Loomis went pale. “Chief, you can’t do that.”
“I don’t have a choice. If that mob busts in here and grabs him now, they’ll gang rush every precinct in the city whenever we arrest one of these Red bastards. Whether he dies here or gets cooked in Ossining, he’s a dead man.”
I heard Chamberlain’s howls echo throughout the mansion as the men carried him upstairs. Carmichael ordered a couple other cops to bring the Van Dorns and their staff down to the basement. “There’s a thick door down there you can barricade. Loomis, get down there with them and keep them safe.”
Loomis looked more relieved than the Van Dorns did to be going downstairs. I couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t used to riots and violence.
But I was. And Carmichael knew it. “Cheer up, Charlie,” he said as I followed him to the front door of the mansion. “Looks like we’ll be doing something you’re actually good at.”
AS I followed Carmichael outside, it was like walking into a wall of sound. The crowd had grown by about a hundred since I’d parked the car, bringing the number to at least four hundred, maybe more. The shouts from the street grew louder, more organized. They were trying to get a chant going, but hadn’t gotten the cadence down yet. “WHAT ABOUT US? WHAT ABOUT US?”
Some of the younger cops looked scared, but Carmichael’s eyes were clear, and bluer than I’d seen them in years.
I knew the son of a bitch lived for this. The crowd noise spiked when they saw Carmichael walk through the front door.
He made a hell of a target — all six-four, two-hundred thirty pounds of him. He pulled on his hat and strode down the steps of the mansion like he owned the place. He moved at his own steady pace, galling the crowd all the more. From the steps I had a better view of the crowd, packed between the front of the mansion and the Central Park wall across Fifth Avenue. They’d been quiet when I’d first gotten there, but they weren’t now. Two chants merged and competed:
“FREE LENNON NOW!”
“WHAT ABOUT US?”
Each side kept getting louder. And louder. The crowd was too big and too restless for me to spot individual faces. It was a blur of beards and moustaches, hats, bald heads, upraised fists and angry eyes — bodies packed together and yelling, despite the glare of the August sun.
O’Hara right was where I knew he’d be: down in front with the uniforms, bolstering the men while citizens yelled and spat. He might’ve been a Tammany toadie, but he was a good man to have in a riot.
He had positioned a squad into a semi-circle around the mansion, three deep, nightsticks at their sides. They wouldn’t get flanked that way and would keep the mob from rushing the mansion if it came to that. They’d hold the crowds off for a little while, at least until the mounted units got there. Hopefully.
Something coursed through the crowd, an energy that was building toward something. Something bad.
I thought someone called my name, just as a blur flew out of the crowd and nailed me clean on the right temple. My head snapped back and I went down. Everything went fuzzy for a second or two, but I wasn’t knocked out. A bottle smashed against the wall above where I’d been standing, covering me in glass.
The crowd roared and shoved forward. Carmichael bellowed an order. And all hell broke loose.
SWING, SWING, SWING
I’D BEEN in combat situations before. I’d seen my share of action in France during the war. On another hot day, in Belleau Wood near the Marne, the air had been filled with gunpowder and blood and broken, screaming men. I’d trampled and crawled over my own dead and wounded, just so I could kill the Kraut bastards who were trying to kill me.
There was a time when I dreaded the sounds of combat, when I hated the feel of plunging a bayonet into another man’s body. But there was also a time when I began to love it.
I wanted to do it again and again, and keep on doing it for as long as I could. If I was still killing, I was still alive. And I wanted to be alive.
The stately corner of Sixty-Sixth and Fifth is just about as far away as you could get from any battlefield in France. But on that particular August afternoon, with an angry mob bearing down on my position — on my men — it wasn’t that far at all.
So I did what I’d done back there: I got up off my ass. I attacked. I pulled my sap from the back of my pants, and saw the left of O’Hara’s line buckle back toward the mansion beneath the crush of the mob.
The shutterbugs who’d blocked the entrance were caught in the middle and got the worst of it. Pieces of busted cameras were scattered all over the street. A big bearded bastard clubbed one of the uniforms up front with an axe handle, cracking his head open. The line gave a little as the poor kid fell back. The crowd sensed the weakness and surged toward the opening. The bastard with the club led the way.
I leapt toward the break and nailed him with my jack. This time, he fell back into the crowd, knocking a couple of others back with him. I vaulted through the hole and over to the other side of the line.
I waded into the mob, swinging at anything in front of me. My sap connected with heads and necks and arms thrown up to defend themselves. I threw elbows and punches, and I cracked men in the ribs. Screams and yelps went up as men buckled and fell all around me. It only made me swing and club all the more.
A rallying cry rose behind me as the blue line surged forward. Somehow, I picked up a nightstick and tucked my slap jack away. I swung and I prodded and I made people bleed. I took my share of shots in the bargain, but I kept going anyway.
The sound of wood hitting bone drove me on. I stepped on arms and legs and belted men trying to get to their feet. I hit everything that faced me until I saw the backs of their heads as they ran. But I wouldn’t stop. I didn’t dare. I ran them down and kept swinging and clubbing everything that moved because as long as I swung, I was still alive. It was Belleau Wood, over and over and over again.
I swung at the backs of knees and at the heads of men as they ran away from me. I can’t remember taking a backward step. Not once. And neither did the cops around me. A whistle blew as the mounted units rode through whatever was left of the mob. I kept running after them, swinging at anyone I could reach. I closed in on one Red bastard who’d started to stumble as he broke into the clear.
I brought my club back to slam him in the kidney when someone grabbed the nightstick out of my hand. As I pulled my jack from the front of my pants, ready to brain the dumb bastard who’d stopped me, a man not much bigger than me threw his arms around me and pulled me close.
“Easy, Charlie, easy,” O’Hara laughed. “You’ve done enough. They’re on the run, now.”
When O’Hara let me go, I saw his hat was gone and blood ran freely from his nose. Some of it was already drying on his moustache. He was bleeding from a gash high up on the side of his head. He was missing a front tooth on the left side. “Christ, you’re as fierce as ever,” he told me. “A sight to behold.”
I blinked hard to clear my eyes as I looked around. Cops and broken civilians littered the street and sidewalk. I was still too worked up to tell who was who. “Where the hell are we?” My voice sounded hollow in my head. “Fifty-Ninth street,” he said as he shook my shoulders.
“Beat the bastards back four whole blocks — and it was all thanks to you, young man.” He tongued a tooth loose from somewhere deep in his mouth, then spat it over the wall into Central Park. A grand, red arc trailed behind it like a comet. “Might’ve overrun us, too, if you hadn’t kept the line from bucklin’ when you did. Stormed that fuckin’ breech like nothin’ I’d ever seen.”
We both looked back over the four blocks back to the mansion. The street was littered with the broken and bleeding. A few cops were among the injured, but luckily, not many. Most were rioters who had crawled over to curbs or against buildings, dabbing at bleeding wounds and minding busted limbs.
A detail of uniforms was tending to the few cops who were hurt. The rest were herding everyone who could walk into Paddy wagons. The wounded rioters would have to wait
for help until after the last cop was tended to, if anyone thought to help them at all.
“We did good work here today, Charlie, darlin’,” O’Hara observed. He looked at his billy club streaked with blood and worse. He picked up a shawl off the ground and cleaned it off. “The Lord’s work, God love us.”
My own hands were bloody. I tried wiping them off on my shirt, but all I felt was my bare stomach. My shirt was too torn to be a shirt anymore. “They get Chamberlain?”
“Didn’t get anywhere near him,” O’Hara beamed. “Beat ‘em back before they had the chance.” I remembered the address Chamberlain had given us. Two-Forty-Two Eighth Avenue. Apartment 4C. “The bastard gave us an address where they’re holding Van Dorn. We’d better get down there right now, before…”
The look on O’Hara’s face stopped me. “What’s the matter?”
“Carmichael,” he said. “He sent Hauser and another crew down there just before the brawl broke out.”
I FOUND Chief Carmichael lying on a couch in the parlor. His left pant leg had been ripped open past the knee. A medic was just finishing wrapping a bandage around it. His left hand was bandaged, too, and he’d have a pair of matching black eyes for a while, thanks to his broken nose. As roughed up as he was, I knew a good number of the rioters I’d seen laying in the street were his doing.
Like I said, he wasn’t a coward. That didn’t make me hate him any less.
“What’s this shit I hear about you sending Hauser to raid the kidnappers’ place?”
Carmichael picked his head off the arm of the couch and looked me up and down. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Answer the question.”
Carmichael laid his head back on the armrest of the couch. “Hauser’s better at kicking in doors than you are. Besides, I needed the benefit of your experience with rioters right here. Judging by how well you did out there, you proved me right.”
“But the Van Dorn case…”
“Don’t argue with me for the sake of arguing, Charlie. You know I’m right on both counts.”
I did. The weight of everything I’d gone through that day hit me all at once: my back still hurt from Rachel’s brother throwing me against the door. My jaw ached from when Carmichael had lugged me. And my hand hurt from busting up the riot. It also happened to be five hours past my bedtime. I let myself drop into the couch opposite Carmichael’s. I was more tired than I’d been in a long, long time. And tired not just in body, but in my soul, too.
The medic finished with Carmichael’s bandage, and the Chief waived him out of the room. For a moment — only a moment — it felt like old times. Me and Carmichael, two kids from the same neighborhood. Busted up and licking our wounds. I should not have let myself forget how much of a bastard he was, even for a minute. But I was too tired to try.
“You’re not hurt bad, are you, Charlie?”
“Just another day at the office. Looks like we’ve still got it, Andy, despite all the years.”
“Nah. This is baby shit compared to the dockworkers strike back in ’20. Remember?”
I smiled. “You know I do.” I couldn’t swear it, but I thought I saw something of a smile on Carmichael’s face, too. “I saw a bit of the old Charlie Doherty out there tonight. It was a sight for sore eyes.” I shrugged. “I did my part.”
“You were out there swinging and hacking tonight like a man on a mission. A mission of redemption, maybe?” So much for the sentimental moment. “Redemption? For what?”
“Maybe for all the trouble you’ve caused this department lately. For all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
I sat a little straighter on the couch. “Just exactly what trouble have I caused you?”
“Trouble with the Reformers during their corruption inquiries, for instance. And this nonsense with the Van Dorn kidnapping. Hell, even that brawl out there was practically your fault.”
I checked to make sure the medic had closed the door behind him. He had. “It’s just you and me now, Andy, so you can stow the pious routine. That conversion bit might work on the rank and file, but it doesn’t work on me. I’ve known you too long to be that gullible.”
“This isn’t about Reform, or conversion, Charlie. This is about incompetence.”
I’d seen Carmichael do this before. He’d talk himself into a convenient lie by stating it as fact. He was already in the process of building some kind of case against me in his own mind. “I’ve been called a lot of things, Andy. I’ve been guilty of most of them, but being incompetent isn’t one of them.”
“You were incompetent out there just now. Standing on the top step gawking at that mob like some goddamned rookie? Christ, Charlie, I would’ve thrown something at you myself if I’d seen you in time. Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to address the situation and, in the course of my duties, allowed you to incite a riot. I hold myself partially responsible, of course.”
”Keep it up, Andy. Sounds like you’ve damned near got yourself convinced.”
The Chief lifted his head from the armrest and looked at me. The son of a bitch actually managed to look slightly wounded by what I’d said. “This is just an old friend giving another old friend fair warning about how things are. Or about how things will be from now on, as far as you’re concerned.”
He was clearly enjoying himself, but I wasn’t. It was time to take a stab at his ego. “You’ve really become quite a politician, Andy. Your threats used to be a lot more direct. You never used to be this… timid.”
Carmichael didn’t look hurt any more. “Careful how you speak to me, Charlie. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
“And neither are you, which is why I still have my badge.”
“I fought like hell for you to keep your badge, you smug little son of a bitch. And I fought for it on the basis of forty years of friendship.”
“You fought for my badge because you knew I’d bury you and every other crooked bastard on the force if you didn’t. Friendship had nothing to do with it.”
“Friendship had more to do with it than you think,” Carmichael said. “Banishing an old friend like you served a purpose. It showed I was committed to the cause of Reform and helped me keep my job. And keeping you on this case served a purpose as well.”
“It’s not like Mr. Van Dorn gave you much of a choice.”
Carmichael pushed himself straight on the couch, bad leg be damned. “Is that why you think you’re still on this case? Because Van Dorn and his lawyer made me keep you on?” The Chief laughed. “It’ll be a cold day in Hell before some rich boy and his Jew mouthpiece can force me to do anything, especially now. With Walker taking a powder, and Pinky Flynn running the show, this department is the only thing keeping this city from tearing itself apart right now. And I am the police department.”
I knew he was right, but I’d be damned if I’d admit it. “Humility was never one of your problems, Andy.”
“I’m a realist. Just like you used to be.”
“I’m still a realist. And when I bring the Van Dorn kid home alive, you’re going to look even better.”
“Not really. What difference does it make if he’s alive or dead? If he’s alive, great. It’ll be forgotten in a week. Let’s say we find him dead. Too bad. It’ll still be forgotten in a week, and you know it.”
He was right. I did know that. But in getting caught up in one aspect of this investigation after the other, I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“But you didn’t think about that, did you?” Carmichael continued. “You probably figured Van Dorn would throw you a couple of extra bucks to keep your mouth shut about the dead girl. And when you found yourself in the middle of a prime case, what did you do? The Charlie I used to know would’ve been smart enough to call it in and step aside, maybe use it as leverage to get back into my good graces. But the Charlie of today isn’t that smart. He went out on his own and for what? To get back at me? To get back Theresa and the girls? Or maybe to get back some of his self-respect?”
&
nbsp; Carmichael laughed. “We don’t have that luxury, son. We don’t get that stuff back when we lose it. It’s the price we’ve paid for being who we are and doing what we do. Trouble is, I don’t know which one you were really after. Hell, I don’t even know if you know it yourself.”
“This isn’t about me. This is about—”
“Since you can’t make up your mind, I’m going to make it up for you. You fought for this case, so now you’ve got it. If this kidnapping goes south — and it probably will — you’re my fall guy. I was planning on letting the Feds take the hit, but since you canned that idea, it’ll have to be you. His death will be to the result of your bungling of the case. I’ll see to it that young Jack becomes a martyr to the incompetent, corrupt police force I’ve been trying so hard to reform. I’ll lay his corpse at your feet, Charlie, and I’ll make damned sure the press crucifies you for it. Sure, they’d forget about his death if I didn’t have someone to blame for it, but when I make you the villain, they’ll love me for it.”
I let my ego talk for me. “That won’t happen, because I’m bringing that kid home alive.”
Carmichael laid his head back down on the armrest. “Then I’ll blame you for the riot out there tonight.” The bastard actually smiled. “That’s why I kept you here instead of letting you raid the kidnapper’s place. To pin that entire thing on you if a riot broke out. Unfortunately for you, it did.”
A lot of things flooded my mind. Anger at my own stupidity for being so blind, so greedy. Rage at Carmichael for being so calculating. Rage at myself for leaving myself open to a trap. And hatred for a man I had called a friend for more than forty years, but didn’t know at all. I wanted to yell, scream, do something — anything — but I couldn’t. I literally didn’t have the words.
“You’re forgetting Mr. Van Dorn,” I said. “And the twenty years of shit I have on you. Every crooked dollar Doyle ever gave you. Every Tammany favor you ever did since—”
Carmichael didn’t even flinch. “Do you honestly think Van Dorn or his Jew will give a rat’s ass about you after this is all over? If Jack’s dead, they’ll be in mourning and won’t stand the sight of you. If he’s alive, they won’t need you anymore, so why help you? As for what you may or may not have on me, good luck finding a reporter in this town who’ll print it. Or a D.A. who’ll use it. You open your mouth, you’ll wind up with a fucking bullet in your ear and you know it.”
Slow Burn Page 14