by F. P. Lione
She raised her eyebrows. “You could have shopped yourself,” she shot back pleasantly.
“Fire department having a sale on T-shirts?” I asked.
“They’re Sal’s. He is a fireman,” she said as if I was a moron.
I nodded toward the blender. “What are you making?”
She looked away. “Strawberry daiquiris.”
My mouth watered, and I fleetingly resented my decision not to drink. I put ice in a glass and poured a Coke instead, leaning against the sink as I drank it. Sal checked the oven, where he was roasting several heads of garlic.
I set the table for three, knowing Vinny wouldn’t be home. Sal had grilled portabella mushrooms along with the steaks, and we put them on top of the roasted garlic we spread on the meat. It was delicious. They had a store-bought tortellini salad with fresh mozzarella, artichoke hearts, red peppers, and Greek olives. The green salad had sweet balsamic vinegar and oil dressing, which I dunked with seeded Italian bread.
Denise and Sal talked about a piece of furniture they were restoring. He was teaching her the ropes on how to do that, and she seemed genuinely interested in it. They talked about furniture stripping, sanders, and using lacquer with a sprayer. I didn’t know much about it, but I’ve seen some of Sal’s work, and it’s beautiful.
Apparently these two were closer than I’d thought, and I noticed their eyes lock and grow mushy throughout the dinner. Good for them. If there were any two people who deserved to be happy, it was these two. It’s funny, though. I never pictured Denise with someone like Sal. He was too nice, too goofy to have a knockout like her. He was a plain-looking, everyday Joe. Denise looked like she should be on a magazine cover. She was used to men falling all over themselves with her. Since Denise is my sister, her looks never impressed me, but a lot of my friends had drooled over her in the past. I got the distinct impression that her looks weren’t the only thing Sal saw when he looked at her. He’s a good guy. I hope she doesn’t hurt him.
I left at 10:00. I had to stop for gas and cigarettes and was on the road by 10:15. There wasn’t enough traffic anywhere to slow anything down, and I got to the precinct by 10:55. Fiore had my coffee waiting for me in the muster room, and we shook hands as I came in.
Rice and Beans had an accident on the four-to-twelve. Well, Beans was driving, so he’d had the accident. A cabby blew a red light on 8th Avenue and 36th Street, broadsiding the RMP. Technically it was the cabby’s fault, but the department makes us walk a foot post for thirty days for a car accident. Both Rice and Beans were hurt, not seriously, but they were taken to the hospital by ambulance.
The sarge cautioned us on safe driving before we filed out, which annoyed me. It wasn’t Beans’s fault that the cabby blew the light, and everyone knew it. I was in a bad mood. It still hadn’t left me from when I’d talked to Michele that morning. Fiore’s upbeat attitude was grating on my last nerve. He was saying something about his little girl.
“She was a preemie, Tony, but she’s progressing so fast. She’s doing things for her age that preemies usually can’t.”
I nodded as if I had a clue about what he was saying. “Hey, that’s great,” I said as I wondered what a preemie was.
“What are you doing this weekend? If you’re going out to see Michele and Stevie, maybe we could barbecue or something.”
“I’m taking Michele to dinner on Saturday, but we’re not taking the kid,” I answered shortly.
I saw Fiore’s eyes flash when I called Stevie “the kid,” but he didn’t say anything. I was suddenly in the mood to argue with Fiore about it.
“So how does it work with these church ladies?” I asked.
I could tell he didn’t like my tone. He paused and said, “What do you mean?”
“You know, is Michele allowed to go out alone with me, or do you or her son have to chaperone?”
“What you and Michele do is up to the both of you. I’m sure Michele knows her limits. I can’t speak for her.” He didn’t look mad, just maybe a little disappointed.
We stopped for coffee. Since Rice and Beans had crashed the car and didn’t leave me the paper, I bought the News and the Post to keep in the car. On our way back we were driving southbound on Broadway when we watched a cabbie go through a steady red light and hit a white Chevy Celebrity. We pulled over and walked to the scene. Both drivers were alone in the cars and looked uninjured. I asked both of them if they wanted an ambulance, and both declined. The driver of the cab was your typical Scud missile operator and instantly started yelling at the driver of the Celebrity. The driver of the Celebrity was a middle-aged man wearing a green work shirt and pants. He looked dazed enough that I thought he should get checked out, but he wouldn’t budge. The cabbie kept saying, “I did nothing wrong, you do what you want.” I issued him a summons for disobeying a steady red light and issued the driver of the Celebrity a summons for not having his license.
At around 2:30 I was driving eastbound on 40th Street, patrolling our sector. I had been quiet most of the night, reading the paper in between jobs and stepping out of the car to smoke.
“You okay, Tony?” Fiore asked.
I nodded.
“Did I do something to offend you?” He leaned over so he could see my face as I looked straight ahead.
“No, Joe. I’m not mad at you,” I said tiredly. That wasn’t entirely true. I was pissed at him. I wanted to blame him because I couldn’t have a drink. Tonight I wanted that strawberry daiquiri. I wanted to feel normal, not like an alcoholic. Not only that, but I was feeling the reality of having made a commitment to God. I would have to honor it. No booze, no sex, and no more Tony. I didn’t feel like myself anymore, and I was afraid I couldn’t measure up to who I was supposed to be. How was I supposed to get into something with Michele when my mouth still watered at the thought of a drink? I didn’t want her little boy looking up to me when I was nothing but a drunk who wasn’t any good at loving people. His real father had let him down enough.
It was Fiore’s fault that everything had changed. If he had left me alone, I wouldn’t be feeling like this. I ignored the part of me that said if he’d left me alone I’d be dead.
At 3:00 we were patrolling our sector. As I approached the corner of 39th Street and 7th Avenue where the needle and button statue sits, there was a male white talking on a cell phone and flagging us down. He looked about forty-five years old. He was conservatively dressed in a pale yellow golf shirt and tan pants. He had gold wire-framed glasses and a clean shave, and his face was full of blood. He said something into the phone and hung up as we pulled over.
He told us he’d just gotten robbed. His nose and mouth were swollen and bleeding, and he had a nasty gash on his bottom lip. He kept dabbing at it with his hand as he talked. He told us that he’d been talking to a guy on the corner of 39th and 7th and out of nowhere the guy punched him in the face and took his wallet. He said the guy just ran down 40th Street.
“Get in the car. Let’s see if he’s still around,” I said.
I saw a white male running westbound on the north side of 40th Street about three-quarters of the way down the block. Given the way he was running, I figured he was the guy. He looked behind him as he ran and slowed down to a walk when he saw us approach him.
The guy was wearing black shorts and a white shirt with a beer logo on it. His hair was cropped short, shaved at the sides and greased down flat on his head in the front. He had a small hoop earring through his left eyebrow and a row of stud earrings in both ears. He looked young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He stopped walking and watched us as Fiore got out of the car.
“Where are you heading, buddy?” Fiore asked him.
“Is this the guy?” I said to the bleeding man in the backseat. “Is he the one who hit you?”
He peered out the back window at him.
“Take your time, get a good look at him,” I said.
“I—I’m not sure,” he stammered. I nodded to Fiore through the back of the car.
“I was
just running to catch the train,” the guy said.
“Would you mind emptying your pockets and placing your things on the car?” Fiore asked.
He shrugged. “Sure, no problem. What happened?” he asked, trying to look innocent.
“Nothing to worry about. There was a robbery not far from here, and we’re just checking the area.” Fiore smiled in a fatherly way. “This will only take a minute and you can go catch that train.”
The kid was nervous, but I guess being stopped by the cops would make anyone nervous. Personally, I thought he was our guy.
“Take another look. Are you sure this isn’t the guy who hit you?” I turned toward the back again. “He’s running away from the scene not five minutes later.”
“No. I don’t know, I’m sorry.” He looked away.
“If you were talking to the guy, you must have gotten a look at him,” I said impatiently.
“I really don’t know.” He looked down again, swiping at the blood on his face.
“He’s got nothin’ on him, Tony,” Fiore said from the back of the car.
Unless the victim confirmed he was the perp, we couldn’t search him. Frustrated, I called out to Joe, “Then let him go.” Joe gave him his stuff back and let him catch his train.
Fiore got back in the car, and I drove up 40th Street. On the northwest corner of 40th and 7th was a fashion school with a line of shrubbery on the side. A man jumped out from between the bushes and froze as we approached.
“What are the chances of this?” Fiore mumbled and we both burst out laughing. I pulled the car up next to the guy and asked him what he was doing.
“I was looking for something,” he said.
He was big, maybe six foot three, and wearing a blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt over white shorts. His feet were huge, at least a twelve or thirteen in big white sneakers with glow-in-the-dark piping. At closer inspection I got the impression of him being slow, maybe mildly retarded.
“Stay there,” I ordered. I turned to the guy in the back again. “Is this the guy?”
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s not him.”
I got out of the car and opened the back door and leaned in. “Listen, we just grabbed two guys running from the scene, and you’re telling me neither of them fits the description of the guy who hit you?” I was getting angry now.
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s not him.”
“Have him empty his pockets. I’m going to search the bushes,” I called to Fiore.
At the entrance to the school there was a courtyard that sat beyond the row of shrubs. Cement benches were placed throughout, with big cement planters holding flowers and greenery. Fiore stood outside the car as I walked up into the courtyard where the man jumped out. I used my flashlight to look under the benches, in the planters, and under the shrubs, but didn’t find a wallet. Since there was nothing to connect him to the robbery, we had to let him go.
I was sure that the first guy was the one who hit him—this guy was probably using the bushes as a bathroom. But that was beside the point. Our witness wasn’t cooperating. If he wasn’t going to point the perp out, why waste our time? I walked back to the RMP and radioed Central for an ambulance to meet us at 40th and 7th. While we waited for the ambulance, I tried to talk to the victim again.
“What happened? What were you talking to this guy about?” I asked.
“I wasn’t talking to him, he just walked up and punched me in the face,” he said, not looking at us.
“Wait a minute,” Fiore cut in. “You told us you were talking to the guy.”
“First you can’t identify anyone, and now you’re changing the story.” My voice was rising. I went up to his face. “Why don’t you just tell me the truth?”
He hesitated then took a deep breath. “I was at my hotel, and I was hungry, so I took a walk to get something to eat.”
“What hotel are you staying at?” Fiore asked.
“The Hyatt on 42nd and Lexington.” His head was still down as he spoke.
“So why are you all the way down here on 39th and 7th?” I demanded.
He shrugged.
“Why would you come all the way down here for something to eat when you could get something at the hotel? Even if you didn’t want to eat at the hotel, there are plenty of places by Grand Central Station. But now you’re down here where it’s totally isolated from everything and there aren’t even any restaurants open.” I was in his face, but he still wouldn’t look at me.
“I felt like getting some air,” he said to his feet.
I hate being lied to. We spend most of our time sifting through the lies, trying to find out what really happened. I knew what the deal was here, I looked over at Fiore. He knew too. I know he doesn’t like being lied to either, but he was letting me handle this one.
Our guy then decided he didn’t want to pursue this any further. “I’m okay. I need to get back to my hotel and get some sleep.” He moved to step out of the car when Fiore motioned him to sit down.
“No way, buddy. We have to do a report. How much money did you have on you?” Fiore asked.
“About six hundred dollars.” He appeared to be thinking. “But I don’t want to file any report.”
Now I was mad. “You wave us down because someone smashes you in the face and takes six hundred dollars of your money. First you say you were talking to them, then you weren’t talking to them. Do you really expect me—”
I cut off when I saw that he’d gotten blood all over the backseat and door. He opened the door so he could spit blood and mucous out onto the street.
“Hey! Clean that up! That’s disgusting!” I pulled open my door and grabbed a bunch of napkins from the storage pocket and threw them to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he cleaned it up. He looked pitiful. He knew I knew what had happened, and he was ashamed. I ignored him as he groveled, and EMS came on the scene. They worked on his nose and mouth to stop the bleeding. He wouldn’t need stitches. His yellow shirt was very bloodstained, and his face, now free of blood, was red and swollen. His nose looked broken but he declined a trip to the hospital.
Fiore was taking the report as EMS worked on him, which made me more irritated.
“Don’t even bother, Joe. If he doesn’t want a report, then leave it,” I spat out.
“We better do a report,” Fiore said. “Even if this guy seems reluctant, if something happens at least we covered ourselves.”
“Do what you want,” I said. He knew I disagreed.
As Fiore took the report, we found out the guy had lost his driver’s license, three credit cards, and an ATM card, along with the six hundred dollars. He said he’d also lost his credentials. “What credentials?” I asked suspiciously.
“I’m a state legislator from Connecticut,” he said quietly.
“State assembly or the senate?” I saw the surprised look on his face when I asked. I’m sure he figured I couldn’t spell legislator, let alone know what it meant. He told me which one, and I nodded, unimpressed.
“What are you doing in the city?”
I could see him debate lying to me. “I’m speaking at a function tomorrow, honoring World War II veterans.” He told me where it was.
I had gotten some alcohol pads from EMS and gave them to him to wipe off the door and seat. He kept apologizing throughout the whole thing, and now I started to feel sorry for him. I realized why he didn’t want to file a report.
“Listen,” I said as I leaned in closer, “I’m sorry I got so mad at you, but I know you weren’t down here at 3:00 in the morning to get something to eat.” He stared back at me. “I think you were looking for some companionship that maybe you didn’t want anyone to know about. It sounds to me like you found some companionship that wound up belting you in the mouth and taking your money instead of going through with what you were looking to do. I wouldn’t have been so angry if you’d just told me the truth.”
He put his head down, holding his face in his hands.
When I looked up, Fiore was smiling at me.
“What?” I barked.
“Nothing,” he said, still smiling.
Fiore turned his attention to our politician and while talking to him in a soothing voice explained the process of the complaint report. He gave the man his name and shield number and the complaint room phone number, along with the name and address of the precinct.
The politician thanked us both for our help and continued to apologize for not pointing out the perp. He thanked us for getting him medical attention and stood to leave.
“Can we give you a ride back to your hotel?” I asked.
“No, thank you. I appreciate it, but I’ll just get a cab.”
“How are you gonna get a cab with no money?” I asked. “Get in, we’ll drive you.” We dropped him off at the Hyatt.
Fiore was still smiling as we pulled away from the hotel.
“Okay, Joe, what’s so amusing?”
“You’re okay, Tony.” He was still smirking. “Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind.”
“What are you, my shrink?”
“No, I’m your friend, and I know something’s on your mind.” He wasn’t smiling anymore, just amused. “You called Stevie ‘the kid’ before and made a remark about dating Michele.”
I sighed. I might as well fess up—apparently Fiore could read me like a book. “I don’t know, Joe. I don’t want to hurt the kid. What if it doesn’t work out with her? What if I start drinking again?”
“Did you start drinking again?” He looked concerned.
“No, but I wanted to. My sister and my neighbor had dinner at the house with me and made strawberry daiquiris. I wanted to guzzle some from right out of the blender.” I played with the steering wheel.
“You’re doing better than you think, Tony. You just need to remember to pray it through. Christ in you is bigger than having a drink. The Bible says that we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. As far as Michele and Stevie are concerned, you need to be honest with her. She doesn’t want Stevie to be hurt either, and she’s not going to use him to rope you in.”