by F. P. Lione
Mike Rooney started clapping. “Yeah! We’re number one!” Yells, claps, and high fives echoed around the room until Hanrahan smirked. “The Borough wants to monitor the radio and see if we’re putting over 84. I know you’re at the job, but Central can’t put it in the computer until you say it. The CO is making this a priority.
“The inspector has also advised me that a duty captain found a couple of foot posts and a sector car socializing in the sub station in Times Square Thursday night. Needless to say he was not happy. I understand you have to use the bathroom, but do me a favor and go somewhere else until this blows over.”
He wrapped it up with, “Good job, Fiore and Cavalucci, on the robbery collar, and before I forget, we’ve been given a new piece of equipment to add to your vehicle. These are to be stored in the storage pocket of the driver’s side doors of the RMP.”
He held up a barf bag, the kind they give out on airplanes. “We can thank Tony.” He smirked. “Don’t forget to pick one up on your way out.”
The ranks roared with laughter. Garcia held one up painted with red lips and long black eyelashes. He sang in a girly voice, “Poppy, my tummy hurts!” I shook my head and walked away. Everyone used the bags as puppets, making gagging and vomiting sounds. Mike Rooney’s wife is a stewardess, so I didn’t have to figure out where those came from. The platoon filed out, laughing and joking, ready for the night.
Fiore got the keys from Rice and Beans, and I went to pick up my radio. On the way to the sector car, Fiore tossed me the keys again. He cleaned out the garbage from the four-to-twelve guys, saving the Daily News again.
Fiore was wearing that same cologne, his clean scent clashing with my Paul Sebastian. I purposely put on cologne to make up for my polluted smell the other night. Fiore sneezed twice and opened the window. I adjusted my belt and turned on the radio. We tossed our hats in the back, books on the dashboard, and we were on our way.
“South David,” Central came over the radio.
“South David,” Fiore answered.
“There’s a 53 at West 36 and 7th, no injuries.”
“Ten-four,” Fiore responded.
We headed to the car accident. I ignored the urge to stop for coffee. Fiore had gotten me a coffee, but it was cold by the time I got to it. When we arrived, Fiore the Boy Scout radioed back an 84.
A couple in their fifties driving a Jeep Cherokee with Jersey plates was hit by a cabby cutting across 7th Avenue to pick up a fare. The fare had gotten into another cab, leaving the cabbie without a witness.
The cars were still in accident position, the cab angled toward the curb and still attached to the front driver’s side of the Jeep. There was damage to the driver’s side of the Jeep and the back passenger side of the cab. The cab driver was irate, yelling at the couple, pointing to the damage on his cab. The couple from New Jersey looked unharmed but shaken. I told the cabbie to back up his car and park, and I told the Jeep to pull his up. The metal made a sickening screech as the cars moved. Traffic was starting to slow down due to all the rubbernecking onlookers.
I took the information while Fiore did the report. I questioned each party, and Fiore wrote their statements down verbatim. He then drew a diagram of the vehicles and made a determination of who was at fault. He decided that the cabbie was responsible for the accident.
We were driving toward 35th Street to stop for coffee when a 10–11 came over. A safe alarm had gone off on the south side of 38th Street between 5th and 6th Avenue at a place called Seville Jewelers. We were to meet Holmes Security outside.
Fiore radioed back 84 when we arrived. The Holmes security guard was waiting in front of the building when we pulled up. He was in uniform. The guy was at least sixty years old, out of shape with a pasty complexion and a protruding belly. He had a shock of white hair and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He carried a Smith and Wesson 38 service revolver.
The old guy seemed relieved to see us and said that he had gone up to the twelfth floor and found the door to the premises intact. He was smart enough not to try to enter the premises on his own. Considering his physical shape and the peashooter he was carrying, he probably couldn’t do much anyway.
The old twelve-story building had Seville Jewelers on the top floor. The guard had keys and let us in the front entrance. The foyer and elevator lights were on, but most of the building was dark. The old-timer keyed the elevator and rode us up to the twelfth floor.
We stepped off the elevator, and I crossed to the stairwell. I quietly opened the door, listening for footsteps either up to the roof or down. The building made plenty of nighttime noises, pipes creaking, vents going on and off, and I heard a phone ringing somewhere. We crossed to Seville Jewelers to enter the office.
The door is what’s called a mantrap door. It opens into a small foyer with another door inside that gave actual access to the office. Both doors could not be opened at the same time. There was a receptionist window similar to what tellers have in a bank—bulletproof glass with a small opening at the bottom to put paper through. This kind of setup would save the company on insurance. If a perp tried to hold up the place from outside the cashier’s window, she could lock him in there while waiting for the police.
The guard, Fiore, and I squashed into the vestibule to close the door behind us so we could open the inside door. The guard opened the door and shut the alarm, punching in the code key. We asked where the safe was, and he said it was in the back.
We walked past a reception desk with two partitioned work areas beyond it on each side of the room. A hallway led to four other rooms, which we checked. Across the hall was a large room with eight ancient jeweler workbenches in natural wood. There were four on one side, four on the other, facing each other. Four of the desks had lips carved upward, I guessed to keep the jewelry from falling off. I noticed tweezers, picks, and magnifying glasses.
The other tables must have been for different types of jewelry. They each had three types of small drills shaped like cigars hanging from a partition in front of them and small jars, different sizes, that held liquids. A small, green, free-standing combination safe was off to the side. Each of the rooms had cameras and sensor alarms.
Another office had to be for the boss. It had a massive mahogany desk with a matching wall unit. The shelves were full of awards and pictures, including a caricature of a man leaning on a golf club wearing a truckload of gold jewelry. In the center of the wall unit was a picture of a rabbi who looked vaguely familiar. He must have been a big shot rabbi; I’d seen him before.
In the back I saw a walk-in gray steel safe about nine feet high built into the wall. A metal protrusion covered the hinges and looked to be three or four inches thick. The safe had two keypads and no handle on the door, but a wheel projected out. Everything appeared to be in order. The guard punched in four numbers on one of the keypads and reset the alarm.
Down on the eleventh floor we checked the office below Seville Jewelers. This office had recently been vacated, and the security guard didn’t know if it had been rented again yet. I put my ear to the door and listened for sounds from inside. I made a mental note of the recent change of business. A good burglar would rent the floor above or beneath a company and break in to the safe from the floor or the ceiling.
In the hallway we checked windows. An alley ran behind the building and cut into the back of a parking lot. Someone could cut through and escape easily.
We gave the job back to Central premises secure. We wouldn’t put in the unnecessary alarm form, just in case something was cooking. We said good night to the guard and headed out for some coffee.
I drove over to 35th and 9th to the all-night deli on the corner. Since this was my place, I got us some coffee and muffins. They baked their own stuff, and by the time we got in, the muffins are the only thing edible. I normally would have gotten bagels, but at 1:00 in the morning they’re all stale. I got a cup of regular joe and a blueberry muffin. Fiore wanted light, no sugar, and anything but bran. I got him a banana nut. He trie
d to give me money as I got out of the car, and I looked at him like he’d lost his mind.
We sat in the car. I read the Daily News while I ate. Cops read mostly the Daily News and the New York Post. It takes three days to read one issue of the New York Times, so most guys don’t read it. Plus it’s the kind of paper that you have to unfold; it’s long and doesn’t fit in your lap. Personally, my favorite is the Post. Their political cartoons get to the heart of what the everyday Joe is thinking, and they have the guts to draw what everyone is thinking but is too afraid to say. The cartoons are hysterical, and a lot of them make for locker room decorating among the cops. On any given day you can find a copy of the Daily News or the Post in the lounge, the RMPs, anywhere throughout the precinct.
“How was your weekend?” Fiore asked.
“Good,” I said with a nod.
“Do anything special?”
“Nope.”
“Are you ever gonna answer with more than one syllable?” he asked seriously.
I smiled and thought for a minute. “I went to my grand-mother’s for dinner on Friday and hung out with my brother and sister for the rest of the weekend. We finished building a deck on my house.”
“You do carpentry?” he asked.
“Yeah, I used to be in the union until I came on the job.”
“What kind of carpentry?”
“I built free-standing partitions in office buildings.”
“So how’d you learn to build decks?”
“I used to work with my father; when he retired from the department he did some general contracting. Restorations, stuff like that.”
“Why’d you come here?”
I looked over at him. He seemed interested, and who knows, maybe he just wanted to bond. I humored him.
“I couldn’t see myself building offices until I was sixty-two. Here I’ll be out in twenty. I’ll be forty-two years old. If I want to stay longer I can, but I have the option to retire at twenty years.”
He nodded. “Are you married?”
“No, I just broke up with my girlfriend.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged. “I guess her boss was more interesting than I was. He definitely had more money.”
“If that’s the case it’s better you found out now.”
“I guess. What about you? Are you married?” I knew he was married, he wore a ring.
“Yup. I’ve been married for ten years.” He sounded proud of it.
“Any kids?”
“Just had my third. A girl, she’s two months old, and I have two boys. Look.” He pulled a picture out of his wallet. I studied the wallet-size family portrait. His wife sat holding a pink bundle while the two boys sat on either side of her. Fiore stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders. The kids were cute, dark like Fiore with big smiles. His wife was kind of plain, not what I expected. She had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, and she looked a little chubby. Maybe it was from the baby. Joe pointed them out, giving their names. “There’s Joey and Joshua.” He showed each of the boys. “The baby is Grace, and this is my wife, Donna.”
“Nice kids. Cute,” I said for lack of anything better to say.
“My family is a real blessing to me,” he said, still looking at the picture.
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Most guys complain about their wives, saying they went to work so they didn’t have to stay home with them.
Central interrupted my thoughts. “South David.”
“South David,” Fiore spoke into the radio.
“We have a male drunk, walking in traffic, possible EDP on West 40 and 8.”
“Ten-four.”
I parked near the corner of West 40th Street, and we got out of the car to walk to the intersection. Fiore radioed back 84 as we approached.
A white male of indeterminate age lay sprawled out on his back in the intersection, partially in the crosswalk. He had greasy, matted, shoulder-length hair, and his beard was long and grisly. He wore a shirt that probably had been white once with buttons missing and sweat stains in the armpits. His dirty underwear showed from his ripped and cutoff shorts, and emitted an offensive, rancid odor.
“Buddy, what are you doing?” I asked as I bent down to talk to him. “Get out of the street.”
“I want an ambulance,” he slurred.
I looked down 8th Avenue. The lights were red down to 34th Street. If I’d had the time I would have pulled the car into the intersection and put the lights on, grabbing a pair of gloves while I was at it.
“Get out of the street,” I repeated.
“I want an ambulance,” he slurred louder.
I saw the light turn green at 34th Street and a sea of head-lights move forward.
“Get out of the street!” I yelled, my voice getting frantic.
The green lights were turning in succession, 35th Street, 36th Street.
“I want an ambulance!” he screamed.
Fiore radioed for an ambulance as the army of yellow cabs approached, speeding up to catch as many green lights as they could. Thirty-seventh Street, 38th. I don’t know why I looked back to the sector car; it was still too late to move it. My tunnel vision didn’t include Fiore as the cars approached 39th Street. I grabbed the guy’s boots and pulled him toward the corner of 40th Street, thinking that in about ten seconds he wouldn’t need an ambulance, he’d need a medical examiner.
I heard Fiore’s “Hey!” He tried to grab the man’s arms as I dragged. Fiore got one arm and picked it up so we were dragging only one of his shoulders along the pavement. We got the guy to the corner and dropped him next to his pushcart crammed with shoes, blankets, pieces of pipe, bottles, and other miscellaneous items of garbage.
As soon as we dropped him on the sidewalk I felt the swoosh of the cars zooming by and throwing up waves of hot air and exhaust into our faces.
“What are you doing?” Fiore yelled.
I looked up at him. “What?” I asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? You didn’t have to do that!” he yelled, his face contorted in anger.
“Did you want me to stand there and dodge cars, hoping nobody ran this guy over?” I yelled back.
“All you had to do,” he said quieter, through clenched teeth, “was ask me to grab his arms, and we could have carried him.”
Meanwhile the guy on the sidewalk lay arching his back, moaning and bleeding which in my opinion was better than smashed up and dead.
“Hey!” I pointed at the guy on the sidewalk. “He’s wasted, he’s filthy, and he smells like a sewer. I didn’t want to touch him, all right?”
“I know you didn’t want to touch him, but you grabbed him anyway, didn’t you? All you had to do was ask me to help you. He’s a human being. How—”
“Oh, cut the liberal crap, he’s a skell,” I shot back.
Skell is our name for any kind of street scum. Crackheads, homeless, junkies, drunks, anything that has been reduced to the bowels of humanity we call a skell.
“And if he died here,” I continued, “no one would have cared.”
“God would have cared,” Fiore spat.
“If God cared, this bum wouldn’t be lying in the middle of 8th Avenue waiting for a cab to hit him.”
Fiore looked at me funny. “Who told you that?” he asked.
I didn’t get to answer him because EMS pulled up. We gave them the particulars. Technically the guy wasn’t an emotionally disturbed person because he was rational enough to ask for an ambulance. Besides, he was intox. Aside from the fact that he was lying in the middle of 8th Avenue, he didn’t seem to be trying to harm himself.
EMS was ticked off; they hated picking up smelly drunks. They calmed down some when I explained that we had to drag him off 8th Avenue to keep him from getting hit by a scud missile. We called cabs scud missiles because some drivers use them as assault weapons on unsuspecting New Yorkers. The EMS guys took him as an intox-aided case so I didn’t have to ride with them.
&nbs
p; There was an odd silence between Fiore and me once EMS drove away. We hadn’t spoken directly to each other since they pulled up, both of us directing the conversation to the EMS workers. I thought about the way I handled the guy and didn’t think Fiore had anything to yell about. I mean, I got the guy out of the street.
I was batting a thousand with this Fiore. Everyone who knew him said what a great guy he was, that nothing ever bothered him. Two days with me, and he was about to rupture a neck vein.
“Listen, Joe,” I began, “I wasn’t trying to hurt the guy, there wasn’t much time—”
“Tony, I’m sorry I yelled at you, and I understand why you did it. But you didn’t have to drag him that way. That’s not the way I operate, and it’s not the way God wants me to operate.”
“Oh, come on.” I ran my hands through my hair, then looked at them wondering if I should have washed them first. “It wasn’t a conscious decision to hurt the guy, it just happened. I’m not gonna worry about what’s politically correct for every skell I come across.”
“It’s got nothing to do with being politically correct. It has to do with how I feel about God and how I behave. My behavior has to line up with the Word of God and my commitment to my faith.”
I looked at him like he’d lost his mind. What was he talking about? I shook my head and walked back over to the sector car, slamming the door as I got in. I lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag. Fiore stood there a minute and walked to the car and got in.
“Tony, you said before that if God cared about that guy he wouldn’t be lying in the middle of 8th Avenue,” he started.
“Yeah, so?” I wondered where this was going.
“Do you think God had any part in that man’s life?”
I shrugged. “I doubt it.”
“So why is God responsible for his misfortune? You and I both know that guy drank or drugged himself into the gutter on his own.”
“God helps them who help themselves, right?” I quoted Sister Bernadette.
“What does that mean?” Fiore asked.
“It means God couldn’t give a crap either way,” I said. (Actually, I didn’t say crap, but at the time my vocabulary was different.)