Chapter 2
Taylor squeezed between two patrol cars. At the other end of the street, the Daily News’s Eastside radio car rolled up. The News had so much damn money, it ran cars with photographers around the boroughs twenty-four hours a day looking for good pictures. Last time the MT could afford anything like that was in the late Fifties, right when Taylor joined the paper. He walked quickly to the far sidewalk so the News guy wouldn’t see him. He didn’t want a competitor to know he’d gotten here first and been inside. He counted himself lucky for the two minutes he’d had in the building. With the assistant chief here, Taylor might end up being the only reporter to get that kind of look.
He stepped up on the curb. The Channel 7 truck arrived next.
Ladies and gentleman, children of all ages, the circus is about to begin.
About 20 feet farther from the scene, a female officer sat by herself on the stoop of another condemned building. She stared ahead, her face a mask. He approached. Her nameplate read S. Callahan.
“I’m very sorry about your partner.”
Samantha Callahan looked up. Her gunmetal blue eyes seemed both sad and angry. “That’s what everybody’s saying. Sorry. They won’t tell me what’s going on. They look at me like I’m the guilty one.” She shook her head. Taylor had watched male officers break down at the loss of a partner. Maybe Samantha Callahan didn’t think that was an emotion she could afford.
The uniformed cops who weren’t inside the derelict building stood at least 15 yards away to the left. No one was providing support or comfort to Callahan. Taylor wondered if they held the same views on female officers as Detective Trunk. There was a very good chance. Women had only been assigned to patrol in 1970. The ones he’d interviewed were bright, eager, and brave in more ways than was necessary to be a cop. They were going into a tough job knowing they weren’t welcome. At all. Taylor liked that kind of guts.
A few hundred, maybe a thousand, rode in patrol cars now. That was out of a force north of 35,000.
“Trunk said there was a chase down St. Mark’s Place.”
“Who are you?”
“Taylor with the Messenger-Telegram.”
“Shit.” She put her head in her hands. “That’s all I need. A reporter. This is awful.”
“Maybe you need someone to tell your side of the story.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But for Christ’s sake, not here.” She looked over at the nearest cops. “Leave me alone before you give ’em more reasons to put weight on me.”
“My card will be on the back bumper of the blue Ford Falcon. Take it, fine. Don’t take it, fine.”
He left. The not here was all Taylor needed for an invitation. Her mouth had stayed a straight line, but her eyes had changed to something like pleading. He’d track down Samantha Callahan off duty and find out what was going on with her. He couldn’t say there was anything wrong with this shooting—not yet. Just an oddness. So many good stories started out with something being a little bit odd.
Room 9, the City Hall pressroom, held the still, stale air of the waiting room of a funeral parlor. Old men sat at old desks, waiting. Any moment might come the next drip of information in the Chinese water torture that was the city’s never-ending financial crisis. Lucky for Taylor, he hadn’t missed a thing. The Room 9 regulars went about their business, which meant doing not much of anything, and ignored him for the first half hour.
Finally, the old guy from the New York Post turned from his desk and looked over his second cup of tea at Taylor. “You’re filling in for Glockman?”
“Yeah.”
“Haven’t seen you here before. You on the political staff too?”
“I cover cops.”
The old guy wrinkled his nose like his tea stunk of cabbage. “You must be pleased to get in on a serious story.”
“I get enough serious stories, thanks. Mine just don’t go on and on with nothing ever happening.”
“This great city could go bankrupt.” He spoke in the voice of a headline.
“All just paperwork. The city’s going nowhere.”
“You’re not wasted on cops.”
“How long have you been covering City Hall?”
“I’m in my twenty-sixth year.”
“It took a long time for the city to dig a financial hole this deep. Least I gather from reading Glockman and the rest of you. Money borrowed to repay money borrowed. Shit the banks would never let me get away with. Goes back to Mayor Lindsay’s administration, even further. Where were you big-time city hall boys when all that was going down?”
“We didn’t manage this city into a financial grave.”
“No, you just missed the story.”
“Won’t be lectured by a police reporter.” He huffed and turned around to be alone with his tea.
Taylor was happy to get back to the story he cared about. He called Sidney Greene at police headquarters.
“Good tip, eh?”
“Yeah, very good. Maybe something’s not right there.”
“That’s your job, reporter-man. I’ll tell you this. Big brass are all involved.”
“Aren’t they always, when an officer is killed?”
“Yeah, but they’ve spent months trying to convince people this isn’t really Fear City, despite the police union pamphlets and budget cuts and layoffs. Now a cop’s been gunned down. Doesn’t help with the PR.”
“Has the mugger been identified?”
“His name’s Johnny Mort. That’s from the first canvas of the neighborhood. But not confirmed. Lived around there somewhere, but no specific address yet. There was no ID on his person.”
“Anything else?”
“Just the chickens doing their pretty dance.”
The pressroom got word at 6:15 p.m. that the lid was on, which meant no announcements would be issued by City Hall. Taylor informed Worthless, who then told Taylor about the cop killing. Taylor said he already knew and had been at the scene. The city editor swallowed his protest. Worth knew it was an important story, no matter what else was going on. Taylor gave a deskman what he had so far, including the description of the scene, which he thought—hoped—none of the other reporters had been able to get. The real story about Dodd’s killing would take more reporting, maybe days of it. Next he called the Ninth Precinct and asked for Samantha Callahan. The desk sergeant said she was with the detectives. Taylor could only imagine.
Outside City Hall, he headed north in the general direction of Tompkins Square and the murder scene, but swung abruptly east up the Bowery to the punk rock club CBGB. The venue—whose initials stood for country, bluegrass, and blues, though the club hardly booked those sorts of bands anymore—had become a favorite hangout of his since Laura introduced him to punk seven months earlier. She was gone, and he still had CBGB. That didn’t stop the knot of loneliness from growing in his chest as he approached the bar.
He’d hardly fit in with the crowd then or now. Funny thing, they didn’t care. Punks were particularly good at that—not caring. They filled the place every night in leather, tattoos, torn jeans and T-shirts, and weird hair. He wore his Army field jacket and corduroys. No one said a word. He was an outsider and accepted at the same time. He’d even made a few friends.
However, tonight he wasn’t here for friends or music. This was a good place to try and learn something about Johnny Mort, punk rocker and presumed cop killer.
He had to knock to get in at 7 p.m. Doors usually opened at eight. Frederick the Dutch, actually a German, unlocked the door and went back to stocking the bar, a Camel drooping from his mouth. He wore a leather vest and no shirt. His bald head was shiny with sweat.
Taylor slid a copy of the MT across the bar to Frederick, who immediately opened it to the horseracing pages, while handing Taylor a cigarette. Frederick loved to play the horses but hated paying for a newspaper. Like most punks, he believed in anarchy. It was just that his definition was a bit odd. Taylor lit up. He’d somehow survived 17 years in a newsroom, starting as a copyboy at 1
7, without picking up the habit. Not until he started hanging out at CBGB, which was the only place he indulged, trading the anarchist handicapper across the bar from him a free paper for a cig.
“Dammit.” Frederick the Dutch slapped the paper to the bar. Interlocking horseshoes were tattooed on both his arms. “One horse off a three hundred fifty dollar trifecta. Your man Crimson said his horse was pick of de day.” His English was lightly accented after years in London and New York.
“I wouldn’t spend my money on anything the boys in the toy department come up with.”
“What is toy department?”
“It’s what everyone at the paper calls sports.”
“My ten dollar bet was no toy.”
“I thought money wasn’t important to the punk life.”
“Need and importance are different.” Frederick held up a seven-ounce bottle of Rolling Rock. Taylor nodded. “I don’t understand why you drink such small beers. In Germany we take it in liters.”
“Maybe drinking small beers is a good way to keep it under control.”
Frederick’s big booming laugh bounced off the graffiti-scarred black walls of the rock club. “I’ve seen you drink very many of your little ponies. You’d save us both trouble if you’d order normal.”
“Never normal, Frederick. Never.” Taylor rubbed his thumb across the slight lift of the painted label on the pony. That sensation alone relaxed him—knowing he held the bottle. He took a swallow of the beer, which fulfilled the promise made to his thumb. “Do you know a man named Johnny Mort?”
“Name is familiar. Lots of people come here.”
Taylor flipped open his reporter’s notebook. “Spider web tattoo up around the neck. Also a spiral pattern on the top of his hand with an eye in the middle. Bones tattooed on his fingers.”
“Yes, yes. I see him now. Tough tattoos for a gentle little man.”
“The man I’m describing was shot by a cop this morning. Police say he held up a woman for her purse and was chased by the officer. They exchanged fire. Both are dead.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Johnny I know.”
“It never does.”
“I’m serious. Johnny Mort spends his days taking care of the stray dogs in the neighborhood. Scrounges food. Begs off of veterinarians for sick ones. You know some of these guys on the street hustle for change using dogs. They don’t feed the dogs so much. Johnny even takes care of those mutts. He’s no violent person.” A small woman, also in punk garb but carrying a bucket and mop, walked past the bar. “Suze, you know Johnny Mort?”
The woman put down the bucket and inhaled from her own cigarette. “The dog guy?”
“Yeah. He was in a shoot-out with a cop.” Frederick spoke like he still didn’t believe it.
“Johnny wouldn’t hurt a fly. Fucking cops hate us all.” She waved the cigarette and walked to the back, which meant CBGB’s legendary bathrooms were getting their first cleaning in months.
“See, what did I tell you?” Frederick put down another pony for Taylor.
“Don’t those spider webs on his neck mean prison time?”
“No, he got his because he liked mine. Punk doesn’t always mean tough, man. Maybe Johnny is dead—I really hope not—but he was no killer.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“In here most nights with enough money for cover and a couple of beers. I made sure he got a couple extra. I’m a big dog lover. Often with a friend he came to the city with. Let me think.” He puffed on the Camel. “No, it’s not up here when I want it.” He tapped his bald head. “I’ll think of the name. Told me he squats over on Avenue C between East Seventh and Eighth. Didn’t say the building.”
“That’s only a couple of blocks from the crime scene.”
“Many coincidences in the world, my friend. If it is Johnny, I am very sad. A good kid. Something is not what it seems.”
“Hope so.”
“Why is that?”
“Makes a better story.”
“You’ll become an anarchist yet.”
“Yeah, well, speaking of anarchy,” Taylor finished off the beer, “if it is the Johnny you know, this place is going to be overrun by reporters.”
“I hate reporters.”
“I thought we were getting along so well.”
“You’re not a reporter. You’re just an oddly dressed punk.”
Taylor left three bucks on the bar. The excessive tip was thanks for the information. He’d love to stay and listen to the raw music that would come from CBGB’s tiny stage, so different from the crap on the radio. Tonight, however, he needed to be in a cop bar.
Chapter 3
Sometimes the smallest favor paid off in a big way. In the scheme of things, Taylor had done a tiny favor for Jim Salvatore when Salvatore was a second-year cop. Taylor’s tip about a two-bit drug dealer had earned Salvatore a nice arrest. The story didn’t even make it into Metro Briefs. Still, Salvatore never forgot. He’d helped Taylor whenever he could, even when Taylor was on the outs with most other cops for journalistic sins real or imagined. So if Salvatore said Little Cindy’s was the after-work bar for the cops of the Ninth Precinct, Taylor could count on it. Cindy’s, on First Avenue south of St. Marks Place, had the right perfume: stale beer and cigars smoked for hours.
For the first half hour, Taylor sat at a table in the corner to the left of the door with a view of the place. A bottle of Schaefer was in front of him. No Rolling Rock. He’d been nursing it. Questioning cops after one of their own had fallen was a delicate game. They’d be angry, drinking heavily, and—though none would admit it—scared. Several groups of men sat at other tables and up at the bar. The only woman in the place was tending that bar, patting arms and shoulders maternally, though her exposed cleavage was far from maternal. Probably Little Cindy. The bar was Formica topped, as were most of the tables, except for a folding one with a card game going and a giant round wooden table that was entirely out of place. The brands of liquor behind the bar, which lacked mirrors and instead was painted black, were limited to what you took in a shot glass.
No cocktail crowd here.
Taylor had yet to figure out the magic combination of elements that made a cop bar. He’d been in saloons with magnificent polished wooden bars and others that looked like delis serving booze. He knew the obvious requirements. The spot needed to be close to the precinct—close enough for a pop or two during the shift without anyone noticing. And the owners had to be happy serving only cops because that was the way cops liked it.
The stares he was getting weren’t welcoming. Even so, he was doing okay so far. He’d been in places where “who the hell are you?” came before “what’ll ya have?” The jukebox had already played a lot of Sinatra and a bit of Glen Campbell and Billy Joel. Neil Sedaka’s “Bad Blood” came on. That was about as rock and roll as cops got.
Samantha Callahan, now in civilian clothes, walked through the door and headed straight for an empty table on the right side of the bar. All eyes followed, and they weren’t welcoming.
Taylor almost didn’t recognize her. Some guys thought a woman looked sexy in a uniform. Didn’t do anything for Taylor. Callahan, on the other hand, looked great out of uniform, almost transformed, in blue jeans and white blouse with her auburn hair tumbling down her back.
She sat a few minutes. Nothing happened. She went to the end of the bar, ordered a beer and carried it to her table. She probably just wanted to fit in, on this of all days. Taylor wondered if that had ever been possible. She drank her beer and stared out the window at the people passing on the sidewalk.
Taylor walked to the bar himself, ordered a second Schaefer—he’d left the first one half full—and went over to her table.
“Okay if I sit?”
Her eyes were red. At some point since he’d last seen her, she’d been crying. How hard was it to look in control now?
“Taylor, right?” He nodded. “Sure, long as you don’t mind being a pariah too.”
Taylor p
ulled out the chair that would give him the best view of Little Cindy’s. “Pariah, eh? Ever been a journalist?”
“Not sunk that low yet.” A long sip of beer. “This day couldn’t suck more if it tried.”
Samantha stared at him with sad eyes. Did she have intelligence as well as courage? He’d only get that by talking. Some officers were smart, brilliant even, with the kind of insight you could only get from the University of the Streets. Some were dumb as posts. Those were the dangerous ones, doing with fists what they couldn’t do with their heads.
“The others at the scene weren’t very supportive.”
“They’re still not, if you haven’t noticed.”
Samantha suddenly got to her feet, and Taylor figured the interview had ended before it even started. She went to the bar, giving him his best view yet of her rear in close-fitting blue jeans. It was a good view and a very nice rear. At the bar, she ordered and carefully returned to the table with two shot glasses so full only surface tension and her slow walk kept the whiskey off the floor. She set one in front of Taylor and held the other.
“You want to talk with me, you gotta drink with me. No one else in here will.”
I need to know why.
Taylor raised the glass, less carefully than Samantha. He didn’t mind losing whiskey as it plopped on the Formica. His first rule of drinking was beer in little bottles. His second rule was no shots. Two rules down. How many more tonight? He had to be careful. The rules were important. They were meant to keep him from becoming a drunk. Like his father.
“To Robert Dodd,” said Samantha loudly, looking out over the room, “a good officer and a great partner. Too good.”
She put the shot away hard and fast. Taylor followed. The whiskey burned all the way into his stomach. He coughed once and chugged from the Schaeffer. The burning eased into that familiar warming sensation radiating out from his gut. Samantha stared at her own beer as if daring herself to need it.
Drop Dead Punk Page 2