by F. P. Lione
We were close to the end of the parade, about two blocks before the Grand Army Plaza. The parade starts at Utica Avenue and runs along Eastern Parkway till it hits Grand Army Plaza and finally wraps it up.
Vendors were setting up on the sidewalks, with grills and tables to sell Caribbean food. I saw a vendor setting up a grill advertising Italian sausage, which I thought was strange, as the only Italians here would be cops. Then I remembered working here as a rookie and paying eight bucks for a sausage on a roll.
I lit a cigarette as a barrier truck rolled by and dropped a bunch of barriers near Washington Avenue. There were about eighty cops standing with us, some with their hats on, some holding them. Everyone was talking, and I could hear bits and pieces of conversation.
“I’m working up in the four-four now . . .”
“Transferred to Street Crime . . .”
“His wife left him last year, he was depressed . . .”
What I heard most was, “How’d you get stuck on this detail?”
It was 7:55, and we were supposed to muster up at 8:00, but nobody moved. We finished our cigarettes and finished talking. Why give the city any more time than we had to?
An inspector was talking to a couple of captains. They huddled together in their white shirts for about ten minutes before calling the sergeants over. They talked for about ten minutes more before a lieutenant said, “I want everybody in groups of five, starting with the 1st precinct.”
He pointed to an area near the corner of Underhill and then pointed to individual spots and said, “5th, 6th, 7th, 9th,” all the way down. We were after the 10th, with the 17th precinct next to us, and since our command was the largest, we took almost four lines.
The lieutenant, whose collar brass said the 5th precinct, started counting by five. When he got to the 7th precinct he saw a line of four next to a line of six and barked out, “Listen, slide down and stay in lines of five!”
Cops get scared they’re gonna get separated from their commands, so they try to stay in the line with their precinct even if it messes up the count.
Once they had us lined up, the sergeants and lieutenants were briefed by the captains. The sergeants were given their roster sheets, which would give them eight cops each, and information on the location of their posts.
Hanrahan’s face was red as he came back over with Sergeant Bishop. Bishop was trying to talk to him, but Hanrahan walked past him, shaking his head as he waved Bishop away.
We huddled around Hanrahan as he read off his roster sheet, and while we wanted to say, “Pick me, don’t leave me with Bishop,” we kept our mouths shut and hoped we got to stay with him. Noreen didn’t huddle with us. She’s Hanrahan’s driver, so she knew he’d pick her. He also picked me, Joe, Rooney, Connelly, Alvarez, who we call Rice, who came in on his RDO to get the overtime, along with Snout and Walsh, the only rookies in our group.
Bishop took his guys, or his angels, as we call them. Bishop’s first name is Charlie, and we call all the suck-ups that work for him Charlie’s angels. I was surprised they would work something like this. They’re usually working at the house or the cushy details. They walked us over to our post at Underhill Road, which runs between Eastern Parkway and Lincoln Place.
The two groups of cops stood together, and Bishop addressed us first. Then I realized why Hanrahan was so mad, and I asked myself like I always do why I bother to work something like this.
4
Sergeant Bishop put on his best politician’s face without the smile as he addressed us.
“As you know, there’s a No Drinking Enforcement at parades in New York City. Being that this is a residential neighborhood, it will be difficult to enforce.” He looked at each of us before he went on. “Anyone can go into their house or into a bar and come back out onto the street after drinking. We will not be issuing urination, drinking in public, marijuana smoking, or possession summonses. If paint or powder is thrown at you, you are not to retaliate. There’s been problems in the community with our increased presence in the area. This year the department has increased the number of officers present to four thousand.” He shot Hanrahan a look and said, “We don’t want this escalating into an incident with bad press for the department.”
Yeah, it’s a big conspiracy. Us cops have nothing better to do than come down here on Labor Day and harass the parade goers. I love how this always gets twisted around to the cops.
“You finished?” Hanrahan barked at Bishop.
Bishop looked hard at Hanrahan before he nodded.
“Good. My guys, listen up.” Hanrahan gave a “Come here” gesture with his hands, and we moved in closer.
“Sergeant Bishop and his squad can get hit with as much paint and powder and bottles as they want,” Hanrahan continued, his face hard. “If you get hit with anything and need to defend yourself, use your nightstick. Then we’ll take whoever hit you over to Kings County Hospital if we need to. We are here to make sure everyone enjoys the parade, not to be assaulted for doing our job.”
“You got it, boss,” Rooney said, nodding and glaring at Bishop.
This is why cops hate this detail; none of the rules apply here. I never understand why the permit isn’t revoked, and the only reason is the city is afraid of backlash with the press. If this crap was going on at the St. Paddy’s Day parade, they would have shut it down long ago.
“We’ll be taking the south side of Lincoln Place,” Hanrahan said, looking at his roster. “Sergeant Bishop will be taking the north side. Split up into twos every hundred feet up the street.”
We were closer to Eastern Parkway, more where the action is. While the barriers were along Eastern Parkway, there were none here because we weren’t in the direct line of the parade.
We were in a residential and mom-and-pop-type commercial area. At the beginning of the block there were dry cleaners, Jamaican delis, restaurants, and a place that advertised live chickens and goats. Most of the gates were still down on the stores, graffitied in the urban scrawl that I can never understand. The stores gave way to brownstones toward the middle of the block, with big stairs and black wroughtiron handrails. The brownstones are beautiful and probably worth a million bucks a piece.
It was now 9:00, and the block was still quiet enough to hear the birds chirping. Joe and I grabbed our post, the first one off the corner.
My cell phone rang about 9:30, and I saw Michele’s number on the display.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself,” she said, as I tried to place her mood. It’s not that she’s moody, but this bachelor party thing was showing me a whole other side of her, a side with claws and fangs.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Flatbush, we’re over by Eastern Parkway, near the end of the parade.”
“Did it start yet?”
“No, it’ll start in about an hour, but it takes a while for it to get down to this end,” I said. “What are you up to?”
“I just finished wrapping the favors,” she said. “They came out nice.”
We’re getting married at one of the restaurants on the North Fork of Long Island in November. Since it’s a Sunday, an afternoon, and the off season, we were able to afford it. For the favors Michele picked out sets of glass candleholders with candles that smell like vanilla. There’s three candleholders, with one that says Faith, and the other two say Hope and Love. She loved them, and I could care less what the favors were, so it was fine with me. We had an unspoken deal going—Michele was making all the arrangements for the wedding, and I was working all the overtime to pay for it.
“So how’d it go with your brother last night?” She asked it nice enough, but here’s where it could get ugly.
“Pretty much how you’d expect. He’s not talking to me. My father screamed at me, says I’m selfish—”
“I thought he wasn’t talking to you,” she cut in.
“He was screaming, not talking,” I said dryly.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “Yo
ur father screamed at you and your brother’s not talking to you because you won’t have a bachelor party with strippers and hookers?”
I felt my head start to pound behind my eyes. “Michele, I can’t talk about this right now—”
“They are so controlling and manipulative,” she said, raising her voice.
“You knew all this when you had to have this wedding,” I shot back.
“So now it’s my fault? I deserve this for wanting to have a wedding like any normal person? If this is what they’re doing and it’s just the wedding, what will they be doing once we’re married?” she yelled.
“Don’t worry, I’m sure by the time we’re married no one will be talking to us anyway and you’ll be happy,” I yelled back and caught Joe in the corner of my eye trying to look like he couldn’t hear me.
“What I don’t understand, Tony, is why you’re mad at me. Why aren’t you mad at them?”
“I’m not mad at you. I expect them to give me a hard time, I don’t expect it from you,” I said tiredly.
“I’m giving you a hard time because I don’t want my fiancé messing with some hooker the week before I get married?” She was in her teacher mode, sounding like she was talking to a ten-year-old or an idiot. “And I won’t let you do this to me behind my back, Tony. I won’t marry someone who would do that to me. If I marry you and find out down the road that you did that to me, I’ll leave you.”
“That’s not what—”
“Tony,” she cut me off, her voice rising. “I don’t care what Vinny or your father think. It is of no interest to me whatsoever. I don’t care if I don’t fit into their view of what a woman and a marriage should be. I won’t allow you to go off on some wild binge before you’re married because of some barbaric notion that you deserve one last night of freedom before being shackled to a wife.”
“Are you finished?” I half yelled.
“Probably not,” she said calmly. I gotta admit I admired her for sticking up for herself. She never gets riled, and she’s sexy as anything when she’s mad. Maybe it’s the Italian in me. I like a good fight.
“You had your say, so let me talk now,” I said, calm. “I’ll go out to dinner with whoever wants to go for my party, and I’ll pay for the party Vinny wants and stay home,” I said, catching Joe’s smirk as his eyebrows went up.
“Really?” She sounded happy now, and I gave Joe a thumbs-up and mouthed “Thanks.”
“I’m so glad, Tony. That was really bothering me,” she said, and I could hear the relief in her voice. “I don’t like the whole bachelor party thing. It’s not right to do something like that right before a marriage, it cheapens it. I also think if a lot of women knew that their husbands were with a prostitute before they got married, they wouldn’t marry them.”
“Good, I’m glad you feel better,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Let me call you back tonight when I get back to the precinct,” I said. She got all mushy then, saying I love you and promising me something pretty interesting on our honeymoon that made me forget that I’d have to tell Vinny I wouldn’t be there for his night of depravity.
I hit END and shut the phone off. If I leave it on in my pocket, a lot of times I dial myself and wind up with twenty minutes of muffled conversation. Then I have to listen to the whole thing before I can delete it.
“Thanks, Joe,” I said. “She sounds better now about the bachelor party. Now I just have to tell Vinny, but I know it’s gonna be a problem.”
“Tony, this isn’t just about him. And he has no right to manipulate you into doing what he wants just because he’ll be mad about it. Let him be mad. Someone in your family is always mad about something.” Sometimes Joe and Michele sound so much alike it’s scary.
“That’s what Michele said, that they’re controlling and manipulative and if they’re doing this now it’ll be worse once we’re married,” I said.
“Not if you take care of it now.”
I took off my hat and lit a cigarette. It was getting hot already, and if I left my hat on I’d end up with just the tip of my nose sunburned. The streets were still pretty quiet. A few older people walked by. I guess the partiers from last night were still sleeping it off. Joe started saying good morning to the people that walked by. I could see they were taken aback by it. They’re used to our bored indifference, and I guess they were suspicious of Joe’s friendliness. An older woman was strolling by, and Joe smiled and said good morning with a nod.
“Well, good morning, officer,” she said with her West Indian accent, beaming.
“What are you doing?” I asked Joe once she passed.
“I’m trying to make nice with the public,” he said.
“Why? They’ll think we’re an easy target and start throwing bottles at us,” I said.
“No, they won’t. You should try it,” he said.
I shook my head and took a drag off my cigarette.
“Weren’t you paying attention at roll call last week?” Joe asked. “You were supposed to memorize that blue card Santiago gave out.”
I pulled out my wallet and fished through it to find the blue plastic card. Last week Santiago, the training officer, gave these out at roll call. It read like The Idiot’s Guide to Addressing the Public, and we keep finding them in the garbage cans all over the precinct. I looked it over to see if it said anything about saying hello to people as they walked by.
Address and introduce yourself to members of the public during the course of your duties as appropriate.
I didn’t think standing on our post meant we had to say hello to everyone who walked past us, so I moved on.
Use terms such as “Mr.,” “Ms.,” “sir,” or “ma’am,” “hello,” and “thank you.”
Refer to teenagers as “young lady” or “young man.”
If we started saying “Hello, sir, lady, ma’am” to everyone who walked by, they’d be tying up merchants and cleaning out their stores while we addressed the public, so I knew this was useless too.
Respect each individual, his or her cultural identity, customs, and beliefs.
Nope, nothing about saying hello.
Evaluate carefully every situation that leads to contact with the public and conduct yourself in a professional manner.
Nope.
Explain to the public in a courteous, professional demeanor the reason for your interaction with them and apologize for any inconvenience.
“So now when we lock up a perp we have to apologize for the inconvenience?” I asked, incredulous. “Who was the moron that thought these up?”
“It doesn’t say that,” Joe said with a laugh.
“Yes, it does, read it.” I showed him the card, my finger pointing to the line near the end.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with a little community policing. Hey, good morning,” he said as he smiled at an older man walking his dog.
“Mornin’, officer,” the guy said, smiling at him.
The next guy to walk past was a Rastafarian.
“Good morning,” Joe said, smiling again.
“Morning, mon,” he said to Joe. He had the Bob Marley look and walked with a laid-back kind of bop. His braids were caught up in a red, yellow, and green Rasta hat.
“How are you today? Looking forward to the parade?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, and how is it witchyou?” he asked, nodding with his whole body.
“Good, thanks,” Joe said.
The Rastas are generally mellow. I don’t know if they’re smoking weed or if that’s just their way, but they’re usually pretty friendly.
“Come on, the next one’s yours,” Joe said.
The only reason I said hello to the next person walking by was to shut Joe up. It was a heavyset woman who looked to be in her fifties. She was dressed in a pink polyester housedress and orthopedic shoes. I could hear her pantyhose scratching from ten feet away. She looked mean as anything and was sweating and gasping for breath in the morning heat.
“Good morning, you’re
looking nice today,” I said with a smile as she passed me.
She stopped and looked back at me and spit on the ground next to my foot, mumbling as she walked away.
I heard Joe choke on a laugh, and I said, “Ya see? She spit at me.”
“She spit on the ground, Tony. Maybe she had a bad experience with a cop,” Joe said, still laughing.
“And this is my fault?” I pointed to myself.
I didn’t say good morning to anyone else, but Fiore was saying hello to everyone who walked by. About 10:00 a freaky-looking guy stoned out of his mind and covered in ashes shuffled past us. He had short-cropped kinky hair and was wearing only a pair of cutoff jeans and sneakers with no socks. The whites of his bloodshot eyes were more pronounced because of the ashes, and as he passed us, all we could do was stare.
“What are the ashes for?” Joe asked me. “I see it every time I’m here.”
“I don’t know, Joe,” I said. “But I noticed you didn’t say hello to him, and according to rule four on your blue card, not saying hello because he’s stoned out and covered in ash is disrespecting his cultural identity, customs, and beliefs.”
The day was heating up, and I could feel my arms and face getting sunburned, and my T-shirt was already soaked in sweat under my vest. Joe and I watched as some yo-yo in a white Gilligan hat and red shorts urinated in a doorway next to the entrance to a deli about twenty feet from us.
“Check this out,” I said to Joe, nodding over at the doorway.
“Is he kidding me?” Joe said. “We’re standing right here.”
We walked toward him as people in the deli looked over at him with disgusted looks on their faces. He was actually humming when we walked up, and I pulled out my nightstick and poked him in the back.
“Hey!” I said.
He spun around like he was gonna hit me, and his eyes got big when he realized I was a cop.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I yelled.
“Officer, I really had to go,” he said as he fixed himself.