by F. P. Lione
“I know that now,” he said. “But at the time she was so excited about the baby, so excited about us, that we were gonna be a family.”
“I’ll pray for you Nick,” Fiore said.
Romano smiled. “I forgot, you’re the Jesus guy.”
“I’m not Jesus. But he’s the only one who can help you with this one.”
“It’s true, Nick,” I added.
Romano looked shocked. “You too?”
“I’m talking from experience here,” I said.
“What experience?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He looked skeptical. “You guys are gonna pray for me?” He sounded skeptical.
“Fiore’s gonna pray for you; he’s better at it than I am. But listen to what he’s telling you and don’t be thick like I was.”
“You weren’t thick, Tony,” Fiore said.
“You went to the farm, right?” Romano threw in.
“What’s with the farm?” I yelled. “I haven’t even taken a day off! How could I go to the farm? I bet Rooney’s passing this around because I missed the game.”
Fiore smirked. “Baaahhhh.”
“What’s ‘baaahhhh’?” I barked.
“A sheep. Isn’t that what they have at the farm?”
“How would I know? I’ve never been there! I’m going to get some coffee,” I said, getting out of the car. “What do you want?” I asked them.
“Regular coffee,” Fiore said.
“Me too,” Romano added.
There was a twenty-four-hour deli across from the synagogue. I got three coffees and three blueberry muffins and brought them back to the car. It was now midnight, and we still hadn’t gotten a job. Thursdays were usually pretty busy in the summer but not as busy as the weekend. A minute later I realized why we had no jobs when the mosquito sprayers made their way up 6th Avenue. Everyone was inside, afraid to breathe in the pesticide.
A highway patrol car led the spray truck, announcing on the car’s public address system to get indoors and close the windows while the truck was spraying. The truck had a flashing yellow light on top, and a heavy mist gushed out in a steady stream. We closed the windows and kept the air conditioner off so none of the fumes would get in the car.
“Good thing you guys are here, or I’d be off post not breathing this in,” Romano said.
“All right, we gotta go, you can get out now,” I joked.
“Thanks a lot, Tony,” he said.
It took about ten minutes for the smoke to dissipate, but it would probably take about a thousand years to get rid of the effects of the chemicals.
“I was talking to a friend of mine who’s an exterminator,” Fiore said.
“I heard this fog won’t kill anything,” I said.
“It’ll kill some of them, but that’s not the way to control it. To control it you have to treat the larvae in the standing water. They have these chemical donuts that you place in the standing water, preferably in the spring before they hatch, and follow up throughout the season,” Fiore said.
“How could you treat all the standing water in the city? You’d have to treat every puddle, lake, pond, garbage pail full of water. You could never do it,” I said. “All the buildings with flat roofs that get water, how can you control that?”
“I guess you treat the areas that breed the most,” he said.
We went with this mindless conversation about mosquitoes and the West Nile virus for a while. Since none of us were exterminators, we were riding on hearsay. The West Nile epidemic wasn’t as widespread as the press would have liked us to believe. They thrive on putting fear and panic in people so they stay glued to their TV, waiting for the news to tell them what they have to worry about.
We got a job from Central, an alarm on 39th Street, so we booted Romano out of the car while he cried about toxic fumes from the mosquito spray.
“Go across the street to the deli and watch from there,” I told him.
“Thanks for the coffee and muffin, and for the conversation. I appreciate it.” He grabbed his hat, memo book, and radio.
“No problem, buddy, just be careful,” I said.
“Everything’s gonna work out, Nick,” Fiore added.
He waved us off, and we drove back toward 39th Street to answer the alarm.
16
I talked to Fiore about Mr. Ellis dying and the wake.
“I felt like a coward for not telling them I quit drinking,” I said.
“You’re gonna have to tell them, Tony. Otherwise they’ll never leave you alone.”
“What should I say?”
“Say you quit drinking,” he said.
“They’ll want to know why. Then I’d have to tell them about church and God.” I could just picture it.
“You don’t have to tell them anything. Sometimes when people get saved, they’re so excited they shove it down every-body’s throat, and that’s not good either. If you don’t want to tell them because you’re afraid they’ll make fun of you, that’s a different story,” he said.
“But that’s exactly why I don’t want to tell them,” I pointed out.
“You just talked about God to Romano,” he countered.
“Yeah, but Romano’s a rookie. Nobody listens to him any-way.”
“That’s your pride talking,” he said. “And pride is a dangerous thing.”
“I thought pride was a good thing.”
“Not according to the Bible. There’s a lot written about pride, and if you look in the book of Proverbs, you’ll see pride isn’t a good thing,” he said. “Taking pride in your work and being proud of your family is a good thing, sure. But I’m talking about being concerned about what people think of you and about denying you know Jesus. Jesus doesn’t want us to deny him at any time. The Bible talks about it, I think it’s in Luke 12.” He took out his Bible and flipped through the pages. He was Johnny-on-the-spot with that Bible. “Here it is, Luke 12:9: ‘But he that denieth me before men shall be denied before the angels of God.’”
“It’s different for you, Joe. Everyone knows how you are with God. They know me as a drinker and a manly man,” I joked, flexing my arm. “If I start talking about Jesus, they’ll think I’m a wuss and expect me to turn the other cheek and crap.”
“Jesus wasn’t a wuss. He’s the toughest guy that ever lived, and he’s got the scars to prove it.”
“But it’ll change the way they see me.”
“Everyone we work with respects you. They see you as a good cop who knows the job. Granted, you’ve partied a lot and have a reputation for that, but I think you’d be surprised at how much they’ll admire your decision for God.”
“I don’t know about that. I think they’ll torture me over it.”
“Maybe for a while, but they’ll get past it.”
By now it was almost 12:30. We saw a news truck pulling away from the corner of 37th Street and 9th Avenue on the northeast side. A male black, possibly six foot one or six foot two wearing denim shorts, a black T-shirt, and sneakers, approached the corner. He grabbed one of the bundles of newspapers that had just been tossed from the truck and hoisted it over his shoulder. He started walking away. I drove to where I could pull the car in front of him.
“Hey, where are you going with those papers?” I called to him.
“They’re my papers. They drop them off, I pick them up.” He moved his head from side to side as he said it. On closer inspection I could see he was in his mid to late forties with short, black hair threaded with gray.
“Really? And where are you taking the papers?” I asked.
“Uh, I’m picking them up for my boss.”
“What’s the address on that?” I asked as Fiore and I stepped out of the car.
He gave us the address 330 West 37th Street. If that’s where he was going, he was on the wrong side of the street. I got out and took the bundle. There was a yellow sheet of paper on top of the newspapers, and they were wrapped up with plastic tabs. I looked at t
he top sheet, and sure enough, 520 9th Avenue was scrawled in black magic marker.
“What’s your boss’s name?” I asked, putting the bundle on the ground.
“Joe,” he said.
“Joe who?”
“I don’t know his last name.” He smiled. I love comedians.
“Why are you telling me these papers are for your boss and you’re walking away with the papers for 9th Avenue?” I asked.
“Oh. They must’ve gotten the address wrong,” he said flippantly.
“Nah. I think you got it wrong.” I took out my cuffs.
While I turned him around to toss him and cuff him, he tried to talk his way out of it. “This is a big mistake,” he babbled as Fiore put him in the backseat.
I opened the driver’s side door to hit the button to open the trunk, and I picked up the bundle of newspapers to put it in the trunk.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What?” Fiore came around to the back of the car.
“Take a look at this,” I said, pointing to the first page insert.
“Go to page two,” Fiore said.
I pulled the top paper out of the bundle and turned to page two. Fiore and I stared at the picture for a second and then simultaneously busted out laughing. There in black and white taking up half of page two was our politician from last night. He was smiling with his face busted up and his arm around the mayor. The caption read: “HIZZONOR TO THE RESCUE!” The smaller headline said “Mayor Aids State Legislator.”
Fiore started to read the article that said a Connecticut state legislator visiting the city to honor World War II Veterans was robbed last night of over six-hundred dollars plus credit cards and his credentials. Since he couldn’t identify himself at the ceremony where he was supposed to speak, security wouldn’t let him in. He was able to catch the attention of the mayor, who was invited to the celebration. I guess the mayor didn’t like his cronies getting robbed on his turf.
The story didn’t match what happened. The politician said he was robbed and “brutally assaulted” while on his way to a restaurant near his hotel. He said he still loves New York and that the NYPD officers arrived quickly and helped him. He called the officers “extremely professional.”
“Maybe he doesn’t mean us,” I cut in. “Do you think he was robbed again after we dropped him off?” I started to laugh. “At which point was I extremely professional, when I made him clean up his own blood or—”
Central came over the line. “South David.”
“South David,” Fiore answered, looking at me.
“South David, 10–2 forthwith.” Which basically means, “Get your butt back to the station now.”
I guess they just got the early edition.
“It’s a good thing we did those reports,” Fiore said.
“You’re not kidding.”
Fiore radioed back that we had an arrest.
As we drove back Fiore and I got our story together. He was calm and I was mad. I’d seen this happen before, where a cop was totally innocent and got in trouble because some big shot opened his mouth to the brass.
“I can’t believe we’re gonna get yelled at for what this guy did. We know he wasn’t looking for a restaurant,” I seethed.
“Let me handle this, Tony,” Fiore said calmly.
“No. I’m coming with you.”
“No. You handle the prisoner, and I’ll straighten this out. Trust me,” he said.
“Yeah, famous last words,” I mumbled.
I took 9th Avenue to 36th, entering through the back of the precinct. Fiore was out of the car and inside before I could open my door. I took the prisoner out and held him by the cuffs as I checked the backseat. I left the papers in the trunk for the time being and walked him inside.
Behind the desk Lieutenant Coughlin was smirking, and Vinny Bag-of-donuts looked scared.
“The mayor’s office called,” he said.
“What’s their problem?” I said.
“I don’t know. They talked to the squad, and the squad called down here and wanted to talk to you guys.” The squad is the detective squad, which is located on the second floor of the precinct.
Vinny looked so upset that I started to laugh. “Did they want to thank us for cleaning this guy up for his charity luncheon?” I asked.
The lou looked over and said, “Maybe you guys are getting your shields.” I could hear scattered laughter around the desk. He meant our detective shields. Fat chance.
“They didn’t sound too happy,” Vinny said.
“Then I guess I’m not getting my shield.”
“Who’s this?” the lou asked, nodding toward my prisoner.
“A paper boy with amnesia,” I said.
I brought him to the back and gave him a second toss. I had him take his shoelaces off and empty his pockets, which had nothing in them. I put him in the cell and started to fill out the prisoner log when he got talkative.
“I’ve been arrested twenty-nine times for this,” he called to me.
I ignored him but wrote down what he said in my memo book. I make it a practice to write down any spontaneous utterance no matter how trivial it may seem.
“I’m the news bandit,” he called again. “I’ve been doing this for ten years!” He puffed at me, that sound that is supposed to make you feel unimportant. “The judge is just going to let me go and tell you to go arrest someone else.” I kept writing. I knew the judge was going to appreciate that when I read it to him. Judges love it when people undermine their authority.
I left the arrest process room to go run his name in the computer behind the desk. While I was back there waiting for a hit on his priors, Fiore came in and closed the door. He was calm and cool.
“Well? What happened?” I asked.
“The mayor’s office called the squad upstairs to get information on what happened last night and why no arrest was made.” He held up his hand when I started to interrupt. “Just let me finish, Tony. I told them we had two possibles but that the complainant refused to identify one as a possible and was adamant the other wasn’t him. They also wanted to know why we didn’t notify them that this had happened. They asked if we searched the possibles, and I told them it would be illegal to search them unless the complainant pointed them out as possibles. They implied that we were looking to get out of making a collar, and I told them that my partner was looking to make a collar last night. I also told them this guy was punched in the face by someone he was talking to, that he knew exactly who hit him but wouldn’t identify him. I also said that it was my impression that his location suggested that he was looking for something other than a restaurant, probably companionship, and I would be happy to speak to the mayor’s office directly and relay all this to them.”
I smiled. “Pretty good, bro. What else did they say?”
“They said that they would handle it from here and that we just have to give them a copy of the complaint report and the aided card.”
By the time Fiore finished the story, the report came back on the news bandit. It gave his name, address, date of birth, height and weight, and the color of his eyes and hair. It didn’t give a list of prior arrests, it just said “misdemeanor recidivist.” He had no outstanding warrants, but being a recidivist, he had to go through the system.
I processed the arrest and waited for Vinny Bag-of-donuts to come back with an arrest number. I didn’t have a complainant yet, because the deli that he stole the papers from wasn’t open. I filled out the complaint form but left the complainant’s name blank. I’d have to go over there later and get the information from the storeowner before I finished the complaint report.
I took two photographs of the paper thief, printed him, and put him back in the cell. I also took pictures of the newspapers and vouchered them. Fiore stayed with me while I waited the hour it took for the prints to come back verified. I had to be sure Albany got them before I could transport the prisoner. Had this been a felony, I would have had to wait until morning when the ADAs co
me in, and I would have made some overtime. Since it was a misdemeanor we would take him over to Midtown Court once he was processed.
We went out to get food so we could eat early and sleep through our meal. We walked across to the all-night deli on the corner of 9th Avenue and 35th Street to pick up sandwiches. We both had turkey on a roll and two Cokes and two bags of potato chips and took them back to the arrest room.
The perp was already asleep, snoring annoyingly as we ate. Fiore went back to our earlier conversation about Jesus being a tough guy.
“When I said Jesus was a tough guy, did you understand what I meant?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I think so.”
“I said he had the scars to prove it. He has scars in his hands and his feet from the nails on the cross, and the one in his side from the sword. Those scars aren’t like some soldier coming back from a war with battle scars. He knew before he ever came to earth that he would die that way. He sacrificed himself for us. Everyone. Good, bad, or the most evil, vile person that would ever walk the earth, he died for them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because he loved us. Even if we didn’t love him, he still loved us.”
I didn’t understand it. “How could he love us if we didn’t love him?”
“Because that’s who he is. Love. I don’t think you’re getting this, Tony. There was more to it than dying. The Bible says in Isaiah 53—”
I thought he was gonna whip out his little Bible again, but I guess he decided to go on memory.
“He bore our grief and carried our sorrow. He was wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities. The chastisement of our peace was upon him, the guilt and iniquity of all of us was upon him. He was oppressed and afflicted but didn’t open his mouth. He was like a lamb led to slaughter.”
“We used to say something like that in church,” I said, remembering a prayer I never understood.
“He took our sins and paid for them. He was innocent.”
I was getting a glimpse of something here. I’d heard the story of Calvary, but it never meant anything to me. As a cop, I’d seen things—innocent people hurt or killed at the hands of someone evil. I often wondered at the futility of it. Some kid with a promising future cut down in his youth by some scum over twenty bucks. But Fiore was saying it was the scum that Jesus died for, along with the innocent. Something inside me disapproved of him dying for the scum. But a couple of hours ago, I was ashamed to tell anyone I’d given myself to him. I wasn’t innocent either.