Here was Mrs. M., thank God. “Hello, girls! How was the ceremony?”
“Lovely!”
“Wonderful! Just lovely.”
“They always are, aren’t they? Dee, tell me, how was your interview?”
“I start tomorrow. Today. Really, I can’t thank you—”
“You can thank me by representing our bureau with the ability and dedication you’ve always shown. So then, a red-letter day for both of you girls! I can’t stay long, but let’s go over to congratulate Serafino—Sid—on his—”
Inspector Melchionne led the sisters to the back of the auditorium, where the crowd had gravitated to the long tables laden with coffee urns and light refreshments. The cops with family entourages mulled around, most of the men holding children in their arms, their blue hats set on the little heads as flashbulbs popped. Relatives were shuffled and reshuffled for pictures. The level of photographic expertise was not high.
“Take off the lens cap—”
“And you have to put in a new bulb—”
“Take another one, just to be safe.”
“Smile! Would it kill you to smile, just this once?”
Mrs. M. spotted Sid before Marie did, with the unaccompanied men who’d distanced themselves from the amateur shutterbugs. He was with one man in uniform, three others in suits. At first, Marie thought they were arguing, and then she saw they were laughing. She sprinted ahead to make sure that none of the remarks were off-color when Mrs. M. arrived.
“You should have seen Hollywood’s face, when he dared him to jump—”
“Sobered ’em both up—”
“Flip a coin, he could have been fired—”
Marie prayed that her boss and her sister were still out of earshot when she bellowed, “Sid! Honey! It’s me!”
The smile never left his face when he saw her, even as his hands gripped the shoulders of the men beside him tightly enough to make them wince. “Boys! Enough kidding around, guys, it’s my wife! Hey, baby!”
“Hey, you! Look at you, how handsome!”
And Sid was, as always. He could have been on a recruiting poster. His dress uniform still fit as if he hadn’t aged an hour since he graduated from the academy. When he embraced Marie, her head rested against the center of his chest. She whispered, “My boss is here. And my sister.”
Sid looked down and tipped her chin up, for a kiss. His eyes met hers, and then his voice dropped to a low growl. “Did they hear any of that bullshit those assholes were saying?”
“I didn’t hear anything, and they were behind me.”
“Jesus, I hope so.”
Sid sounded almost nervous, which was unlike him. Marie didn’t want to guess what had really happened on Depot Place, though it sounded like the official version was distant kin to the truth. She doubted Sid had put in for the medal himself—he wasn’t the type who raised his hand in class—and he didn’t seem put off by his pals’ jibes, but it was another matter altogether to lose face in front of females.
“Inspector Melchionne!” he bellowed, drawing out the first three syllables, so his pals would hear the rank. “What a nice surprise! And Dee, how ya doin’?”
“The inspector told me about the medal, Sid, me and Dee both,” said Marie. “I wish you’d let me know.”
Mrs. M. shook Sid’s hand, holding on for an extra moment to reorient him toward the front of the auditorium. She had another surprise planned, it seemed. “You’ll have to stand a few more minutes of attention, Sid. I’ve arranged for the photographer to get a shot of you and Marie together.”
The photographer made an exaggerated show of looking at his watch when they arrived. He was old and brittle-looking, his suit shiny with wear, but he carried himself with the braggadocio of a tabloid lensman at a Broadway premiere. “This is them, Mrs. M.? The Spencer Tracy and Kate Hepburn of the New York City Police Department? Now I can see it, yeah. You kids are a couple of beauties. Get together, by the flag. Hop to it!”
The sudden invocations of authority and celebrity made Marie and Sid docile. Once they found the flag, they stood rigidly beside each other: Present for duty, sir.
“You look dead,” said the photographer. “Why don’t you close your eyes and cross your hands over your chests? Can we get the bagpipers back?”
Marie looked up at Sid, adoringly, leaning in close; Sid swept her into his arms, moving in for a kiss. Marie’s hat fell off, and Sid caught it before it hit the floor. She began to laugh, too, and kissed him back. The flash went off: Pop! Pop! Pop!
“Great! You know what would be fun? A Tarzan-and-Jane thing. Honey, hop up into the big guy’s arms, and we can—”
Marie was relieved when Mrs. M. interrupted. “That’s enough, Mr. Lindstrom, you’re not working for Photoplay any more. We should be mindful of the public resources involved.”
Marie exhaled in relief. She and Sid took a very pretty picture. They always had. Now, it was time to leave. Mrs. M. wasn’t entirely finished, however.
“Besides, Mr. Lindstrom, your next appointment is in Commissioner Kennedy’s office, correct? You can escort Patrolman Carrara upstairs. He’s on the list to be photographed with him,” she said, turning to Sid to apprise him of her last gift. “It’s a very stately setting, Sid. His desk was Theodore Roosevelt’s.”
Marie felt Sid stiffen. He stammered, “I, uh, don’t know how to thank you.”
Marie believed him. The three seconds that Sid spent with Kennedy on stage lasted at least two seconds longer than he’d have liked. Still, she guessed that the photograph in the commissioner’s office would find its way into a silver frame in their living room. Sid might have sought to avoid official scrutiny, but he wasn’t a wallflower. His nickname didn’t just reflect his faccia bella, his pretty face.
“No need to say anything,” Mrs. M. replied, checking her watch. “I have a meeting now. Congratulations, Sid. You, too, Dee. Marie, I’ll see you soon enough.”
Once the inspector left, Sid recovered his power of speech. “So, Dee, what’s your good news?”
“I’ve been assigned to the DA’s office.”
“Good for you! Which DA?”
Marie thought that Sid’s effort at civility seemed sincere.
“Brooklyn,” Dee replied tartly. “They have a bridge there now. If you want to stop by, you won’t have to swim. Bye-bye!”
Marie shut her eyes, so they wouldn’t meet either her sister’s or her husband’s. What did Dee know? What did she mean? And how would Sid take it? Who was the patron saint of Not Getting the Joke? He must have heard Marie’s prayer, because Sid joined in the eruption of laughter from his friends.
“Watch out for that one!”
It was time for Marie to go back to work, such as it was. “All right boys, it was nice to meet you all—”
She hadn’t met any of them. “And I hope to see you again—”
She didn’t. “But Sid has to go upstairs now to see the commissioner.”
Marie kissed Sid and turned away. As she walked, she was careful not to hurry, and she listened for one-two-three-four-five paces, then ten, before she decided she didn’t have to listen anymore. No dirty jokes, no Italian jokes, no digs against bosses had been uttered in front of Mrs. M.; no loudmouth would get a fat lip for blabbing any further exposé of the true events of August 9, 1958. Over and out. On the street, Marie found a pay phone and called the desk at the First to say she’d be back shortly. “Hello, sergeant. This is Policewoman Carrara, I wanted—”
“Oh, hey, is it eleven already? I’ll put it into the book, you’re going to headquarters. You told me already, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve already gone, I’m coming back.”
“Sorry, you can’t. Somebody from Inspections just came by to sign the log. I forgot to write that you left then, so I just did now. If they came back and you were here, it wouldn’t look right. Right? You follow me?”
“No, not at all.”
“You’re probably right. Still, it’s in the book
that you’re gone now, so if you could come back at twelve, it would be better.”
“It’s no—”
“See you in an hour.”
The sergeant hung up. What a waste of a day it had been, what a waste of hope! Her husband wasn’t a hero, not even for an accidental minute. His commendation was a fairy tale, while Marie was obliged to rearrange her reality to conform to official fictions. Her sister’s transfer piqued her, more than she wanted to admit. And Mrs. M.? No, Marie couldn’t be angry at her. Mrs. M. always had her reasons. Better to give a little hell to that sergeant, after she’d trudged around for an hour, in her stiff official shoes. Maybe she’d ask him to step outside and push him into the river. And then she’d rescue him, of course. They gave out medals for that kind of thing.
An hour later, Marie was readying a sharp remark as she opened the precinct door, but the sergeant bellowed at her from behind the desk. “There she is! I told you we had a matron today! Where have you—never mind, come here!”
Marie was early, and she wasn’t in the mood to pretend. The two men from Narcotics were in front of the desk with a woman in a knee-length fox-fur coat. She was handcuffed, but she wasn’t entirely in custody, lunging back and forth if either man tried to touch her. When she faced one direction, her coat and hair—also red, but darker—swung to the other, all awhirl, so that she seemed less a person than a phenomenon, a shape in the air, like a tornado.
“Get your hands off me, you rapist sons a bitches, or I’ll—”
“Easy, princess! Nobody’s gonna touch you!”
Marie raised her hands in harmless honesty, as cowboys did in Westerns when approaching wild horses. “Hello.”
The woman turned to Marie, wild-eyed. She had striking looks, with high cheekbones, full lips pulled back to reveal gleamingly even teeth. She looked feral, but doll-like, too, with eyebrows plucked into perfect, last-of-the-moon circumferences, and the bridge of her nose could have been drawn with a ruler before the slight rise of its upturned tip. As her expression shifted from rage to desperation, there was an instant of indecision. Marie knew then that she was putting on a show, but it made her no less keen to watch.
“Thank God you’re here! You better have a Midol and a maxipad, or—”
The woman shot fiery looks at the men, pivoting, as if readying a return to tornado mode. “I’m a bleeder like you never seen! You sons a bitches are gonna need galoshes if I don’t get help. Right now!”
The sergeant cowered behind the desk, and the two men reflexively withdrew. Marie kept her hands raised and said, “I have what you need.”
“You’re a godsend!”
The woman stepped forward, as if to embrace Marie, but the Irishman held her sleeve. Marie saw from the ruddy smudge on his upper lip that his nose had been bloodied. He had scratches across his cheek as well, raking crimson diagonals, like a teacher’s red pencil on a page of wrong answers. His earlier crudity had no bearing on the merits of this arrest, but Marie liked the lady for fighting him.
“Don’t you go anywhere, unless I tell you,” he snarled, toothpick clenched in his teeth. “If you were a man, Red, I’d have knocked you into next Tuesday.”
“And if you were a man, Red, I’d have wanted you to try.”
The other detective, the paesan, slipped between the two redheads to separate them. He looked at Marie pleadingly. “Would you mind searching her, before we take her upstairs?”
“No problem.”
The Irishman said, “I gave her a toss, but you should pat her down before you go inside. This one’s the type to have a switchblade. Keep an eye on her.”
“Maybe an attack dog, too,” said the woman, sucking her teeth. “And keep your eyes to yourself. You stare at me like I’m a French postcard.”
“All right, honey,” said Marie, playing the honest broker. “I just showed up at this party, so I don’t know what’s what. I’m going to pat you down out here, and then we go to the ladies’ room, to check some more. It’s actually very clean. Okay?”
The woman nodded. She threw her shoulders back, so the front of her coat fell open, revealing a black silk shift dress that fit snugly around her abundant bust. Marie reached inside and ran her hands around the lining of the coat. In one of the outer pockets was a purse, a black patent-leather clutch. Marie set it on the desk, to examine later. When she slipped her hand inside the other pocket, she jumped back. There was something alive in there. And it had bit her. “My God! What?”
As she looked at her hand, she was ashamed. She wasn’t hurt. She’d just been startled. She didn’t doubt either detective would have squealed like teenyboppers had it happened to them, but it hadn’t. The woman tossed her head back, hooting and snorting. The Irishman gripped her shoulder with one hand, readying to fling her against the wall, and took Marie’s hand with the other. “What is it, a hypo? Did you get stuck? Goddamn it, I knew it—”
Marie knew he’d hurt the woman unless she recovered her senses. Whatever inhabited her pocket—Please God, let it not be a rat!—was unlikely to survive a collision with the Irishman. “No, I’m fine, Detective, just wait—”
Marie refused to allow her temper to show. She could be in control of that, at least. She drew the woman away and kept her voice low. “What the hell do you have in there?”
When the woman indulged herself in a wry smile, Marie tried to glean whether there was a hint of malice in it. Yes? No? It didn’t seem so. “I told you.”
“No, you—”
And then Marie thought she understood. She reached a wary hand into the pocket and gasped as she withdrew it. The tiniest dog she’d ever seen nestled in her palm. Marie knew that, dignity-wise, it hadn’t been a banner day for her. Still, she couldn’t contain her reaction. “That is just the most adorable thing!”
And it really was, a Walt Disney sketch of a pooch come to life, with soft brown eyes, tiny white teeth, a little red bow around its neck. Black and tan, a terrier, maybe. It seemed impossibly miniature, the size of a frankfurter in a bun. The two detectives pressed in to see it closer. The paesan cooed, almost as sappily as Marie had. Even the Irishman seemed to soften. “Would you look at that!” He looked up at his prisoner, his eyes wide. “I bet he’s a smart bugger. Does he do any tricks?”
“No, he’s just a baby,” she replied, melting as she gazed down. “He’s smart as a whip, though, you can tell—”
The Irishman reached in to lift one of the paws with his pinkie. “Shake! Look, he can shake my hand. Isn’t he something? Roll over, boy. Can you do that? No? Well, he’s still just an itty-bitty bugger. Oh, I bet I know one he can do. All dogs can, it’s in their nature.”
The Irishman pulled the toothpick from his mouth, waved it in front of its nose, and then flicked it into the air. “Fetch!”
And the little dog let out a little yip and leapt—
“No—”
“You son of a bitch!”
The moment of terror was brief but acute. Even the sergeant yelled from behind the desk. Marie had cupped the animal in her hands, like a firefly, and it hadn’t really left her palm when it bolted for the toothpick. She clutched it to her breast—gently, gently—and sprang back. As far as the redheads went, Marie far preferred the one wearing the handcuffs to the one who owned them. The woman began to buck and whirl again. “Sons a bitches, you hurt that dog, and you won’t be able to have kids when I get through with you!”
The foursome paired off, man-to-man, woman-to-woman. The paesan bum-rushed his partner away from the desk, and Marie tried to soothe hers, holding up the pup to her face. “Listen, honey, why are you acting up like this? Any rough stuff, the dog’s the first one to get hurt. You have to help me out here. My name’s Marie.”
“Charlie. Nice to meet you, Marie.”
“You too, Charlie, even under the circumstances. Come over here and have a seat,” she said, leading her over to a wooden bench on the side of the room. “I don’t know what’s going on. Stay put and relax, so I can try and find out
.”
Marie returned to confer with the detectives, positioning herself so that the woman and the Irishman wouldn’t be in each other’s sightlines. Marie gave him a cold look. “I thought you said you searched her. I guess you missed something.”
The Irishman reddened further, and his mouth narrowed. His partner took Marie’s hand, lifting it up to examine the fingers. “Yeah, sorry. Are you all right? Did it break the skin?”
The Irishman interjected, “I’d get a rabies shot. The little bitch could have caught it from the big one.”
“No, I’m fine. It just gave me the heebie-jeebies, feeling something moving in there. I’m Marie, by the way.”
Introductions were made by the paesan, whose real name was Paulie. The Irishman was, naturally, Paddy. Paulie stroked the pup’s back, but when Paddy went to do the same, Marie moved it out of reach. When she gave him a hard look, he smiled, as he had when they first met. He was the type who didn’t mind rubbing a girl the wrong way, she supposed, as long as he was rubbing her somehow.
“So, what do you need from me? What’s the story?”
Marie kept an eye on Charlie as Paulie muttered a summary of their morning: Charlie was the comare—the mistress—of a heroin dealer named Ambrogino Bocciagalupe. Paddy rolled his eyes, as if the name was sufficient indictment. Little Gino—so he was called—also owned a bakery, in the Italian part of East Harlem. The detectives had watched him over the course of several weeks, and they’d discovered that he had a narrow and particular delivery service, involving very few customers.
Paddy took over from there: “And then, today, Gino has a beef with the little spitfire. We’re tailing ’em downtown, to the Village, and they mix it up like nothing else. He gets in the car and takes off. A garbage truck cuts us off, and we lose him. We go back to your friend there, to try and talk, but—you mighta noticed—she’s not the reasonable type.”
The Policewomen's Bureau Page 11