The Deuce

by F. P. Lione

  I didn’t want to talk to the Lord. I wanted to drink until I wasn’t so mad that I wanted to break something. By the time I’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, I’d decided to meet Rooney at the bar. Fiore took my gun again, which made me mad, and I stomped away from him without saying good-bye.

  I sat in my truck outside the bar, debating about going inside. I hadn’t had a drink in a week, and I knew that if I went in there, I’d be turning back somehow. I decided to pray and see if it worked.

  Father, in the name of Jesus, I prayed silently, remembering how Fiore said to do it. I want to have a drink so bad. I’m so mad at that guy with the camera. I sighed. I don’t know what to do.

  Two things hit me right then. One was I wanted the drink to control my emotions for me. And two, Jesus died for scum like the guy with the camera.

  I didn’t go in the bar. I went home. I was still angry, but not in a rage.

  Traffic was clear until the Verrazano Bridge. The upper level was closed. The cars on the lower level were backed up, bumper to bumper. I got so aggravated I drove on the left shoulder, swung around through the cones, and took the upper level anyway. At midspan I saw about six workers standing in a circle talking. One of them yelled out, “Hey this level is closed, can’t you see we’re working here?”

  Yeah, they looked like they were working.

  I called out, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was closed.” Then I added, “Sorry about that.” He flipped me the bird as I drove off.

  I drove straight to the South Beach parking lot and parked my car near the dolphin fountain. I pounded the boardwalk as much as I could, running off my frustration in the hot sun. I stopped at the hot dog vendor and bought a bottle of water and two hot dogs with mustard and sauerkraut. I finished them off and went for a third, eating while I drove home. By then the urge to drink had lessened. I slept the rest of the day. I decided I’d better buy a speed bag to take out my frustrations on.

  I was bored out of my mind. I stayed away from Dave’s bar, driving home on the service road and coming up the back way. I avoided Denise at home. She still wasn’t talking to me so that wasn’t too hard. She’d been spending a lot of time over at Sal Valente’s house.

  Wednesday night there was a water main break at 38th Street and 8th Avenue, so Fiore and I spent our tour directing traffic off of 8th Avenue. The break happened at 10:30, toward the end of the four-to-twelve tour. When Fiore and I got there to relieve Rice and Beans, the DEP and the fire department were already there, along with the yellow trucks that handle the water main breaks. Halogen lights and pumps were set up to illuminate the area while they worked. The water must have risen up onto the sidewalks, because they were still wet when we got there. I could hear the generator from the pump working, a constant buzzing filling the air. They had to open up the street to get to the pipe, then shut the main valve to fix the break.

  The midnight foot posts took the side streets and stopped any traffic from getting to 8th Avenue. We worked there all night.

  I slept Thursday away, too tired for my daily jog. I woke up at 5:30, took a shower, and shaved. I had dinner at Alfredo’s Restaurant. Vinny had left me a note saying that he would be there with Mike, but when I got there they were gone. His note said they would be there at 7:30, but I guess they changed their minds. I ate alone—linguine and white clam sauce with a salad and a Coke. I went back home to get my gear and watched TV until 10:20. I drove straight through the city without traffic, taking thirty-three minutes to reach the precinct.

  Fiore and I spent a good part of Thursday night in the parking lot on 37th Street between 5th and 6th Avenue. The Empire State Building was lit up in all blue, and I watched it through the buildings as we talked.

  “How are you feeling, Tony?” Fiore asked.

  “Honestly? A lot better,” I said.

  He looked doubtful. “What about the depression?” he asked. “Do you still feel overwhelmed?”

  “No, not like that. I’m sober now, so I’m dealing with things a little better.”

  He nodded. “Are you still reading your Bible?”

  “Every day. I like reading it,” I said. I just wished I understood more of it. The Amplified Bible helped—it explained a lot of the words. I found when I read I felt peaceful, not so alone anymore.

  We got called to three alarms that night. They were all locked down, premises secure. At 3:16 Central put a call over for shots fired.

  “South David,” Central called.

  “South David,” Fiore responded.

  “I have a 10–10 shots fired at West 40th and Broadway.”

  “South David going,” Fiore answered. We heard the other sectors respond.

  On the ride there Fiore asked, “Is there a callback?” Sometimes the 911 caller leaves a number so Central can call back for more information.

  “No callback,” Central responded.

  We pulled up to an open courtyard on the south part of 40th Street. It was empty and quiet. Fiore radioed us 84 and asked if Central knew where the call came from.

  “A pay phone in Port Authority,” Central responded.

  We gave it back 90X, unfounded.

  We stopped for coffee at the Sunrise Deli and drove back to the 37th Street parking lot to drink it.

  “Donna said she told you about before she got saved,” Fiore said casually.

  “She just said she wasn’t living right,” I answered. I was standing outside the RMP smoking a cigarette, drinking my coffee.

  He chuckled. “She doesn’t tell many people.”

  “Tell them what?” I asked, looking in the car.

  He shrugged. “When she first came to church she had that big hair, black eyeliner thing going on. She was wearing a short skirt and those high spike heels.” He smiled and shook his head. “She had such an attitude.”

  “So how’d you hook up with her?” I asked.

  “She was partying a lot—she told me later she was all messed up. I knew it. I didn’t get involved with her until I knew her commitment to God was real. I liked her from the first time I met her. We were friends, but she was seeing some guy in a band. She used to go to all the clubs with him. At first she just came to our midweek service; then when her boyfriend left she started coming on Sunday.”

  “Were you a cop then?” I forgot how long he said he’d been married.

  “Yeah, I had about two years on.”

  “She told me she was obnoxious then,” I said. “Was she?”

  He shrugged. “A little, but she was still sweet.” He smiled.

  It was funny how they each saw it in a different way.

  We got a call for a dispute at the New Yorker Hotel on 8th Avenue between 34th and 35th Streets The dispute was between a cabbie and a passenger. The cabbie said the guy didn’t pay, the passenger said he did. I could tell the passenger was handicapped. He was a male white, about thirty years old, thin and sickly looking, coughing and limping dramatically. I thought he was faking it until I saw the sores on his arms. He was dressed in worn jeans and carried an old briefcase.

  The cabbie said the fare was to the New Yorker Hotel. When they got to the New Yorker, the passenger changed his mind. Now he wanted to go up to Port Authority to see if any of his friends were there. The cabbie said no, you wanted the New Yorker, you’re at the New Yorker. He had another fare from the New Yorker that he didn’t want to lose. The man with the briefcase said he asked to go to Port Authority, not the New Yorker Hotel. He said he paid the cabbie. The cabbie said he only paid him three bucks for a nine-dollar fare.

  I asked for the crib sheet, which would give me the pickup and destination for each fare. Sure enough, the fare was to the New Yorker Hotel. I figured it would be—a cabbie wouldn’t call us unless someone ripped him off. They want to get right out to their next fare. Standing here talking to me, he’d be losing money.

  As I questioned him, the passenger coughed and gasped for breath. I looked him in the eye. “Now, listen to me. The bottom line is he took you
here like you asked. If you don’t pay him, I’m locking you up for theft of service.”

  Suddenly the limp and the cough were gone as the passenger tossed a few rolled-up bills on the trunk of the cab. I’m sure he knew by the tone of my voice that I wasn’t joking. I don’t think he faked the sores on his arms, just played it up to make me feel sorry for him. I didn’t. The cabbie counted out the bills. I doubt he got a tip. He thanked us and took off.

  I left the precinct by 8:00 Friday morning and reached my front door by 8:45. I used the bathroom and grabbed a bottle of water for my run.

  I parked at the dolphin fountain. I walked and jogged the three and a half miles and was wide awake by the time I got home. I drove up to Bay Street at 11:00 and got a haircut. If lightning was gonna strike when I went to church on Sunday, I wanted to look nice. I stopped for a bagel and coffee, eating at the kitchen table. I turned the air conditioner on high and put on a pair of sweats to sleep in. I was asleep by noon, setting my clock for 7:30.

  Vinny was home when I got up. I showered and shaved and we ordered out for sandwiches. Meatball for him, eggplant parm for me. He had taken the day off from work so he could fill out some bridal registry. They went to Fortunoff’s at the Woodbridge Mall, and he and Christie picked out china. This way everyone could give Fortunoff’s their name and see what to buy them. He was describing his china to me, telling me it was bone with flowers on it. Like I cared. I was giving him money. Let him buy his own dishes.

  Friday night was our last tour before we swung out. Fiore was all excited about his baby’s thing on Sunday. He asked me to be on time. He said there might be some traffic in the morning and suggested I leave early just in case.

  The night was busy; Fridays usually were. But it didn’t get interesting until 3:30 when we got a call in Charlie Frank sector.

  “South David,” Central called.

  “South David,” Fiore responded.

  “I have a 10–10 at 330 West 30th Street, apartment 5 Frank.” A 10–10 is a call for help.

  It was the third call to this address in the past few weeks. Every time we answered it was the same thing. A little old man claimed that a woman went into his apartment, and he asked us to get her out. We parked outside the building and rang the bell for apartment 5F. The guy buzzed us in, and we took the elevator to the fifth floor and rang the bell to the apartment.

  From within the apartment came a “Who is it?” We identified ourselves as police officers, and a short, skinny old man answered the door. He had to be at least eighty years old. He had thinning white hair and was wearing light blue boxer shorts and a buttoned white shirt. His knobby knees could be seen above his black nylon socks, and he wore no shoes. He had bushy eyebrows and hair growing out of his nose.

  “Officers, come in. I want you to get this woman out of here.” He pointed behind him. He had a slight accent and a raspy voice.

  The apartment was a shabby studio. We walked into a tiny kitchen area that held a wooden table with two chairs. Beyond the kitchen was a sleeping area. It was so small that the bed came right to the edge of the kitchen. To the right of the kitchen was a closet-sized room with a reclining chair and a TV set. Off the sitting room was an ancient bathroom.

  I could see a woman in her mid-twenties standing behind him. She was thin with long, straggly dark hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. She was wearing purple satin underwear.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but she doesn’t belong in my apartment,” he said emphatically.

  “Well, how’d she get in your apartment?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” I made a “who are you kidding?” face.

  “I was sleeping right over there.” He pointed to the bed. “I woke up and she was there.”

  “So what you’re trying to tell me is that you were sound asleep and woke up to a woman in your apartment in her underwear?” I asked, laughing.

  “Yes!” He nodded dramatically.

  “Now why do I find that hard to believe? How did she get into your apartment? Did she climb up five flights on the fire escape just to see you in your boxers?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Officer, but I want her out of here,” he demanded.

  The woman wasn’t saying a word. She stepped back into the area by the bed and came out a minute later with a dress on. It was tight and black with thin straps. I saw his black pants draped over the foot of the bed. As he babbled on, he was oblivious to her in the background. Fiore and I watched her reach over to the pants, trying to pull the wallet out of them.

  “Are those your pants over there on the bed?” I asked, knowing he’d catch her with them.

  “Yes, those are mine!” He dove for the pants, trying to grab them out of her hands. They wrestled with the pants for a minute until he pulled them away. She still held his wallet in her hand, and I saw her take some bills out of it. This was getting comical. I looked at Fiore to see his reaction. His face was serious.

  “Give the wallet back,” I told her.

  “He owes me money,” she said quietly, handing him the wallet. Her left hand was clenched by her side.

  He counted what was in his wallet. “She robbed me!”

  “What’s in your hand?” I asked, amazed that she took the money right in front of us.

  “Nothing,” she said, clenching her fist tighter.

  “Open your hand.”

  “No.”

  This went back and forth between us for a couple of minutes until I grabbed her wrist and said, “Listen, you can either give me what’s in your hand or I’m gonna take it out and we can lock you up. What do you want to do?”

  She didn’t answer, so I pried her hand open and found forty dollars in it.

  “I want her arrested, Officer,” the old man said. “She tried to take my money!”

  “You want me to arrest her?” I said. “Are you trying to tell me she doesn’t belong here? You didn’t let her into the apartment?”

  “I didn’t let her in,” he said.

  “Then how did she get in? I’m finding it hard to believe that you’re sound asleep and wake up to find a woman in purple underwear in your apartment. How old are you? Stuff like that never happens to me!”

  “Officer, he knows how I got here,” the woman interrupted quietly. “He let me in. He picked me up on 8th Avenue and took me here,”

  I pulled her over to the sitting room, and Fiore stayed talking to the old man.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “Listen, I come here all the time. He picks me up, I’m a regular of his. Sometimes,” she shrugged her shoulders, “he don’t wanna pay.”

  “So why do you keep coming back?”

  “Usually he’s okay and pays me. But sometimes he won’t pay.” She shrugged again.

  “Well, he’s gonna have you locked up,” I said.

  “Why?” She looked surprised.

  “First of all, I saw you take money out of his pants. Secondly, he’s saying you were in his apartment unlawfully.”

  “But he brought me here!” she said.

  “I understand that.” I paused. “What I can do is have you sign an affidavit and get him for patronizing a prostitute. I lock him up too, and he won’t be doing this anymore.”

  She thought a minute and nodded. “Okay, I’ll sign.”

  She picked up her pocketbook, and I went through it. I gave it back to her, and she put it on her shoulder before I cuffed her.

  “Thank you, Officer! I just want her out of here!” the old man burst out.

  “Do me a favor and put your pants on,” I told him.

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Because I don’t want to talk to you in your underwear anymore. Put your shoes on while you’re at it, I need you to come to the precinct with us.”

  He argued back and forth until he got dressed.

  “Okay, now it’s time to turn around,” I said. “W
e’re arresting you too.”

  “Why?” he yelled.

  “For patronizing a prostitute. According to her, you do this all the time. You bring her back to your apartment and pay her for sexual favors. She’s willing to sign an affidavit stating so.”

  “That’s not true!” he wailed.

  “Well, she said it’s not true that she came into your apartment illegally,” I added.

  As I cuffed him his pants fell down. I looked around for a belt but couldn’t find one. I gathered the back of his pants and put them in his cuffed hands. He jumped around and stood on his toes to avoid being taken out of the apartment. Then he screamed, “You dogs!”

  “Dogs? What is that supposed to mean? Listen, this is the third time somebody’s had to come to your apartment because you want to pick up a prostitute and don’t feel like paying her afterward. You think we’re here to take care of your dirty work. Well, that’s not gonna happen anymore ’cause what we’re gonna do now is lock you up. I guarantee you won’t be calling me again to get rid of a prostitute for you.”

  “That’s not what happened!” he screamed.

  He became frantic as we brought him out of the apartment. He called us dogs the whole ride downstairs. Fiore looked straight ahead, not saying a word. As we put them in the RMP I said, “Watch your head, Pops.” I put them both in the backseat with Fiore between them.

  I drove them back to the precinct. When we got to the stairs at the front door, the old man tried to dig in his heels. Again. The desk sergeant gave me a look and said, “Okay, what is this?” The old man carried on the whole time, calling us dogs and other choice words.

  I motioned to the sarge to come over to the side as Fiore filled out the pedigree sheet on both of them.

  “Sarge, this is the third call we’ve gotten on this guy. Charlie had the other two. Every time this guy has a pros in his house, he thinks he’s gonna call us to get rid of her so he doesn’t have to pay.”

  He laughed. “What are you locking him up for?”

  “Patronizing a prostitute. She wants to sign an affidavit,” I said.