Skells

by F. P. Lione

Joe came out with a big bottle of water and brought it over to Bruno. “Cup your hands,” he said.

  Bruno was trying to open his eyes, but they were tearing too much. He stood up and put his hands out in front of him.

  Joe poured some water in his hands, getting most of it on the sidewalk. “Don’t drink it,” Joe told him. “Just flush your face and eyes with it.”

  “Did you get him?” he asked Joe, his eyes red and swollen. He burped and grimaced, then he gagged and puked.

  “Yeah, we got him,” Joe said.

  “Ahhh, I swallowed it!” Bruno wailed. “It’s disgusting!” He spit again. “What does this stuff do to you?”

  “I hear it causes impotence,” I told him.

  “What’s that?” he asked. No wonder people think cops are stupid.

  Joe brought the bottle of water over to the greasy manager and had him flush his eyes with it.

  Hanrahan got to the scene, and the bus pulled up a minute later. It was a couple of veterans, two males. One was short with blond hair and glasses, the other dark haired and heavyset. They split up; one went over to Bruno and the other went to the manager.

  “How you doing, Bruno?” Hanrahan asked.

  “I’ll be alright,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  Romano held up the can of mace like he caught it in the end zone. “He got shot with this.”

  “Let me see that,” Hanrahan said, taking the can. “You’re gonna have to get an exposure number.”

  “For what?” Bruno looked startled.

  “You ingested this stuff. You don’t know what kind of reaction you could have down the road. What if six months from now you have a problem breathing ’cause of this?”

  The boss was giving him some good advice here. A good cop looks ahead in case he can get out on three-quarters later on.

  The manager of the porn place wouldn’t go to the hospital and went back into the store.

  We decided that Romano would get the information from the manager. He would take the collar and ride back to the house with the boss. Joe and I would follow Galotti in the ambulance to Bellevue.

  14

  When we got to Bellevue, the emergency room was packed. They put Bruno in a room, but that was about it. An Asian nurse came in to take his vital signs. She wasn’t very talkative and left as soon as she was done. I’d like to think we’d get preferential treatment if it was serious, but this wasn’t an emergency.

  We sat there for a while listening to Bruno burp, groan, and cough, when the doctor came in.

  He was young, maybe about thirty, looking wet behind the ears. He was tall and thin with black hair and glasses, and he had that Revenge of the Nerds look about him.

  He said the effects of the mace could last from forty-five minutes to several hours, but Bruno’d be fine. He said they’d flush out his eyes and give him something for the burping.

  “Don’t call my mother,” Bruno said with feeling. “She’ll freak.”

  I passed up a great opportunity to goof on him here, like we’d call her over him getting a little mace in his eyes.

  Joe fell asleep on one of the chairs in the room, and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. The night was clear, but you couldn’t see any stars with the lights from the city. I could hear the traffic from FDR Drive as I stood there, and I heard the screech of tires locking up and the thump that followed, telling me someone got rear-ended.

  It was 1:30 and I was starting to get tired, so I went up to the cafeteria on the second floor and got three coffees. I got a package of chocolate chip cookies so Bruno could put something in his stomach to absorb the mace. They had other food there, but nothing we would eat. I wondered what it is that makes hospital cafeterias and school lunchrooms smell the same.

  Joe woke up when he smelled the coffee, but Bruno wouldn’t drink the coffee or eat the cookies until the doc said it was okay. I went out to the desk to ask if he could have it. It took them twenty minutes to get us an answer, so the coffee was cold by the time Bruno drank it anyway.

  Bruno started going off again about how upset his mother was gonna be that he got hurt.

  Joe surprised me by asking Bruno, “Is your mother that overbearing?”

  He thought about it and shrugged. “She gets nervous. She’s not young, Joe, she didn’t have me until she was forty. I’m her only child, so she’s overprotective.”

  “You’re not a kid anymore, Bruno,” Joe said. “She doesn’t need to be protecting you. You can handle yourself.”

  “Kiss Momma good-bye,” I said, and Joe smiled.

  “Huh?” Bruno looked confused.

  “The pastor of our church tells this story about some preacher who was counseling a couple that were having marriage problems,” I started. “The wife was complaining about the mother-in-law always butting in to their business.”

  “How did she butt in?” Bruno asked, I guess to see if it was any of the stuff his mother did.

  “The husband would say his mother was a great cook and why couldn’t the wife be more like her. Telling the wife to bring up the kids the way his mother did. You know, stuff like that,” I said.

  “Yeah, but shouldn’t she help them? I mean, she knows stuff they don’t, so why not let her be involved?” Bruno asked.

  “Well,” Joe said, “if she was there to help, she’d be teaching her daughter-in-law how to cook. As far as raising the kids and stuff, unless they ask her, she should mind her business.”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “the pastor tells the married couple to come in and bring the mother-in-law. She was all excited, thinking they were asking her there to show all the stuff the daughter-in-law was doing wrong. The mother tells the pastor how the daughter-in-law doesn’t cook good, she don’t clean right, really nailed the daughter-in-law. So the pastor says, ‘You’re here today so you can say good-bye to your son.’ She pretended not to understand what he was saying, then the pastor tells the son, ‘Kiss Momma good-bye,’ and after the son kissed her, the pastor tossed her out of the room.”

  “That’s terrible,” Bruno said, coughing.

  Joe and I looked at each other.

  “You have a girlfriend, Bruno?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is she a nice girl?”

  “Yeah, she’s a nurse, takes care of kids with cancer.”

  “How long you seeing her?”

  “About three years.”

  “Does your mother like her?” Joe smiled.

  Bruno shrugged and said, “Not really.”

  “Kiss Momma good-bye, Bruno,” I said, “or you’re gonna have problems later on.”

  “Come on, Tony, she’s my mother. What kind of son tells her good-bye? Did you say that to your mother?” he asked me.

  “No, but my mother’s not like that. My grandmother was, and it caused a lot of problems with my parents,” I said.

  “What about you, Joe?”

  “No,” he said as he shook his head. “But like Tony, my grandmother was like that. My mother remembers what it was like, and she minds her business. She gets along good with my wife, and everybody’s happy. I see my parents a lot, Bruno. If they didn’t get along with my wife, we wouldn’t see them as much.”

  “I see what you mean,” Bruno said. “But I wouldn’t want to hurt my mother.”

  “Better your mother than your wife,” Joe said. “You gotta live with her.”

  They finally discharged Bruno at 4:30, and we drove him back across town to the precinct. His eyes were still a little red and he was still burping occasionally, but otherwise he was okay.

  We notified Central that we were headed back to the house, and Sergeant Hanrahan met us there.

  “I think I’m gonna head home, Boss,” Bruno said.

  “Can you drive home, or you want me to get someone to take you?”

  I could see he was thinking about it, but he said, “No thanks, I can drive.” He went down to the locker room to change and left about ten minutes later.

&nbs
p; We took our meal for five o’clock. Romano had finished up the paperwork on the arrest and offered to go across the street to the deli to get us sandwiches. This was the second time tonight he went into the deli without complaining, a record for him.

  He got roast beef with Muenster and tomato for me and turkey with lettuce and tomato for Joe and Boar’s Head baloney and cheese for himself. We ate in the lounge, took off our vests, shoes, and gun belts, and passed out on the benches.

  Fiore’s watch beeped at five to six, and I sat up and got dressed. Romano was sound asleep, so I nudged him with my foot.

  “Come on, Nick, time to make the donuts.”

  “I’m up.” He sat up and ran his hands over his face.

  Fiore was still asleep, so I shook him a little and said, “Come on, Joe, get up.”

  They were both sitting up now, looking groggy and disoriented.

  “Today!” I called as I went out and heard something hit the door as I closed it.

  Hanrahan was talking to Lieutenant Coughlin at the desk and stopped me as I went to walk outside for a cigarette.

  “Tony, do me a favor,” he said. “One of Diane Winston’s kids is sick, and she’s gonna be late. Take Romano over to the abortion clinic around 6:30. It opens at seven, and we don’t want any trouble over there. Stick around and make sure everything’s okay. If you get a job, pick it up, otherwise stay with him until you get a call.”

  “Sure, Boss,” I said.

  The abortion clinic is over by Park Avenue. I’ve worked it a couple of times, and I don’t like it. Diane, the female who usually works it, knows the deal over there. I don’t think Romano’s ever worked it, so I could see why the boss wanted us with him.

  The boss went over it with Joe and Romano when they came upstairs, and they met me outside on the front steps of the precinct.

  The sun was up, but the day was still pretty cool. The city was getting moving, and southbound traffic on 9th Avenue was steady.

  I stopped at the corner, and Joe went inside for the coffee.

  “You ever work this detail?” Romano asked from the back-seat.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Is there trouble?”

  “Not really. You’re just there to make sure nothing gets out of hand,” I said.

  Joe got back in the car with the coffee. I took 34th Street to 5th Avenue and turned at the Empire State Building. The clinic was between Madison and Park, and I made a left on 31st and parked the RMP just past the front entrance.

  The job was a fixer, which means you sit there until someone relieves you. Diane Winston usually works it, and unless there’s some kind of rally, we’re there without barricades.

  The clinic doesn’t open until 7:00 and there were already four protestors, two pro-life and two pro-choice.

  I wondered, like I do whenever I come here, why these people don’t have jobs and have nothing better to do than come down here and yell at complete strangers.

  The pro-choice people stood on the left side of the entrance, the pro-lifers took the right. The pro-life ones were both men, one dressed up like Friar Tuck from Robin Hood, the other in jeans and a T-shirt that said, “Smile, your mom chose life.” They had signs set up along the curb and on the sidewalk, but we couldn’t see them until we were up on the sidewalk.

  The pro-choice were two women, one young in her twenties, the other looked like she was pushing forty. The forty-year-old had a T-shirt that said, “My Body, My Choice.” The younger one had a T-shirt that said, “I had an abortion.”

  Both sides were radical, and they each seemed to have an agenda that had nothing to do with why they were there. It was like a contest to them, and I had a hard time believing either one of them was there for the right reason.

  At ten to seven, the first customers, a scared-looking girl and what looked like her boyfriend, came walking up.

  “Let the games begin,” I mumbled.

  “You have other options,” the pro-lifer in the robe called. “This baby can be raised in a loving home.”

  It sounded right until the second guy whipped out the pictures of the aborted fetuses and shoved them in front of her face and said, “Look at what you’ll be doing to your baby!”

  “Don’t listen to them,” the older of the pro-choice women yelled. “Your body, your choice.”

  “Don’t kill your baby!” He held up more horrific pictures of dead fetuses.

  “Don’t listen to them, come with me,” the younger woman said and walked over and opened the door and held it until the couple walked inside.

  The pro-choice girl looked smug once they walked in, and I thought she was gonna high-five her partner.

  “That’s disgusting,” Romano said, nodding toward the abortion pictures.

  “Is it me, Joe, or is that wrong?” I asked.

  “Which part?” he asked, looking troubled.

  When I was in high school, I thought I knocked up Marie Elena Carlino. At the time I didn’t think there was anything wrong with taking care of it in a place like this. Knowing God the way I know him now, I could never do it, but back then I was more concerned with myself and how to get out of trouble.

  I thought about Michele and the turmoil she must have had when she got pregnant with Stevie, or Romano with his little girl. You can say what you want, but in the end it’s a life, a son or daughter. As each of them rallied around us on both sides of the coin, I couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t the way Jesus would have handled it.

  A girl of about seventeen walked up with what looked to be her mother. The pro-lifers rushed her with the pictures, and the kid started crying. The older pro-choice woman looked angry and stomped over toward them. The girl’s mother held up her hand and stopped her.

  The daughter was crying hard now, holding on to the mother. I could hear the mother say, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t need to make this decision today.”

  The pro-choice lady came closer and said to the mother, “Come with me, we’ll get her inside.”

  The mother’s face got hard and she snapped, “You’re pro-choice? Well, it’s her choice—don’t try to influence her!”

  “Okay, sorry,” the woman said and held up her hands.

  The pro-life side had a new sign, “Abortion leaves one dead and one wounded.”

  “This is messed up,” Romano said. “It’s sick, all of it.”

  The next to walk up were two women, both in their twenties. Since neither one of them looked particularly upset, neither side knew whom to rush.

  Pro-life came out first with the blood-and-guts, and one of the women stalled. The older pro-choice lady got fed up and went over to take the arm of the undecided and lead her toward the entrance.

  The friar started yelling, “You can’t touch her! Officer, she is not supposed to put her hands on anyone! What is she going to do, drag them in there to kill their babies?”

  He was right, and Joe and I looked at Romano, who was clueless what to do. I went over to the pro-choice side and said, “Ladies, you know you’re not supposed to touch anyone. If you want to open the door, that’s fine—otherwise it’s influencing.”

  Like I said, it seemed like a game to them. They had no compassion for the people, just fire for the agenda. Maybe it’s me, but I’d be more likely to listen to someone I thought actually cared about me rather than this radical stuff.

  We wouldn’t be here by the time they walked out of the clinic, but I knew how it’d go. Both sides would be quiet as the woman walked out. The pro-choice would be smug, the pro-life defeated, and neither one of them would realize their attitudes had more to do with winning or losing, and they seemed to forget that there are people involved.

  I couldn’t wait for someone from the day tour to relieve us; I hated this fixer.

  I left the precinct at 8:15 and took the West Side Highway downtown. I stopped at Montey’s Deli on Bay Street for a peppers, eggs, and potato sandwich. I hadn’t been here in a while, not since I moved into my apartment, in fact
. Montey’s face lit up when he saw me, and he wiped his hands on his apron and reached over the counter to shake my hand.

  “Tony! How are you, buddy?”

  “Can’t complain, Montey. How you been?”

  “Good. I hear you’re getting married, congratulations,” he said, smiling.

  “Who told you?”

  “Denise, she comes in a lot for lunch.” That made sense since the showroom she worked in was less than a mile away and Montey probably gave her food for free half the time.

  “What can I get ya?”

  “Ah, two potato and egg sandwiches. You still use the peppers left over from the sausage and peppers?”

  “Of course, but don’t be giving away my secrets.” He cut two rolls and stuffed them, wrapping them both in wax paper.

  “Anything else? Coffee?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Montey,” I said as I paid him and shook his hand again.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.

  I drove home and parked in front of my house. I grabbed my gym bag with my gun in it and the bag with the sandwiches and noticed someone watching me in a car across the street. I realized it was Ralph, the recycle-pail-stealing psycho. He was staring at me with a hard look meant to intimidate.

  I wasn’t about to skulk into the house, so I crossed the street and walked up to the driver’s side of his car.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked, probably a little hard.

  “Nope, just waiting for my wife,” he said, nodding toward where a woman in red plaid pajama pants and a black T-shirt was walking back from the corner. I’ve seen her before; she always wears pajamas to bring her kids to the bus stop.

  My mother says that’s a Brooklyn thing, going outside in your pajamas. I think she just likes to believe that people from Staten Island are more civilized than people from Brooklyn. Donna, Fiore’s wife, is from Long Island, and I’ve seen her drive little Joey to the bus stop in her bathrobe, so maybe it’s a New York thing.

  “Have a good one,” I said to him, but he didn’t answer. He was still staring at me. I had a bad feeling about him and thought about calling my friend Louie Coco who works at Riker’s to see if he knew this clown.

  I went inside and checked my messages. There was one from my brother, Vinny, who said, “Call my cell, I’m at work” in a clipped voice.