Cassidy's Corner

by Henry Hack

  “I will, Rita. Bye.”

  ●

  Susan reached Elmont in twenty minutes. She cruised westbound on Hempstead Avenue and it didn’t take long for her to spot Cassidy. He strolled west toward the county line, on the south side of the avenue. She drove past him a few blocks then made a u-turn at the traffic light and headed back toward him. As she slowed to stop at the curb 40 feet in front of him, she reached into her handbag on the seat, and switched the tape recorder to the on position. She pressed the horn as Harry approached the Ford. Harry walked over to the passenger’s side window which Susan had powered down. He looked in, smiled, threw a snappy salute and said, “Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sergeant Goldman. How are you this foin freezin’ day?”

  She couldn’t help but smile back, and when she did, Harry’s heart twitched.

  “Sit down, Officer,” she said, pointing to the passenger seat next to her.

  Harry opened the door and got in. He looked directly into her eyes and said, “First you send out the scouts, and now the cavalry appears?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “C’mon, Sarge. I spotted them immediately.”

  “Spotted who?”

  “The scouts. The spies. Your fellow IAD hounds. The surveillance teams, that’s who. Don’t pretend you don’t know they’re here.”

  “Officer Cassidy, I assure you I did not authorize, any surveillance of you.”

  “Then who did? The Russian? Would he do that and not tell you? Not too trusting is he?”

  “I don’t know if he did, or didn’t, order surveillance,” she lied. “He certainly didn’t tell me. And how are you so sure who you saw was IAD anyway?”

  “Who would they be? A couple of hit teams sent by Richie Winston? Give me a break. I signed on at the callbox this morning and there they were, sitting in a green sedan – one black guy, one white guy – drinking coffee at the back of the supermarket lot. I made them in thirty seconds and they didn’t even know it. I took my first tour of the beat and ten minutes later they cruised past me. Five minutes after that a brown sedan with two white guys, or maybe one Latino and one white guy, drove by in the opposite direction eyeballing me.”

  “That doesn’t mean they are IAD. Maybe they are detectives working the Winston case, or Feds, or DEA agents.”

  “No way. I know all the dicks in the squad. And I can spot a Fed a mile away.”

  She remembered Gregorovich assuring her Cassidy would never make the surveillance of IAD’s best, but evidently the Russian hadn’t counted on the superior street smarts of Harry Cassidy. She said, “Officer, I’ll check into this for you, but I can’t promise anything. If the inspector put them in place, only he can remove them.”

  “Sergeant, please tell the Mad Russian I made his crack surveillance teams in half a minute. Tell him he, and they, are morons – and tell him he is wasting a tremendous amount of manpower trying to find something that isn’t there.”

  “Shall I tell him in those exact words?”

  Raising his voice as he spoke, his anger visible by the red color that crept from his neck to his forehead, he said, “Preferably, but just tell him. If I see these assholes tomorrow, I’ll roust them. I’ll embarrass the shit out of them, the Russian, and the Department. Yeah, you tell him.”

  “Please calm down,” she said. “I’ll do my best. But take my advice on this. Don’t aggravate Gregorovich by doing anything foolish. Things are going pretty well for you so far. Don’t grab the Russian bear by the tail – you won’t survive the bite. By the way, is that anger you just displayed similar to what occurred in your confrontation with Richie Winston?”

  Harry took a deep breath and said, “No comment, Sarge. Are you now ready for your tour of the crime scene? Let’s get some fresh air and do some patrol. Oh, do me a favor and hang your shield on your coat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want the people on my beat to think I’m schmoozing some cutie in violation of my duty. Let them see you’re on the Job.”

  “Schmoozing some cutie? You and Sergeant Becker must watch the same old movies.”

  “I’m sure you know you are attractive, and not at all ugly, like a sergeant is supposed to be.”

  “You think I’m attractive, Officer Cassidy?”

  “Yes, ma’am – disturbingly so.”

  ●

  “This is where I was when I heard the sound of breaking glass,” Harry said, as they walked eastbound on Hempstead Avenue. “I was walking west when I heard it. I turned around and ran back east, toward the sound.”

  As they continued walking, Susan pulled her scarf up around her neck for protection against the raw east wind that had just picked up speed. She asked, “Were there any more sounds or shouts? Anything?”

  “No, nothing further. I stopped right here, took my gun out, and peeked around this building edge.”

  “You took your gun out?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I…I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure? Oh, I forgot. You’re not a street cop. Let me spell this out for you, the story that fleshes out the memo book entries. It’s dark. I’m alone. I hear glass breaking. A smash and grab burglary? A criminal mischief? A fight? Who the hell knows? I run two blocks in zero degree weather with fifteen pounds of clothes and equipment on, plus ten pounds extra on my gut that shouldn’t be there. I arrive gasping for air because I smoke too many goddamn cigarettes. Cold sweat is dripping down my back. And I’m going to turn the corner in this condition to confront who knows what, and you ask if I took my gun out?”

  “Of course, Officer. I understand now,” she said, wondering why he stayed on the beat. A Master’s degree and an offer to become a detective. What kept him out here in the cold, in the dark, in the danger zone?

  They walked down the street to the shuttered Bird’s Nest Lounge. Harry pointed out the spot in the snow where the young man, now the suspect, had been lying. They tried to look into the darkened bar with little success. They toured the parking lot where Richie had been found. Harry pointed out where the witness, Cheever, had watched the three guys go into the alley and return a few minutes later. “That’s about it,” he said. “Any questions?”

  “At that point did you plan to come back later?”

  “No, only after I got home and thought the incident over.”

  “Where did you park when you came back?”

  “Right about here,” he said, pointing to a spot about a hundred yards from the bar.

  “How come you didn’t park right in front of the Nest? Why so far away? Why walk any more than necessary in snow and bitter cold?”

  Harry reflected for only a split second before answering, “I didn’t want to park near the broken glass. Who needed a flat tire on a night like that?”

  An obvious lie, but he sure thinks fast on his feet.

  They walked up toward Hempstead Avenue and Harry said, “Are we done, Sergeant? Any more you’d like to see?”

  “Nothing now. Thank you very much for the tour.”

  “Going back into the office?”

  “Yes, I’m sure a load of paperwork awaits me.”

  “Do you want to grab a bite of lunch first? It’s after noon.”

  “You’re inviting me to lunch? Your inquisitor?”

  “Yes, I am – on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That we drop this sergeant/officer formal stuff for awhile. I respect your rank and will always call you sergeant in an official setting, but it’s driving me nuts now.”

  “Fine by me, Harry,” she said with a smile that caused another twitch in his chest.

  “Thanks, Susan,” he said with a smile of his own.

  “Any preference for lunch?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Believe it or not, a great number of fine restaurants, serving a variety of ethnic delights, are located on my beat – an eclectic mix, if you will. Unfortunately, most of them open at five
for dinner. That leaves the old standby, the Viceroy Diner.”

  “Good food there?”

  “Very good.”

  They reached the car and Harry said, “Do me a favor and first stop at the callbox. I better call in and let the desk sergeant know I’m alive.”

  “Sure, but why not use your radio?”

  “Radio? Do you see a radio? Us poor beat cops don’t get no stinkin’ radios. We don’t need no stinkin’ radios – we got phones in metal boxes.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said, recognizing his allusion to Alphonso Bedoya’s classic lines in the old Bogart flick, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, one of Rita Becker’s favorite old movies.

  “A typical bureaucratic snafu. The old radios were pulled out of service when the new ones started coming in. The only problem was the new system didn’t work right, so they recalled the new ones and tried to get the old ones back until repairs could be made on the new ones. But a lot of the old ones had already been sold off, or scrapped, so a shortage existed and the radio cars got first dibs. That’s why they’re calledradio cars, you know. Poor Officer Cassidy, and others like him who pound the beat, is back on the telephones.”

  “Does that concern you? On the beat with no way to call for back-up?”

  “Not at all. The streets were patrolled for 150 years by good beat cops, first using the nightstick for communication, and then the callbox system when Mr. Bell got around to inventing it. Besides, I have a cell phone in my pocket for emergencies. It works just as well as a departmental radio, and it’s a helluva lot lighter to carry.”

  “What about the nightstick?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said the old-time beat cops used their nightsticks for communication?”

  “Yeah. When they needed help from the cop on the adjoining foot post, they would crouch down and rap their stick rapidly on the cement,bap-bap-bap-bap. The cop on the next post would hear it and run to his assistance.”

  “You’re putting me on, aren’t you?”

  “No, ma’am, you can look it up, as Casey Stengel used to say. You may be a sergeant, but you sure don’t know much about real police work.”

  “I will look it up, wise guy,” she said.

  “Do that. Oops, there they go again.”

  “Who?”

  “Your snoops. That’s the sixth time one or the other car went by us since you arrived. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  “No. How could you pick that up and I couldn’t? Are you sure six times?”

  “As I said, you’re not a street cop. It’s something you develop over time, your powers of observation. You develop it because it’s probably your single best survival skill out here.”

  “But if it’s IAD, they must know I’m supposed to be here with you. Why would they bother?”

  “Maybe they’re not checking on me. Maybe they’re checking on you. Or, more likely, they’re probably checking on both of us.”

  ●

  Teddy Stavros greeted them as they entered the Viceroy Diner. “How are you Officer Cassidy? And who is this lovely lady with you?”

  “Meet Sergeant Goldman from Boro Headquarters.”

  “I am pleased to meet you, Sergeant. I am Teddy Stavros, owner of the famous Viceroy Diner.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Teddy,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Boro Headquarters? Harry must be involved in a big case. First two detectives meet with him, and now brass from Mineola.”

  “That’s right,” Harry said. “Important stuff.”

  “I am very glad to see you moving up in class. I’m impressed.”

  “Yeah, not like the lowlifes that normally frequent your place.”

  “Now, now, that’s why I let you in here, you know.”

  They all laughed at the good-natured banter, and Teddy called a waitress who led them to a secluded table in the back dining area. They settled in and Susan asked, “Who are the two detectives Teddy just mentioned?”

  “Hunter and Faliani. We all had lunch here on Tuesday after I worked with the sketch artist on the composite photo. We put our heads together and reviewed the case up to that time.”

  “What do you think of them? Good investigators?”

  “Pop Hunter from Homicide is for sure. If anyone can crack this case, he can.”

  “Something to drink, folks?” Kerry, the waitress, asked.

  “Tea with lemon, please,” Susan said.

  “Coffee for me, Kerry.”

  “What about Faliani?” Susan asked.

  “A flashy grease ball, but I’m changing my mind about him. He’s not an empty thousand-dollar suit like I first thought. He’s working hard on this case and getting results. Unfortunately, his hard work is causing me grief.”

  “How so?”

  “Every witness he finds claims I choked Winston. Four out of four, so far. You think he could get those scumbags to admit I just grabbed him by the lapels.”

  “Maybe Faliani’s got it in for you for calling him a grease ball. You sure have a way with words.”

  “I call ‘em as I see ‘em. I am not politically correct.”

  “If Faliani is a grease ball, is Hunter a nigger?”

  “Not at all. Pop Hunter is not a nigger, nor is he black, nor is he an African-American, a term, by the way, which I despise. Pop Hunter is an American who has brown skin. Period.”

  “Interesting perspective. What’s good for lunch? And what’s so funny?” she said, glancing at Harry who had suddenly begun giggling out loud.

  “The burgers and the omelets are great, but the luncheon specials are the best bang for a buck,” he said, essentially repeating what he told the detectives two days ago. He continued giggling.

  “Harry, what the hell is so funny?”

  “Your nickname.”

  “My nickname?”

  “Yes, you and your buddy, Becker. You’re known as the Kamikaze Twins.”

  “Kamikaze Twins? I don’t get it.”

  “You know what a Kamikaze was, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And who piloted those planes, Susan?”

  “The Japanese.”

  “Right, the Japs. Get it? J-A-P-s,” he spelled out. “Jewish American Princesses. You and Becker attacking us poor street cops, guns blazing, loaded with bombs.”

  Susan had to laugh as she conjured up the vision described by Harry. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m a Jap?”

  “Hey, if the shoe fits…”

  Despite being somewhat annoyed, she laughed along with him and shook her head, as a mother would shake her head in exasperation at her little boy who didn’t know any better.

  They studied the menu and Susan ordered a cup of matzo ball soup, which Harry recommended, and a small Greek salad, dressing on the side. Harry ordered a medium rare cheeseburger deluxe platter.

  “By the way,” Susan said, “how did you know about the fourth statement?”

  “I stopped at the stationhouse after I left headquarters. Pop and Nick filled me in. By the way, the other two guys who were in the bar are supposed to be in Florida until spring, according to this witness. He also said the guy who was in the bar when I went back might be namedSkranski, or Skowronski, or something along those lines. I told them that name, or something like it, sounded familiar to me. Maybe somebody I arrested. I certainly didn’t recognize him at all that night, and I got a good look at him.”

  Their food arrived and Harry said, “Soup and a salad. Mighty lean pickings. Watching your weight?”

  “You’re obviously not watching yours.”

  He followed her gaze to his platter overflowing with French fried potatoes, a dish of creamy coleslaw and the huge twelve-ounce cheeseburger, bulging out of the roll. “Hey, a guy has to eat. Besides, I don’t cook much at home.”

  “Maybe if you had soup and salad you wouldn’t have been huffing and puffing after running two blocks the other night.”

  “Touché. Listen, can you do something for me when you ge
t back?”

  “If I can. What is it?”

  “Go into the computer and punch in my serial number and look in the arrest category. See if any names similar to Skronski pop up. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “I’ll check that out. Those files are probably on my desk with a bunch of others related to you.”

  “Do those files tell you all you want to know about Harold T. Cassidy?”

  “Files can’t tell you everything about a person, you should know that.”

  “If you want to know what makes me tick, how about I tell you all you want to know that’s not in those files?”

  “Sure, when?”

  “How about at dinner on Saturday night?”

  She looked across the table at him for a long time before she spoke. “Harry, I can’t. It’s impossible.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m investigating you and I’m a supervising officer. It’s not only improper; I’m sure it would be a violation of the rules and regulations.”

  “Who’s going to know?”

  “Regardless, Saturday night is New Year’s Eve. I’m busy.”

  “Heavy date?”

  “No, a house party with a few friends out on the Island.”

  “House parties on New Year’s Eve don’t start till ten o’clock. We’ll have an early dinner at one of those great restaurants I spoke about before. This soup and salad nonsense doesn’t fool me. Deep down you’re aching for some real food, some Italian food. At Mario’s. Maybe veal Marsala with a side of linguini. Italian bread soaked in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Red wine. Maybe tiramisu or crème brulee for dessert. Espresso with anisette. Am I getting to you?”

  She smiled and thought he must be a mind reader about the Italian food, but she said, “Under different circumstances, I would love to have dinner with you, but until this case if over, I just cannot do it.”

  “This case is over. Wrap it up. Tell the Russian to call off the spies. Tell him to pull the tap off my phone.”

  “Your phone is not tapped. But I didn’t tell you that.”

  “Then they didn’t even have enough for a wire? More to my point. You know I didn’t do anything, the DA knows I didn’t do anything, and the Mad Russian knows I didn’t do anything.”

  “I’ll try to wrap it up as fast as I can. I promise you.”