Suspects

by William Caunitz

  The response was immediate: “Crime, Zone A, ten-four.” “Crime, Zone B, ten-four.”

  A self-satisfied grin crossed the desk lieutenant’s face. “The lads will be right in.” He turned serious. “Have you come up with anything on poor Joe Gallagher?”

  “Nothing solid. We’re working on a few things.”

  “Any connection with that double homicide in the Nineteenth this morning?”

  “We don’t think so.” Scanlon leaned against the Desk. “How long you been on the Job, Pete?”

  “Thirty-two years.”

  “You thinking of making it a career?”

  They laughed.

  “Ever think of getting out, living a normal life?” Scanlon asked.

  “Himself invented this Job for poor lads like myself. They’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming from the Job.”

  The doors of the station house swung open and four bearded anticrime cops in old clothes came in and lined up in front of the Desk. The desk lieutenant winked at Scanlon, got up out of his seat to lean across the Desk so that he was staring down at the four cops. “Are your radios working, lads?”

  “We didn’t hear your transmission, Lou,” the oldest of the quartet explained. He looked to be about twenty-four.

  The desk officer picked up the roll call and studied it. “You didn’t hear my transmissions? In other words you remained on patrol with defective radios.” He let the roll call drop from his hands. “I have four more tours to do before I swing out. I come back in on late tours. And I see that you four lads are going to be doing late ones with me. I think that I’m going to have to motivate you lads to pay more attention to radio calls. As dear, departed Sergeant Flynn used to say, ten thousand miles I come to be your boss and be your boss I’ll be. Now. Frazier and Walsh, you both have a post change. Frazier, you have traffic post six; Walsh, you have traffic post two. Go upstairs and get into the bag and take your posts, and be quick about it. And you had better be out there, because I’m going to send the sergeant around to give you ‘sees,’ at infrequent intervals, of course.”

  The two cops who had just received the post change started to protest, but when they looked up into the restrained fury in the desk lieutenant’s face, they just shrugged and moved off up the staircase.

  The two remaining cops waited apprehensively for their turn. The desk lieutenant said, “Tomorrow you lads will be assigned to a traffic post along with your two friends. But for now, the good detective lieutenant has a little job that he wants you to do for him. And after you’re done doing what he wants, I’d like you to do a little something for me. Stop by Tony’s and get me a large pizza with extra cheese and sausage. And also pick me up a cold one. Day tours make me thirsty.”

  Scanlon walked with the two cops out of the muster room and into the sitting room. He handed them the mug shots of Eddie Hamill that he had taken from Hamill’s criminal folder. “In a few minutes a weasel with an armful of tattoos is going to come barrel-assing down the stairs. I want you to follow him and let me know where he goes. I’m particularly interested in knowing if he runs to see this man,” he said, tapping the photo of Eddie Hamill.

  “Do you want us to lean on this guy, Lou?” one of the cops asked.

  Scanlon looked into the babyface playing the tough guy and had to struggle to keep a serious countenance. “Just follow and report, nothing else.”

  When Scanlon walked back into the squad room he found Oscar Mela and his “attorney” waiting for him.

  “You have nothing to hold my client on,” Higgins protested, straight-faced. “My client informs me that he was accosted by detectives in front of his residence. He wasn’t even in his car.”

  “That’s not the story my detectives tell, Counselor.”

  Higgins went back into conference with her client.

  Scanlon said aloud, “We might be able to work something out.”

  “For instance?” Higgins said.

  “It’s my understanding that your client comes from around this neighborhood. There are a few people from around here that we’re interested in talking to. Perhaps we can play, make a deal.”

  A sullen Oscar Mela called out, “What are their names?”

  Scanlon walked over to him. “Tony Russo, Tommy Edmonds, Eddie Hamill, and Frankie Boy Siracusa.”

  “Whaddaya want ’em for?” Mela said, openly hostile.

  “That’s my business,” Scanlon said.

  “I never heard of any of them guys,” Mela said, folding his arms across his chest. “Any more questions you got, ask my lawyer.”

  Scanlon scowled at Higgins and then turned on Mela. “You’re on parole. You might be able to walk away from some of the charges, but I can promise you that enough will stick to put you back inside.” He glanced at Higgins, back to Mela. “Go on, get out of here. You’re lucky that you caught me in a good mood and that you got a good lawyer. Go, before I change my mind.”

  Mela looked for approval from his attorney. “It’s okay. Go home,” Higgins said.

  Mela leaped up from the chair and took Higgins’s hand. “Thanks, Miss Wade.” He rushed out of the squad room.

  Higgins looked at Scanlon and smiled. “Want me to make out a Two-fifty?”

  “A Stop and Frisk won’t cover it. Make out an arrest report and then void the arrest. Under details, put that further investigation revealed that a speck of dust had covered the ‘N’ of the VIN number causing it to look as though it was a ‘W.’ Add that the arrest was voided and the prisoner released under Section 140.20 of the CPL.”

  The anticrime cops didn’t report back to Scanlon until 1800 hours. They had followed Mela back to his Thirtieth Avenue tenement and waited down the block. An hour and fifteen minutes had passed before Mela reappeared. He got into his car and drove to Manhattan, into the Seventh Precinct to a six-story walk-up on Chrystie Street. A man was waiting for Mela in front of the building. The two men shook hands and talked for a few minutes, and then Mela got back into his car and drove off. The man whom he had met was Eddie Hamill. After Mela had driven off, Hamill hailed a taxi and left. The anticrime cops decided to check out the building where Mela had met Hamill. A check of doorbells revealed that an Eddie Hamilton lived on the fifth floor. Bad guys feel comfortable with aliases that are similar to their real names. When the anticrime cops telephoned Scanlon and asked what to do, they were told to return to base.

  “Do you want to hit his flat now?” Brodie asked Scanlon.

  “He’s not there now. I want to hit it when we’re sure he’s going to be there.”

  12

  Vincent’s dining room was crowded with loyal patrons. A violinist strolled among the garish banquettes. A waiter rolled a menu blackboard over to Scanlon and Sally De Nesto. She smiled at the waiter and ordered Scampi in Graticola. Scanlon ordered Red Snapper al Ferri. They decided that they would share an appetizer: Crostini. “Shall I order a bottle of wine?”

  “I don’t drink, remember?”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot.” He ordered a half carafe of house wine.

  As they talked, he noticed how her freckles spread down her nose, and the way her lips parted into a crooked line whenever she smiled. She wore white slacks and a turquoise voile blouse and white sandals and had gold bangle bracelets on her thin wrists and gold studs in her ears.

  Taking in her shapely body, he said, “Did you ever think of modeling?”

  “I toyed with the idea when I first came to New York.”

  “What made you give it up?”

  “I got fat.”

  “Fat? There isn’t an ounce of flab on your entire body.”

  She patted her thighs. “Everything that I eat goes right here.”

  He shook his head and an incredulous smile lit up his face. “Where did you grow up?”

  “I was born in Piscataway. That’s in New Jersey. I went to school in Piscataway. And my family still lives in Piscataway. Any more questions?”

  “Yes. Were you ever married?”

&n
bsp; He had touched a sore spot. Her eyes fell to her water glass, her long fingers stroking the rim. “What do you want from me?”

  He became uncomfortable. “To be friends.”

  She studied him, her gaze settling on his lips. “You have never shown anything but a professional interest in me. Now you ask me to dinner, you want to know about my personal life. It makes a girl in my line of work wary when a john tries to get chummy.”

  “Perhaps I’m falling for you.”

  Her look turned hostile. “Please don’t make fun of me. I do have feelings.”

  He felt his ears burn from embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I guess the truth is that I just wanted to see you. To be with you. I don’t know why.” His sudden candor surprised him.

  Her tone softened. “I have other handicapped clients. And I can relate to their loneliness, and to their special needs. But you, I can’t figure you out. Your problem is not all that terrible.” She leaned forward and asked softly, “So why me? Why not a steady girlfriend, or even a wife?”

  He looked away from her. “Because I can only perform with hookers.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that I just told you that.”

  She lowered her voice. “You would be surprised at what people tell me.” She brought the water glass up to her lips, gazed down the stem. “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a very good listener.”

  His eyes drifted around the room. Somebody banged down a pot in the kitchen. They could hear the sounds of a party in one of the private dining rooms at the rear of the restaurant. A cork popped. A waiter stood nearby tossing salad in a wooden bowl.

  She brushed a strand of hair from her face, waited for him to speak. The waiter came and served them their appetizer, poured wine, and backed away.

  The silence between them lingered.

  He picked up his fork and speared a piece of butter. “It began when I lost my leg.…”

  They picked at their food as he talked. His words came easily. When the waiter returned with their entrees, Scanlon was still talking. He stopped and watched the waiter set down the plates and leave.

  He sipped wine. “That’s it. The whole mess.”

  “Did you ever see Jane Stomer again?”

  “No. A man doesn’t continue to see a woman he can’t satisfy.”

  “I am constantly amazed at the depths of men’s ignorance about women,” she said, cutting her food. “Women want to be loved and to love in return. Sex to women is secondary.”

  Scanlon nodded and picked up his knife and fork. He cut his fish, hesitated, put the utensils down on the side of his plate, looked at her, and said, “I wonder why I had this need to lay all this on you?”

  She reached out and caressed his cheek. “Because I mean nothing to you. Psychiatrists and hookers have one thing in common. There can be no personal involvements, so clients can confide in them. My johns tell me things and do things in bed with me that they would never say or do with another human being.”

  “Makes sense,” he said, picking up his utensils.

  “Did you ever realize that you never address me by name? Whenever you telephone and leave a message on my machine, you never say your name. You assume that I will recognize your voice.” She looked into his eyes. “And I seldom use your name, Tony. Or do you prefer Anthony?”

  “Tony is fine.”

  She asked earnestly, “Do you know why you are able to get it on with me and not with Jane Stomer?”

  He squirmed, shook his head.

  “The shallowness of our relationship makes erection possible for you. I expect nothing from you, want nothing. Love is a complicated game, Tony. People expect things from their partners, they make demands. Hookers and shrinks don’t. We only want our money.”

  “Where does a girl from Piscataway pick up on all this insight into people?”

  She laughed. “One of my johns is a blind shrink. We talk a lot. And I’m into daytime talk shows. You would be amazed at how much women learn from watching those programs.”

  “I didn’t mean to unload my problems on you. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I like to help people when I can. It helps my self-image, which ain’t exactly great.”

  “You’re a nice lady, Sally De Nesto.”

  “Why thank you, kind sir. Are you ready for me to lay a ‘Good Morning America’ word on you?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Premorbid personality.”

  “Which means what?”

  “A person who has a tendency to overreact to things. Say a man loses his pinky in a car accident and as a result he can’t talk or he becomes paralyzed. His premorbid personality caused him to overreact emotionally to a minor injury.”

  Scanlon picked up his glass and swirled the wine around. “And what caused him to overreact?”

  “Something in his past, his childhood. Talk shows only cover so much ground, Tony.” She placed her hand on top of his. “My practice is limited to the bedroom.”

  The next morning Scanlon awoke fresh and revitalized. He sat on the edge of the bed staring at the rays of morning sun coming through the blinds. He looked around at Sally’s sleeping form and smiled. A nice lady. He looked down at his flaccid member. You are most definitely a bothersome son of a bitch.

  He saw his underpants on the floor. Last night when they arrived back at her apartment he had asked her if he might spend the night. She said yes and he assumed that she had changed her mind about making love. While she was in the bathroom, he telephoned the Squad to let them know that he was at his Vulva File location and to ascertain if there were any new developments on the case. There weren’t, so he hung up, and thought about Eddie Hamill. The whole thing with Hamill didn’t make sense to him. He wished that there were some way that he could forget Hamill, but there wasn’t. He was going to have to check the lead out.

  When Sally came out of the bathroom in a white nightgown, he hurriedly worked off his underpants. To his profound disappointment, she crawled into the bed, kissed him lightly on his head, turned her back to him, and went to sleep.

  Watching the golden rays, he began to run over in his mind all the things that needed doing that day. Joe Gallagher was to be buried this morning, and there were still people to be interviewed. It was going to be a long day, and he’d better get started. He stepped off the bed on his missing leg and tumbled onto the floor. “Goddamnit!”

  Startled, Sally sprang up in bed, saw him on the floor, threw off the sheet, and rushed over to him. “What happened?” she asked, kneeling down on the floor beside him.

  Vexed, he snapped at her, “I stepped off on my missing leg.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Sometimes I forget.” A sour smile. “Would you say that was the result of my premorbid personality?”

  “I’d say that was the result of your being a klutz.” She passed her hand over his prostrate body. “Big tough cop flat on his ass dressed in the altogether.” She kissed his nose. “You’re cute.”

  His hand slipped inside her nightgown.

  She closed her eyes. “Hmm. That feels good.” She reached behind and glided her nails over his naked stump. “Are you sensitive here?”

  “Very,” he said, aware of the tightness in his chest. He felt his member springing to life. His fingers gently kneaded her nipple.

  Arching forward, she lifted up her nightgown and sat astride his stump. Moving to and fro, she humped him.

  His nerve endings bristled and his stump brimmed with strange, wonderful sensations. Pleasure surged through his body. His breathing became hard, and he made little yelps as his head lolled over the carpet.

  She slid down the stump and rubbed the beveled tip hard against her body.

  He groaned.

  She gagged from the pleasurable torment and cupped her fingers over the head of his turgid member, kneading the swollen rim, sliding her butterfly fingers up and over the throbbing head.

  His moans were deeper, louder. He felt like a boiling caldron ready to erupt. T
heir bodies moved in harmony. She squeezed hard, milking him, increasing his exquisite torture.

  She was humping him faster and faster. Beads of sweat dotted her brow. Her mouth was agape, her tongue out. “I want to watch you come. Come!”

  His gagged mumblings had become a loud yell, and then he came, and she continued to hump his stump. She took hold of it with both her hands and pressed it hard into her body, rubbing it against her clitoris. Suddenly, she went into a spasm of humping. She let out a long wail and then collapsed on top of him.

  13

  A gentle wind blew from the southeast. The sky was clear. Three police helicopters overflew the crowd gathered outside St. Mary’s Church on Provost Street in Greenpoint. Rows of grim-faced policemen stood at attention, tendering the final salute. A bugler sounded taps. Police pallbearers paused with the flag-draped casket at the top of the stone steps. Bystanders bowed their heads. Tearful women leaned out windows, watching the unfurling panoply of an inspector’s funeral.

  Taps ended. The coffin was carried down the steps to the waiting hearse. The grieving widow, dressed in black and supported on one side by Sgt. George Harris and the other by the Catholic chaplain, followed behind the coffin.

  Tony Scanlon stood on the sidelines a block and a half away, lighting a De Nobili. He saw the widow’s knees sag, and he was overwhelmed by the pathos of the moment. A lump rose in his throat, and a burning stung his eyes. He swallowed, champed down on his cigar. He thought of the two worlds in which he lived. His cop world of ambiguous loyalties and oversized egos that bore lifetime grudges. He thought of the world of the rookie cop, a pristine place where everything was reduced to its simplest terms: the good guys against the bad guys. Innocents in blue, they were quickly hardened and made cynical by the realities of the Job. He thought about his private life, his days of uncertainty and loneliness, of hookers, and stump-sock maintenance. How easy it had become for him to step between the parts of his life. This morning he had put forty dollars on Sally De Nesto’s night table, said goodbye, and stepped into his police world.

  The cortege crept away from the curb.