Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “It’s not working. It’s me . . . it’s my fault.”

  She reached for her shirt and began to leave the room, but Steve held her arm. They looked at each other’s eyes and hands, trembling with their pain. Roxy pulled away gently and left. Steve sat heavily on the bed, aware that she was right. The distance was growing, but he didn’t want it to be over. And the captain might send visitors. He couldn’t put her in danger. What could he do? The cat jumped into his lap.

  “What do you think, Cyrano? Should I move out? Is this not working? Did I fuck this up? You can’t read her mind, either?” He stroked the cat.

  He picked up the book next to the bed: Camus, L’Étranger.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHAT’S GOING ON?

  Self-conscious in his camel hair blazer and grey slacks, Steve entered the school with anticipation and a twinge of nervousness. Crossing through the Central School arch, he realized he wasn’t that far removed from high school. He could see teenage defiance in some of the students’ faces. He remembered how smart he thought he was when he was their age, but now it wasn’t that clear. The young faces around him were sullen, not eager—more like children on the day shift in an old New England textile mill. The school was made up of three buildings. The academic classrooms were located in the old main building. The Hanley building, a 1950s addition to the 1920s original structure, housed the vocational part of the school; the gym and cafeteria were located in a third building.

  In the principal’s office, Steve met with Mr. Newcomb, the assistant principal, a man of medium height who sported a sharply pointed nose. He wore a green bow tie and a white shirt that looked like it had withstood several days of use already, and his tweed jacket was threadbare around the pockets. His horn-rimmed glasses hid any life in his eyes.

  “I don’t approve of this at all,” he said, shuffling the papers on his desk. “We are educators, not wardens. I do not believe police should be in our schools. These kids have plenty of time for the police when they drop out or, God forbid, graduate.” He didn’t look directly at Steve, who noticed that his left arm was a bit limp, perhaps from a minor stroke.

  “Many of the students have heard rumors that there may be a policeman teaching them. I’m not going to try to keep it a secret, but I’m not about to broadcast it, either. Some of our parents will be very upset about it, especially those from our minority community.” There was a sound of concern in his voice before it fell into a monotone of tired resignation. “You will be substitute teaching in Ms. Gaffney’s eleventh-grade English class. She called in sick for the week and didn’t leave any lesson plans.”

  As Steve walked the dark halls, he noticed that the kids traveled in groups of either black or white. He could feel their eyes on him as they busied themselves for first period. When he stopped to look at them, they quickly turned away, except for some of the girls with teased hair who grouped in a rugby scrum and giggled. It was another side of Providence he didn’t know, where the skin colors were mixed, and the kids from the bottom to the lower middle were trying to make it. On college hill and on the force, everyone had the answer—right or wrong, they had the answer. But here, he could see the girls growing into their maturing bodies and boys wanting to or maybe not become men. He stood and watched the kids move in huddles or painfully alone navigate the hallways to classrooms that held their future.

  Steve spotted a short, stocky teacher in baggy corduroy pants and a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. “Room 14?” he asked.

  “Gaffney’s room. Still a few more down on your left.” He looked Steve over carefully. “You that cop?” he asked. “Kinda young, aren’t you?”

  “Steve Logan.” He put out his hand.

  “Dominick Zulo, but they call me Mr. Z.” He stuck out his small, thick hand. Steve noticed a small anchor tattoo on his forearm. The accent was Boston, with its long a. “Wish they sent the whole department in. These kids have no respect for anything. When I was in the Navy, we knew what to do with trash: we threw it overboard, then you didn’t have to worry about it anymore. Here, we have to take crap from the trash.” He looked around with disgust.

  “Don’t like the job?”

  “Five years to retirement. Don’t get me wrong; there’re a couple of good ones in every class, but it’s so hard for them to stay away from trouble. What ever happened to reform school? That’s where half these kids belong. If you have to start shooting, let me point out who to shoot first.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Steve walked down the hall to the classroom. It reminded him of his grammar school, which had probably been built in the same era. The room was a rectangle, with high windows, letting in plenty of air and light. The windows were large double-hung, and there was a window pole to open them at the top for circulation.

  The kids shuffled in, the girls in tight dresses mostly to the knee. Steve thought there must be some type of dress code. The white boys sat in the back on the right side of the class, mixed in with the white girls. The black boys sat in the left rear. Four boys strode to the front of the class; the obvious leader of the group had a four-inch Afro, black Converse All Star sneakers, and a baggy sweatshirt. He gestured to the others to sit as he slid into his seat.

  “I’m Mr. Logan. I will be substituting for the next few days for Miss Gaffney.”

  “You that cop we’ve been hearing about?” the boy in the front row asked in a loud voice, turning and mugging for his audience.

  “And who are you?”

  “Norvell Thompson. But you can call me Marvel—’cause that’s what I am.” He laughed out loud, and the class followed with a canned laugh track.

  “Well Mr. Norvell, Marvel,” Steve made the words rhyme as he moved closer with a twenty-four-inch wooden ruler in his hand, “when I give detention, it might be for twenty years to life.”

  “Oooh.” Some low whistles emanated from the back of the room.

  Norvell stared straight back at him, not backing down but not escalating the situation, either. Steve had thought he could connect with students right away but realized they weren’t interested. He looked hard at the boy in front of him, who reminded him of his wrestling partner in high school, always showing off for the girls. But they had a relationship of mutual respect. Here, he needed to be the authority. He moved his right hand to his sport coat and tapped it so Norvell could hear the sound of leather inside the pants holster Steve was wearing. Norvell’s eyes signaled that he understood.

  “So I see you are reading Julius Caesar. Can anyone tell me what you know about Shakespeare?”

  “Some old dead White guy who can’t write in English,” a boy said from the back of the room.

  “Right on two counts.” Steve could feel the group measuring him. “He was White and he is dead, and he lived a long time ago. However, he could write English better than anyone in history.”

  “Bullshit.” Another voice came from the back. “I can’t even read it.”

  “It was meant to be spoken, not read. Shakespeare was a playwright, the most popular one of his time.” He could see them slouched in their seats, doodling on paper or with their eyes focused at the windows. “They didn’t have TV or movies yet; if you wanted entertainment, you went to the theater. And if you didn’t like the story or the performance, you threw rotten vegetables at the actors.”

  That remark seemed to stir their primal destructive urge.

  “No shit,” a heavy girl wearing too much makeup said through her chewing gum. “Like what kind?”

  “Depended upon what was in season: cabbage, onions, you name it. They didn’t have to wait for ratings.”

  “I’d be throwing shit at my TV if I could hit some of those stinky-ass actors.” Norvell was back into show form.

  “So what happened in Julius Caesar? Can someone tell me the story?”

  A wiry kid with dark curly hair combed in a sixties pompadour spoke up. “This Roman guy, he wanted to take over, but the other guys didn’t like the idea, so they iced him, but they di
dn’t get all his guys so they got hunted down and got popped themselves.”

  “Succinct plot summary, mister . . .?” Steve waited.

  “Quinn, Larry Quinn.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Quinn.” Steve was standing in front of the room, rocking in his athletic stance.

  “Weren’t those Romans like Italians?” a dark-haired boy asked.

  “Shit, where do you think Rome is? Connecticut? Dumbass White boy.” Norvell was pleased with himself. The boy jumped up out of his seat to rush toward Norvell. Immediately, Black and White boys jumped up, each staring with fists clenched.

  Steve struck the heavy ruler hard against the steel desk, shooting a bolt of noise through the room. The boys turned as Steve slowly walked down the aisle between the two groups, his shoulders back and the long ruler in his hands. The boys eyed him and each other as they returned to their seats.

  “Well, Norvell? Can you tell me about the characters in this play?”

  “There are these guys: Cassius—like before he became Mohammed Ali—and Bluto and Anthony—can’t forget the wop. So they get together and murder this Caesar dude to take over his empire.”

  “Brutus. Bluto is a cartoon character.”

  Norvell shrugged, unconcerned.

  “So how did it go down?”

  “That’s where this shit gets hard. The guy can’t write in English that anybody can read.”

  “Actually, you should read it out loud to really understand it. He writes in verse, so you need a bigger vocabulary than WTF?” The class giggled quietly.

  “Yon Cassius has a mean and hungry look; he thinks too much, such men are dangerous.” Steve pointed to a serious, skinny kid two rows back. “Watch out for the skinny kid who don’t talk too much; he’s looking to knock you off.”

  Norvell shot a look at the kid, who cringed a bit, and the class laughed.

  “Why did they want to murder him?”

  “Grab his stuff, I guess.”

  “Well some might have, but not Brutus. He thought he was defending Rome.”

  “That’s in Italy, honky.” Norvell turned to the class.

  “So what happens next?”

  “They all start fighting and killing each other.”

  “You missed the turning point: when Antony delivers his funeral speech and turns the mob against Cassius, Brutus, and the other killers. Friends, Romans and Countrymen, lend me your ears. I come not to praise Caesar but to bury him.”

  The bell rang, and the kids sprang out of their chairs. Norvell got up and, with a flourish, led the Black boys to the door. He turned and nodded to Steve before he exited into the crowded hall. The white kids followed. Steve watched them go and for the next week tried to explain the mayhem and murder of Shakespeare to them. He found himself enjoying the give and take with the kids. It was better than on the street—he wasn’t the same kind of enemy here. Yes, he was the authority figure, but he had something to give them. Shouldn’t he be able to do that on the street? In the car, the police responded to problems only after they happened. Here, maybe he was trying to keep them from happening in the first place. It was another place to make changes.

  Roxy’s face was ashen, and she was running her finger around the edge of the jelly glass filled with wine when Steve came home after midnight. She did not move from the chair when he entered the living room. She wasn’t reading or studying but looking at the mural on the wall.

  “They were here,” she said, her lips tight as she turned to Steve, who was still in uniform.

  “They scared the shit out of me—all of us.”

  “Who, they?” Steve was looking forward to three days off with her.

  “Cops. Your cops.”

  “What?” Steve didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “Two fucking cops came to the apartment about seven tonight. Said they were doing a routine inspection.” She took a sip of wine but still didn’t move from the chair. Her face was dark, and her voice was hard.

  “Was the place clean?” Steve felt a small panic coming over him. “What did they want? What did they ask you?”

  “There wasn’t any grass around, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “Clean?” She looked around the living room of salvaged furniture and a cable spool coffee table. “Debatable.”

  It was the captain. Since Captain Lynch took over patrol, he was paying special attention to Steve. Now, in his home, he couldn’t relax. Now Roxy was a target?

  “What did they say? Exactly.”

  She sipped the wine, looking up at him. Her eyes were fierce, like at the demonstration, and he could tell she felt violated. “They asked who I was. Who lived here? How long did we live here? They looked around the living room, walked into the kitchen. I didn’t like the way they looked at me. So much like . . . like I was a suspect or something. I didn’t want them in our home.”

  “Did they go into the bedrooms? Talk to anyone else?” He needed to know what they knew, what they were up to. They had probably talked to the tenants downstairs.

  “Heather came in, and they stared at her breasts. Fucking pigs.” Roxy said, refilling her glass. “What did they want? Why?”

  Steve knew the why—it was an accusation. She knew why—it was about him. They were checking up on him. The captain was building a file. Now it would read “Lives with dirty hippies.” He could feel the anger building in him. Fucking do the right thing. And what does it get you?

  He took Roxy’s hand, which was limp in his grip. She was angry with him; she blamed him for being frightened, intimidated, invaded. He hadn’t thought about it before, about the captain’s reach. How could he have missed the signs?

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He forgot how intimidating the sight of two uniforms at the door was to ordinary people. He pulled her from the chair into a bear hug, trying to make it go away, to take away the fear and the anger. But her arms were limp.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said, her voice quiet and controlled.

  “That’s a good idea,” he said. He would follow shortly, but first he had to think this through a bit more. He would make it up to her. He had a few days. Where does it fit with the puzzle? How was he supposed to keep her safe if he was at risk, too?

  CHAPTER 10

  ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

  Rizzo steered the car along the industrial area on Allens Avenue by the docks, the pungent smell of low tide rot blowing in from Narragansett Bay. Rizzo eyed the hookers who ducked into the darkness of the doorways and alleys as the police cruiser appeared on the street. He drove slowly to allow all the girls and their pimps time to see the car pass. Steve saw a late-model Lincoln parked up against a building, dark but for a lighted cigarette dancing like a pixie in the windshield.

  Turning the corner, Rizzo gunned the engine to pick up speed. As he cleared the warehouse building, he turned off the headlights and made a hard right into an alley that was barely wide enough for the car. Proceeding slowly, they crept along so the tires were noiseless. Steve strained to find figures in the faint light of the flickering neon signs. Coming to the end of the building, Rizzo stopped the car and rolled down the window, listening for sounds and voices.

  Steve watched as a car approached and two girls, dressed in revealing tops and panties, approached the passenger side window. He could hear the high pitch of a woman’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. Rizzo drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. One woman entered the car, and it disappeared into the darkness. Steve thought they might have gone parking behind a building on the docks or into the park. Several women’s voices, conversationally bored, came from directly in front of them.

  Without warning, Rizzo gunned the cruiser from its hiding place, springing forward like a giant cat, across the street and up the entrance ramp to the loading dock. He turned on the lights, hitting the high beam, freezing three women in the harsh light illuminating their black bodies. Jumping from the car, Rizzo shouted, “Freeze!”

  One girl ran quickly to the end
of the loading dock and jumped into the darkness. The other two stood frozen, silhouettes in the headlights. Steve was out of the car a step behind Rizzo as he approached the women. He checked the surroundings for their pimps.

  “How’s business?” Rizzo asked the older woman. Thick, with bright red lips, Steve thought she was in her mid-thirties, past her prime for the business. But her full breasts, pushing hard against the red corset with a deep cleavage, made her look attractive in the darkness.

  “Slow. And you cruising the streets don’t help,” she said, sticking out her chin at Rizzo.

  “You know who I am?” he asked. She nodded. “And you know how I work?” Again, she nodded. “Okay.” Rizzo motioned her to go with a nod, and the woman quickly disappeared into the darkness. The other woman, glassy eyed with fear, looked young to Steve.

  “You’re new here. What’s your name?” Rizzo demanded.

  “Pearl,” she said, searching for the name. Steve guessed the girl was only eighteen or maybe younger, like one of the kids at school. What was she doing out here? Her body was full-figured, and her arm had a white vaccination mark. Her white sheer bra, nipples erect in the cool night air, was partially covered with a thin white negligee.

  “You know who I am?” Rizzo barked, pushing the girl to the car. “Hands on the car.” Steve had to suppress a smile since there wasn’t much clothing to search, but Rizzo reached for the girl’s breasts and popped them out of the bra as bills fell to the ground. “I’m Rizzo. You ask the other girls. You can be my friend, or you can do it the hard way. Understand?”

  The girl nodded while she looked at the money strewn at her feet.

  “So when I need information, you remember me.” He pushed her down so her head was facing his crotch. She looked up hesitantly before she reached for his zipper. After she pulled it down, he pushed her so she fell back against the car.

  “I don’t need nothing from a street whore,” he said roughly while pulling up his zipper. “You remember me.” The girl scrambled on her knees, collecting her night’s earnings.