by F. P. Lione
“Him who loved us is Jesus, right?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He smiled.
“Where does it say that?”
“Romans 8, I think it’s 37.” He whipped out his pocket Bible and flipped through the pages. “Yup. Verse 37.”
I nodded, feeling better. I made a mental note to read Romans 8 when I got home and to call Michele and talk to her.
It was now almost 4:00 when Central called for us to return to the command and we went inside. At this time of night the muster room was usually empty. The lieutenant was talking on the phone. He acknowledged us by peering over the glasses perched on his nose and holding up his index finger in a “hang on a second” gesture. He nodded while he listened, added an occasional uh-huh, and ended the conversation with, “He’ll be up there in five to ten minutes.”
Lieutenant Coughlan was in his early fifties. He had salt-and-pepper hair that looked dark because he greased it back. He had ice blue eyes and the dry sense of humor that seems to favor the Irish.
“Did you 10–2 us, Lou?” Fiore asked.
“Yeah. I just got off the phone with Midtown Court. They’ve been waiting for a prisoner that’s been locked up since the day tour. Can you do me a favor and run this guy up there? They’re expecting him, so it’ll just take you five minutes.” He looked at me funny and then turned back to Fiore.
“Sure, no problem, Lou,” Fiore said.
He gave us the arrest papers. I scanned them to see what the arrest was for. If it were any kind of violent crime, we’d be especially cautious. It turned out to be misdemeanor drugs, crack specifically. We put our guns in the locker behind the desk. I spotted Vinny Begaducci, the assistant station house officer.
“Hey, Vinny Bag-of-donuts,” I called.
“Hey, Tony, Joe, what’s going on?” Vinny was a nice guy. He had a little less time on than me and was a real gun buff. He collected them—rifles, shotguns, antiques, semiautomatics. He loved to hunt, so every year he saved all his vacation for November and spent his time off hunting. When he got married two years ago, he scheduled his honeymoon to be back in time for opening day. He was even packing at his wedding reception. His wife complained that his shoulder holster showed up in some of the pictures. He was a full-blooded Italian but had frizzy blond hair and blue eyes. He leaned toward me and signaled me to come closer. Confused, I leaned in.
“Hey, Tony, is everything okay?” he said in hushed tones.
I backed up. “Yeah, why?”
“I heard you went to the farm.” He looked troubled. The farm is the rehab where alcoholic cops go. They called it the farm because it’s upstate.
“Obviously, I’m not at the farm.” I shook my head as Fiore and I walked away.
Fiore chuckled. “You gotta laugh, Tony.”
“It’s amazing how the rumors spread,” I answered.
We headed to the gated door that buzzes people into the cell area. Dave Fishman, or “Fish” as he was called, did the arrest processing. He printed the perps, kept a log on them, and then checked every thirty minutes to make sure they didn’t kill themselves or beat the snot out of each other. He’s five foot ten, 250 pounds with no muscle tone. He has a doughy look to him, round eyeglasses, brown eyes, and a crew cut. His lips are always wet, and he has a big schnoz and a ready smile. He whined when he talked but he was still a good guy.
“Hey, Fish,” Fiore and I greeted him.
“Tony, Joe. You doing the transport?”
“That’d be us,” Fiore said.
“Great!” Fish was thrilled. I guessed this was his only prisoner and now he could take an extended meal.
Fish hit the buzzer on the wall and held the door for us to come in behind him. We grabbed the manila envelope with the prisoner’s papers and personal effects from the box next to Fish’s desk. As we looked into the cell we found the prisoner asleep on one of the benches inside the cell. We smelled his feet before we saw him; his torn, dirty sneakers were on the floor at odd angles.
Fiore went in to wake the prisoner, who was curled up in a fetal position. He shook him on the shoulder. “Time to go, buddy.”
Nothing, he was out cold.
On the second shake the guy turned his head and looked at us. He was disoriented, coming down off the crack, so it took him a couple of seconds to realize where he was.
“Dude, put your shoes on,” I said as I kicked the shoes toward him.
“I told him to keep his shoes on. He must have taken them off when I left the room,” Fish called over.
“What time is it?” the prisoner mumbled.
“Four-fifteen,” Fiore said.
“In the morning?” He looked surprised.
I checked through the envelope as Fiore cuffed him. I matched the face to the mug shot just to be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time someone mixed up the prisoners. I stuck the envelope in his hands behind his back. He was in his early twenties, wearing brown baggy cutoff shorts and an ancient T-shirt that may have once been white. His dark hair was chaotic, sticking up all over. The tongues of his sneakers were sticking straight up as he shuffled out in front of us like the walking dead.
We picked up our guns before stopping at the desk. The lou noted the time and that we were taking the prisoner to Midtown Court.
We took 9th Avenue up and parked in front of the precinct. After we walked inside, we spoke to the sergeant on the desk and put our guns away behind the desk there in a similar locker to our own.
The sarge asked the prisoner if he was sick or injured and did he want to go to the hospital. The prisoner had his head down, and all three of us waited for him to respond. When he realized we were talking to him, he looked up, surprised that the sergeant was addressing him. The sarge repeated the question, and the prisoner said he didn’t need medical attention.
We went back into the cell area to an officer who could have been Fish’s twin except that he was Italian and not as friendly. Because he was getting the prisoner, he wouldn’t be able to watch his portable TV.
We went back to the precinct at 5:00 for our meal. Fiore went to the lounge to read, and I went up to the third-floor gym to work out. Our gym is one big room, mirrored on three walls with a wall of windows in the back. Anyone who worked out there paid annual dues of twenty bucks. We had two stationary bikes, a treadmill, a bench press, an incline press, free weights, a leg machine, and a curling bench. The gym is usually empty this time of night, and I had the place to myself. I threw on some shorts and a muscle shirt and did some curls, then I worked out my back.
Fiore and I went back out at 6:00, patrolling our sector until 7:30, when the city was just starting to get moving.
15
I left the precinct by 7:50. The outbound Brooklyn Battery Tunnel was down to one lane for the inbound rush hour, slowing the traffic. I was clear through to the Verrazano but the “low balance” light went on when I used my E-Z pass. I would have to shoot down to the payment center sometime today and throw some money on it.
When I pulled up in front of my house I saw that Denise’s car was still there. I had planned on calling Michele as soon as I got home and had been going over in my mind what I would say. But I didn’t want to have this conversation in front of Denise. I heard music from upstairs when I came in and went up to my room to put my bag away. She couldn’t hear me with the radio blasting away, and I knew I was going to scare her. I yelled “Hey!” and she screamed, just like I knew she would.
“That’s not funny, Tony!” she yelled as I laughed.
“What do you want from me? Don’t keep the music so loud. What are you doing home?”
She seemed to be thinking of what to say. “Mr. Ellis died last night,” she said quickly.
“Mike’s father?”
She nodded. “He had a heart attack. Mike called you about 1:00.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I would have, but Mike said not to. I think the wake is at Davis’s.” She continued to fold her clothes. She’s one of those pe
ople who cleans when they’re upset, and I could see she’d been at it a while. I could smell the bleach from the bathroom, and the vacuum was in the hallway.
“I have to go see Mike, but I have stuff to do before I go to sleep.” My mind started racing with everything I had to do.
“Anything I can do?” she asked.
“I need to throw some money on my E-Z pass.”
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Are you sure it’s not a problem?”
“No, go see Mike.”
“I have to make a call first,” I said as I went to my room.
I changed into shorts and a tank top and went back down to the kitchen. I took the cordless out onto the deck and dialed Michele. I glanced back at the clock as it started ringing—9:05. I hoped she wasn’t sleeping.
“Hello,” she said. I was glad she answered; I didn’t want to talk to Stevie again so soon.
“Hey, Michele, it’s Tony,” I said.
She paused a beat. “Hi, Tony, how are you?”
“Good, how ’bout you?” I asked.
“Fine.”
We were getting awfully polite here. I could tell she thought something was up. I had spent some time praying while I was stuck in traffic. I’d tapped my fingers on my steering wheel as I prayed so it looked like I was singing along to music instead of talking to myself. I hoped Fiore was right and that telling her the truth was the way to go.
“Listen, about Saturday—”
“Tony, if you don’t want to go, it’s okay,” she said.
“No—it’s not that. It’s about Stevie.” I waited for her to say something, but there was silence on the other end. I thought she’d hung up.
“You still there?” I asked.
“I’m here,” she said quietly. “What about him?”
I took a breath. “I feel funny about you having a kid.”
“Oh.”
Bad move. “I mean, I like him and all, it’s just that…” I couldn’t think of what to say next.
“It’s just what?” she prompted.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I blurted out. “I don’t want him to get attached. He needs a father, and I don’t want him thinking I’m it and then be disappointed if things don’t work out.”
There was silence for a moment. “I appreciate your honesty, Tony. Steven’s getting old enough to notice that other kids have fathers and he doesn’t. He even talked to Joe about it.” She gave a quiet laugh. “He asked Joe why he didn’t have a father, and Joe said he should pray for one. When you came here last week, he asked me if you were going to be his father, and I realized we had to be careful. I told him we were friends, and I figured you and I could leave him out of this for a while. If things change, we could always involve him later.”
“I don’t want you thinking it matters that you have a son. It wouldn’t matter to me. I just want to take it slow with him.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” she agreed.
“So, are we still on for Saturday?” I asked, my tone more upbeat.
“Sure,” she said.
We talked a little longer, making plans for Saturday. I told her about Mike’s dad and that I might have the funeral Saturday morning. Since I didn’t have work Saturday night, I could crash on Sunday to catch up on my sleep. She wanted to change our date to another day, but I had already started to think ahead to the wake and the funeral. Mike’s family were big drinkers, and if I had to work both nights of the wake, I could turn down a drink without drawing too much attention to myself. My plans with Michele on Saturday would get me out of drinking after the funeral.
Mike Ellis and his family lived two blocks north of my house. Mike and his sister, Debbie, had gone to St. Michael’s with us, and his father coached us in Little League with my dad. Our parents were pretty close until mine got divorced, and even now my father stops up at Dave’s for a drink if he sees Mr. Ellis’s car outside.
I was stunned to hear he died. I wondered how Mike was handling it. I felt funny about going to the house, but Mike and I had been friends too long for me not to show up. I had a hamper full of dirty clothes, and I threw them in the washing machine before I walked up to Mike’s.
The sun was warm as I walked the two blocks. Since I wouldn’t make it to the boardwalk this morning, this would have to serve as my exercise for the day. As I turned the corner I could see two cars in Mike’s driveway and a black Jeep double-parked next to Debbie Ellis’s new red VW Beetle. The front door was open, and the screen let me hear the sound of someone crying in the living room. The block was quiet for the most part. A couple of kids were playing roller hockey two doors up, and I could hear the thwack of the stick hitting the street as they took their shots.
Mike’s mother, Joan, was sitting on Mr. Ellis’s lazy boy chair, and Debbie was kneeling down in front of her, talking in low tones. I tapped on the door.
“Come in, Tony.” Debbie hugged me as she opened the door. “I guess you heard about Dad.” She started crying as she hugged me.
Debbie Ellis was two years younger than Mike and me. She was cute, short with brown hair and big brown eyes. She’s a sweet girl who loves her older brother and never gives him any of the problems Denise gives me.
“What happened, Deb?” I rubbed her back. “You okay?” She nodded and walked back over toward her mother.
“Hi, Tony,” Mrs. Ellis said through her tears. “John had a heart attack last night. I called an ambulance, but it was too late.” She started to cry again.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ellis,” I said for lack of anything better. “Where’s Mike?”
“He’s in the kitchen.” She sniffed.
Mike walked into the living room to see who’d come in and shook my hand. He had a beer in his hand and looked like he’d been at it a while. I could remember being half in the bag by 9:00 in the morning, but suddenly the thought of it made me sick. I wondered if I had some kind of alcoholic schizophrenia where one minute a drink made my mouth water and the next it made me nauseous.
“I’m sorry about your dad, Mike,” I said.
“Unbelievable.” He shook his head. “My old man is dead. I never thought it would happen. Fifty-eight years old, retired two months ago, and now he’s dead.” He shook his head and took a hefty swig. “Want a drink?”
“No thanks, I need to get some sleep,” I said.
He looked at me funny and shrugged. Mike had that all-American look that women seemed to love. But in the early morning light and without the tint of alcohol in me, I could see the wear and tear from the booze. Lines crinkled his forehead, around his mouth, and the corners of his eyes. His nose had a broken blood vessel and his face a pasty pallor. As we walked toward the kitchen I could hear the people in there talking about Mr. Ellis.
Richie Patterson, Mike’s roommate from down the shore, was there, along with Laura, Mike’s girlfriend, and Debbie’s boyfriend, who I’d never met before. I shook hands all around and kissed Laura hello. Everyone was drinking—I guess the occasion called for it. It felt strange to be around Mike, and I was uncomfortable with all the socializing in the face of sudden death. Mike isn’t Italian, and I guess they have a different way of handling it. If it were my father, you’d hear the screams a mile away.
I made small talk and listened to the burial arrangements. They would have the wake tonight and tomorrow afternoon and evening at Davis’s Funeral Home on Bay Street. The mass would be Saturday morning at St. Michael’s and the burial after that. The post-funeral gathering was at Dave’s Tavern. Mike said his dad would have wanted it there.
Although it hadn’t been that long since I’d hung out with Mike, I was out of the loop. Mike and Richie had apparently gotten closer, and I felt like an outsider as I heard them talk about all the things they’d been doing down the shore. They weren’t doing anything different from what we did every summer at the shore. You’d think the thrill would be gone by now.
I stayed for half an hour and made all the right noises before going hom
e. The kids were still playing hockey outside, although it looked like a couple more had joined in. I thought about Mike as I walked home. We were different now, and he knew it. He wasn’t rude to me, just kind of ignored me. I wondered what he would think if I told him about church and Fiore. He’d probably laugh and tell me to have a drink and get over it.
I threw my clothes in the dryer and ate a bowl of cereal before going to bed. It was 10:30, so I set my clock for 5:00, giving myself time to eat and shower before the wake. I put my air conditioner on low, letting the hum lull me to sleep.
I woke up at 4:40, twenty minutes before the alarm, and jumped in the shower. Our bathroom was now stocked with shampoo, soap, Q-tips, and tissues, starting my night off right. Denise was downstairs with Vinny, Christie, and Sal, all dressed in their mourning clothes. Vinny and Sal wore suits, Denise wore a black dress, and Christie had on a blue suit. I was wearing my new gray suit but would wait to put it on until after I ate dinner.
“Did you guys eat?” I asked.
“We ordered pizza and got you a hero.” Denise pointed to a white paper bag on the counter.
I ate my chicken cutlet sandwich, now cold with the mozzarella solidified. I didn’t bother to heat it; they looked like they were in a rush. The family gets very somber at the subject of death, and I knew they wanted to be there on time. We left the house by 6:20. I took my truck, Denise drove with Sal, and Vinny had Christie’s Saturn.
Davis’s Funeral Home is located about a block from the projects. I popped off one of my hubcaps and tossed it in the back of my truck. The neighborhood was pretty bad, and I doubted I’d find the hubcaps on if I left the whole set. The funeral parlor was an old Victorian house, tastefully decorated in floral patterned rugs in beige, green, and rose. Music was piped in overhead, and everyone moved quietly, speaking in hushed tones as if they could wake the dead if they got too loud.
My father and Marie were there, consoling Mrs. Ellis by the door to the viewing room. Mrs. Ellis seemed to have aged since this morning. She wore black pants and a gray button-down shirt. She looked dazed as she greeted those paying respects and seemed to be looking around for Mr. Ellis to help her with it. Occasionally her eyes would rest on the coffin where he lay, and she would stare until someone snapped her out of it.