by F. P. Lione
I was distracted, thinking about all my shortcomings. My temper, mostly, and my pride, worrying about what the guys would think of me. Fiore was a better man than I was, a good example for God.
“It makes me feel…” I searched for the word, “guilty for being ashamed of him.”
“He doesn’t want that, Tony. He loves you. You took the first step and gave your heart to God. He’ll show you what to do with the rest.”
“That was deep, man,” said a voice from across the room.
Fiore and I turned to see the paper bandit, now awake and sitting on the bench and watching us intensely.
“Shut up. Who asked you?” I yelled over to the cell.
“No, really. I never heard it explained like that,” he said.
I looked back at Fiore, who was shaking his head. “He wants to know, Tony. Why don’t you explain it to him?”
Realization hit me. “I’m sorry, Joe. He died for him too, right?”
Fiore smiled. “That’s right.”
“Why don’t you tell him? I could never explain it like that,” I said.
This night turned out to be one of the strangest nights on the job. Fiore talked to the paper bandit and wound up praying the prayer of salvation through the bars in the cell.
I used the phone on the file cabinet by the printing machine and called Albany to verify that they’d received the prints on our perp. Once I got confirmation and a number, we were set to transport him up to court.
On the way back from dropping off the paper bandit at Midtown Court, we drove toward the Sunrise Deli to get a cup of coffee. A black female of indeterminate age was standing by the curb just before 7th Avenue looking very distraught. She was emaciated, wearing a ragged blue T-shirt and ripped dirty shorts. She was barefoot and filthy, and she eyed Fiore with suspicion. That happened sometimes—an EDP would take to one of us and be agitated by the other. Usually it was Fiore they connected with, but this time he scared her.
Her eyes darted all around as she told me that she had been kidnapped. She looked scared enough for me to take her seriously, and I asked her to tell me what happened.
“They took me in the van and dumped me here,” she said, her body moving in quick, jerky motions.
I saw no visible marks or bruises, and she wasn’t bleeding. Her face was worn, probably from years of drugs and abuse. I looked down on the ground and saw some of the cornrow braids from her hair lying there. I tried to calm her down again, thinking that something might have gone on here.
“Who was it? Did you know them?” I asked.
She shook her head no.
“What kind of van was it?” I tried again.
“A blue van,” she said, looking around. “Blue, right there! Did you see it?” She looked up with confused eyes. She pointed at a building across the street, looked over at Fiore, and backed up again.
I nodded to Fiore, and he walked off to the side.
“They took me and wouldn’t let me go.” She rambled on, her eyes constantly moving, looking for her assailants. Then she reached up and pulled her hair out, dropping the braids onto the street.
There was no van or kidnappers. She had overdosed on something and was seeing some imaginary bad guys.
I tried to talk to her in a calming voice. For some reason she responded to me, and I got her to sit down on the curb. I didn’t want to cuff her as long as she wasn’t violent. She was dirty, and she smelled of body odor and urine. There was filth caked to the bottom of her feet.
“Joe, get me a bus,” I called over to the RMP. “Tell them we have a voluntary EDP that needs to go to the hospital.”
“Don’t let them get me.” She focused on me for the first time. I saw frightened, crazy eyes. She reached out her hand to me; it was yellowed and grubby with broken, filthy nails.
“I won’t let them get you,” I said.
Compassion replaced repulsion as I took her hand. I could always wash mine later. I stood in front of her on the curb, speaking soothing words as I heard the sirens in the distance.
For God so loved the world…
Epilogue
New York had a subway series in October. The city went wild as the pennant race heated up. The Mets upset San Francisco in a three game to one division series, the high point being Benny Agbayani’s game three winning solo homer in the bottom of the thirteenth. The Yanks cracked open the cases of champagne after barely escaping Oakland with a seven to five win in game five. The Mets went on to beat the Cardinals in five games, and the Yankees beat the Mariners in six. The World Series games were close, and though the Mets were only able to win game three, they broke the Yankees fourteen-game series-winning streak. This was the Yankees’ third consecutive World Series and their fourth in five years. They’re calling them the Team of the Century.
Fiore caught the Yankee Stadium detail, game two, in the Bronx with Roger Clemens as the starting pitcher, the game when Clemens threw the bat at Mike Piazza. Personally I thought it was an accident, but the Mets were pretty mad about it. The Yanks won that game six to five, and Fiore got to stay inside the stadium, near the Yankee dugout. He even got autographs. He bought me a T-shirt that said “Subway Showdown” with a picture of Mike Piazza on one side and Derek Jeter on the other. I gave it to Grandma, who fell asleep during game five and woke up just as Piazza flew out to Bernie Williams to end the series.
Fiore and I led the precinct in felony arrests for July, August, and September. Rumor has it that the CO is considering putting us in the anticrime unit.
Mike Rooney had been kinda standoffish with me since I stopped going to the bar with him. When I started changing into a suit on Sunday morning so I could go to church with Fiore, he really started harassing me. One morning he lobbed enough verbal grenades to get me really mad, and I put him up against his locker.
“What’s your problem, Mike?” I yelled.
“Is church man losing his temper?” he asked. “Jesus might not like it.”
“Jesus is the only reason you’re not eating my fist!” I yelled. I was sick of Rooney—ever since I got saved he had been baiting me.
“You gonna hit me, Tony?” He looked hurt.
I let go of his shirt. “Why don’t you tell me why you keep busting my chops?” I asked, calming some.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re too good to come and have a drink with me,” he spat.
So that was it. “I’m sorry, Mike,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t hung out with you. I just don’t want to go to the bar anymore.” I paused to think of how to say it without giving too much away. “It’s just that the drinking was getting out of hand.”
“You think I didn’t know that? Who do you think told the whole precinct you were going to the farm? Why couldn’t you talk to me about it?” he asked, sounding insulted.
“I guess because I would have had to go to the bar to talk to you about it,” I said.
“You don’t have to go to the bar to talk to me. We could go someplace else, I don’t know, get coffee or something.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “We’ll have coffee.”
He put his hand out for me to shake, and I pulled him in for a hug.
“Get off me,” he said, his face turning red.
I chuckled as he walked away.
They closed on my house on September 18. I had talked to Denise about staying with me and told her it was time for all of us to move on. She looked scared as she nodded, and I felt the old big brother tug. I didn’t give in, though. I’m trying not to ride on emotion these days.
Denise found an apartment not far from our old house, a small studio in one of the new houses they built up by the service road. It has a little deck off the kitchen area. Sal and I helped her move in. Denise and Sal have been seeing each other for a while now, and it looks like things are working out pretty good. He’s started to see his kids again, and Denise seems to like them. His ex-wife is as psychotic as ever, but Denise has had experience with crazy women.
Vinny mov
ed in with my father and Marie. He’s staying with them until his wedding. Marie hovers over him like a mother hen; I guess her maternal instincts are kicking in. I still can’t stomach the sight of her, and I keep holding off making peace.
My mother called me about a week before I moved out to ask what I would do once the house was sold. She wasn’t sarcastic for once when I told her I would be moving into an apartment. She asked about Denise, and I told her she’d have to call her to see what she was going to do.
“Will you miss it?” she asked.
“I probably will,” I said. “But it’s time for all of us to move on. Dontcha think?”
“I guess it is,” she said quietly. “You take care of yourself, Tony. Come up and visit with your new girlfriend and her son.”
I guess Vinny had told her about Michele. “I’ll do that,” I said, and I meant it. This was the first real conversation we’d had in a long time. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
I found an apartment on Greeley Avenue. It’s small, a one-bedroom with a short walk to the beach. I had looked for apartments on Long Island, but they were too expensive. I’m trying to save money, and my rent is only seven hundred a month. The cheapest I could find in Long Island was eight-fifty, without utilities. The seven hundred I pay in rent here includes electric, heat, and hot water. I just pay my phone bill.
The week before they closed on the house I didn’t go to Long Island at all. I stayed home to pack up my stuff. Michele and Stevie surprised me by coming out to help me. My father had stopped by to pick up some boxes with Vinny, and I could tell right away that he wasn’t happy. He nodded to Michele and ignored Stevie. He surprised me a few days later by coming to talk to me about it.
“Tony, before you get all boxed in here, think about what you’re doing,” he said, his face stern.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about that church you go to, this woman you’re seeing. You changed your whole life. You don’t see your friends, you don’t have a drink, you meet a woman who already has a kid. How do you know she’s not just looking for someone to take care of her?” He looked me in the eye. “You walk away from your church—”
“Dad, I never went to church,” I pointed out.
“You went to church—you went to school at St. Michael’s, your whole life you went there.” His voice rose.
The irony of it was incredible. “You know something, Dad, you haven’t spoken to me in twelve years.” I held up my hand when he tried to interrupt. “No, hear me out. I know we’ve spoken about trivial things when the family got together, but we never really talked. When you left, you stopped caring about what happened to me, or Vinny and Denise, for that matter. You watched me drink and party and sleep around, and you found that amusing. Did you know that right before I stopped drinking I almost killed myself?” I let that sink in.
He stood speechless.
“That’s right,” I continued. “I was going to come home and eat my gun. In all your years on the job, how many cops did you know who ate their guns?” He didn’t answer. “My partner, Joe Fiore, knew something was wrong. I didn’t even know the guy for a month, and he knew more about me than my own family. He stayed with me for three days, talking to me, telling me about God and how much God loves me. Do you know how much I needed to hear how much God loves me? Enough to make me not blow my head off, that’s how much I needed to know.” I couldn’t believe I told him that, but I guess a part of me wanted to.
“But Tony, those people are obsessed. They aren’t right in the head. You think you’re like them because you got a little depressed, but this is crazy.” He pointed at me. “Don’t get sucked in by them.”
He just didn’t get it. My temper flared, and I lashed out. “Don’t you ever try to tell me what to do again. I stopped caring about what you think a long time ago.” My voice was deadly. I knew as I said it that I was wrong but it had to be said.
He put his head down, and when he looked up again I thought he was going to cry. I didn’t feel sorry for him—he threw his family away, and we all had to pay for it. I’d been praying for him, but right then I could have hit him.
“Michele and Stevie are a fact of my life. If you don’t like it, I don’t want to hear about it. If you don’t treat them right, you won’t see me.” I walked outside and got in my truck, my hands shaking.
I didn’t see him again until we all went to my grandmother’s for Denise’s birthday in October. I brought Michele and Stevie with me. To give her credit, Marie bought Stevie a plastic ball and bat, two bags of M&M’s, and a Yankee hat. My father shook Stevie’s hand and was hesitant but polite to Michele. When he hugged me, he held on for an extra second or two. I pulled him and squeezed hard. Denise hugged Michele and wrestled with Stevie, tickling him until she worked him up into a frenzy. Grandma made him cookies and let him help her make macaroni, showing him how to shape cavatelli using the tips of his fingers.
I met Michele’s parents when she had us all for dinner after church one Sunday. I like her father—he’s a quiet man but keeps his end of the conversation going when we talk about baseball and my job. He’s tall and lanky, over six feet with thinning light brown hair threaded with gray. He has a serious look about him; I guess that’s where Michele gets it from. The thing that impresses me most about him is his way with Stevie—patient and encouraging, letting Stevie know that a four-and-a-half-year-old is worth listening to. Michele’s mother fusses over me.
I started to do some work on Michele’s house. I’d always had some project going when I lived with Vinny, and I missed working with my hands. Her house is solid but hadn’t been updated in a long time.
Michele and I have gotten pretty serious. By Labor Day weekend we decided that we wanted to bring Stevie into the picture. I know it hasn’t been that long, but in my gut I know she’s the one for me. I was gonna have to be serious with her—she wouldn’t just put out. I don’t know which was worse sometimes, not drinking or keeping my hands to myself. I felt like I was twelve years old again, trying to make out behind the parish center of St. Michael’s.
She’s not immune either. Last week I was painting the new back door I’d put on her house. The old one was falling apart, so I bought one at Home Depot and spent an Indian summer Saturday afternoon painting it white. I had taken my shirt off and was sweltering in the heat.
“Hey, babe,” I called out. “How about some ice water before I melt out here?”
She brought me a big glass, set it down next to me, and picked up my shirt to throw it at me. “Why don’t you put some clothes on,” she snapped.
I wiggled my eyebrows. “Why, is the sight of my bare chest making you rethink those morals of yours?”
“Not at all.” She laughed then said seriously, “Put your shirt on.”
I chuckled, admiring her legs as she walked away. I put the shirt on. I want to stand by those principles almost as much as she does. I’ve been thinking about getting married—not now, but not so far from now. Right now I’m working on my walk with God and building something solid before I take the plunge. Between what I’ve been saving by not drinking and the money I got from the house being sold I have twenty-eight thousand in the bank. A nice ring will cost me about five grand. I figure that leaves me enough to add a second story to Michele’s house. I want to extend the living room and add a dining room and a family room. I think I’ll put two nice-sized bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom with a jacuzzi, maybe a nursery.
I have never been so close to anyone else in my life, not even Denise. I’m amazed at how good Michele and I are together. I really like her. Aside from love, I like being with her. She’s funny in a dry, quiet kind of way, the perfect lady to counter my rough edges. I probably spend at least two hours a day on the phone with her, talking, praying, and laughing. And Stevie makes me feel like a father—we fish together, play ball, and talk. On my days off, I stay at Fiore’s house and get to read Stevie a story and say prayers with him when he goes to bed.
<
br /> Michele and I have started talking about marriage in the hypothetical. My only question was if she would let me adopt Stevie. She answered in that quiet thoughtful way of hers and said yes.
I think a lot about what Fiore told me, how God always has something better for us. I thank the Lord, like I always do when I think about Joe Fiore, about how he reached out to me when I was so lost and broken. My brother in Christ, my partner, my friend.
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to acknowledge the following people:
Mike Valentino of Cambridge Literary Associates for taking a chance on a couple of unknowns from Staten Island. You’re an okay guy for a Red Sox fan.
Lonnie Hull DuPont, transplanted New Yorker, editor extraordinaire, and risk taker. You’re the best, Lonnie. Bada bing.
Reverend Thomas Mann, whose preaching on Gideon touched our hearts. Sorry you couldn’t be here to see how we butchered your sermon. Today you are in God’s glory, but you are deeply missed.
Frankie and Georgie for being patient with us, even when we said, “Just let us finish this,” for the thousandth time. You make our lives complete.
F. P. Lione is actually two people—a married couple by the name of Frank and Pam Lione. They are both Italian-American and the offspring of NYPD detectives. Frank Lione is a veteran of the NYPD, and Pam was a medical sonographer in vascular ultrasound until she decided to stay home full time with their two sons. Frank and Pam divide their time between New York City and Pennsylvania. They are the authors of the Midtown Blue series and Clear Blue Sky. To contact the authors, log on to their website at www.midtownblue.com.