by Henry Hack
“Remember me, you miserable rat?” Ziad said as he passed the knife blade back and forth across the bartender’s face.
Richie’s eyes widened more and he tried to squirm from Satam’s grip.
“I’m not going to kill you too quickly my friend. You will suffer much before you die. You will have plenty of time to think what a terrible mistake you made when you threw me through your door.”
He flicked the tip of the blade across Richie’s cheek. The blood spurted and ran down to Satam’s hands, still around Richie’s throat. He backed away as Ahmed said, “I’ll show you how to make this rat suffer.”
He fired the silenced Beretta into Richie’s right kneecap. Richie moaned with pain and leaned on his side whimpering like a dog hit by a car. Satam jumped out and stretched Richie out on the seat. Ziad reached in and thrust his knife in right at the top of the belt buckle on Richie’s trousers. Richie started to scream, but Ziad clamped his left hand over Richie’s mouth and deliberately drew the blade upward in a sawing motion to the bottom of his rib cage.
“How does that feel, my Mick bartender friend?”
Satam reached in with his knife. “Ziad, let me put the finishing touch on this rotten infidel’s throat.”
“No, no.” He grabbed Satam’s arm and pulled it away. “I want him to die slowly and painfully.”
“But I haven’t had a shot at him yet.”
“Use this,” Ahmed said, grinning as he handed him the Beretta.
“Ah, yes.”
Richie desperately clutched at his stomach trying to keep his insides from spilling out when the slug tore into his left knee. His arms flapped to his sides and his stomach opened wide. Tears ran down his cheeks. He tried to scream, but couldn’t.
Satam returned the gun to Ahmed. They slammed the car’s doors closed and glanced around the parking lot. Complete silence wrapped tightly around the icy night. They jogged back through the alley, across the street and into the Chevy. The engine coughed once, twice, and then kicked over. Ahmed was proud of Satam and Ziad. They had done well on this mission, praise Allah, and he would report their performance in glowing terms to his section chief. Ahmed would have loved to have carved “OBL-911” onto the forehead of this pig, but the time had not yet arrived. This had been the best training exercise thus far for Cell #3 – the best indeed.
●
When Harry had returned to his apartment he turned all the phone ringers to the off position. He moved the volume to zero and put the answering machine under the bed. He desperately needed a few hours sleep to clear his head and get his story straight for the calls from the precinct, the detectives, and the bosses that were sure to come when Richie’s body was discovered. He pulled off his clothes, dropped onto the bed and fell asleep in less than five minutes, but a half hour later weird dreams woke him. His tossing, turning half-sleep continued for several hours until finally, mercifully, he passed out completely.
Harry finally opened his eyes at three in the afternoon to a weak Christmas Day sun filtering through the blinds. He sat up and reached for his pack of cigarettes but they were not on the nightstand in their usual spot. That small item of unfamiliarity startled him into complete wakefulness as the events of the previous evening rushed at him with full force. He finally found them, in the pocket of his shirt from the pile of clothes on the floor beside him, and lit up. He dragged deeply and headed for the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. He dared not yet look at the answering machine, but its presence was tangible and he could not put off confronting its dreadful contents much longer.
Three cups of coffee and three cigarettes later he stripped off his underwear and went into the shower. The hot stinging spray began to revive him. He deeply inhaled the moist steam, and the beer hangover began to clear from his sinuses and lungs. As he gradually adjusted the water from hot, to warm, to cool, he reviewed the awful events of the night before. After shaving he dressed in a sport shirt and slacks and washed down two aspirin with a large tumbler of ice cold orange juice. He had to face the machine sooner or later, but he couldn’t force himself to reach under the bed. He had to know exactly what he would say. He had to be sure he would be in control. Then he thought he might get lucky. Maybe nobody called. Maybe Richie survived. But deep down Harry knew. He knew those three guys had come back with only one purpose – to kill Richie Winston. He didn’t kill Richie – they did. He wasn’t guilty of any crime, and if he was guilty of dereliction of duty, who would discover it unless he told them?
As he prepared toast and fried eggs his bravado began to slip away. He may not have violated any criminal statute, but he had violated his basic oath of office and betrayed the decency and compassion that supposedly came with membership in the human race. He had allowed a man to die without raising a finger to help. Harry knew his real crime was the terrible fact he hadn’t tried. He had betrayed his silver shield, and turned away from a human being in desperate need of his help.
He pushed the half eaten plate of eggs away and repressed an involuntary shiver. He needed a bracer – bad. He took the bottle of scotch from the kitchen cabinet and poured a generous amount into a water glass. He swallowed most of it down in the first gulp, feeling its warmth penetrate through his chest to his stomach. It was time to face the consequences of his betrayal.
Harry reached under the bed and withdrew the answering machine. Only after it was in its proper place on the nightstand did he dare look at it. The red digital message light flashed “5.” Harry stared at it and took another swallow of scotch. The prime objective was to keep his story straight. But what the hell was his story anyway? He took his hand back from the play button and reached into the nightstand’s drawer for pencil and paper. He lit another cigarette and wrote:
Hear glass breaking somewhere behind me. Run back and find young man lying in snow in front of Bird’s Nest Bar. Appears to have been thrown through glass door. Go in bar and confront Richie Winston, the bartender. During questioning of Richie about the incident grab him by the throat and squeeze hard. Damnit, about seven witnesses. Realize the victim has left scene. No complainant, no crime. Leave the bar and sign off duty at callbox and drive home. Have to leave it right there. Cannot mention trip back to bar in civilian clothes.
●
Harry hit the play button. The disembodied mechanical voice said, “You have five unplayed messages, first message 5:42 a.m. Sunday, December 25.” The voice that followed belonged to the midnight tour desk sergeant. “Harry, Sergeant Miller here. I figure you got the phones turned down after working a four to twelve tour, but we got a little problem found on your post by the sector car. Give me a call if you get this before I go off duty at 7:30. If not, call my relief, Sergeant Adamo and he’ll fill you in. Bye, and have a Merry Christmas.”
Harry chuckled at the term little problem used by Miller. In police language that almost always translated into major fuck-up. He frowned and wondered why Miller hadn’t just come out and told him it was a murder, and the victim was Richie? Was he withholding this information for a reason? Did they already suspect him? Harry went back to the kitchen for a refill of scotch adding a couple ice cubes this time to the water glass. He returned to the bedroom and played the next message. “Second message, 8:07 a.m.,” said the electronic ghost.
“Harry? Are you there? Pick up. Harry, this is Sergeant Adamo. Can you pick up? Okay, as soon as you get this message give me a call or call upstairs to the detectives. We have a big one that happened on your post sometime early this morning and the dicks are looking for any info you can provide on the victim, one Richard Winston, bartender at the Bird’s Nest. I know it’s Christmas and you may still be sleeping, but get back to us before you head out for Christmas dinner, okay?”
Harry felt relieved. His failure to answer the phone for the first two messages could be explained by the fact he was asleep at the times of the calls. Adamo’s request seemed legitimate since he had given up the fact this was a big one, named the victim, and that it occurred on his post
. He took a sip of his drink and hit the play button again. “Third message, 9:22 a.m. – Officer Cassidy, this is Detective Nick Faliani, Nine-Five Squad. It is imperative I speak with you forthwith concerning an incident that occurred on your post. This is a major investigation, Officer, so get back to me right away.”
Imperative? Forthwith? Yeah, I’ll get back to you right away – just don’t hold your breath, buddy boy.
Harry was not fond of Nicholas Faliani, a veteran of six months as a third grade detective, with a total of five years on the Job. Nick thought he was God’s greatest gift to the Nine-Five squad, to the detective division, and probably to the entire New York Metro Police Department, and most certainly to any female between the ages of sixteen and sixty regardless of race, color, size, shape or looks. His black, slicked back hair, narrow moustache and choice of suits reminded Harry of a mafia capo. But why was Faliani catching this case? Where was the homicide squad detective? The next message answered those questions as if the machine had read his mind and magically responded.
“Fourth message, 10:38 a.m. – How are you, Hoppy, old buddy? Pop Hunter here. Listen, I caught this caper here on your beat. Just back from the scene, saw the glass and boarded up door on the Nest and wondered if we could have a few words. No rush, I know it’s Christmas Day, and Richie ain’t going anywhere. Detective Faliani and I are going to hit the bricks for a few hours. Try to reach me here later this afternoon if you can, or call me at home tonight, same number. Take care, Hoppy.”
Harry smiled. Charlie “Pop” Hunter – now there was a real detective. He recalled their days at the Police Academy when they had been recruits together. That they should develop a close friendship was an oddity. Harry was twenty-two, fresh out of college, and Charlie was thirty-eight, a couple years out of the U.S. Army where he had put in ten years. At the lunch on their first day Harry ended up seated across the table from Charlie. “Hi, I’m Charlie Hunter,” he said extending his hand out to Harry.
Harry took the offered hand in a firm grip and said, “I’m Harry Cassidy.”
“With a name like Cassidy your first name should be Hoppy.”
“Hoppy?”
“Sure – six foot two, eyes of blue, black shirt, black pants. I bet you have a white horse tied up out there in the parking lot, too.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? A white horse…?”
“Topper was his name – Hoppy’s horse. Don’t you remember those old re-runs with Hopalong Cassidy as the hero cowboy?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, you’re probably too young to even remember the re-re-runs. Hoppy was all black and white. He fought the bad guys and always won. Hoppy and his crew would ride out from the Bar-20 ranch to confront evil. No grays, no indecision; all choices were easy – yes or no, shoot or don’t shoot.”
“What does this Hoppy guy have to do with me?”
“You’re just like him, kid. I can see it. You can’t wait to get out of the Academy, mount your white police car and battle crime. You versus the criminals on your beat. No grays, no indecision, snap the cuffs on, move on to the next bad guy, never look back.”
“Is that so bad, to be like Hopalong Cassidy?”
“The problem is it’s no longer a black and white world. You may think so, but it’s all turned to a fuzzy gray.”
Harry chewed his ham and Swiss sandwich, swallowed, looked over at Charlie and said, “I didn’t know lessons continued into the lunch hour, especially Philosophy 101. I think I have a good nickname for you, Charlie – the Old Philosopher.”
Charlie laughed. “Never been called a philosopher before. Sorry for the lecture.”
“No, no, don’t be sorry. You caught my interest. Someday I’ll rummage around the ancient history section of the video store and see if I can find some of those re-runs to prove to myself this guy Hoppy was for real and you’re not just yanking my chain.”
Harry’s nickname, “Hoppy,” had stuck like glue, but Charlie’s “Old Philosopher” did not. Instead, the more mundane “Pop,” which was automatically assigned to the oldest recruit in the class, followed Charlie Hunter like a faithful dog. Hoppy and Pop had not concluded their friendship on graduation day and Harry was now relieved Pop had caught the Winston case. He could trust him to do the right thing. Harry shuddered as he realized one of the best investigators on the Force would be working to crack Richie’s murder with all his skills and cunning. And what if Harry turned up in his sights? Would Pop pull the trigger on him? Then the words of their old, Irish Academy class sergeant flashed through Harry’s mind – Whatever you do out there on the street lads and lassies remember this one thing above all – Never tarnish your shield or your wedding band. Keep to this and all will be fine.
●
The machine still flashed with the fifth, and final, message. He hit the play button one more time. “Hello, Daddy. Merry Christmas!” Patty, his younger daughter said. “Are you there, Daddy? We got your presents. They were under the tree this morning.” Then his older daughter Lizzy said, “Merry Christmas, Daddy. We love you. I guess you’re working again. Thanks for the presents. Good-bye, Daddy. Call us when you get home from work.”
Just what he needed to make him feel even worse. It was the first Christmas since the divorce he hadn’t been with his children. Despite his loud protests, the Family Court judge ruled Peggy could take them with her when she moved to Pennsylvania, as she was the custodial parent. Now they had been gone ten months and he had seen his daughters only a few times when he got the chance. Anger rose in his throat as he thought of Peggy leaving him and taking his girls away. Then, as he thought of his two beautiful little darlings, the anger faded and hot tears gushed down his cheeks and splashed on top of the answering machine.
Chapter Three
Harry swallowed the last mouthful of watery scotch and checked the time. It was almost four o’clock. He had better call in. Although he was nervous as hell, he had to find out what Pop already knew; only then could he fill in his memo book with the appropriate description of the incident.
He lit a cigarette and dialed the stationhouse switchboard, his notes spread out on the kitchen table. The phone was picked up on the fifth ring: “Sergeant Harris, Nine-Five Precinct.”
“Harry Cassidy, Sarge. Merry Christmas.”
“Hey, same to you, Hop. I was just getting ready to call you.”
“I figured. I just played the messages from Sergeant Miller and Sergeant Adamo. I also got a couple of messages to call the squad. Something about a guy getting whacked on my post early this morning?”
“It seems your old buddy bartender at the Nest got sliced and diced pretty good in the wee hours.”
“Richie Winston?”
“Yeah. I don’t know all the details, but Hunter from Homicide is here with Faliani. They just got in a few minutes ago. Hold on, I’ll switch you up.”
“Nine-Five detectives,” Faliani answered.
“Hey, Nick, it’s Cassidy. I just got…”
“Cassidy! It’s about time you called in. We got a major biggie here and you…”
“Hey, shut the hell up and put a real detective on the phone. Put Pop Hunter on.”“I got this case, too, Harry. You gotta talk to me sometime, you know.”
“Get something straight, Nick. You’re not my boss. There are no stripes on the sleeves of your shiny suits and no gold bars on the collar of your white-on-white shirts, so this conversation is over. Put Hunter on.”
A few seconds later Harry heard, “Detective Hunter.”
“Hey, Pop. It’s Harry.”
“Hoppy, what the hell did you say to young Nick that got him so stirred up and red in the face?”
“How did that poor excuse of a patrol cop, and now a worse excuse of a detective, ever get a gold shield?”
“Hoppy, I have to work with him. Lighten up.”
“All right, all right. Sergeant Adamo told me Richie Winston got his just reward last night. Solve the case yet?”
“I
hope you could help me with that one since Richie ain’t talking.”
“I may have something for you, but tell me what happened to Richie. Let me know what you have so far so I can figure out if what I have might help you.”
Harry held his breath, hoping his long friendship with Pop wouldn’t create a suspicion over his request that Pop “go first.”
“Here’s what we have. About 4:20 this morning, somebody picked up the phone in the callbox on Hempstead Avenue and 20th Street. Sergeant Miller identified himself, but got no response. About ten seconds later the phone was hung up. Miller became suspicious. He figured maybe someone was hurt or needed help and couldn’t talk. He called Davis and McCarthy on the radio in Sector Baker and had them check out the area around the callbox. They looked around and then checked behind the stores and they spotted Richie’s car in the parking lot behind the Nest. Richie was sprawled in the front seat, and he didn’t look good.”
“What do you mean he didn’t look good?”
“He didn’t look good because half his guts were slithering out between his hands. With all the usual Christmas Eve family slugfests there were no ambulances in service nearby, so they put him in back seat of the radio car and raced to the Nassau Medical Center. In the emergency room they found he was cut from his balls to his neck and for extra measure, a nine millimeter slug was lodged in each kneecap. Somebody didn’t like your old pal much at all.”
“Holy crap. Knee-capped him and sliced him up?”
“I know you despise Richie, but besides you, who would’ve done him like that?”