by John Misak
One
I think it was the night that I considered starting a heroin habit that things started to change. It wasn’t out of depression, or over a lost love that I considered such a dark thing. It was boredom. Boredom caused from the monotony of my life, of everybody’s life perhaps. I wanted something new, something that I could make my own, something that could transport me to a more exciting place. A place where I could feel contentment. A place where no one could touch me, or bother me with the same problems they bothered me with almost every day. I knew it was foolish. I knew I wouldn’t ever do it. At least, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t. But it was the excitement of thinking about it that stimulated my creativity again, breathing life into my dead mind. I needed that, more than ever I suppose.
It was a Tuesday, a day which usually brought more boredom than usual. It was my day off, a day I should do my chores, pay my bills, go to the store, and stock my ever-bare cabinets. I never did much on Tuesdays, except think about the fact that I had nothing interesting to do. I hated Tuesdays. I preferred to work, to have something occupy my mind. Then, thoughts of doing drugs wouldn’t enter my idle mind. At work my mind had more pressing concerns that prevented this enveloping boredom. I had a good job. At least, I thought I did. I was a cop. And yes, I knew full well the implications of starting such a habit, considering my profession, but that hadn’t stopped hundreds of men who came before me in my line of work. They set the precedent. I only wished to follow it. I think that was the reason I didn’t do it. Someone else already had. Someone had taken that route. I wanted to do something different. I wanted to be considered a pioneer I guess, a man who broke some sort of new ground. Heroin, though a good avenue to take if you need a change of pace, was not my new ground.
Instead of having to look for a way to break new ground, the way came to me. I guess that’s how things work. A case - one that would change the face of law enforcement itself (or at least it seemed so) - would be the vehicle. I didn’t know it right then, but I think I sensed it. I always got an upset stomach before a big case came in. Working Homicide meant that my stomach was almost always upset, especially in New York City. But this wasn’t going to be a normal homicide case, at least not from the outset. But, as always, I am getting ahead of myself. There’s more background information that needs to be gone over before I can get into that. I’m not one to expound on details, mainly because I think chatty people are annoying at best. So forgive me if I take on this quality for a little while. Unfortunately, it’s the only way.
So many things have been said about the NYPD that I am quite certain no civilian has any idea what really goes on here. I’ve watched the television shows that try to be a realistic portrayal of life on the New York job. They suck. I’m not being critical, it’s just impossible to convey real-life police images on a television screen. Actors living in Hollywood can’t really comprehend what really goes on, and the writers don’t know either, unless they are real police officers. Even then, it doesn’t always come out right. For instance, COPS comes close, but the real cops become the actors, and the camera can change anyone. The minute they become an actor for the camera, they stop being cops, and some truth is lost. Basically, the job is boring most of the time. You deal with a lot of stiffs that no one cares about. There is no Law and Order type stuff going on too often, unless you work on the Upper West Side and, even then, most cases are so cut and dry, they solve themselves. So, as much as I hate to admit it, there really isn’t much in the way of drama or theatrics on my job. Most of my caseload includes junkies killed by other junkies. To be honest, most of the time we don’t even bother prosecuting because the victims have no family, and the accused are in bad enough shape as it is, and will be dead in a few weeks by a similar incident. All the talk about cleaning up the streets of New York is just that - talk. All they’ve done is move the filth underneath the carpet, so to speak. Trust me, no one wants to see what’s under that carpet.
So, I considered myself more of a garbage inspector, sort of a sanitational investigator, if you will. We collect the dead garbage, so that the live stuff has more room to live. Occasionally, we get a ripe case, something like a hooker apparently killed by a big shot corporate exec, but these cases usually end up in countless appeals and legal tangles that does nothing but occupy a cop’s time. More often than not, it’s our shoddy investigative work that creates the mess, or at least that’s what the lawyers have determined. It’s gotten to the point where most of the department doesn’t even want a case thrown on their desk. Any one of them could lead to a demotion, or, more likely, a dismissal. I won’t even get started on criminal charges, which happen more frequently than do indictments of real killers. Since I started on the job, which had to be about nine years ago, I’ve gotten twenty-seven convictions, two hung juries, and about fifty dead-end cases. I’ve also seen three cops in my precinct get indicted on charges they weren’t guilty of. They were just scapegoats, victims of the criminal justice system, which was on the verge of collapse. Luckily, the people in the ivory tower haven’t gotten a hold of me yet, mainly because I have the good fortune of never getting a high profile case. Luck can only run for so long.
Okay, enough about how insignificant my work is. That information, though possibly interesting and valid as background, is, um, insignificant.
It was a Tuesday, like I said before, and I was really thinking of doing something to break the boredom. Why heroin? Well, a friend of mine, a guy who will go only by the name Jack, planted the seed in my mind almost fifteen years ago. I was a snot-nosed teenager, whining about how life was boring and how much I wanted to do something that was cool. Like I knew what cool was in the first place. I just wanted to do something that made me different. Jack, ever the helpful guy, told me about heroin.
“It’s better than sex man,” he said in that slow, almost drooling drawl that addicts take on after a few hits of the stuff. “It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”
Considering that I hadn’t truly experienced what sex was like, unless the numerous excursions to the bathroom with a jar of hand cream counted, jumping ahead to something even better right out of the chute seemed compelling. I hadn’t ever experimented with drugs, so they held a certain allure - a dark aura. Kids are attracted to dark auras. Compelled by them, if you will. What didn’t seem compelling was my father’s reaction if he ever found out. Not compelling at all.
“What? Come on. How could it be better than sex?”
“It just is.” He had a grin a mile wide.
“How?”
“The only way for you to know is to do it yourself.” He produced a small wax-paper bag with brown powder in it. “Skip gym, and we’ll do this behind Shop-Rite.”
I looked at the bag for a moment, considering the power it contained. It would take me to another dimension, I thought, and I tingled at the idea of it. That’s all I did. I didn’t cut class when I was in high school. My mother, much to my misfortune, was friendly with the attendance lady, and she always made sure to contact good old Mom whenever I didn’t show up. Bitch.
“Nah, man, not today. Maybe some other time.”
Jack held the bag up and shook it. “Better than sex, man,” he said as he walked away toward the supermarket.
We didn’t talk much after that year. Jack got his “improved sex” too often and was hauled off to jail during junior year. I tried to look him up a few times after I got on the job, but I couldn’t find a trace of him. Probably dead. But the image of him holding that bag and saying, “Better than sex, man” has stayed with me ever since, clear as day. I never really wanted to try it, because I knew what it did to people. It messed them up, and my life was a serious of messes that no one could clean. But I got bored. I’d had plenty of sex
in my life, some of it pretty good. The thought of doing something better that didn’t come with someone who you had to talk to, buy dinner, and basically keep happy seemed perfect. Well, almost. And I came real close.
It was a phone call which saved me from the brown demon. I was sitting in my living room, listening to some talk radio show where the host ranted about the problems of the world. It wasn’t that I cared what he had to say, he was a jackass, but I had nothing else better to do, and I didn’t feel like listening to music or watching the train wreck known as prime time TV.
The phone rang and I looked at it, one of those Cobra cordless jobs without an antenna, which I bought because it looked so cool on Seinfeld. Like I said, train wreck. I debated about letting the answer machine get it and, in retrospect, maybe I should have done that.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You moron.” Of course, it could be anyone uttering those words to me, but this time it was someone from the department - Rick “Listen to Me Because I’ll Be Your Boss Someday” Calhill. We worked on a few stiffs sometimes, and he always called me whenever he needed advice. He was an okay guy, but he was too concerned about moving upward for my taste. I would never make it past Sergeant, if I even made it that far. I had the coveted gold badge, and I got it earlier than most did. I was happy with that. Rick wasn’t.
“Coming from a two-bit flatfoot like you, that really doesn’t say much.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sitting in my apartment, looking down on the street, waiting for the next stiff.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Well, it’s not like I can go out looking for them.”
“Anyway, come meet me at Kasey’s.”
“What for?”
“Something big. Real big. Major.” Rick sounded excited, but then, he always did. Like every twist and turn of life was something to get riled up about. It was another reason why I didn’t like him.
“I don’t feel like going anywhere. I’m in my boxers, and the only clean clothes I have are the ones I’m wearing tomorrow.”
“So put something dirty on. Trust me, you’ll want to hear about this one. It’s huge, and I want you in on it with me.”
I looked around the apartment, my tired eyes falling upon the empty pizza box from the day before. I could go meet Rick, or I could straighten up the place a bit.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“I’ll have a drink ready for you.”
“Yeah.”
I hung up, and started to get back into the clothes I’d thrown on the bed. Well, my foray into the world of drugs and scumbags would have to wait another day. I didn’t want to admit it then, but I was thankful to Rick for making the call. Whatever it was he had, even another bullshit case, would occupy my mind for a little while, and I could milk him for a couple of drinks. If it was as big as he said it was, a dinner wasn’t even out of the question.
The watch my grandfather gave me told me it was just before nine. Fourth Avenue, which was right outside my window, had started to slow down. No more honking taxis and stressed out commuters, thank God. Everyone was stressed. It made me laugh. After being on the force for nine years, I realized how good I had it. I had a reason to be stressed, yet, I wasn’t. The people who passed by during rush hour below my window didn’t have a reason. They just needed to be shown better. They didn’t spend their lives looking at the wasted part of society, the broken lives and shattered bodies that occupy the underbelly of the city. They didn’t worry about where their next meal came from, they didn’t have death sitting right next to them, waiting for their turn. Their prime concerns revolved around credit card debt, the worry of not being able to make the upgrade from a Japanese to a German import car, and such. When you break it down, it’s all about money. When you have a job that doesn’t deal with law enforcement, healing the sick, teaching children, or being a priest, you’re doing the job for the paycheck. You’re not making a difference selling stocks or anything else. At the end of the day, you haven’t really contributed anything. It’s no different than the hooker who lays on her back ten times a night for twenty bucks a shot. So, these people make up for this lack by driving a nice car, bragging about the seat they get at the Knicks game, and wearing suits that cost more than my rent.
I got into the outfit that cost less than what those guys spend on dinner, strapped on my holster, and put on the beaten brown leather jacket I’d had since I’d started on the job. It didn’t have someone’s name on the inside label, but it was all mine, and all me. I walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, a tired man looked back at me. It was just what I’d expected to see, but it was still enough to give me a jolt. I wasn’t old. I had just turned 32. But I looked older to myself. I know that most people, when they read a story told by someone, want to know what that someone looks like, so I’ll indulge that desire for a moment. I stand at about 6 feet, weigh just shy of the magic 200 mark, and have dark brown hair. Actually, as I looked in the mirror, there was a war going on in that hair. The gray uniforms were attacking the browns, and though it appeared that the browns were holding off the attack pretty well, the grays had the momentum. I actually looked forward to going completely gray, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. I read somewhere that 83% of women find men with gray hair sexy. That was a comforting thought. As far as what I look like, my eyes are brown, my features comparable to Martin Sheen before he got bloated and messed up, and I think I’ve got it together well enough. Some women find me attractive, but that wears off after they deal with me for a week. Oh, and I am single. If you’re interested, and are a good looking female who can tolerate an intolerable man, you can look me up through the New York Police Department. Detective John Keegan. Don’t send flowers. I don’t like them.
I finished gawking at the ravages of time on my face and got my gun, a chrome Smith and Wesson 380, and put it into my shoulder holster, under my jacket. I grabbed the pack of Marlboros on the TV, and shook the pack. About three left, so good old Rick would have to front the six bucks Kasey’s stole from you for a pack of cigarettes as well. Price you gotta pay.
When I made it to Kasey’s, which was about four blocks east of me on Fourth, the place was fairly packed. Four guys in suits sat at the end of the bar by the door, watching the Ranger game. Kasey’s was pretty much a cop joint, though I don’t really know how a place becomes something like that. It’s not near any precinct, and though it is a down to earth place, there’s really nothing there that stands out which would make it suitable for blue shirts. Those guys at the end were welcome to come in, but they didn’t fit, and it was obvious. They were the only ones talking over a whisper.
John, the bartender, nodded when I walked in. I’d known him for about three years, when he started there, and I think we had about two conversations that lasted more than a minute. Still, we had an understanding. He poured the drinks, I drank them and, if there was something interesting to talk about, we did. A Billy Joel song played quietly on the jukebox, “The Entertainer,” I think. I never liked the man, or his music. That stuff was for Long Island kids who thought they were being bad by listening to a man sing about blowjobs or doing pot. What I did notice about Joel was that his fans were dedicated. You heard one of his songs on the jukebox, like “The Entertainer,” you knew for damn sure that “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant,” “Piano Man,” and “Goodnight Saigon,” weren’t far behind. Yeah, this guy could sing about being in Vietnam, the same way I could sing about wearing a dress. But Christ, don’t go telling a Billy Joel fan that.
John gestured toward a booth in the corner, and I saw the back of Rick’s blonde head sticking out. I walked over to the booth, and was greeted by Rick’s wide smile, the one he always wore when he smelled a good case. His sense of smell wasn’t particularly good and, at that moment, when I really thought about it, I realized how morbid he was being excited because someone had died. But we all got excited when someo
ne died, especially someone of some importance. Sick, I know. Very sick.
“Jackass,” he said. I always used that word, and Rick abused it. Reason number three for why I generally couldn’t stand him.
“Coming from the Chief,” I replied, and sat down to a Dewars and coke before me. The ice hadn’t even started to melt. As a matter of fact, it was still crackling. I liked that. It showed that Rick cared enough to wait for the right time to order the drink. Either that, or John knew better. It didn’t make a difference. I was still happy.
I took a long sip, let the booze slide down my throat and warm me, then looked at Rick. “What’ve you got?”
“Oh boy.” He was still smiling.
“Uh-huh.” Another sip.
“I’m telling you John, this is it. I just have a feeling. This is the one that’s gonna put me over the top.”
“Like the pet store owner two months ago. That one was real huge.”
“No, this is different.” It must have been, because his voice was going up and down an octave as he talked. He was an excitable sort of guy, but he was really going on this one.
“Who is it?”
“You know Ron Mullins?”
“The software guy?”
“That one.”
“What about him?” He started to speak, but I interrupted. “What is it other than the fact he’s dead?”
“Committed suicide.”
“Well, that makes for a big case. Especially if he left a note.”
“I don’t think it was a suicide.”
Good point. The man was worth a few billion dollars, and there were rumors floating around that he was about to enter the New York Senatorial race the next year. He had a gorgeous wife, two kids, a private jet, and just about everything else that goes along with being one of the luckiest bastards in the world. Suicide didn’t fit.
“Well, that makes sense. Unless he killed himself because he felt guilty making everyone else’s life look like shit.” I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. When I did, I realized there was only one left. I put it on my mouth, crushed the pack, and placed it on the table. I lit the cigarette, but before I could even inform Rick that he was buying me another pack, he clumsily reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh pack. Helluva guy, I gotta tell you. “Thanks,” I said.