until 7:00, so we had some time to kill. We changed into clothes, and all three of us were wearing short-sleeved black shirts. Joe wore jeans, but Romano and I both had beige pants on. We didn’t notice it until Terri Marks pointed it out, asking if we shopped at the same place.

  We walked up 8th Avenue to 42nd and over to Times Square, to the new Toys R Us store on Broadway between 44th and 45th streets. It was Fiore’s son Josh’s birthday next week, and he wanted to look around.

  The store is a kid’s dream. It’s got a sixty-foot working Ferris wheel in the middle of the store. For the girls it has a two-story Barbie dollhouse with about a million Barbie accessories. They have a pretty big copy of the Empire State Building done in LEGOs, and a twenty-foot-high, thirty-four-foot-long T-Rex dinosaur. The T-Rex was pretty real looking, and a lot of the littler kids looked scared as they walked by.

  We spent about an hour in the store. Joe didn’t buy anything, and we wound up staying in the video room playing games on plasma screens.

  The streets were packed as we made our way up to 45th Street around a quarter to seven. It’s the heart of the theater district, and the shows would be starting soon. The pub was off Broadway, and I’ve been to it a few times since I’ve worked here, although tonight would be the first time I was there without drinking.

  The downstairs was done up in a lot of mahogany wood, stained glass windows, and tiffany lamps. It was a long brass and wood bar with tables and booths in the back. The place was packed, and we wove our way through the after work crowd to take the staircase to the second floor, which was rented out for the party.

  The second floor had a smaller bar with a line of bar stools and a bunch of tables. There were a lot of signs for Harp and Guinness on the walls. There were pictures and maps and signs for Ireland, and if it wasn’t for the smoked glass New York skyline that separated the bar from the dining area, you’d think you were in a pub in Dublin.

  There were about thirty people there already, most of them cops. Terri Marks had changed into a black sleeveless dress and high-heeled shoes and sported a face full of war paint. Even without the haze of booze, I had to admit she looked good in the soft lights of the bar.

  There weren’t a lot of cops from our squad there. I think Rooney and Terri Marks were the only ones who were taking off tonight to come in. We had court today so we were off tonight, and we were already in the city anyway.

  “Hi, Joe,” Terry said as she sized up Fiore.

  “Hey, Terr, how you doing?” Joe asked.

  “Good.”

  “Hi, Terr,” I said.

  “Tony, Nick.” She nodded to the both of us.

  I looked around the place. Just about everyone had a drink in their hand, and some looked like they’d been at it for a while.

  We moved along the bar, saying hello to the cops we knew as we walked by.

  “Tony! Joe!” They’d shake our hands and slap our backs as they gave Romano a nod.

  “I hate this job—it’s like I’m friggin’ invisible,” Nick mumbled.

  We made our way over to Brian Gallagher to congratulate him on his retirement. He was feeling no pain already, holding a glass of Guinness that was half full. He was happy to see us and thanked us for coming, showing us his police ID card that was now stamped RETIRED under his picture.

  “So what’s next?” I asked him. He was a big drinker, and I’m not sure how ambitious he’d be once he was getting his pension.

  “I’m gonna chill out for a while,” he said. “I got a couple of offers.”

  “Oh, you know who I saw today? Pete Catalano,” I said, remembering Pete’s message.

  “Really? Where’d you see him?”

  “He’s doing security with my father for the marshals down at the Federal Courthouse. He said to put your application in before the pile gets too big. He might stop by tonight,” I told him.

  Someone slapped him on the back and sloshed his Guinness all over his pants leg. A group of people surrounded him, so we moved on to the bar. Joe and I ordered ice water, and Romano got vodka on the rocks.

  “Whoa, slow down there, soldier,” I said. “Work your way up to it.”

  He smiled. “You want one, Tony?”

  “Nah, I’ll stick to water,” I said, thinking that I would have started out with beers and switched to vodka later on. This was gonna be an interesting night.

  The first hour was strictly booze, and I found myself kind of disconnected from the whole thing. I was glad Fiore was there with me—the last time I was in a bar, I fell off the wagon. The thing about being in a bar when you’re drinking is that you fit right in. Drinking water I felt like an outcast.

  The room was filling up now. Mike Rooney came in for the party; his wife is a stewardess and was out of town. He went up to the bar and ordered a scotch on the rocks, I guess to make up for the forty-five minutes he missed.

  Eileen Toomey came in with two other detectives from the squad. Freddie Puro, who’s also a detective, came in with four females. He’s been married twice already, and since none of them were his wife, I guess he was working on number three.

  They started bringing out hot trays of food and placing them on sternos in the dining area. Since Romano hadn’t eaten since lunch and was on his third vodka on the rocks, I figured he needed somethin
g to absorb the alcohol.

  “You ready to eat?” I asked him and Joe. Romano finished his drink, I downed my ice water, and we walked over to the food.

  It was a nice spread, mostly finger food, but it was good. I grabbed a plate and filled it with shrimp cocktail, buffalo wings, stuffed mushrooms, mozzy sticks, beef on skewers with some kind of teriyaki glaze, chicken fingers with honey mustard sauce, and fried artichoke hearts and cauliflower with a horseradish sauce.

  The music went on, and the sound of a sad ballad filled the room. They’d be singing later—they just weren’t drunk enough yet.

  I could tell who was hammered by the way they were eating. Brian Gallagher had sauce from the wings on his chin and cocktail sauce in his mustache. Freddie Puro had finished one of the beef sticks and was using the skewer to tickle one of the women with him. Romano dropped a mushroom in his lap twice before getting it into his mouth—the way he was drinking, he’d be enjoying his food on its way up too.

  The crowd made their way back over to the bar when Terri Marks came out with a camera for a group picture. It took ten minutes to get everyone in the picture. Some sat on chairs, stood on chairs, kneeled on the floor, or held their hand in the horns over somebody’s head.

  “Okay, everybody smile and say this job sucks,” Terri said.

  “This job sucks!” we all said in unison, laughing and smiling.

  A couple of big shot brass came in to see Brian. Both the captain and lieutenant from the Times Square detail at the South stopped by in their white shirts. They both ate, but neither one of them were drinking. There was a time cops could drink in uniform, but that was a long time ago.

  Lenny Tobin, a cop from the midnights, was hammered out of his mind. Maybe he forgot he was getting married this summer, because he was sucking face with an overweight female from the day tour. It looked like they were wrestling—she had pushed him up against the bar, and I could see hands fumbling with her bra strap.

  “Get a room!” someone yelled. Everyone laughed, but neither one of them heard it.

  It was funny to overhear the conversations without the sway of alcohol. For the most part, cops in bars talk about the job. Even if they start out talking about other things, it always comes back to it.

  Mike Rooney was yapping about a car bombing in Jerusalem and talking about all the ways a suicide bomber could get explosives into the city.

  “Think about it,” he said. “Trunk of a car, a briefcase, backpack, even underclothes. It would be so easy to do it here.”

  Lenny Tobin was talking about the pictures of the inspector. “Hey, where’s the naughty inspector?” he yelled out.

  “Down the Village, looking for some action,” someone yelled back.

  The music changed, and the crowd broke out singing “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.” They were all off-key, and half of them had the words wrong.

  I found myself going back and forth between wanting a drink and talking to someone and forgetting about it for a little while. As the night wore on, I was glad I wasn’t wasted, but I noticed I could relate to the falling-down drunks more than the social drinkers.

  I caught Terri Marks watching Fiore from across the room. She belted back her drink and sauntered over toward us, smiling, with her eyes on Fiore. He groaned and rubbed his forehead as she approached. She didn’t bother with small talk, just walked up and leaned into his chest. He took a step back, but she leaned in closer.

  “Easy, Terr,” he said. “You’ve had a little too much to drink.”

  She smiled a cat’s smile. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Joe.”

  “I know exactly what you’re doing too,” Joe said, not smiling.

  “Good, as long as we’re on the same page here,” she said as she moved in for a kiss. He put his hands out on her shoulders, keeping her at arm’s length. “Listen, Terr, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why not?” she asked, trying to lean in again.

  “Number one, I’m married and I love my wife—”

  “Are you saying you never cheated on your wife?” she cut him off.

  “No, I never did.”

  “Come on, Joe, everybody cheats,” she said cynically.

  “No, they don’t,” he said. “And number two, we have to work together and this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Are you turning me down?” she asked, sounding surprised and insulted.

  “Yeah, I am.” He nodded seriously.

  I was starting to get uncomfortable here, so I said, “Terri, can I get you a drink?”

  “Forget these two, they’re not even drinking. Come on, I’ll get you a drink,” Romano said, already half in the bag.

  “Sure,” she said, still looking at Joe. “Why not?”

  “I think you hurt her feelings,” I told Joe as they walked over to the bar.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings, Tony, but my wife’s feelings are more important than hers.” He shook his head. “This is why I don’t like coming to these things—there’s too much drinking, and people get out of hand.”

  “Terri’s right, though,” I said. “Most people cheat—in fact, a lot of people here are cheating.”

  “A lot of people here are drinking,” Joe pointed out.

  “Drinking isn’t the only reason,” I said, thinking of my father and Marie.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s also not loving God. He’s faithful, and the only way we’re ever gonna learn how to be faithful to our wives is by being faithful to him first. People get married all the time without having a clue about what marriage is all about,” Joe said.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that marriage is a covenant, not just with you and your wife, but with God too. When you break covenant by cheating, it’s not just on your wife. You took a vow that included God, and it shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

  I was learning a lot of this stuff anyway. Michele and I have to go to counseling for six months before Pastor John will marry us, and it’s pretty serious stuff. Divorce statistics are high both in and outside the church, and Pastor John is teaching us how to avoid it.

  He asked Michele and me what was the number one reason for divorce, and we both got it wrong. I said sex, or lack of it, and Michele said communication. And while I guess both of them had something to do with it, Pastor said it was selfishness. He said that he counsels people all the time who are having marriage problems, and while both partners complained about sex, money, communication, the kids, and all that other stuff, what they were really being was selfish. “He doesn’t talk to me,” “She won’t sleep with me,” “He doesn’t make enough money,” or “She spends too much money.” Everyone is pointing the finger at the other person because they’re not getting what they want out of the marriage, instead of each one thinking about the other person.

  Even tonight with Joe, his loyalty was to Donna—where it should have been—instead of worrying about hurting Terri’s feelings. He doesn’t owe Terri anything—she knows he’s married, she’s the one who’s wrong.

  I looked over at Romano, who looked like he was arguing with Rooney. “Let’s go check on Romano,” I told Joe and nodded toward the bar. Joe looked over to see Rooney getting up in Romano’s face.

  “Nick’s drinking way too much,” Joe said as we walked over to them.

  “She’s like a serial killer,” Rooney was saying to Romano. “Who?” Joe asked.

  “Terri Marks. She collects an article of clothing from every guy she sleeps with and saves it. She’s got ties, underwear, shirts, pants, you name it. She took my ‘one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor’ T-shirt and wouldn’t give it back. It’s freaky, Joe. That’s something a serial would do, and now she’s giving Romano her ‘come to mama’ spiel, trying to get him to go home with her.” He looked at Romano. “I’m telling you, Nick, don’t go home with her. She’s older—how old is she?” He looked at me.

  I shrugged. “I have no idea, maybe forty. Where is she?” I looked around the bar.

  “
In the john,” Rooney said.

  “Since when are you so concerned about me, Mike?” Romano asked, slurring his words a little. It was taking him a couple of minutes to process the conversation. “I’m just a rookie to you. You only talk to me when no one else is around, so why should I listen to you? I’m leaving soon anyway, and I’ll never have to see her or you again.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be a big shot fireman, right?” Rooney said like he didn’t believe it.

  “That’s right, and I’ll get some respect, not like this job.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, kid. You’ll be nothing at FD. What do you think you’re gonna do over there?” Rooney shook his head.

  “I’m gonna cook—I like to cook. And I’m gonna sleep and work out and watch porn and block the fire lanes in front of Shop Rite while I buy food,” Romano said, sucking down the rest of his drink and slamming it on top of the bar for effect.

  “And I’m gonna party and get a lot of women. Women love firemen, and not the skelly women we meet—these are hot-looking women. Bartender!” Romano yelled. “Another vodka on the rocks, please.”

  The bartender looked at Joe and me to see if we wanted a drink, but we shook our heads no.

  “You think you’ll be a big shot over there?” Rooney laughed. “You won’t be cooking, that’s for the real firemen. You think they’ll give you a ‘kiss the cook’ apron? They’ll give you a ‘kiss the toilet’ apron, ’cause that’s what you’ll be doing, cleaning the toilets. And your helmet will say PROBEE ’cause that’s what you’ll be, so don’t get a big head here, kid. You’ll still be a bottom-feeder.”

  “Shut up, Mike,” Romano slurred, “or I’ll shut your mouth for you.”

  “You getting beer muscles, kid?” Rooney moved in closer to intimidate him, but Romano was too wasted to notice.

  “I’m not drinking beer, they’re vodka muscles.”

  “Mike, leave him alone,” Joe said. “He has no idea what he’s saying.”

  “He’s got a big mouth,” Rooney said loudly. He was drunk too, and he likes to fight when he’s drunk.