by F. P. Lione
“Joe, do you go to hell if you kill yourself?” I asked.
He thought a minute before he spoke. “I don’t know. I know that God is merciful and that he loves us. He wants us to go to heaven.” He paused. “You never know what a person does in the last moments of his life. Only God can judge, and like I said, he does it with mercy. Why?”
I shrugged. “I think God is far away.”
“I don’t think it’s God that’s far from us. It’s more that we’re far from him. He’s always there waiting. We’re the ones who walk away.”
“Are you Catholic?” I asked.
“No.”
“What are you?” I asked like he was some unknown species.
“I’m a Christian.”
“Aren’t Catholics Christian?”
“Sure.”
I changed directions. “Do you believe in those TV preachers who are always asking for money and going to jail for it?”
“I believe in Jesus, not any man. If those people ripped anyone off, they deserve to go to jail. But God forgives them just like you and me.” He paused. “Tony, do you remember your confirmation prayer?”
I made a face. “No, I was in the sixth grade when I made confirmation.”
“Well, your confirmation prayer is the prayer of salvation. The problem is it usually dies there. Salvation is about a relationship with Jesus.”
“You said that last night. How do you have a relationship with someone you can’t see or talk to?” This baffled me.
“You can talk to him, pray, read his Word. That’s how you get to know him.”
“I don’t know, Joe, this is confusing. Those people always seem fake to me, like they’re scamming to make money.”
“Talk to me, Tony,” Fiore said sincerely. “Ask me anything you want about God, and I’ll try to answer it for you. If I don’t have an answer, I’ll find someone who does.”
“Okay. Why is there so much wrong in the world?”
“Oh, I can answer that,” he said with relief. He started to talk and I cut him off.
“Forget it, I don’t want to know.”
“Tony—”
“Not tonight, okay?”
He paused, then nodded. “Sure, no problem.”
5
I lit a cigarette and drove the car over to the deli at 35th and 9th. I went inside, got coffee, and picked up a stale buttered roll for each of us. I drove back to 37th Street. The block was quiet, and in the distance I could hear an occasional horn or siren and the squeak of a truck brake. We sat in silence drinking our coffee and eating our rolls. I was glad Fiore didn’t try to continue the conversation, and I realized what Mike Rooney had said was true. Fiore didn’t push it. When I asked about God, he answered, and when I told him to back off, he did. I could tell he wanted to talk more but held his tongue.
About 3:30 a.m. we spotted a white male, about eighteen years old, exiting a building a couple doors up, which made no sense since the building was dark. He was carrying an overstuffed cardboard box. He came out the door, saw us, and turned to go back into the building just as the door slammed shut. He turned back around and toward us. Fiore and I gave each other a look and watched him as he came toward us. The driver’s side of the car was on the left side of the street so he had to pass me as he walked by. I rolled down my window the rest of the way.
“Hey, buddy. Anything good to sell?” I asked as he approached the car.
“No, nothing good here,” he said and tried to keep walking.
I opened the door and stepped out, leaving Fiore in the car. I was in front of the kid so he couldn’t walk past me, and the box was kind of bulky so he’d have to drop it first if he decided to run.
“Hey, let me take a look,” Fiore said as he leaned over toward the driver’s side of the car.
“No, it’s nothing good,” the kid said.
Now he was in front of me, so I got a better look at him. He wore ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt, and his sneakers were old and filthy. He was too skinny to have been eating properly, and he had a nervous air about him. He was short with a scar by his left eye. He looked young and old at the same time, and something about him gave me the impression he was homeless.
The kid had no choice but to lean in and show Fiore the box, thus trapping himself between the car and me. In the box was a small fax machine, a phone, a radio, some cassette tapes, Post-it paper, and other assorted office supplies. As he leaned in he saw Fiore’s hand on his gun, and I went for my cuffs as I put one hand on his back.
“Put your right hand behind your back,” I said.
He did and I cuffed his right hand. Fiore got out of the car, and we cuffed his left hand too. We called Dogman, the K-9 cop from our command, to come to the scene. K-9 is called whenever there’s a possibility of a burglar in the building. Then we tossed the kid and found out he had no weapons, no ID, nothing on his person. We sat him in the backseat until K-9 got there. He told us he worked in the building and gets out late, but he couldn’t even give me the name of the company he supposedly worked for.
Dogman arrived with Shane, his German shepherd, and the two of them watched the kid, who was looked nervously at the dog. Shane barked up a storm, thinking he’d get a steak later if he got a collar.
The door to the building had a magnetic lock on it. Fiore and I wrestled with it for a few minutes and finally pulled it open. The building had six floors, with the elevator in the immediate lobby. The elevator door was open but the panel was unscrewed and hanging by a wire. I wasn’t sure if we should take it but figured we could radio back if we got stuck. I would have taken the stairs but the stairwell door was locked. We pressed two on the hanging panel and the elevator closed, humming as it ascended to the next floor. The second floor was dark when we stepped off and found the door across the hall open.
We turned on the lights, revealing a small office. We took about twenty minutes in the office and called the sergeant to the scene. We would have searched the other floors, but their lights wouldn’t come on in the elevator. We pressed the button for the lobby and went back down.
The boss was there when we came back out, and we showed him the office goods and told him about the break-in. We thanked Dogman and patted Shane good night. Everyone left, and we went to take the kid back to the precinct when he asked if we could stop and get his stuff. He said it was on 8th Avenue in a studio where bands go to jam. He was pleading, saying it was all he had in the world and if he left it there he would lose it.
“No problem, buddy, we’ll stop,” Fiore said. “Where is it?” “Right where those guys are on the sixth floor, as soon as you walk off the elevators, first door on the right. Tell Daz to give you Albert’s stuff.”
To tell the truth, I was feeling sorry for the kid. He wasn’t a bad kid. He had a sad, resigned look in his eyes. Having everything he owned fit into a couple of bags wasn’t new to him.
I pulled up to a rundown apartment building. A few freaky-looking guys and girls were hanging out in front. They looked nervous when we stopped and I got out of the car. I got the kid’s stuff from Daz, a wicked-looking guy with tattoos from his shoulders to his wrist and a nose ring with a chain connected to his ear. I came out to find Fiore in deep conversation with the kid.
“Look at this, Tony,” he said as I got in the car. He held up a cuff key.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“Our buddy Albert,” he said with a nod toward the back. “He had the key in his mouth and was gonna run off. Because we were good guys and let him get his stuff, he decided to tell me.”
If we had lost Albert, we would have walked a foot post for thirty days and lost a week’s vacation. This made me feel worse for the kid. When we got back to the house to process him we found out he had a record. He did time for burglary and got out four months ago. You could tell this life was all he’d known, all he’d ever know.
“You looking tonight?” Fiore asked, to see if I wanted the arrest.
I said no. I had a
ball game at 9:00, a doubleheader. We’d already had to forfeit twice because of guys not showing up.
We stayed inside the rest of the night, processing the arrest. I got in an hour’s sleep between 5:00 and 6:00, hoping it would give me some energy for the game.
I changed into my softball uniform at 7:30, leaving my sneakers on until I got to the field. We were playing the four-six precinct from the Bronx. The sun was already hot, with the humidity climbing. I parked my truck on the sidewalk and put my parking plaque in the window to avoid a ticket. The DOT loves to ticket us, but there wasn’t much they could do with twenty cars parked with police plaques in the windshields.
Rooney, Garcia, and Rice and Beans were already at the field tossing a ball around when I got there. I saw Dennis Fitzpatrick, our pitcher, pull up, and Connelly got out of the car with him. Seven guys this early was a good sign—if O’Brien and McGovern showed up we’d be set. Paddy Mullen came in; it was his RDO (regular day off) so he brought his little girl, since his wife was working.
The park takes up the whole block. There was a playground on one side with swings and a sprinkler and the ballpark on the other side. It’s a regulation softball field on grass, not concrete. The dirt has a reddish tint to it and stains my socks and pants so bad it never comes out. I put bleach to get some of it out but it doesn’t help. Mike Rooney says he never washes his, just throws them out at the end of the season.
The team from the Bronx was good. We split the games, winning the first one 7–4, and losing the second 5–2. I batted three for four in the first game, with two doubles, scoring twice. Mike Rooney racked in a home run in the first inning, starting us off. Garcia had popped out, O’Brien had a single, I got on second, pushing him to third, and Connelly brought us home. The Bronx scored two in the second inning and two in the fourth. At the top of the fifth, bases were loaded and Mike Rooney hit a grand slam, cementing the win.
By the second game we were pretty tired. Everyone except Paddy Mullen and Rice and Beans had worked a midnight and showed signs of fatigue. Fitzpatrick’s arm was hurting, and Paddy cut up his leg sliding into home after I hit a pop-up out to right field in the first game. The guys took turns watching Paddy’s daughter, a three-year-old blonde demon who kicked everyone who came near her in the dugout. We had eleven guys, ten playing the field, so one of us had to stay with her when the other team was up. I never had to watch her, since I played the whole time both games.
In the second game they got two runs in the first inning and one in the second. By the fourth inning the score was five-zip. I hit a single, followed by a double by Rooney, and we both scored when O’Brien hit deep into right field. We ran out of gas by then but were able to keep Bronx from scoring anymore. Since we won one and lost one, it was pretty much a wash, and we’d have to play them again.
I stayed at the field with Mike Rooney, Garcia, and Connelly drinking a six-pack. Rooney’s wife was working so he planned on drinking for a while. He would then get something to eat and sleep at the precinct until our tour that night. I was off because Fiore and I had court in the morning. I tried to get the ADA to wait until Friday so I could pull a tour of overtime on my day off, but she wanted to get it done before the holiday. I would work a day tour tomorrow at court, stay at the precinct for the four-to-twelve, and then work the midnight. I would get home on Thursday morning and hopefully get a couple of hours’ sleep before the dysfunctional family picnic. I had three days off this weekend and wouldn’t have to be back to work until Monday night.
Garcia and Connelly left at 1:00, and Rooney and I went to the bar. Rooney was feeling no pain by then, joking about the rookie who shot himself the night before. I wasn’t finding anything funny. I kept thinking about the guy who hung himself last night and my last conversation with Tommy Moffit in this very bar the day he killed himself. I alternated beer with vodka on the rocks, hoping it would improve my mood. Rooney started to slur at around 2:00, and I drove him back to the precinct.
I headed home, aware of the fact that I’d drunk too much to be driving. I swerved once, cutting off a cab. That sobered me a little, and I lit a cigarette and blasted my air-conditioning to stay awake. I cut over to the West Side Highway, driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way downtown. It took me an hour to get home. I pulled in front of my house at 3:05 to find a Century 21 For Sale sign hammered into the ground next to the mailbox.
I let myself in, threw my bag on the floor, and checked the messages on the machine. Marie had called to tell me the realtor was showing the house at 7:00. The house was hot and quiet. I left a note on the table saying not to wake me up and went upstairs. I stripped off my uniform, red dirt sprinkling the floor as I peeled off my socks. I threw them in a pile in the corner of the room and turned on the air conditioner. I wanted something to eat but was too tired. I fell on the bed, asleep almost instantly.
Someone knocked on the door at 6:00. I knew it was 6:00 because I rolled over and looked at the clock, yelling at them to go away. I woke again at 8:30 with a headache and a mouth full of cotton. I jumped in the shower, letting the hot water pelt over my sore muscles. I assessed the damage—slide burn on my right calf, bruise on my upper left arm where a ball shot up at me—not too bad. I brushed my teeth but didn’t shave, figuring I’d wait until morning. I picked up my dirty clothes and headed downstairs.
Denise was sitting on the couch polishing her toenails.
“Hey, feel like going up to Dave’s?” she asked.
“Sure, I’ll go, I just want to eat something first. Did you eat?”
“I stopped at Grandma’s. She sent over a chicken cutlet sandwich for you.”
“All right, I’ll eat and then we’ll go up. I can’t stay too late. I’m working a day tour tomorrow.”
“What for?”
“I have court for that robbery collar the other night,” I answered.
“You washing clothes?” She nodded toward the pile I was holding. “I have some towels to throw in; we’re running low.” She went upstairs and came down a minute later with her arms full of towels, adding them to the clothes I was holding.
I went down to the basement, which was now empty except for the washer, dryer, and a freezer. We didn’t use the freezer anymore. My parents used to stock up on food, but it had been empty for years. The basement is unfinished, but the cement floor and walls were painted with an oil-based gray that kept it looking neat.
The basement floor was cool against my bare feet. I put my baseball uniform in with the towels and set it on warm. I waited until the water started to agitate before I added the soap and threw in some softener. Vinny and I used to put the laundry in one big hamper, but he never understood the concept of separating whites and colors. I wound up with pink underwear and socks too many times to count. Now I do my own laundry, and Christie does his.
I went back to the kitchen. Denise had put my sandwich in the oven for me. It was breaded chicken cutlet with smoked ham and Swiss cheese on seeded Italian bread. I popped open a can of soda while waiting for the cheese to melt. I ate the sandwich alone in the kitchen while Denise went upstairs to change. I put on white shorts and a black T-shirt after my shower and went back upstairs to grab my sneakers.
Denise and I walked up the block to Bay Street, made a left, and walked another block to Dave’s Tavern. The place was hopping for a Tuesday night. Mike Ellis, my best friend, was there with his girlfriend, Laura. The jukebox was blasting an Aerosmith song. The jukebox at Dave’s was classic rock, no rap.
“Tony!” Mike yelled from the back of the bar as we walked in.
“Hi, Tony,” Laura said as I approached them.
“Hey, Denise,” Mike said in a taunting voice.
Denise rolled her eyes. She hated Mike. There was a time when she was madly in love with him, one of those crushes girls get on their older brother’s best friend. They got together for a short time a few years ago. She never told me what happened, and I never asked her. I was mad at him for going out with my sister, and we
took a couple of swings at each other over it. I know how he is with women and didn’t want him near my sister. Denise hates him now and he does everything he can to get her to fight with him.
His girlfriend, Laura, was checking out Denise. My sister was dressed conservatively in a floral sleeveless dress and the ugliest shoes I have ever seen. They were black with a clunky platform and heel. All the women in Midtown wear them, so they must be in style.
Laura was pretty in a malnourished kind of way. She was tall with long brown hair highlighted in blonde. She wore a black workout outfit with white sneakers and still managed to look dressed up. She talked with her hands and had three-inch blue nails with American flags airbrushed on them.
Mike cheats on her every chance he gets. I doubt he told her he used to date Denise, but she seemed to sense that Denise was competition. Denise ignored Laura and stayed near the pool table, flirting with the guys, looking miserable.
Talking to Mike tonight was depressing me for reasons I couldn’t fathom. Maybe it was him playing the devoted boyfriend when I knew that when we were away this weekend he’d be after everything with a pulse. I didn’t talk with Mike and Laura for long. All that bogus lovey-dovey crap was making me nauseous. I played darts with a couple of the Bay Street guys, drinking beers and talking softball. Denise and I went home at 11:00.
I had slept until 8:30 so I wasn’t tired. I watched Friends and Seinfeld reruns until midnight, then tried to sleep. I tossed and turned most of the night, finally falling into a deep sleep ten minutes before my alarm went off. I showered, shaved, and dressed by 6:15, and I was out to my car at 6:30.
It was a hazy, steamy day. It already felt like ninety degrees, and according to the weather forecast it would be. By tomorrow temperatures could hit a hundred degrees. Health officials were issuing warnings to stay out of the sun, drink lots of fluids, and wear loose, light clothes. I couldn’t wait to put on my uniform, vest, gun belt, and boots.