The Deuce

by F. P. Lione

  THE

  DEUCE

  © 2005 by F. P. Lione

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  Ebook corrections 07.07.2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-3723-1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This book is dedicated to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who loved us and washed us from our sins in his own blood and has made us kings and priests unto his God and Father.

  And to Georgie, champion, overcomer, mighty man of valor. You have always been such a wonderful son.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Times Square, where Broadway crosses 7th Avenue, is known as the crossroads of the world. Millions of people from all walks of life come to New York every day, and the Port Authority, Penn Station, and Grand Central Station deposit them into the melting pot of midtown Manhattan. When I came here as a rookie cop, I didn’t realize that in crossing the Narrows from my little world in Staten Island I would leave behind my innocence, my optimism, and my faith. I must have had some faith. The years I spent getting slapped around the halls of St. Michael’s by Sister Bernadette gave me an awareness of God, and definitely a fear of him. But after a couple of years on the job I wasn’t sure he existed. If he did exist, how could he sit up in the heavens indifferent to the evil going on below? Once, induced by alcohol and depression, I asked him, “Where are you, God?” At the time I didn’t think he’d answer me, but he did.

  I was hungover the day my life was about to change. It was nighttime, actually, and I had just started my last midnight tour of the week. It was late June and New York was in the grip of a heat wave. We had a week of over ninety-degree temperatures that were supposed to climb to one hundred as the Fourth of July approached. The humidity was oppressive, and my vest was already sticky, pushing the heat up the front of it to my chin.

  I was in my tenth year as a New York City cop, and I was trying not to dwell on the fact that I had just marked my thirty-second birthday, my girlfriend had run off with her boss, and my partner had blown out his knee. He’d tripped on the curb the night before while chasing a perp. He brought the perp down but tore a ligament in his knee and was probably going to need surgery. It didn’t look like he’d be back anytime soon, and I found myself anxious at the thought of working without him. Funny that it was more traumatic to lose my partner than my girlfriend.

  I was standing at roll call trying to convince myself that the sweat dripping down my face and back was from the ninety-degree Midtown temperatures and not from sweating out all the booze I drank after ending my tour that morning. I had stayed in the bar on 9th Avenue until about noon, not wanting to go home to an empty house. I had gone out with five other guys from the midnights, with every intention of being home by 11:00. I got into a deep conversation with Mike Rooney about the job and the fact that the perps in Central Booking had air-conditioning and we don’t. We actually have to open the windows in the cells because they’re so cold. I was pretty lit by noon, so I took it easy driving home.

  I got only four hours sleep. Since I had promised my brother I’d work on the deck we were building on our house, I stayed up and worked on it until about 4:00, drinking cold ones to keep me going in the midday heat. I slept until 8:00 p.m., showered, and ordered out some pizza. I called my partner, John Conte, to see how he was doing.

  As I stood in the muster room that night, the glare of the overhead lights made me squint. The glare was new—the panels that cover the lights are usually so dirty that they give the room a yellow cast. When Hector, our maintenance worker, cleaned the lights the inspector had seen how filthy the room was, and now they’re painting the cinder block an ugly two-tone blue. It’s funny; a couple of years ago the department did a survey on what color car had the least amount of accidents. They found out that it was white. We now have a new fleet of white Chevy Impalas with NYPD emblazoned in blue on the front doors. The back doors have CPR imprinted on them: Courtesy, Professionalism, and Respect. We still have some of the blue ones, but eventually they’ll all be white. You would think they’d take their cue from that and paint the walls white, but I think they try to depress us on purpose.

  The muster room is where roll call is held; it is one large room, about thirty feet long by thirty feet wide with a wall of gated windows on one side. There is a podium that the sarge speaks from when he addresses us. An old metal desk sits behind it. The walls were decorated with biographies of wanted perps and missing persons with sketches or pictures to go with them. There are vending machines for soda and candy, and scarred wooden benches anchored to the floor running along the walls. Above the benches are crime statistics, quality of life problems, all garbage to appease the public and the brass, to make it look like we’re keeping up on what was going on.

  So there I was, my head pounding and stomach burning, with Sergeant Hanrahan’s voice droning in my ears as he gave out the sectors.

  “O’Brien.”

  “Here.”

  “McGovern.”

  “Sarge.”

  “Charlie Frank, 4:00 meal,” the sarge directed them. “Fiore,” he continued.

  “Here, Sarge.”

  “Cavalucci.”

  “Here,” I answered.

  “David George. Five o’clock meal.”

  Fiore and Cavalucci? I thought. What’s that about?

  O’Brien and McGovern started snickering and making the sound of a bomb dropping, a long whistle followed by an explosion. Apparently they found the boss putting me with Joe Fiore funny. I didn’t. The boss even smirked.

  I waited until the boss finished roll call with, “It’s hot out there, a lot of tempers flaring, just be careful,” before I grabbed him.

  “Boss, can I talk to you?” I asked quietly, not wanting to draw attention to the conversation.

  Sergeants are addressed as either Boss or Sarge; both are interchangeable and show respect. I liked Pete Hanrahan. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties with salt-and-pepper hair that didn’t age him. He was tall, at least six feet, with deep blue eyes enhanced by his recent tan.

  He put his head down, shuffling through his papers, waiting for the rest of the platoon to file out. “What’s on your mind, Tony?” he asked.

  “Who am I working with tonight?” I asked, acting confused.

  “Were you asleep during roll call or is David George your sector?”

  “It’s my sector, but what’s the deal putting me with Fiore?” I said, my voice rising.

  “Well, since your partner’s gonna be out for a while, and Mazella went to Harbor, you and Fiore are the only ones in the squad not partnered.” He leaned on the podium, put his hands out, and raised his eyebrows. “Is there anything else?” he asked. As he leaned down to say something he got close enough to smell the alcohol on me. Realization s
eeped into his face, and he straightened back up. Disappointment and concern showed at the same time. He picked up his papers and started walking away.

  He was a good boss, knew the job, always backed his guys, and went by seniority. He had seven years on patrol before he made sergeant, and for seven of my ten years in this command he was my boss. I never had a problem with him, until now.

  “Boss, why can’t you put me with Romano?” I asked, annoyed.

  “Romano’s a rookie, and he’s babysitting an EDP down at Bellevue who thought he was Superman and flew through a plate glass window on the four-to-twelve. You’re working with Fiore. Fiore’s a good guy.” He turned away again.

  “Boss, I’m not saying Fiore’s not a good guy.”

  “Then we don’t have a problem, do we? Besides, you could learn a lot from Fiore.”

  Just then the lieutenant called him to the desk to give the rundown on the sectors to Central by phone. Central stands for Central Communications, the faceless voices that transmit our jobs from the 911 operators. Each operator works one division made up of three commands. When 911 gets a call from the public, they relay it to Central, who in turn transmits to us.

  Like I said, Fiore wasn’t a bad guy. But I didn’t think there was anything I was gonna learn from him. He came to Midtown from Queens a couple of years ago and worked day tours. Our paths rarely crossed until last year when he went to midnights. He had some time on, he was active, and he made good collars. Not as good as mine, but still one of the leaders in the precinct in arrests. He was a nice enough guy, always said hello, always showed up to jobs for backup. I was just tired and sick and didn’t want to deal with a new partner who had more time on than I did. I was five and a half hours away from my meal and all I wanted to do was sleep.

  I pulled a pack of Marlboros from inside my shirt and lit a cigarette to calm down. I stood next to the interim order posted that said No Smoking, trying to figure out how to get out of working with Fiore.

  I finished my cigarette, crushing it in the ashtray next to the No Smoking sign, and headed over to the radio room to pick up my radio and shoot the breeze with Vince Puletti, the old-timer who runs the radio room. He was sitting at the desk, mopping his forehead, when I came in. A little three-blade fan was perched on a shelf above his head, blowing shafts of hot air my way every time it rotated. He’s got about thirty years on the job and wouldn’t talk to anyone who has less than five. The first year he spoke to me, I finally felt like a real cop. If a rookie tries to talk to him he just grunts, not acknowledging that he even sees them. He sits all night playing with his deferred compensation investments, waiting out his time. At this point he was probably losing money, but I don’t think he has a life outside the job. He’s a short, beefy man in his late fifties. He has no hair on top of his head, almost like a horseshoe that goes around the back of his head connecting his ears. His fingers are like sausages and he’s big in the gut, the buttons of his shirt straining against his stomach. His voice is gruff from forty years of smoking, and I always wondered if he’ll have a coronary before collecting his pension. I think he’ll die if he retired anyway; what would he do with himself? He stood as I came in.

  “Rough night, Tony?” he asked, hooking his fingers in his belt loops and hoisting up his pants.

  “Ah, ya know,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Heard you’re working with Fiore,” he said as I signed for my radio.

  “Yeah, John’s gonna be out a while with his knee.”

  “I heard he’s having surgery. Is he coming back?”

  Vince hears everything.

  “He said he’ll be back but not for a while. After the surgery, he’ll need a few months of physical therapy, then maybe he’ll be back limited.”

  He looked up at me. “It’s good you’re working with Fiore, he’s a good guy,” he said, nodding seriously.

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  He laughed. “Take care, Tony.”

  “You too, Vince.”

  I headed back to get the keys to my RMP (Radio Motor Patrol), only to find out that Fiore had already gotten the keys from Rice and Beans (Alvarez and Rivera). I lit another cigarette on my way out and tried to figure out how to handle who was gonna drive. This may sound trivial, but believe me, it’s important. With John I always drove, for several reasons. First of all, I had more time on than he did. Second, he couldn’t stay awake all night and had a tendency to fall asleep at red lights as the night wore on. Of course, Fiore had more time than I did, so technically he would be the one to drive, but this was my sector. I felt it was my responsibility to cover my own sector. If it was Fiore’s sector, he would be the one to drive.

  Midtown is made up of several sectors. These include Port Authority, Penn Station, Grand Central Station, Times Square, the Empire State Building, Madison Square Garden, the Garment District, 34th Street, and 42nd Street between 7th and 8th Avenue, which all the old-timers call the Deuce. There are a lot of things to consider with handling each sector. Time of day, time of year, politics, and public opinion all play a part. A heat wave would bring people out, like a blizzard would keep people in. A police corruption scandal would lower public opinion of cops, resulting in more open disrespect and hostility. In a heat wave like we’d been having, if you add drugs or alcohol to the equation it always means trouble. Bar fights, domestic disputes, and summer tourists all point to a busy night. If this had been a weekend it would have been worse.

  Fiore was waiting out front listening to his radio when I came out. He tossed me the keys.

  “Wanna drive?” he asked as we approached the car.

  “Sure, no problem,” I said, relieved.

  “We got an alarm on 39th Street between 7th and 8th. Let’s answer that first and then we’ll stop and get coffee at my place.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  Cops all have their favorite places to go to. Some for coffee, some for good bagels in the morning.

  As we got in the car, Fiore checked the backseat and the trunk. He cleaned out the cups and wrappers from the four-to-twelve guys but left the newspaper. I wondered if he heard about my tendency to throw any garbage out onto the street if someone left my car dirty.

  I got in the car and jammed my nightstick between the seat and the console. I slid my cuffs, mag light, and mace forward, otherwise they would dig into my back as I drove. Fiore put his radio in the notch of the door’s elbow rest. This way he could answer it easily and wouldn’t forget it when leaving the RMP. I put mine in the driver’s side door. We tossed our memo books on the dashboard and our hats on the backseat. I set the car radio to the classic rock station and turned up the AC as we drove off.

  “Classic rock okay?” I asked.

  “Anything but Howard Stern.”

  “I think he’s on in the morning,” I said with a chuckle.

  The first thing I noticed about Fiore was that he smelled good. Clean, like he’d just showered. I figured I must stink, I was sweating so much. I’d showered almost two hours ago, but my clothes were soaked. Fiore was fresh and unwrinkled; I felt like a slob.

  I studied him out of the corner of my eye as I drove down 9th Avenue. There were similarities in our looks. We were both Italian and looked it. But he was a couple of inches taller than I was, probably about six feet. His hair was dark, almost black like mine, but wavy. I had a long nose; his was a little wider. He was built, but you could tell he didn’t power lift like I did. We were both clean shaven. His eyes were darker than mine—my eyes are light brown, almost hazel. I couldn’t gauge his age but knew he was older than me. He wore a wedding ring and an expensive-looking watch. I tried to remember what I knew about him, but there wasn’t much.

  I made a left onto 34th Street, passing the Manhattan Civic Center just before 8th Avenue. The overhead was lit up, but the center was empty this time of night on a Thursday. I made a left onto 8th Avenue, past the New Yorker Hotel, where a doorman was coming out to meet a cab. I took 7th Avenue to 39th Street
.

  Midtown traffic is a nightmare during the day, all one-way streets, no turn signals and thousands of pedestrians. If it had been something serious and not an alarm I would have shot up 39th Street from 8th Avenue the wrong way.

  “So how’s your partner doing?” Fiore asked.

  “He’s hurting, blew out his knee.”

  He nodded. “You still playing softball with the commissioner’s league?” he tried again.

  “Yeah, we made the playoffs.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Third base.”

  We went into it about the league and how the championship game was always played at Yankee Stadium. A couple of years ago a cop sued the Yankee organization because he got hurt while playing there. That was the last time the championship game was at Yankee Stadium.

  “Cops always ruin it for themselves,” Fiore said, shaking his head.

  I had to agree.

  Fiore gave me the particulars about the alarm, 257 West 39th Street, Galaxy Fabrics. It was a first-floor showroom with the iron gates pulled down for the night. It appeared secure, gates locked and in place with no sign of entry. We couldn’t get access through the back so Fiore radioed back 90 Nora 3, which meant “unfounded, alarm secure.”

  While Fiore filled out the unnecessary alarm form, we got a radio run for a 31 on West 38th Street, right around the block from where we were. A 31 is a burglary in progress, so I hurried to get there. Central said there were two male Hispanics breaking in and that the super would be waiting outside for us. I went the wrong way down 8th Avenue using turret lights. I made a right onto 38th Street, shutting them as I parked. The super was outside when we pulled up.

  Fiore radioed back Central, notifying them of our arrival at the scene. He requested backup to wait outside the freight entrance while we did a search of the building.

  The building was fourteen stories and covered with scaffolding with a walkway underneath for pedestrians. The super said he was there on overtime because a new tenant had moved in. He saw two Hispanic men, one dressed in black pants and black shirt, the other in black shorts and white shirt. They went into the freight elevator about ten minutes earlier. The super said he tried to chase them, and they called him some colorful names, but “old man” seemed to irritate him most. He went to grab a pipe so he could teach them some manners. He called 911 and came back to find them gone. He saw the lock on the stairwell door jimmied and waited outside for us.