CHAPTER 5
STREET FIGHTING MAN
The overweight captain with thin greying hair and a bulbous nose slowly scanned the call. Steve was happy to be in class but recognized the captain from the interview. This wasn’t going to be easy; the captain’s comment as Steve had left the interview still rankled. The captain read from a blue binder in his flat, nasal voice. His brown uniform shirt was cardboard starched. “It’s illegal to transport swill and offal through the streets of Providence except in watertight tubs or casks.”
Swill and offal. Steve wrote down the two apt words. It wasn’t a Comparative Political Systems of Antiquity lecture at Brown, but he took notes with the same discipline. Five months after the murders at Kent State, he had changed. It was personal, but he was on the other side; some of his friends might say a traitor, part of the establishment. He still knew the Vietnam War was wrong and the Nixon bunch hated his generation—nothing had changed. But for him, it was time to do more, more than rhetoric and slogans. All his friends were against his decision—everyone but Roxy. If she hadn’t walked into his life, he would be in a lecture hall at Georgetown Law. She was the reason he was happy and still in Providence.
“Would you define ‘swill and offal’?” Steve asked without raising his hand or waiting to be called on.
The captain’s mouth twisted upward, and he exhaled loudly. He stared at Steve. “You know: animal shit,” he said, shuffling pages and trying to find his place to resume his lecture.
“Excrement. Both solid and liquid?” Steve persisted.
There was a murmur of laughter in the room as the recruits turned toward Steve, who was in the last seat in the second row of used schoolroom desks. Being a college graduate was one strike against him, but being from Brown was like being from another planet. His right hand moved along his temple to push his long hair behind his ear, but he realized it was no longer there. His entire appearance had been transformed back to high school, with his buzz cut and no facial hair.
“Not shit. The inside shit of animals.”
“Entrails?”
“Tails, guts, whatever comes out of the inside of an animal.” Blood had risen to the tips of the captain’s ears, turning them rusty red. He began again. “It is one of the many ordinances of the City of Providence.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Steve addressed the captain, now thinking of the nun with the ruler at the front of the class. “How do we recognize if swill or offal is being transported?” He knew he should stop.
The captain’s red ears brightened as he spoke. “You smell it.” He almost spat the words at Steve.
“Cadet Logan.” A sandy-haired lieutenant in full dress, creased as crisp as a biscotti, stepped forward and cut Steve off sternly. “It’s one of the rules and regulations of the city code. But you have to learn state law as well.”
Steve met the lieutenant’s eyes, having made his point that he was willing to question authority. Voluntarily, he had entered this world; it seemed less alien than being in the jungles of Vietnam with fist-sized leeches, booby traps, and ambushed trails. He was here to protect people. When he was accepted, he and Roxy had agreed that he would be a force—for the better. He would do it by the book, and he would learn the book. Every night, he studied so he would know the law and the procedures cold. He was on the inside now, where Durk said he had to be. Things had to change before civil war broke out.
The captain lectured, “You will learn to subdue suspects, disperse crowds, and keep the city safe. Once you graduate the academy, you will ride with an experienced officer while you develop street sense. And I hope many of you will go on to make sergeant or even an officer of the department.”
Now you’re talking, Steve thought, figuring getting promoted was only a matter of time.
“Ten-hut!”
The class sprang to its feet.
“Fall out to the left.”
The class assembled in close formation, two abreast. “Hut, hut, hut. Two three four.” They marched out and began an easy double-time down the street.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Cadet Tom Dylan asked as he kept an easy pace with Steve. Dylan was taller and thirty pounds heavier, with burnt orange hair and thick shoulders, and the heavy gait of someone used to running with a full backpack.
“Just trying to get my information straight.” Steve’s mouth turned up slightly in amusement.
“Don’t fuck around with them.” Dylan shook his head.
“Or what? They knew when they accepted me.” Steve let the words escape between breaths.
“You’re the Brown kid?”
Steve nodded.
“Last mile, sprint to the finish,” the sergeant in grey sweats yelled. The cadets picked up the pace, and Steve and Dylan were soon in front of the pack. Steve began to kick the last two hundred yards, easily outdistancing the field.
“Shit, I thought I was in shape,” Dylan panted as they waited for the rest of the cadets to finish.
“You are.” He nodded at the line of cadets still finishing.
Dylan hesitated before they laughed.
Lieutenant Smith watched the last of the cadets complete the three-mile run. “Good job. Take five, men.”
Rocky Gaeta and several other cadets came over and sat with Steve and Dylan. “Why a cop after going to college? Shit, I’d be a lawyer,” Gaeta said with a what the fuck shrug of his shoulders.
“I may do that someday, but not now. Time for my real life.”
All the other cadets were watching as the last cadet came down to the finish line, walk-running, sweating heavily. He was a 5-foot 5-inch, 250-pound Italian.
Rocky Gaeta was thin and wiry, with the street air of a wise guy.
“Hey, Meatball. Want to go around again?”
Meatball, breathing heavily, turned and glared at the group.
Gaeta continued, “If his uncle wasn’t a councilman, he’d be driving a coffee wagon.”
Everyone laughed. Meatball shot him a bird and fell to the ground by the group.
“Thank God we have radios and cars,” Meatball said and collapsed to laughter.
As part of the ongoing training, the academy had added riot- and crowd-control segments.
“We do not expect anything like the Newark riots that destroyed large parts of that city in 1968. This city is concerned about the spreading anti-war demonstrations as well as the growing inner-city unrest,” Captain Lynch explained.
The cadets drilled with longer riot batons in V-formation for crowd control and demonstrations, advancing as a V to split an imaginary crowd and forming lines to drive a crowd backward with their batons. They wore white helmets but did not have shields. In the V formation, several cadets were armed with tear gas guns that would be fired over the heads of the advancing phalanx.
Lieutenant Smith, wearing grey sweats, demonstrated the thrust to the solar plexus to disable a demonstrator. Steve tried to follow the cadets who he could tell had bayonet training by the smooth foot-work and strong thrusts.
The academy days settled into a routine. The morning classes were on the statutes of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. Time was devoted to proper Miranda warnings and the mechanics of an arrest, including the paperwork that had to be typed and filed. After lunch was the fun part for the cadets: the physical and the practical.
Lieutenant Smith was in his glory, wearing his always-clean grey sweats. He demonstrated with enthusiasm how to use a slim jim to open a car door with a quick motion by slipping it down the window glass and popping the door lock.
“I’ll show you the basics of lock picking tomorrow,” he said as he dismissed the class for the day.
Steve, Dylan, and several cadets stopped for beers at the American Legion post near the academy. The bar in the basement never closed despite the liquor laws.
“Johnson got kicked out of the academy,” Meatball announced.
“Shit, he was just the token nigger. The brass wanted to show how inclusive they were
being. They weren’t ever going to let him on the force,” Gaeta said.
“What happened?” Steve asked. He liked Johnson, who was the other outsider. Being the token on the force wasn’t easy. But now the question was moot.
“The captain sent a detail to his apartment when didn’t show up for class. They found Black Power posters on the wall and some books by that Black Panther guy. Sacked him right there.” Meatball turned his mouth up in mock horror. “No brains,” he said pointing to his temple. “Not like the college kid.”
“Fuck you,” Steve said.
“I thought about college after the Army, but I wasn’t much of a student,” Dylan said, plucking peanuts from the open bowl on the bar.
“You in Nam?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, I was an MP. Liked the work. When I was getting out, figured it would be a good job—always need cops. And I know the town. Twenty years and full pension.”
“What part are you from?”
“Out by PC—Providence College. I thought I’d go there, take some night classes or something. You know, so that I can make detective or something.”
“What was Nam like? Were you drafted?”
“Hard to describe. I volunteered for the Army after high school—wanted to get out of this town. I started out as a rifleman, but walking through jungles with gooks all around was not a way to make it to retirement. A friend of mine got me into the MPs in my second tour. Guys got really fucked up over there, either afraid or not caring. Most of the job was taking kids back from the whorehouses or from fights in the bars. Good kids when they were sober. But we also had to watch out for the gooks—even our own. Never could tell when someone was a VC ready to sneak a bomb into an officer’s club or mess hall on base.”
“Any close calls?” Steve asked, knowing that he could have been there, like so many of his high school friends.
“Not from the gooks, other than a few mortar rounds landing on base, but some Green Berets nearly did me in.”
“Green Berets?”
“Another story.”
Lieutenant Smith called Dylan and Gaeta to the front of the classroom. Gaeta mugged his way up the aisle, brushing back his short black hair as if his Italian pompadour were still there. He was the street kid with the wise-ass mouth and relatives in the department. Dylan stood erect like the good soldier he was trained to be.
“We’re going to review the proper technique for making an arrest,” Smith continued. “Dylan, you’re the officer, and you’re called to the scene where Mr. Gaeta is drunk and disorderly—hard to imagine.”
The class laughed as Gaeta bowed to them. Smith handed the handcuffs and a Billy club to Dylan.
“What’s the problem here?” Dylan asked Gaeta.
“No problem, pig. Just having some fun.”
“Fun’s over. Move along.”
“Fuck you.” Gaeta smiled to the class.
Smith stepped in. “You have an unruly situation. If you are alone, call for backup if you are in doubt. But the criminal must respect the uniform. Proceed.”
“Move it, or I’ll have to take you in.” Dylan moved toward Gaeta, his thick body inches away from the terrier Gaeta.
“Fuck you,” Gaeta said, getting close to his face. With practiced ease, Dylan slammed Gaeta against the wall with the Billy club across his chest. With one hand, he snapped the handcuff on Gaeta’s left wrist and, using it as leverage, turned Gaeta and snapped the cuff on the other wrist. Lifting the chain between the cuffs, he walked Gaeta on his tiptoes to the front of the laughing class.
Smith turned to the class. “Your cuffs, your prisoner. Nice job, Mr. Dylan. You’ve had some practice.”
“I’ve handled a few drunken Marines in my day, sir.”
Gaeta rubbed his wrists when the cuffs were removed, still smirking at the class. “Not the first time.”
“Now Mr. Gaeta, your turn.”
Gaeta grinned at the class and exchanged shouts with Dylan, who pushed back. Gaeta looked up at Dylan, who was bigger and stronger. Without warning, he rammed the club into his midsection, doubling Dylan up. “Fuck,” Dylan hissed as he regained his feet and took a step toward Gaeta, who backed away and pulled a finger gun at him.
“Against the wall, motherfucker, or you die here.” Gaeta’s face was set, and there was little doubt he would use the gun if he had one. Steve shook his head.
“You don’t agree with Mr. Gaeta?” Smith asked Steve.
“You can’t shoot someone for drunk and disorderly. It’s a misdemeanor.”
“The fuck I can’t. He was assaulting an officer. I was in fear of my life. Self-fucking-defense, asshole,” Gaeta grinned.
“Bullshit. You can’t just execute people.” Gaeta had that know-it-all street-punk attitude. He probably cheated on exams and was a petty thief as well. Steve didn’t like Gaeta. He didn’t doubt Gaeta thought it was alright to shoot. Steve couldn’t imagine a reason he would ever have to shoot someone. The people of Providence weren’t the enemy. He was here to protect them. Wasn’t that the job? It was about using the brain and sufficient force.
“Right, college kid. Maybe you can hit him with a book.” Gaeta was playing to the laughter of the class.
“That’s right, smart guy. I’d throw the book at him and you, too, if you shot him. You can’t shoot unarmed civilians.” Score one for the college kid.
“Oh, yeah? You’ve got a lot to learn, Einstein,” Gaeta said.
“You use sufficient and necessary force to make the arrest,” Captain Lynch said, walking from the back of the classroom. “They,” he waved his arm, “must respect the uniform.”
“You don’t get paid to fight.” Lieutenant Smith paced the cramped basement that passed as the academy’s gym. The paired cadets were rhythmically circling each other, jabbing and feinting with their boxing gloves like playground boys. Their generated sweat infused the room in a thick, damp musk.
Steve continued to bob and weave like Muhammad Ali did, but knew he was playing, since he had never actually been in a fight. Moving against Meatball, he seemed to float like a butterfly.
“But sometimes, you actually have to get control of the situation. The recommended procedure is overwhelming force, but when you are one on one, you better be able to handle yourself.” The lieutenant stopped some of the men, raising an elbow or demonstrating how quickly to retract a jab. He seemed interested in the choreography of his troops, correcting their footwork and their stances, demonstrating with a form that showed years in a ring. The day was going quickly since no classwork was on the agenda. Steve was energized by the physical exercise, and his muscles enjoyed the workout.
His attention was diverted when the steel door slammed against its frame. Captain Lynch had arrived and began an animated discussion with Lieutenant Smith, each of them glancing over at the cadets. Steve felt he was getting special unfriendly attention. Meatball’s glove stung his cheek over his lowered guard, snapping him back to reality.
Smith’s whistle was too loud for the space, but it halted all activity immediately. “It’s time for the real thing,” Smith announced. “We’ll see who’s for real.” Lynch nodded for him to go on. The lieutenant’s mouth was tight and controlled as he seemed to spit out the next orders.
“Dylan, fall in.” The cadet stood at attention before the two officers. “Ever box?”
“Yes, sir. In the Army,” Dylan said.
“Any good?”
“Regiment champion.”
“What weight?”
“Heavyweight.” Dylan looked the weight class, with oxen shoulders and slabs for hands.
“Logan.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve stepped to attention next to Dylan, who was two inches taller and outweighed him by forty pounds. He was someone you didn’t want to mess with.
“Ever box?”
“Just here, sir.” Steve heard the murmur come from the class, knowing what was coming. Lynch was looking for a reason to bounce him or make him quit. He wasn’t going to make it tha
t easy. He was here for the duration, and they needed to get used to it. But what else could they do—Durk said they could leave you out to dry, but how?
“Square up,” Smith ordered as the cadets moved against the sides of the room to give the fighters space. “On the whistle.”
The sound of the whistle was still fresh in his ears as Dylan’s jab slid off Steve’s upraised gloves, glancing off his head. He began circling to the right to stay away from the jab, paying attention to keeping his hands up to cover his face. The jabs were hard. Steve concentrated on catching most of the force on his gloves. He returned a jab but knew instantly it was a bad idea. Dylan counterpunched, catching him on the side of the head. The two men circled as the room chanted for Dylan.
“Come on, Dylan. Is that the best you can do against this college kid?” Lynch sneered.
Steve looked over at the fat captain. He thought it would be that easy. He’s not going to get any satisfaction today, Steve vowed.
Dylan moved into Steve, throwing a combination to the head and body. Steve absorbed the blows to his ribs and ducked away from the head shots. But Dylan didn’t let up, using combination after combination until a left hand got through to Steve’s nose, snapping his head back. He felt his nose was as flat as if he had run full speed into a glass door.
Dylan delivered another left-right-left combination over Steve’s flagging hands. With blood in his mouth now seeping down his throat, Steve could feel wetness running from his mouth over his cheek. He tried to focus. His head throbbed from his cortex out to his skull. He knew he was in trouble, as did the class, whose cheers for Dylan increased. They were enjoying watching the college kid get knocked around, Steve thought. He wasn’t going to quit. Regrouping his thoughts, he tried to move in closer to bring the fight to Dylan but was caught with an uppercut that collapsed his right knee.
The captain yelled, “Finish him!”
Dylan moved closer, hitting Steve again with a quick combination, collapsing him to the floor.
The tiny room was a roar in Steve’s head. His mind spun like a whirly from a freshman drunk. He had been knocked down before in many games, but he never stayed down. Struggling to a knee, he located Dylan, who was being congratulated by the other cadets. Regaining his feet, he swung wildly at the heavyweight, who stepped back and delivered another crushing combination. Steve fell back to a knee and another round of cheers.
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