Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Because the books were arranged by plat numbers, Steve realized he had no clue which ones would be helpful. Asking the clerk for help was asking a blind person for directions. He began methodically narrowing his search by the part of the city. He finally located the Fox Point and East Side books. He was amazed at the prices for homes on Blackstone Avenue. Even the little colonial houses on Benefit Street were well beyond anything he could ever afford. He found 239 Williams Street and wrote the owner’s name on an index card: Pawtucket Associates. He found 249 John Street—Pawtucket Associates. He wrote down the names and cataloged the cards by address.

  He researched all properties on John and Williams Street. He expanded to Power, Arnold, Brook, Hope, Thayer, Benevolent, and Transit Streets. He would cross reference them with the files from the dean’s office. What was the connection? They were just white pieces in a jigsaw puzzle—he needed some colored reference points.

  “Where do I find out who these owners are?” Steve asked the bored clerk.

  “The registered owner’s name is in the book,” she said without looking up.

  He had the names. “And if it is a company?”

  The woman shrugged, happy to get rid of him. “Well that’s over in the State’s files.”

  He looked at his watch. It was already after lunch. He needed to think through his next steps. For the last few days, he had dissected every file from the dean’s office. He had them all cataloged on index cards, but they were just files. He knew the files led somewhere, or else why were they locked up? And who were these Pawtucket Associates? He would find out.

  He called Sutton, the newspaper man, and suggested they meet. The reporter suggested Haven Brothers after his shift, but Steve knew that too many cops and city workers stopped at the diner. Being seen with Sutton would get people talking.

  “How about up on the Brown campus—place called the Blue Room. It’s on Waterman. Go through the arch and up the stairs to Faunce Hall. I’ll meet you there on Tuesday around three p.m.” Steve felt more secure on campus; if a Providence cop was following him, he would be easy to spot. He laughed at his own thought pattern—how fucking sad.

  Sutton looked like a toad when he arrived at the buildings, intimidated by his surroundings. He was standing by the large brass grizzly bear in the foyer when Steve approached.

  “I didn’t know this place existed,” he said and sat down with Steve at a small table overlooking Waterman Street. “I’ve never even been on this campus.”

  “Yeah, not too many outsiders come on campus. It’s why it’s such a bubble.” Steve could see the doubt as Sutton raised his eyes.

  “Ready to do a story about you? Top Cop Gets Brown Pop—Ivy League Kid Joins Providence Police. Now uniforms will have button-down collars.” Sutton’s mouth turned up on the side with amusement at his headline.

  Steve smiled. “Thanks, but no thanks. I may have a better story for you. Anything seem strange to you about police calls in Fox Point over the last six months?” Steve asked, trying to figure how far to go with the reporter.

  “No, not really. Some disturbances, drugs, gambling. Same old shit.” Sutton was eying him with his narrow, sunken eyes. He was going bald but tried to hide it with a bad combover.

  “You should take a look at the addresses. Not what you might think.”

  “And what might I think? You have something for me?”

  “Not yet,” Steve answered. “I’m playing a hunch, but I need more hard information. I also need to figure out what I do with the rest of the information, if it goes where I think it might.”

  “You’re a cop; just go to your superiors. They’ll do what’s right.”

  Steve laughed with Sutton. “Never thought of it like that.”

  “So what do you have?”

  “I think they’re fabricating complaints—maybe a way to force the tenants out. I’m not certain of why, but I have a suspicion.”

  “Fox Point. Shitty neighborhood. Who’d want . . .” Sutton stopped.

  “That’s why I asked you to come up here. On your way home, drive by these addresses on Williams and John Streets. Then tell me if you’re interested.”

  Sutton nodded and put on his grey fedora, looking like a reporter out of a black-and-white movie. Sutton had sources on the force and was old Providence. The Providence Journal wasn’t the New York Times. The ownership was tied to Providence in ways he didn’t pretend to understand. Maybe Sutton would start asking questions, raising suspicions, and fuck everything up.

  “Let’s keep this between us until I get you some hard evidence.”

  Sutton nodded. “Sure. Mum’s the word.’

  Steve wasn’t sure he could trust him but didn’t have many options. The agent hadn’t gotten back to him, and he was feeling very exposed.

  Steve was pounding on the black typewriter with more than his usual vengeance, doing reports. It was his third cup, and he was so wired he forgot to put milk and sugar in the half-finished cup of bitter black coffee on the desk. The room was empty; Monday was a light crime day. Steve took the new reports, put them in a folder, and carried them to the Records Room. Joe Taylor, nicknamed Ole Joe, was the civilian records clerk who had been on the job forever. Asleep in a chair at the side of the room, the small, old man quietly snored, his head leaning back against the wall. Steve took a deep breath and held it to calm his stomach. He exhaled slowly and walked quietly. He was ready to cross another line.

  His years of doing research in the stacks at the Rockefeller Library had prepared him to quickly sort through the index file. He looked up the incident reports on Fox Point. Several properties had a number of violations. He then picked a few files from Federal Hill on the mafia social clubs to see what the official records said. He was sure there would be a link to the city. He photographed some files with his Brownie and took carbon copies from others.

  “What are you doing there?” Joe asked.

  Steve was startled by the closeness of the voice, and his heart increased its pace. Quickly concealing his pad and camera in his shirt, he called back, “Just filing these reports, Joe.”

  He rattled some sheets of paper. He heard the file clerk push back his chair and start to walk to the aisle but stop. Steve rapidly closed the file drawer and walked quickly but under control to meet him.

  Joe came into view at the far end of the file row. He was rumpled and small, a man who would disappear in a crowd. But in the records room, he was king.

  “You know you’re not supposed to be in here.” He looked at Steve, the side of his mouth tilted.

  Steve rubbed his chin. “Joe, I had these reports for the captain. You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to disturb you. I was putting them in the correct files when you called. Let me show you to make sure I did it right.”

  “Reports? Which reports? You don’t file your reports; you give them to me, and I . . .” Joe’s voice raised an octave.

  Steve feigned disgust. “I wish they were my reports; they turned me into a fucking secretary. Wish I never learned how to type. Captain is giving me a month of his reports—cleaning up his fucking mess. I want to be out on the street.”

  A smile of recognition crossed Joe’s face. He chuckled.

  “Oh, you’re that college boy. Heard the captain was pissed off at you. He’s a sadistic old bastard. Does he make you shine his shoes and bring coffee, too? The brass, they run the joint for their own benefit. The things I could tell you. But thanks for letting me get some shut-eye.”

  “You got quite a filing system here. I think I put them in the right place.”

  “It’s not that complicated. Let me show you how I put them in order. First you look at the date, then you look at the type of report . . .”

  Steve listened and asked questions. Joe would stop in mid-sentence and run his right hand along his temple before answering. There were some tricks to the filing system, but it would make his research easier.

  “You really are a pro. How do you remember all this stuff?
” Steve asked as Joe beamed.

  “Experience. You need years of experience.”

  Steve nodded in agreement. “If you need to get some coffee or take a smoke break, let me know. I can cover for you.”

  Joe nodded appreciatively. Over the next few weeks, Steve chatted up Ole Joe until he trusted Steve to spell him so he could go out for coffee and a butt. And the breaks stretched longer. One night, the door opened loudly, and Steve quickly closed the file folder in front of him as Johnson, the desk sergeant, came into the room. Johnson was a short-timer on restricted duty until his pension came through in a month.

  “Logan, what are you doing here?”

  “Covering for Joe, who went out for a smoke.”

  “This is a restricted area.”

  “Yeah.” Steve grimaced for effect. “Rather be on the street. Fucking shit . . .”

  Johnson shook his head. “You crossed the captain, you pay the price.” He handed Steve a folder. “Tell Joe no more than ten minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  Johnson shook his head again as he closed the door. Steve took a deep breath—would he say anything? Possibly, but it would get involved. And there would be paperwork with the captain involved. Did Johnson care?

  The Rhode Island state capitol building was modeled on the United States Capitol building in Washington, with a freestanding rotunda dividing the two houses of the legislature. Steve parked his car in a space behind the building with a sign on it that said State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. Office of Secretary of State. Dressed in a cotton knit shirt and jeans, he looked like a college kid.

  The clerk was a short, middle-aged man with a highway bald. Rising from his desk, as if unaccustomed to walk-in public visitors, he asked brusquely, “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for some incorporation papers.” Steve smiled nicely.

  “Are they for your corporation?” the clerk asked, looking Steve over from head to foot.

  “No. I need to verify some information.”

  The clerk went into his practiced speech. “You need to write a letter to the Secretary of State designating what information you want, what the purpose of the request is for . . .”

  Steve held up his badge, cutting the man off. “Let’s not make a big deal of this. I’m doing some background checking for the boss. I need the incorporation papers of Pawtucket Associates, East Side Properties, Main Street Development—either you can find them or I can find them. Or . . .” he let the final alternative hang in the air until the clerk began to move.

  Pausing for several seconds as if thinking about his options, the clerk asked again, “Pawtucket Associates? What were the other ones? What years were they incorporated?” He took a yellow legal pad from his desk.

  “I don’t know.”

  The clerk shook his head at having to do work. “Wait here.”

  Where was he going? Phoning headquarters to verify the investigation—the thought raced through Steve’s mind. What was his answer? Not official business but working out a hunch? That didn’t work. Maybe the complaints—that was it. Who needed to be held accountable for the complaints.

  The clerk emerged from a side room with a large, black ledger book.

  “Pawtucket Partners; Pawtucket Realty; Pawtucket Auto Body; Pawtucket Associates. Incorporated 1969.”

  He held it close. Steve put out his hand, and the man handed him the book. Steve thumbed through it, taking out his notebooks and copying the information on each corporation. He was careful to look at the incorporation dates, principals, legal address, as well as any attorneys who were involved. He spent most of the afternoon sitting in the corner of the room, much to the annoyance of the clerk. Steve was satisfied that he was an inconvenience rather than a threat to the clerk. Just another day on the job.

  At the end of the day, the picture was still not clear. Many of the corporations were owned by other corporations, but a few familiar names began appearing. He would have to go to Boston to look into the Massachusetts companies. He also had to get the directory of city and state officials—probably legislators as well. He could find them at the library. There were some colored pieces in the jigsaw puzzle, so it was beginning to take shape.

  Maybe Roxy could help. She was good at puzzles. They could do it together, lay all the files out on his floor, connect some dots, and figure out where the missing pieces were and how to get them. They would stay awake late into the night, drinking tea, and then they would make love, passionate love, releasing all the tension and stress building within him. He could still dream.

  CHAPTER 14

  I WILL SURVIVE

  Called in for the day shift, Steve entered the squad room. Fifty cops from different shifts mixed in a football team warm-up. Working a day off was not unusual, but the last-minute call for so many uniformed cops was; Steve knew it was more than construction site duty. A sergeant appeared with two carts filled with riot helmets and long batons.

  “Listen up,” Captain Lynch shouted. “You’ve been called in today because we’ve gotten word that there’s some type of demonstration. It might stay peaceful, but we need to show sufficient force to make certain that happens. No valid parade permits have been issued. Men will go out four to a car and bring three wagons in case these assholes don’t understand English. I expect all of you to stay in tight formation.”

  Dylan asked Steve as they left, “What the fuck?”

  “Got me. I was told to report for day shift.”

  Steve and Dylan packed into a squad car with two other cops. Riding in back, behind the cage that separated the prisoner from the driver, Steve felt they were wild animals about to be set loose on an unsuspecting public. The cars formed a caravan from headquarters over the bridge and pulled onto the streets of Fox Point. The squad cars parked in a double line, blocking off two intersecting streets. The captain ordered the men to line up in two straight lines.

  With their longer riot clubs in front of them, Steve, in his riot helmet, was positioned at the far right of the first line. Captain Lynch marched in front with a bullhorn. On command, they slowly marched up the street, side by side in perfect unison, filling the entire distance from curb to curb. Steve saw windows in the wooden apartment buildings open, heads appearing to watch the scene below.

  “This is an illegal assembly. This is an official warning to disperse,” Lynch squawked through the megaphone as the police line stopped, facing the crowd.

  The group of people had swelled to more than one hundred. The mixed crowd had many sightseers and well-wishers. On the front stoop of the house, elevated over the crowd, was Father Schmidt, in his grey Franciscan robes. Close to the priest were fifty to seventy-five people, including immigrant families and college students with signs that said Stop the Greedy Landlords and Save our Homes.

  Steve looked at the people facing him, women with doughy faces older than their years, with clothes from secondhand stores, and men with hard hands from manual work, with resignation but resistance in their eyes. These were people fighting for their homes in this new country. College kids, kids he would see on campus in navy pea coats, stood up for the oppressed as acts of defiance to their privilege. Steve was standing erect, remembering the demonstration downtown, where the police phalanx had been impersonal and intimidating. He realized some of the cops next to him were nervously tapping their batons into their hands. Steve was tense; he didn’t want to hurt these people in front of him. He should be on their side, but . . .

  Without the aid of a microphone, Father Schmidt spoke in his accented voice. “You cannot seize these peoples’ homes. They have nowhere to live. This is the greedy capitalists, grinding down the working man. This is wrong, an abomination against God and man.”

  Lynch replied through the grey bullhorn, “This is an illegal assembly. You must disperse. There is a legal order of eviction, and we will execute it. This gathering is illegal. I warn you: Disperse now.” His voice had turned from patient to angry.

  The crowd beg
an to sing, “We shall overcome, we shall overcome, we shall overcome someday . . .”

  “Father, please,” Lynch said to the priest. “Tell these people to disperse or they will be arrested.”

  Father Schmidt replied, “We will not be moved.” He signaled everyone to sit down and lock arms.

  “Fuck,” Lynch said under his breath, turning to his troops as two television news trucks arrived with cameramen and reporters scurrying to the scene.

  “Let’s clear this place quickly,” the captain shouted to the officers closest to him. “Keep those news guys away, and get that fucking priest in the wagon first. Then this group will run. Clear the street,” he ordered the men, waving his hand forward like a cavalry officer in an old Western. Steve saw the dark shadow of anger on the captain that he remembered from the march down the hill after Kent State.

  The police line moved into the crowd. The cops began yelling at people, telling them to move and pushing them back toward the houses. The resistance was passive; each individual was a struggle to move as they flopped into dead weight. Steve saw a group of police officers advance toward Father Schmidt, who was still standing on the stoop, but now was surrounded by a human shield of his supporters. The police attempted to pry them apart, but the crowd pushed back, knocking over one cop, who fell heavily to the sidewalk.

  Jumping up, the cop hit the man in front of him with his baton, drawing a scream of pain. The protesters screamed at the cops and pushed more aggressively at the line. The police surged forward, now using their clubs to part the crowd. Protestors were being pulled and driven to the wagons, some bleeding. Rocks and bottles sailed in a wide arc from the back of the crowd, hitting both cops and protesters.

  The cops’ surge became more frenzied, with a new urgency to get protesters into the wagons before they were overwhelmed by the crowd.

  Steve could feel the adrenaline racing as he pleaded with a woman with dark, unwashed hair pulled tight under a striped green scarf.

  “You don’t want to go to jail. Please leave. Por favor.”