by F. P. Lione
“Mike.” I looked him in the eye. “That’s enough.”
“We’re taking him out of here, the party’s just about over anyway,” Joe said.
There were a couple of hundred dollars left over from what they collected for the party, so they were taking it and putting it on the bar downstairs for anyone who wanted to keep drinking. It was ten to eleven and we still had to stop at the precinct and get Joe on the 11:30 train.
Romano was having a hard time walking, so Joe and I got on either side of him as we took him down the stairs. We walked outside the bar, and I made Joe keep Romano by the entranceway while I got us a cab. The cabbies don’t like drunks in their cars and might have passed us by if they saw us holding up Romano.
The cabbie looked at Romano as Joe walked him over. “No, uh-uh, he’s not getting in my cab if he’s drinking.”
“He’s not feeling good—we’re only going a couple of blocks,” I said, which was true.
“He’s not going to vomit in my cab, is he?” The cabbie was sizing me up.
“No, definitely not.” Hoping I meant it.
“Don’t you vomit in my cab!” the cabbie told Romano once he was in the car.
“Go shell a rug, you friggin’ camel jockey,” Nick slurred, but I doubt the guy understood what he said.
“Shut up, Nick,” I said.
We got out of the cab on 36th and 9th and got in my truck. I drove over to the precinct and parked out front. I tried to get Romano’s locker combination out of him, but he was nodding off and wouldn’t answer me. He would look up at me and smile, then lob his head down on his chest. I locked the truck and took my keys before going in just in case Romano woke up and decided to drive.
Joe and I ran down to our lockers and got our bags. I grabbed two dirty uniforms and threw them in my bag so I could wash them tomorrow. I drove over to Penn Station and stopped at the 34th Street entrance.
“Will you be okay with him?” Fiore asked me.
“We’ll be fine. I just hope we make it home before he pukes.”
“What time will I see you tomorrow?” Joe asked.
“I’m going out to Michele’s in the morning. We’re going shopping, and we’ll be by later in the afternoon.”
“Are we fishing tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Yeah, as long as it doesn’t rain. My poles and stuff are out at Michele’s; we can pick them up there.”
“Take it easy there, Nick,” Joe said to Romano, who threw him a delayed wave.
I put the AC on full blast and opened Romano’s window as I drove downtown. We got through the tunnel okay, but Romano started groaning once I hit the Gowanus Expressway.
“You okay, Nick?”
“I’m gonna puke,” he slurred, reaching for the door handle. I hit the lock button and got over into the right lane. I slowed down to about thirty-five and turned my flashers on.
“Put your head out the window and puke, not in the truck,” I said as I grabbed his shoulder. He was too drunk to get out of the car, and I didn’t want to chance him getting whacked by a car.
He stuck his head out the window and threw up. I kept my hand on his shoulder while my eyes went back and forth between him and the road. He went at it for a couple of minutes and finally got himself down to dry heaves before he pulled his head back in.
I pulled some napkins out of my console and handed them to him. He wiped his face and looked over at me, trying to focus.
“Where do you live, Nick?”
“I don’t know,” he slurred. I laughed at him, hoping I never looked that pathetic but thinking I’d been there a time or two.
“Is anyone expecting you home tonight?” I thought he lived alone, but I’ve never been to his house.
“No, nobody loves me,” he said sadly.
“Terri Marks loves you,” I said.
“No, Terri loves Joe. It’s my birthday soon,” he said.
“When?”
“July 21.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering what that meant since it was April.
“I’ll be twenty-five,” he said as if I asked him.
“Good, where do you live?”
He shrugged.
I tried a couple more times to find out where he lived. I knew his mother lived on the South Shore, in Annadale, but I wasn’t taking him there in this condition.
“Why don’t you sleep it off at my house?” I said, but he was nodding off again.
I parked my car and came around and opened his door. I got him out of the car and took his gun off him, sticking it in my gym bag. I didn’t think he’d shoot himself on purpose, but he was wasted and it wouldn’t be the first time a gun went off in a drunk cop’s hand.
I held on to him as we walked down my steps. I sat him on the bottom step and he fell over, clonking his head against the cement foundation. He put his hands up and held his head. I picked him back up and steered him toward my couch, where he proceeded to fall over face-first onto the cushions.
I went into my bedroom and locked both our guns up in a safe that I bought for when Stevie’s around. I grabbed a pillow and blanket out of the closet and brought them out to Romano. I pulled his shoes off and went into the bathroom for my fail-proof hangover remedy, two aspirin and a multivitamin. I got a glass of water and put them on the coffee table while I sat him up.
“Here, take these,” I said.
“Whash thisht?” he asked.
“Aspirin to bypass the hangover.”
He nodded and swallowed the aspirin. I gave him the vitamin, and he choked a little on it.
“Drink the water and get it down,” I said.
“Big ashprin.”
I set my clock for nine and fell asleep with my Bible in my hands, in spite of Romano’s snoring. He was still blasting away when the alarm went off, and I was glad he didn’t wake up and wander anywhere.
I showered and shaved and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. My living room stunk of stale booze. It’s different being on the other side of this and seeing someone else after a night of drinking. There were a couple of times last night when I wanted a drink, just to feel normal and not like an alcoholic. In the light of day I was glad I didn’t.
I drove to the bagel store on Father Cappodanno Boulevard and got bagels and coffee.
“Hey, Nick,” I said, shaking him. “I’m going to Long Island and you gotta get up.”
He sat up and looked at me. His hair was sticking straight up, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had crease marks on his face.
“Hey, Tony.” He looked around. “We at your house?”
“Yeah, I thought it’d be better if you slept it off here. Plus I don’t know where you live, so I couldn’t drop you off there.”
“Oh. Where’s my car?”
“At the precinct.”
He nodded and paused. “Where’s my gun?”
“In my safe.” I’ve gone out drinking with my gun on me more times than I could count. In the condition he was in last night, it was pretty dangerous, and I was feeling thankful that I never killed myself or anyone else in that state.
He sat thinking a minute. “Did anything happen with Terri Marks?” That seemed to scare him more than losing his gun or car.
“No, and you can thank Rooney for that,” I said. “You were pounding ’em down last night. How are you feeling?”
He shrugged. “Not as bad as I thought I would.”
“I got you a bagel and coffee. Get something in your stomach, you reek,” I said, handing him his bagel.
He went to use the bathroom, so I sat down at the kitchen table. I was halfway through my everything with butter when Romano came out of the bathroom and was staring at me, looking scared.
“Tony, I think something’s wrong with me.”
“What?”
“I think I damaged my kidneys—my urine’s a funny color,” he said.
I thought for a second what it could be from and busted out laughing. “I gave you a vitamin last night. It helps with the hangov
er.”
“Oh. Thanks.” He still looked out of it and was just standing there.
“Come on, eat your bagel. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll drop you off at the precinct and you can pick up your car.”
Romano finished his breakfast and jumped in my shower. He put the same clothes back on and must have finger-brushed his teeth, because he had toothpaste smeared on the side of his mouth and on his index finger.
We finally left by 10:30. If I’d left earlier, I could have beat most of the Saturday traffic. Leaving now would probably put me in gridlock for the rest of the day.
10
It was one of those rare Saturdays when the weather is perfect. The sky was cloudless and clear, the sun was bright, and the air was warm enough to make it T-shirt weather.
The parks were full along the boardwalk on Father Cappodanno Boulevard. The paddleball courts at the end of Greely Avenue were in use, and I could hear the pop as the ball was whacked against the cement wall as I drove past. There are four playgrounds, three baseball fields, a hockey rink, and bocci ball courts along the three-mile stretch of beach and boardwalk where the kids play during the day and the dealers sell drugs at night.
There was a softball game at the Midland Avenue fields and a street hockey game in the parking lot past Seaview Avenue. Girls were jumping rope; double Dutch it looked like, by the concession stands in South Beach. The old ginzos were out playing bocci ball near Lily Pond Avenue, like they do every Saturday.
“You ever play that?” Romano asked, nodding toward where they were playing.
“When I was a kid, we played at my grandfather’s house,” I said. “You?”
“Yeah, I used to play. When I was little, before my father was killed, our family used to go to this resort upstate. An Italian place, I forget the name. We used to go there on vacation every summer, and we always played bocci ball. They had tournaments my mother and father used to play in.”
“It sounds nice,” I said. “You still go there?”
“We went back there once or twice after he died, but it wasn’t the same.” He sounded sad.
I felt sorry for him. I mean, I know I don’t see my father a lot and we have our problems, but I don’t know how I’d feel if anybody ever put a bullet in him. Especially when I was ten years old and he was the person I wanted to be like when I grew up—long before I found out he was as screwed up as everyone else.
I found myself questioning God, not about why it happened, but about how he could help Romano get past it. I know it happened a long time ago, but I think it has a lot to do with why Romano was drinking now. Since I’m nobody’s shrink, I concentrated on getting through the traffic on the Verrazzano Bridge.
“I hope I wasn’t too much trouble last night,” he said.
“Nah, I was glad to help. You were pretty hammered, though. Just be careful—don’t let the drinking get a hold of you,” I said.
“I went a little overboard. I just hate this job. I’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, and I bet no one at that party will even notice that I’m gone,” he said quietly.
“Joe and I will notice.”
“Besides you two,” he said like we didn’t count.
He was right, no one else will notice once he’s gone. I see it all the time. Aside from your partner, it doesn’t matter to anyone else. Someone else will take your place, and everything keeps on going. If you run into anyone from the job, they’re happy to see you, but that’s about it.
Romano closed his eyes as traffic was stop-and-go along the Gowanus Expressway. I doubt if he was sleeping—some moron pulled up next to us in a black Nissan and had the bass up so high our doors were rattling. I figured he just didn’t want to talk, so I left him alone.
I lit a cigarette and was driving slow enough to look at the garbage along the side of the road. Pieces of tires, brake lights, and hubcaps were littered along the elevated section above 3rd Avenue in Brooklyn. I saw broken glass, a wrapped-up diaper, a brick, and pieces of wood and cardboard. Underneath this particular stretch of the expressway, the area is hopping with skells, prostitutes, and crackheads. They hang out near the strip joints and porn shops, buying, selling, or using, depending on what it is.
Traffic cleared once we reached the tunnel, and we got to Midtown in fifteen minutes.
“So what’re you doing today?” I asked when I pulled up in front of the precinct.
He shrugged. “Not much. I don’t have my daughter this weekend. I’ll probably just relax.” Which meant he’d go home, sleep it off, and be out in some bar by 10:00 tonight.
“What about you? You going to see Michele?”
“Yeah, then we’re going to Fiore’s later for a barbeque. If the weather keeps, maybe we’ll go fishing tonight,” I said.
“Sounds good. Have a good time and I’ll see you tomorrow.” He shook my hand then asked, “Two o’clock, American Legion hall on Clove Road, right?”
“That’s it. See you then, buddy.” He waved me off.
I took 34th Street across town to the Queens Midtown Tunnel. The Mets must’ve had an afternoon game, because traffic was bumper-to-bumper on the Grand Central Parkway. The LIE was the same as it is every day, bumper-to-bumper through Queens, stop-and-go through Nassau, and moving in Suffolk. I finally got to Michele’s at 12:30, two hours later than I planned on. Michele was out front planting flowers along the walkway, and Stevie was playing with his little yellow bulldozer. He screeched when I pulled up and ran out to meet me with a flying jump.
“You’re late!” he said, hugging me. He was dressed in an NYPD T-shirt that I got him and jeans and sneakers. Michele was wearing jeans too, but hers were dressier, and she had on a red short-sleeved shirt.
“Sorry, there was traffic,” I said, kissing Stevie’s cheek.
I kissed Michele, who had walked over to my truck. “Traffic?” she asked.
“Ah, Nick Romano stayed with me after the party, and I had to drop him off at the precinct.”
“Why?”
“He left his car there. I didn’t want him driving home last night.”
She nodded. “How is he?” She knew a little of what was going on with Nick. She had met him at Fiore’s on New Year’s Day when he talked to Fiore’s dad about his father getting shot.
“He’s drinking a lot. He goes over to FD in a couple of weeks,” I said with a shrug. “He thinks he’ll feel better about things once he’s there.”
“What’s FD?” Stevie asked.
“Fire department,” I said.
“He’ll be a fireman?” Little kids always like firemen.
“Yup.”
“Oh. Are we going to get our new door?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I said, putting him down.
“Did you eat? I have cold cuts and salads,” Michele said.
“We could eat now or we could go out, it’s up to you.”
“It’ll be faster if we eat here,” she said.
We left the flowers and went inside. Stevie and I went upstairs so he could show me the progress on the second floor of the house. The unfinished staircase was in, and the rooms were starting to take shape. Most of them were Sheetrocked, and I could see the BX cable from the electricians. The second floor looked smaller now that the rooms were closed off, but still nice-sized. Stevie chattered away, telling me he wanted a red room. I thought of my grandmother’s couch and told him no, a red room would give him a headache.
Michele put out a platter of cold cuts, roasted peppers, and tomatoes. There was Boars Head baloney, turkey, roast beef, Muenster, and American cheese. She had a couple of tubs of macaroni and potato salad, store-bought but not bad.
We finished lunch and were on our way into Riverhead by 1:30. We went to Home Depot first to look at doors. We needed a new front door and doors for the bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets.
As soon as we got to the store, Stevie had to do “pee pee.” I took him to the bathroom and then held him up in the air while he went, because the toilet was dis
gusting. Then he saw the display of power tools and got his hands on three of them before I could grab him. We tried to look at paint, but Stevie started collecting the sample cards, so I went out and got one of the orange carts to put him in. He sat for about three minutes while we looked at interior doors. We picked primed six-paneled doors with pewter press-down handles for the bedrooms and closets. For the front door Michele picked out a Victorian-style double door with molding so we could paint it with a couple of different colors for contrast. I liked the mahogany door with frosted glass on the front and matching glass panels on the side. But I didn’t like the glass. I pictured someone smashing their fist through the glass and unlocking the door while I wasn’t there, but at least you could see who was out there. With the wood door, you couldn’t see who was on the other side, and I didn’t like that either.
Stevie was climbing out of the cart now, bored out of his mind, trying to open the display doors. Michele didn’t seem to notice. She just put him back in the cart and took out a fruit snack. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, worried he’d fall out of the cart onto his head. We went over to the flooring section and checked the prices of the wood floors. There wasn’t much of a selection with the tile, and I wanted something more than just plain tile.
We decided to order the inside doors and come back without Stevie to pick out the paint for the front door.
We stopped at a tile place on Main Street in Riverhead and let Stevie amuse himself flipping through carpet samples while we looked at the tile. There was a light-colored, weathered terra cotta that we both liked for the floor. We were gonna do plain off-white tile on the walls around the tub, but we saw accent tile in the same color as the floor. It was three sizes of tile, one with glass, one with metal, and the other with stone in it. It should have been gaudy as anything, but it was sharp and went great with the floor. I looked at the price and almost said forget it, then I looked at Michele and figured out how much overtime I would need to buy it.
We put a deposit on the floor and the wall tiles, even though Michele was concerned about the price. “It’s so expensive, Tony, and I don’t know if it’s a good idea. We have to pay for the wedding—”