SIN EATER

Chapter 1 

"One master pirate, accepting tribute quietly, is better than a hundred pirates, taking toll without warning, and without stint.” - George Santana

This was an intense young man. When he did things there were no half-measures. This night, he stood in a darkened street level doorway in the middle of West 62nd Street between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues in New York City. He had been there in the cold and snow for at least an hour, barely moving except to shift his weight from one foot to the other to keep his blood circulating.

What he was doing was unusual. Standing in the dark. Waiting to justify himself. Waiting to reap the pleasures this weak and indifferent city provided people like him. He enjoyed the moments he first looked into their eyes. If he was quick enough. If he was lucky enough. He could watch their expressions turn from excitement to dread. The pleasure was fleeting, but it always justified his silent wait in the dark. His senses were acute. He was alert. He was aroused. He was alive. He smiled. His appearance would change them. In one moment, they were a hammer. In the next, a nail. A fascinating metamorphosis from hunter to harp seal. He was not afraid. He was often so relaxed he would drift off into peaceful thoughts of fishing or hiking. He didn’t dwell on how unusual or odd he might seem. There were others like him, not many, not a few, but some, who cherished this experience.

It was late December 1968. The Rockefeller Brothers Fund had contributed a good portion of the one hundred eighty-five million dollars that was transforming 16 acres of rundown Manhattan property into Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. West 62nd Street was near the southern border of the property. Construction began in 1955. By now Fordham Law School, The Vivian Beaumont Theatre, the Library and Museum of the Performing Arts, and the Metropolitan Opera House had opened. People with money came here. That meant work for him.

The best location was close to Amsterdam where it was darkest. He took a deep breath savoring the moment. To his west were the public housing projects lining Amsterdam Avenue. For him, and for most in the projects, Lincoln Center with its opera, ballet and classical music was unfamiliar and remote. He didn’t give much thought to the people in the projects or those in Lincoln Center. He was here for his own purposes. His system worked. He was patient and always surprised at least two of them. Numbers didn't worry him. Numbers made him proud. They made his work significant. 

It was a cold night even for December. A brisk northwesterly wind blew bright clouds of fine snow in every direction. It carried the smell of pine from the Christmas tree vendor up the street. A reminder of his childhood…. Merry Christmas! When the wind paused, his breath created smoke signals into the night so he ducked back into the doorway and breathed down into the shadows. Few people were out walking. He knew that would change. Sixty-second street was the shortest way to get from the opera house to the bus on the west side.

At about nine thirty the opera broke and people began to leave Lincoln Center. Columbus Avenue became crowded. The large crowd and bright lights of the center provided sanctuary, but before long the area would be deserted and dangerous. Everyone knew this. Opera patrons sprinted to their transportation. They raced for taxis, subways and buses. The strong were gone first. The weak took longer. After twenty minutes almost everyone had gone. There were exceptions. He knew there would be. At 10 pm an elderly couple walked slowly toward him through the wind driven snow. They were bundled in heavy coats, scarves and hats. They leaned into the west wind to keep their footing. They didn’t look in his direction. They would have been shocked to see him standing motionless like a snow-covered sculpture. They didn’t see him, nor did they see or hear the two hooded forms moving up behind them in the snow. Of course, he saw them. They kept their heads down and their hands in their pockets. Nothing unusual about them, he thought. They were tall and thin, young and fast. The couple was old and slow. What was unusual was how the snow made everything so quiet and peaceful. Under the streetlamp he saw just how old the couple was. Hunched over and shuffling side by side expecting to be on a warm bus before long. He imagined their plan was to have some tea or soup at home and discuss the opera and the joy of sharing this holiday time together in New York City.

The hooded men were harsh in the way they did their work. With people this old you could just yoke, grab and run. That’s how he would have done it, but the old people were not his prey. The young men each grabbed one of the seniors, turned them around and punched them directly in their face. The men were sturdy and tough. Their quarry was frail. The punches lifted them off their feet. The snow was an inch deep. It muted the sound as their heads hit the street. It also muted the sound of his feet as he rushed toward them. The old man's nose began to bleed. He lay still, face up in the street. The woman's thick woolen hat saved her skull. A kick to the head as she tried to sit up left her motionless as well. Quickly, one of the men lifted the purse from the woman's hand while the other searched through the old man's pockets. The man and woman were now completely still lying face up in the snow. There was a lot of blood. It was so quiet he could hear the men breathing heavily and the sound of the old man's coat being torn open. 

He was fast and quiet. They didn't notice his movement. They were busy. He came up behind them as they squatted in the snow under the streetlight. He could have taken them from behind. He could have, but then there would only be pain and fear in their eyes when they turned to see him. He moved quietly around to the front of them, careful to make no shadow in the streetlight. The wind and snow blurred his vision, but his eyes were good and he saw what he wanted. An instantaneous transformation. First their eyes were full of excitement, but only for a moment, then there was fear. They were afraid and confused. They stumbled and slipped as they lunged at him.

He was so excited that he felt lightheaded. His nightstick came down on the shoulder of one and then across the right knee of the other. As the sound system at Lincoln Center played Christmas music, he battled on with the two.

This was a holiday activity that fit best with their taste and experience, he thought. It also fit quite well with his own. His favorite activity since becoming a cop was tussling with vicious bad guys. Rich got a couple of lumps as Christmas presents from these two, but in return he gave a gift of great value to each of them. Ian Fleming wrote that you only live twice. Once when you are born and once when you look death in the face. He didn't kill them but they surely thought they were looking death in the face. That experience was a valuable gift!

Chapter 2 

The eighteenth precinct station house (now called Mid-town North) is on West 54th Street off 8th Avenue in Manhattan. The west side of the precinct is Hell’s Kitchen. The East side includes the Theater District, the Jewelry Exchange and Rockefeller Center. During the late 60s and early 70s the precinct was home to mainly working-class Irish and some Puerto Ricans. The Irish had been there much longer. The Westies, an Irish American organized crime gang called it home. The Puerto Ricans were newcomers with big families. They would soon outnumber the Irish. None living here had much of anything. They worked hard and survived. The precinct boundaries were from 5th Avenue to 12th Avenue, 43rd street to 59th street. East of 5th Avenue was the "East Side" with the United Nation's building and classy residential buildings. That was the 17th Precinct with its station house on 51st between 3rd Avenue and Lexington. Usually nobody who lived in the precinct went east of 8th Avenue except to catch the subway. The 18th was one of the busiest precincts in the city. A lot of crime and a lot of action. Drug sales, robberies, larceny, shootings, assaults and rapes. The Westies were punching, stabbing, and shooting people on a regular basis in and around the old Irish gin mills. The smell of corned beef and cabbage filled the air on the weekends and the wounded filled the emergency room at St. Clare’s Hospital. The Puerto Ricans sat on their stoops; drank their beer; had more street fights and stabbings, but seldom shot one another. For a cop like Rich the precinct was a terrific assignment. Although it had some serious problems. Many of the older cops became cynical and bitter. People in the east side of the precinct treated them with disdain unless they needed help. They were Philistines to be cajoled and used as buffers as violent crime grew more common. Consignment to this role transformed some into bitter men. Men who were hard, rude, and corrupt. 

Younger cops, like Rich, were not as corrupt. They were seldom allowed near the cash cows of the precinct. They were busy trying to do actual police work. Philosophically many, but certainly not all, of the more experienced cops subscribed to neither the "higher calling of police work," nor to protecting the prosperous from the untouchables. They were in control, and even when many evolved from "doing good" at their job to stealing as much as they could, they stayed in control of the streets.

The socialization process for this group of officers took about three to five years. They eventually lost interest in police work as a worthy endeavor. They lost empathy for the misery of victims and lost all pretension of objectivity. In their minds, the cynicism and corruption they lived reflected the overall justice system and politics of the city. The young cops learned that older officers disparaged enthusiasm except when stealing. Some young cops were slowly reshaped by the layers of moral decay above them in government. Others had an acute awakening, an epiphany, when a nice piece of police work conflicted with the countervailing motivation to steal in every possible way. They resented the power and wealth of those they protected, and they lacked what some have called spiritual discipline against resentment. Like the poor and powerless population around them, their bitterness and cynicism grew. The untouchables in the precinct, suffering as they did from the evils of poverty, were more brothers and sisters to the cops than the condescending wealthy to the east or the corrupt government above them. Whether consciously or subconsciously, each who succumbed to the cynicism and resentment arrived at accommodation in his own way. Most joined the system at the level ascribed to cops and took as much as they could. For some their greed became an obsession. Spurned and deserted by the haves and feared and mistrusted by the have nots, they occupied the station designated for them. In the end the 18th Precinct became a microcosm of the NYPD and the local New York City government. The result was to be expected. Except in unusual cases, people were not good or bad by nature, but through association. Importantly, it was understood by the precinct people that the price of government, even government by these cops, was cheaper than the cost of chaos. So, things went along. The people and the cops had helped to create themselves from what they had found around them.

Rich spent most of his time on the west side of the 18th walking a variety of foot posts or covering a scooter sector that ran from 43rd to 47th Streets, 8th to 12th Avenue. Most of the people lived in brown, four to six story, attached apartment buildings each with a few steps at the entrance. No foyer, no courtyard, sixteen to thirty-six families in each. The parallel streets ran east to west so most enjoyed sunshine all day. About a quarter of the windows contained small fans. Most of the rest stood open radiating music, television programs, drunken curses or an occasional grey head watching from above. Rich came to enjoy the smells of these streets. Even on the scooter on his way to an emergency call he took them in. Rice and beans, hamburgers and hot dogs, boiling cabbage on the side streets. Pizza, chicken, French fries, gyros, and Chinese food from the shops on the avenues. Always crowded during the day. Fire hydrants open for kids on summer afternoons. After dinner, out came the beer, the folding tables, the dominos and cards. Kids running everywhere. Traffic noise, radios, arguments, and laughter. Rich grew up in a neighborhood like this in Brooklyn, but there the smells and noises came from Italians, Irish, Germans and Norwegians. Very few black people lived in the 18th. Many worked there, but most lived in North Manhattan or North Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Queens.

Rich was struck by the happiness he saw in the middle of the crime, poverty, and noise. It was everywhere, especially in the children. He would always remember a little girl, probably five years old, holding the hand of a man in his late twenties. She was smiling up at him as her black pigtails swayed with each step they took. The man picked her up as they walked past a shooting victim Rich was examining. He pointed to a colorful window, and she was distracted. She kept smiling and speaking a combination of Spanish and English as she held an ice pop. The man laughed and hugged her as she spoke. What a happy little chatterbox, Rich thought. What a happy man. There was rhythm in their walk together after he put her down. Rich watched them for a while. Her speaking and gesturing with the ice pop; him nodding and bending closer to hear. Rich was surprised by the emotion he felt at this scene. Throughout his tenure as a cop, at the most unexpected times and places, he witnessed such refreshing examples of important moments in important lives.

The far west side of his scooter sector, from 10th to 12th Avenue was zoned commercial and light industrial. Auto repair places, garages, trucking storage yards, machine shops, tires, lumber, stone yards and assorted small manufacturers occupied mostly one- or two-story concrete structures with iron gates facing the streets. This area of the precinct was active during the day but dark and foreboding at night. It was burglaries and larceny on the west end of his sector, drug homicides and robberies on the east end and every kind of action a young cop could want all over the sector. He felt right at home.

His views on both life in general, and his job, were largely shaped by his years as a child and teenager growing up in Brooklyn, and his 4 years of active duty in the navy. He loathed his role as protector of the institutions that perpetuated the social structure he detested. He resented being a buffer between those institutions and the unwashed. In Brooklyn he was the unwashed! Fortunately his ambition curbed any temptation to wander too far off his assigned ethical and moral reservation. The NYPD attracted him because it was, first, a good job and second a quasi-military organization like the navy where he had done very well. The navy maintained a significant status difference between officers and enlisted men. On his Fletcher class destroyer that hardly mattered. The NYPD looked like another structured egalitarian place to settle down and work hard. He found satisfaction in his work. He enjoyed the latitude and discretion that enabled him to focus on catching and arresting violent predators. He wanted to be a good cop and he got to define what that was.

At seventeen he quit high school and joined the Navy. He saw the world. The experience was remarkable for him. He grew from a boy to a man in a disciplined way. He was thousands of miles from Brooklyn when most of the guys he grew up with were arrested or drafted and sent to Vietnam. He returned home four years later, a changed person in a changed world. 

The Navy was "an adventure" and sometimes great fun. He remembered standing at the rail with his shipmates mooning a Russian trawler off Cuba some months after the missile crisis. That is as close as he got to combat unless you count the fist fights with anti-American demonstrators in Istanbul, Turkey, or with British sailors from HMS Tiger in Bournemouth, England. He was honorably discharged after four years and was happy to be out. It was time to move on, but he would never forget the boys from West Virginia who got their first set of good teeth after boot camp, the guys from Texas, Alabama, Minnesota, Illinois and young boys and men from mountains farms and big cities who operated and repaired the engines, guns, radar, and other systems on his ship. They were all part of his education. There were also men like the obnoxious Chief Petty Officer who got knocked out by another sailor in Montego Bay and the First-Class Gunners mate raised on an Indian reservation who drank aftershave during long cruises when his stash of rum was depleted. Buffers, cogs, and cannon fodder — people worth remembering. 

He earned his high school equivalency diploma before discharge. In 1967 a high school equivalency diploma and years of electronics training in the service could not get him into City University of New York. It was the Vietnam era. Veterans were not honored in New York. In the mid-1960s college policies in New York made no accommodation for veterans with equivalency diplomas. He was unacceptable and wanting and had plenty of company. He lost friends in Vietnam. Their families suffered for their loss. The war was an epic mistake but later blaming the draftees who were killed by the tens of thousands was infuriating. It ate at his core, but he would not let it define him. 

Outwardly he would not reveal the anguish and disdain he felt. He couldn’t afford to, the people who mocked and betrayed ran big business and the country. He would move through it one day at a time, just lay low and survive. He was angry but in control. He wanted respect. He wanted to belong. His work in the precinct soon earned him both with many cops. That was a start. If the precinct bosses didn’t notice him that was both good and bad. Reality in the precinct was chaos. That required immediate adjustment.

Chapter 3

St. Clare’s was a small hospital on West 51st between 9th and 10th. It was the central repository for the sick and injured in Hell’s Kitchen. Rich delivered the Lincoln Center victims and muggers there in two ambulances and waited for the arrival of his distinguished supervisor. It took a while, but eventually he came in the front door and wandered down the the corridor in his direction.

“Johnson what up with you man? I’m always commin’ here to make reports on your work. You really hammered these guys." Rich knew Sergeant Robertson wasn't really annoyed, he just enjoyed breaking balls. He also knew that earlier Robertson ate his free meal and had a few drinks while Rich was standing motionless in the cold. The last time he saw Robertson in the street he was collecting five bucks from each bodega on 9th Avenue for the privilege of selling beer on Sunday morning. The sergeant also appreciated Rich. He did some real police work. The precinct needed all the real workers it could find. Without a cadre of active cops, any precinct could be disbanded with little impact on the citizenry. 

Rich was glad Robertson had to do a little real police work. Coming to St. Clare's hospital to do a few reports would take the prick off the street for a while. He would have less time to steal. Rich looked at the Sergeant's jacket. It was filthy and his fat neck kept the collar from closing. His teeth were yellow from the cigarettes he smoked one after another and he needed a shave.

Rich handed Robertson his memo book. He took it with his chubby, chewed on fingers and signed his name.

"Keep up the good work; pretty soon there’ll be no more muggers with balls enough to go over by Lincoln Center" he said and handed back the memo book. “I see these guys didn’t come quietly, you got a lump of your own “He said gesturing toward Rich’s head. “You claiming a line of duty injury?”

“No this is bullshit….A nurse gave me a little ice…it’s fine”

“Well don’t come to me tomorrow with a headache asking to change your mind… I’d rather do all the bullshit paperwork tonight.”

“No way boss. Forget about it. I’ll charge resisting arrest to cover it. That’s enough…and I really appreciate those comments. Coming from my regular supervisor, they are important.” Robertson smiled as Rich continued “I’m glad you appreciate my work. I know I can depend on you to recommend me for department recognition for these and all my other collars…maybe put me in for a radio car seat?” 

Robertson shook his head and let out a sigh. His breath smelled like a garbage can full of vomit. Rich backed away and bumped into an old man leaning against the wall. He apologized and steadied the guy. He looked at Rich through blood shot watery eyes and mumbled either “thank you” or “fuck you”. Rich couldn’t tell. Robertson was laughing too loud. 

“Recommend you for department recognition…I told you to ‘keep up the good work’. That’s the recognition you get for this. You’re all out for yourself Johnson…you do nothing about precinct conditions…. double parking at the clubs and restaurants…drunks being served at the hotels….fights after hours in the gin mills, complaints by tourists about the faulty knock-off shit they buy in Broadway stores. That’s the stuff that pisses people off.” 

You mean that’s the penny ante shit you use to shake businesses down, Rich thought.

“Ok Serge I hear you. I’ll do better…I promise” They grinned at one another. During the short time Rich was in the precinct, his interaction with Robertson had come to include routine mutual ball breaking. It was not good natured, but it was not insubordinate. Neither was interested in pushing things further. There were boundaries. The sergeant was a slothful greedy drunk and Rich was a straight up good cop. They wore the same uniforms but lived in two different worlds.

Useless fuck, Rich thought as Robertson left. The worn and shiny ass on his faded uniform pants reflected the light as he walked down the hall. Rich felt ashamed. This guy is my boss, he thought, what a disgrace. People in the crowded emergency room looked Robertson up and down. So did the two muggers handcuffed to their stretchers. They were in bad shape, but not as bad as their victims. In fact, the perps looked better than whiskey breath Robertson. 

Rich knew he had to check with the precincts clerical officers before he left for home… make sure the report this shit-head submitted was accurate. He took his hat off and wiped his brow. It was snowing outside but the emergency room was hot as hell. Standing room only. The overflow crowd lined the dark hospital corridor between the entrance and where Rich stood in the back with his prisoners. The two victims had been triaged and sent upstairs. His prisoners were asleep. He was exhausted and hungry. 

Two hours later, a precinct cop came in the front entrance and looked toward Rich. “I'm your relief Johnson," he said as he walked up.

Rich looked at his watch and then at the cop. “Thanks man, but where’ve you been? I have a headache…had no meal and I should a went home 3 hours ago”? 

“Nobody at the House knew you were here…somebody called about their mother and father being mugged and the lieutenant looked at the UF 61, found out what happened to them and where they were. Finally, we figured out that a cop had to be here guarding the skells who did it. You didn’t sign out at the end of the tour, and you made the collar….it had to be you…so the lieutenant sent me here to relieve you. I had the station house post.” 

“Thats fucked up man. You mean the sergeant didn’t tell the desk officer on the 4x12 that I was here.”?

“I don’t know who fucked it up Johnson, but you should split man. They ain’t paying overtime for shit like this.”

Rich reached for his hat and night stick. “You’re right. I can’t wait to get out of this place.” The relief looked around and nodded. 

“Split man…. Go home. I got these guys.” 

The crowded emergency room and dark corridor leading outside were now dead quiet. People were sleeping everywhere, on chairs, on stretchers and on the floor. He moved quickly towards the door but took time to nod to the nurse who gave him the ice as he stepped into the street. Pretty girl, he thought as she smiled at him. Pleasant contrast. She brought his heart back up to speed. Unfortunately, he was still thinking about Sergeant Robertson and his blubbery neckline. He lit a cigarette and cupped it in his hand, Robertson purposely left me stranded here with no relief. He started walking the four blocks to the precinct. That scroungy prick. Complaining about him won’t do any good. He’s a piece of shit, but bosses don’t wanna see cops openly complaining about other bosses even if it’s a useless fuck like him. It was all right to bitch among the troops about a boss….but nothing formal. Too much serious shit was going on to tolerate cops making waves. 

Robertson said he wanted Rich to focus more on precinct conditions, but he sure perked up whenever Rich made a Grand Larceny Auto arrest. It meant he could go behind the station house, enter the recovered stolen car and steal what property he found before it could be vouchered and secured. Rich locked up a lot of people for stealing cars. Sergeant Robertson worked the same days on patrol as Rich, so he got first dibs on the contents of recovered cars unless a dirty lieutenant had the desk and pulled rank. People usually liked getting their car back, but he felt like a roach when they asked for their tools, or clothes, or other property. They often didn’t buy that the property was removed by the car thief. Why would the guy still be driving around the Manhattan neighborhood in the car if he already took all the stuff out? Or how could the thief have time to take the property out if the owner parked the car in a lot on 47th and 7th at 8:00 pm to go to a play, and Rich arrested the thief at 8:30 pm on 50th and 8th? When circumstances allowed, Rich and other honest arresting officers would immediately remove any property and voucher it as soon as the car was taken to the station house and before it was removed to the Bronx and stored as evidence. But, the cop was at a disadvantage. He had custody of the thief and had to secure him before attending to any property that was in the car or was part of the car. Robertson did little real police work and fucked things up when others did.

Some cops came to work to steal. Some looked to get laid. Rich locked up bad guys. He was always looking for action. Two kinds of cops avoided him. Corrupt cops avoided him because he could not be trusted. He didn’t take money or shake people down. He could give them up. They lacked the leverage needed to stop him. Lazy cops also avoided him. They didn’t like prowling around quietly in the dark on streets or rooftops or hiding out of the way for hours just to pounce on some low-life mugger. Some, like him, preferred to work alone. Each had their own style and needed time adjusting to company on patrol.

Sergeants, like Robertson, wouldn't think to discipline him. There was no upside. Who gave a shit? He was abrasive, but active. The captain needed the arrests he made and they were occupied making money. He was reckless. That could take him down, not them. There was something else, the way he looked at them, that made the worst among them wary. When pressed to compromise his integrity and not take police action against a bosses’ “friend,” he would stare at them like one of those guard dogs that doesn't bark, but just looks at you when you go near the junkyard fence. He is anxious for you to come close. He isn't going to scare you away. He wants to eat you. These bosses left him alone. He was comfortable with that and worked to reinforce their reluctance to engage him their corrupt bullshit.

Some bosses in the precinct were inscrutable. Sergeant Andrew Mikos was one of them. Both emotionally and intellectually incongruous, for many years his memory would remain vivid with Rich. 

Chapter 4

Four years in the Navy made adjustment to the police job easier. Like the Navy, the Police Department operated through a chain of command, your job was defined, and constrained, by rules and regulations and you followed orders. Different personalities populated these organizations at every level and both were bureaucracies. However, there are important differences between serving in the military and serving as a police officer. Cops have more discretion than sailors or soldiers and cops often work alone. On the destroyer he worked in the Combat Information Center operating electronic equipment and providing information so the ship could effectively participate with the squadron in exercises. He worked in a room with a team of sailors from the Operations Division. An operations officer was present during exercises. Even when he rose to the rank of second-class petty officer and supervisor of the watch, the bridge was twenty feet away with officers and enlisted men trained to provide support to one another as part of a team. 

In that kind of setting, the overall command suffers when mistakes are made. When cops make mistakes, they are often on their own. That’s why supervisors like Sergeant Robertson are detested in policing. It is why cops in busy precincts identify and depend on the good bosses when things get difficult and dangerous. When Rich started in the 18th, the cops he spoke with all agreed Sergeant Andy Mikos was an experienced and dependable boss. 

Sergeant Mikos was the model of what a police sergeant should be. The antithesis of bosses like Robertson. Tall, handsome, a lot of medals, nice, tailored uniform. A knowledgeable and effective supervisor. Dated two girls in the precinct. He had it all. He would back you up when you most needed it in the street. Cops depended on him, and he earned their respect. However, for some, Mikos posed a complex and difficult problem. Rich needed the police job. Few he grew up with could qualify for the job. They were surprised when he was hired. People in the neighborhood, said he would return to his pre-military behavior and lose the job in a year or so. His dad hoped he would prove them wrong. Rich respected Mikos, but he also feared him. He was the bait in a trap Rich had to avoid.

He first crossed paths with Sergeant Mikos on a memorable, action-packed, night soon after he was assigned to the Precinct. It was a freezing cold evening in late November. He had a foot post on 46th Street between 7th Avenue and Avenue of the Americas. The street was a hot spot for muggings and tourists were easy targets. The captain was getting attention he didn't need from the Division. Probably junkies, Rich thought, as he walked to the post. The streets were jammed with tourists and traffic. Two blocks south of his post Times Square was bright and jumping. The sun was setting, and the prostitutes were just surfacing along Broadway. He walked past the pimps in their satin and velour suits. The girls in their net stockings, short skirts and fake fur coats were strolling up and down the avenue dodging frantic tourists heading to Broadway shows or office workers on their way home. They took little notice of Rich. They would pay more attention to uniformed cops later when the ‘Pussy Posse’ van came out to scoop them up. Hot dog carts were doing a good business. There was also a cart cooking up some nice smelling chestnuts. Rich got a dirty look from an assistant pimp driving a big Cadillac south on Broadway. His boss pimp in a fur coat was in the back. Rich pointed at him and he looked away. Soon the pimp leaned forward and was screaming at his driver. Rich could imagine the conversation.

“You dumb fuck. Why you even lookin’ at the Police. That man stop us ‘n ask for registration and we fucked. He check the VIN number ‘cause your black face piss him off and we locked up for altered VIN on my Caddy. You just dumb. You never be nothin’. Don’t be messing with the Police. Don’t even be lookin’ at the Police.” Rich could pull them out of the car and do just that, but that wasn’t his job tonight.

It was 5 PM. He reached his post and ducked into the Tad's Steakhouse to warm up and have some coffee. Tad’s was the cheap Charlie’s of all steak houses. There was a line of steam tables with bread, salad and sides. The steaks were marinated for days. They exploded in flames on the grill and went down like the mush and slippery fat that they were. Rich often ate them. A long line of tourists shuffled along the buffet line to get their $3.89 meal with a drink. He wasn't hungry yet, so he sat at a little wooden booth in the dark back corner, had his coffee, smiled and nodded at the customers. A few asked directions. Some kids pointed. Rich smiled, yes son, Rich thought, cops eat and drink also. Yes, this is a real gun. Yes, I even hit some people with this stick. A noisy mob, he thought, but the coffee was good and the self-service fast. 

He finished and walked out the front door onto the street. To the left were the lights of Broadway and the endless noisy traffic heading south towards Times Square and the abode of degeneracy, 42nd Street. To the right was the darkness where he belonged. He began walking east and moved close to the buildings on his right. The few store fronts were closed; their gates pulled down and locked. His dark blue uniform made him almost invisible. In the middle of the block there was a vacant construction lot on the north side of the street. It was a perfect place for muggers to hide. They could jump out, pummel someone, and be gone either back north through the lot to 47th street or east or west on 46th street. The only light on the north side of the street came from a small Chinese restaurant bordering the lot. He chose a doorway on the south side of 46th street opposite the lot, stepped back out of site, looped his nightstick thong over his handcuff case and settled in to watch.

 He could see through the lot to 47th street and in either direction on 46th. Good location, he thought. It was darker on 46th The better choice for a fast robbery. Turned out the spot was no good. He couldn't get far enough back to hide from view. Too many tourists stopped to ask him where Rockefeller Center was. The last group spoke only French and it took him ten minutes to figure what they wanted. He was pissed off, but polite. When they left, he moved a little west to a more recessed doorway. 

He rehearsed in his mind what he would do if a mugging happened. He could run very fast. In Brooklyn during training, he caught a guy who snatched a purse after a short run even with all his equipment, gun, cuffs, memo book, and ammunition pouch bouncing all around. Crepe sole shoes, no problem. He would be on them in seconds. Most of the muggers didn't have guns. They were young and used their fists. They weren't stick-up men. They could hurt people but usually didn't kill anyone. One on one he was fine in that kind of situation. He remembered his training. Take charge. Sound tough. 

"Against the wall Fuck-o, keep your hands where I can seem them," pat down and cuff. One - two - three.

He tried his holster just in case. It had a ridge that kept the gun from falling out and prevented people from grabbing it from the holster. The handle of his .38 revolver needed to be twisted toward the body to disengage the end of the cylinder from the edge of the holster. It took practice, especially with a brand-new holster that was stiff and not broken in. He stepped as far back in the doorway as possible and practiced twisting the gun and taking it out — just a little bit and pointing it down with his hand at his side. He was getting to the point where he was comfortable with the holster. 

He poked his head out of the doorway and looked east and west. Nothing interesting. Nothing happening. He lit another cigarette, ducked back in and shifted his weight back and forth to keep the blood circulating. Relax man he thought. This is your game, and this is how it’s played. Settle down. Making robbery collars isn’t like snapping up car thieves. It’s more challenging. Car thieves are kids who play the radio loud, speed and run red lights. He smiled They’re ass holes looking for kicks. Shit their pants when you stop them. Muggers grab people and hurt them. They have to be watched and followed at a distance. They will give you some shit when you catch them. He took a few breaths, calmed down, and waited.

After about 30 minutes he spotted four potential villains walking East on 47th Street. He walked across 46th and through the lot. On 47th Street the four men checked out the menu of tourists. They were hunting. Twice they stopped to gesture at oblivious targets. They followed a guy west towards Rich, but stopped when he caught a cab. Then they turned and walked back east to Avenue of the Americas. Their behavior made him angry. They presumed to prance around the street searching for victims like it was an acceptable form of recreation. Like they were entitled to do this because no one ever told them not to. They were having fun — laughing. The four turned right onto the avenue heading south. He decided to go back across the lot to 46th and follow behind them when they reached 46th. He jogged carefully through the lot and turned east on 46th. He would wait to see them crossing in front of him, but they didn't. Instead, a man ran toward him screaming. "Someone was robbed around the corner."

Rich stepped in front of him. "Where did it happen? Who did it?" The old man was shaking and out of breath, "...four guys just punched and beat a man on the avenue. They kicked him and everything and took his wallet. He was yelling for help, sitting on the ground. Where were you? Go get them." He turned around and pointed. "Oh God, here they come officer. Watch out, I think one of them has a gun." Rich looked east around the side of the truck and sure enough four guys were running toward him silhouetted against the streetlamps. 

"Stay here," Rich said. The guy nodded and moved his mouth but made no sound. He drew his revolver and waited until they were about twenty-five yards away before he stepped out from behind the truck. 

"Stop or I’ll blow your fucking heads off." They were stunned and stopped immediately. The four stood shoulders to shoulder and glanced at one another as he walked toward them. What is their move going to be? Control them, Rich thought. Don't let them think. Take control. "Keep your hands where I can see them or you are fucking dead," he shouted. Can't shoot, he was thinking. No gun. Can't see a gun. What if they run? I didn’t see them do anything.

"Mother Fucker, who the fuck are you yellin’ at. Big shot cop. Fuck you!" Big mouth was in a long black leather coat and white sneakers. He was looking at Rich's gun. Keep talking. Keep control. Keep them worried about your gun and what you might do. Not what you could legally do, but what you might do.

"You man, one more word out of your mouth and I will blow your fucking head off." They were all about 5'10" to 6' but very skinny. Like grasshoppers, he thought. More like praying mantis' he decided. No sweat, one at a time, but he knew all four would put him down and have his gun in no time.

Big mouth gave Rich a challenging look, "You ain't doing shit" but his tone showed he wasn’t sure. His body language changed. He was looking around for the way he was going to run. 

Rich walked quickly up to him, gun at his hip in his right hand, pointed at the other three and said, "Up against the wall over here. Keep your hands where I can see them or you're dead." He pushed the big mouth ahead of him with his left hand. Remember training, he thought. Right hand stayed tight to his waist. No one was grabbing his gun. Left hand gestured to the other three ahead of him until he had them all against a brick wall on the north side of the street. They all looked like junkies. Blood shot eyes. One guy's nose was running and all four were looking to get off the wall. Moving around, looking back at Rich. He did not move to search them. Too dangerous to get that close to four men. People had now come out of the Chinese restaurant down the street. A Chinese guy in an apron was all excited and looking at Rich.

"Call a police car.” Rich said. Big Mouth moved off the wall. Rich stepped up and stuck the gun in the back of his head hard. He jumped back on the wall all the while running his mouth. 

“Fuck you man, we didn’t do nothin’…” Just then the victim stumbled up. 

"They did it. They hit me. They took my money. They kicked me. I want my money back and all my credit cards, my license, everything." He was about sixty years old. Bloody lip, watery bloodshot eyes, swollen left cheek, blood and snot coming from his nose. Limping. A mess. 

"Relax. Stand here and we'll take care of it. Don't stand between me and them. Stand over there.” Rich said to the victim, his eyes never leaving the four lined up against the wall.

"We didn't rob you mother fucker, you drunk," The Mouth said. The victim looked at Rich. He looked confused. 

"I need to go the the hospital," he said. 

Rich said, "We'll get you there in a few minutes." 

"I'm really in pain." 

"OK, we'll get an ambulance.” He took off his coat and asked Rich if he could sit down. Two men in the crowd helped him to sit on a car. Rich risked a quick glance over at him… not good, concussion at least. In shock.

People were beginning to gather. Rich was worried he would lose control. But they were mostly tourists. Don’t see this shit in Oregon, he thought. Big mouth moved and dropped something to the ground. 

"That's my wallet. I told you “The victim was pointing and yelling. 

Rich again put his gun to the back of Big Mouth’s head, "I nearly shot you asshole. DON’T FUCKING MOVE!” He walked back and forth behind the four watching their hands.

The Chinese counter man came over to Rich, took his apron off and gestured with a fist towards the four on the wall. "If you need, I am here." Rich looked at his face. He was about 50 years old, 5'4" and as skinny as the four bad guys. 

Rich nodded and said, “Thanks.” He was surprised just how grateful he was for the offer. The counter man smiled. He looked at Rich's gun hand. It was shaking noticeably. "Did you call for a car?" Rich asked.

"I told them you need help."

He did need help. This was not like when he stalked a couple of muggers, and the outcome was predictable. This was four to one and they had time to think. Anything could happen. They could have weapons, and the fight was still in them. The call would take a couple of minutes to reach the cops on the street.

“10-13, officer needs assistance.” The radio dispatcher would put that call out over all police frequencies. Patrol, detectives, emergency service, citywide anti-crime, every cop near a radio hears that one of theirs needs help. They drop everything and go. Rich took a deep breath and waited.

The muggers on the wall were getting antsy and the Big Mouth was running on again. But this time no one could hear him. Siren switches had been thrown simultaneously in radio cars all over Manhattan. From east and west, with traffic and against traffic, through the vacant lot, in the street and on the sidewalk they came lights flashing and adrenaline up. The crowd backed up against the building’s wall and stood with their mouths agape. Two radio cars pulled up at the same time on both sides of Rich. Immediately they were all over the muggers. All four were cuffed and thrown in the radio cars in seconds. 

"I didn't toss them," Rich said. 

"We got it," was the answer.

Rich felt a firm hand on his right shoulder. "You can put your gun away". It was Sergeant Mikos. The gun was shaking so badly that he had to use both hands to get it in the holster. Mikos saw how shook he was. He handled it so that no one else noticed the rookie was about to shit his pants. Rich walked into the crowd and and found the counter man.

” You did me a big favor my friend. You are very brave” People gathered around to listen in. The guy nodded his head and smiled from ear to ear as the crowd looked at him. “What’s your name” ?

“My name is Chowchee, or George to you officer. It was my pleasure to help. You got those guys good”, he yelled over the crowd noise. 

“George, do you own that restaurant you were workin in tonight?”

“Yes, I do”

“…and it’s the “Hunan House. Yes”?

“Yes the Hunan House…we been there for 5 years”

“Come with me for a minute George please. I’ve gotta have you meet someone.” Rich walked over to Mikos with George in tow. He waited until Mikos finished talking to a group of cops and turned to him.

“Boss I want you to meet the guy who helped me tonight. His name is George. He owns the Hunan House over there.” He pointed at the little Chinese place. “He stepped right up in front of those 4 guys we just sent to the house and offered any help I needed.” Mikos and the cops looked at George. Some smiled. Some nodded 

Mikos shook Georges’ hand in front of the crowd. “Thanks George. Nice to meet a new friend. You need anything from us give me a call at the station house.” He took out a piece of paper, wrote down the number and handed to George.

He then turned back to the rest of the cops. “OK let’s get back to work…and one other thing. George is our friend so we watch out for him but only the sector at his place… Got it”? 

There was a moan and some laughter from the cops…and the crowd. 

Mikos made sure a radio car took the victim to the hospital. Then gestured to Rich. “Ride to the house with me Johnson.” He said. 

Rich sat in the back of the car, opened the window, and watched as the crowd began to break up. Mikos got in and grabbed the radio mic. “18 Sergeant to Central ‘K’, call off the 13. We have four to the house under.… No M.O.S. injuries.”

The car inched through the crowd of tourists. People with a new exciting story to tell. 

My privilege he thought. Welcome to a glimpse.

At the station house Sergeant Mikos went with Rich upstairs to the detective squad office. “I’m gonna stay with you for a bit while they help you with printing and paper work. You did a special piece of police work here and the greedy squad might want a piece of it.”

Mikos was right. The four perps were in the isolated squad cell upstairs and the Detective Sergeant was waiting there with two detectives. He was all smiles. Wearing a wrinkly old gray suit, that couldn’t be buttoned even if six inches of cloth was added. Suspenders held his pants just below his gut and a cigarette moved up and down in his mouth as he spoke. 

“Officer Johnson, nice work. These are some bad people you grabbed. We think at least two of these guys did some other robberies in the precinct. We been lookin’ for them for a while now.”

One of the two detectives said “Yeah we been looking for a couple of guys with descriptions that matched two of your perps”.

“Nice collar kid.” The other said “We can take these two off your hands. We got victims to cover them. Been asking all over the streets for them. This is a big fuckin’ help man” 

Before Rich could respond, Mikos stepped in front of him laughing.

He shook his head, “Nice try Mike”! He said to the sergeant. ”These four guys are his.”

A summary arrest of four people for robbery was rare. The squad would hog all the credit if they could. 

The sergeant folded his arms. “You’re a selfish piece of shit Mikos always have been…Don’t be asking shit from us the next time something goes sideways.”

“Just print these pricks” Mikos said. “This is routine stuff…nothing extra you need here. My man keeps the collar. You can clear 20 robberies with these perps. That’s our gift to you.” 

“Hey fuck it” the sergeant said to the detectives. “Print them and arrange for your show ups” He waved Mikos away, turned around and walked through the cluttered squad room to his office. A mirror image of Sergeant Robertson only in a suit, Rich thought.

Mikos knew these guys would be standing line ups for a week. They’d be charged with a lot of robberies. The squads’ clearance rate would go up. Credit went all around. The victims wouldn’t show in court. These perps would walk. The system sucked, but everyone in the 18th did their job. Rich did his part and would earn at least an ‘Excellent Police Duty Award’. 

Mikos had his back. The perfect boss. 

A few weeks later, on a late tour, Rich saw Sergeant Mikos on 8th Avenue and 55th Street backslapping and laughing with three cops. They had caught a burglar in the office building on the corner. Later in the locker room two of the cops were bragging that they split five hundred dollars to cut a burglar loose.

“Five hundred dollars!” They were amazed. “Shit, usually a junkie burglar will have a couple hundred. We never saw five hundred! Home fuckin’ run! Mikos got two, his driver and the two of us got a hundred each. Man. Good night”!

John Manser, a cop a few lockers down was upset. He punched his locker door. “You took money and let a scumbag burglar go? Man, that’s fucked up. People are losing their shit to junkie burglars all over the city and you cut this prick loose? What could be in your head”? He asked as he put his uniform in his locker.

“This guy wasn’t burglarizing houses man. He was doin offices. Junkies don’t have $500 to pay for their shit man, never mind to pay us. There’s a big difference. This guy didn’t hurt nobody. These companies with their typewriters and big office space and stuff have more money than everybody in this station house put together!”

“ You gotta live with yourself on that. Not me. I can’t just decide what burglary is bull shit and what one gets a bye.”

“Listen. Mikos thought it was cool. He saw the difference. We didn’t just rush in and grab the money. Anyway, we all know the guy would’a walked. Either someone else along the way would get paid, or the owner of the office would’a forgot it if the guy just made him whole.”

Manser just closed his locker and walked out.

Rich got dressed and went for some breakfast. He just couldn’t fathom what happened. Mikos wasn’t just stealing for himself, but he was flaunting it in front of the cops under him… making it easier for them to be corrupt…making it OK.

Where the hell do you draw the line. Where should I draw the line for myself? He thought. The best boss in the precinct was taking money from burglars. Some of the desk officers he respected were taking money off the gypsies on 8th Avenue. They wouldn’t even let him pass the front desk with a pick pocket arrest. 

“Get out of here with that shit.” They said when he dragged in a fortune teller with a tourist’s wallet. He felt nothing ever happened to any of these arrests when they went to court, but if cops didn’t pay attention at all, whether because they were paid off or because the system frustrated them, the envelope would be pushed further every day. The miscreants would own the city. It’s near impossible to navigate a minefield like this. The sergeant, in fact each of the men involved, would confront any danger to help if he was in a jam. They had each confronted deranged people and violent felons. Risked their lives to help strangers. He imagined them going home to their family hugging their wife and kids, coming back to steal the eyes out of someone's head. Is it actually so hard to understand? Aren’t I, Mr. Tough-guy, as much a paradox as they are? Aren’t we all just as arrogant as the muggers? It is what it is, he concluded. Just do your job and watch your back.

Chapter 5

When it’s cold out, crime follows people inside. Fewer people out walking. Fewer people to rob. Rather than take a day or night off, miscreants look to inside work. Rich worked a 4 x 12-foot post on one such night. At roll call, Sergeant Mikos picked him and Tom Anuke for a special assignment.

“Johnson and Anuke. Two-man post. 9th Avenue 43rd to 48th. There’s a group of scumbags shaking down the merchants. See what you can do. Go in, say hello to the store owners. Hang around; shoot the shit, maybe you can get a better idea of who the perps are. Pay special attention to the lighting store on 44th and 9th. The owner keeps complaining to the captain about frequent shake downs. The captain’s getting all twisted about this shit..… plus the borough is on his ass about the robbery and assault stats. Too cold on the street for a lot of victims …. good night to check out these stores. You might be lucky and grab a couple these pricks”

Rich asked, “any description of the perps’ boss?” 

“Yeah, they’re young pricks who should be inmates.” 

Rich nodded. It felt good knowing he would be assigned where there was a problem. The captain knew he would handle it… or at least Mikos knew. Rich preferred working alone. His instincts were sharp. He was careful. Company would just screw up his rhythm and concentration. But, with a group involved, a backup would help. The other problem was, Rich had a date tonight. No arrests for him. He needed to make that clear to his partner. He was waiting outside the station house. 

“Anuke, let’s walk west on 54th and south on Ninth Avenue. Eighth Avenue is full of tourists. We’ll be answering questions all night and never reach our post.”

“Call me Tom. I’ll call you Rich. It’s easier.” Rich nodded as they walked west.

“Ok, Tom. How come a regular night stick? Where’s your axe handle?”

Tom Anuke was unique, even among the active cops. He terrorized the drug dealers on 8th Avenue with his axe handle. The local community liked him. They could come out at night. He said the axe handle had better balance than a night stick and it was a good deterrent. 

“Captain said only on the late tour. Makes a poor impression on tourists.” 

It was daylight and would be for at least another hour. “Rich, I never worked with you, but I hear you are a pretty active cop.” Tom’s limp was bad tonight. A couple of years ago a burglar threw him out a second-floor window. He hurt his leg. Rich slowed down a bit.

He could see in Tom’s eyes that he had heard more. Probably a lot more. At least Tom was not lazy. A lot of medals above his shield. He was a good cop, a little more ready to use his gun than Rich, but predictable, nonetheless. Rich was not uncomfortable with Tom, but he needed to feel him out a little more, see what the boundaries were. 

"I'm very active Tom. I hope someday to make detective. About 40 felony collars so far this year.” 

Tom smiled. “Your rep is solid here in the precinct. I’m looking to move up to detective myself. I’ve got about as many felony collars as you this year and about the same for the past few years.”

Rich nodded. “Yeah, if we both make detective, you’ll be there first. Got a few years on me, but I’ll be right behind you.” Tom gave Rich a thumbs up. “I know you will.”

Tom and Rich knew there were two career paths in the NYPD: Detective, which was based on your arrest activity and evaluations; and Civil Service promotions based on written exams. Young, active cops longed to be detectives. “It’s good to be working with you, especially if we see that gang. I know you got my back." 

“Yep Rich, and I have no fuckin' doubt about you." Tom rested his hand on his gun as they walked. He pushed it down so it was well below the bottom of his coat. Uniform of the day for this assignment was the double-breasted choke collar jacket that had been a NYPD standard for over one hundred years. On cops like Tom and Rich it looked great. The jacket also allowed Tom to practice his fast draw before roll call in the station house. But, even with the heavier wool overcoat, there was a hole at the top of the pocket that let a cop take the revolver out without lifting the long coat. Tom had practiced with that coat and was remarkably fast. Odd behavior, Rich thought, but acceptable with ridiculous number of robberies and murders in the city. 

“Tom, we got picked for this post because we are workers. A lot of other cops won’t deal with a situation like this. They would stroll the post like scarecrows. When they leave ‘Ka-Boom’ the shit hits the fan again,” he said as he twirled his nightstick.

He continued. “I worry working with some of the cops in this precinct. You never know what they’ll do. The other night I rode in Sector Adam. We had a burglary in progress radio run over at Metro Auto Body. My partner drove there slow as shit. The side door was broken. I went in but he refused to come with me. He said, ‘I am not going in there. I just looked at him and shook my head. I checked it out but they were gone. 

"He’s had that sector for seven years Rich. Even comes in on his vacation to collect money around the area. How can anyone work with him?” Rich saw a look of disgust on Tom's face. "He wouldn't even get out of the car until two other sector cars arrived."

He was testing Tom, but he was also testing his own world view. He wanted to see what Tom really thought. Working almost always alone, Rich took the opportunities like this to feel out what another active cop thought. 

"I know who you mean Rich. No names needed. He's a lazy, fat piece of shit. I rode with him a few times and he would leave me in the car when he went into the hotels and bars for his money. His partner is just as bad and just as greedy. That's why they've had that sector for so long." Rich and Tom both knew the drill. Nice and easy test. Will he back me in a dangerous situation? Will he worry me by shaking people down? The physical part was easy. They both had a rep. The money issue now seemed to be clear.

It was a cold October evening. Rich felt comfortable. He had a spring in his step. Light and fast, he thought, as they walked along. The memo book, hand cuffs, 4 inch barrel Smith and Wesson .38 Revolver, and twelve extra rounds of ammunition slowed every cop down. Both Tom and Rich were in good shape, except for Tom's leg, but Tom was lighter than Rich and had a reputation for fast hands. They were the best two cops in the precinct to deal with a gang problem, Rich thought. They reached 9th Avenue and turned south. Traffic was heavy heading downtown toward the Lincoln Tunnel. A typical rush hour. Horns blowing and cars weaving in and out. A New York Transit bus garage was on the corner. The smell of diesel engines and the noise of the busses pulling in and out added to the bedlam. Cars were parked along the street on both sides. Overflowing garbage cans stood on all the corners. Papers and bags and food wrappers blew through the air as the cars sped by. 

9th Avenue was lined with small grocery stores, shoe shops, a few restaurants, junk stores, hardware stores, dress shops and pizza places. All on the ground floors of the same five and six story walk up apartment houses that lined the side streets of the precinct. Little kids were everywhere. Mostly Puerto Rican. Lots of teenagers, some looked like gang kids. Lots of people walking and running in the street.

The tough Irish Westies gangs were at the height of their power. This was Hell’s Kitchen the center of their turf, but they seldom showed up on the street cops’ radar. They were a higher breed of criminal. They were into hijacking, drugs, gambling, high level burglaries, protection, and murder. Organized crime types but more street. They hung in the local bars but Rich saw little of them. The precinct detectives were their problem, not uniformed cops. When Rich gave them a thought at all he figured they would be murdered, go to jail and age out to be replaced someday by the Puerto Ricans and the guys who now moved from 42nd street after dark. 

There was a lot of racial tension in the country. In New York City it was felt more in Harlem, East Harlem, Brownsville or Bedford Stuyvesant. In 1967 while still in the Academy Rich had been sent to riot locations in the City. In April 1968 Martin Luther King was assassinated and he was sent to Harlem. There was real tension there. He participated in reserve when Columbia University was taken over by students a month after he was hired. As a rookie, before going to the 18th Precinct, he was routinely taken out of the academy with his class to help police anti-Vietnam war marches and demonstrations. At the precinct, uniformed cops and plainclothes men were tasked with harassing the homosexuals along 12th Avenue and in the West Village. This was another source of corruption until the Stonewall riots lit the fuse that engendered revolution and change. Rich never figured why sodomy was a crime. Just like he never thought prostitution mattered. He didn’t like the pimps or the privileged draft dodgers. Pimps were violent. Draft dodgers were selfish shits ever since the Civil War. These assignments exposed him firsthand to the most significant material issues of the time. They filled his criminal justice classes at college. At work, aside from periodic special assignments these issues were distant background noise. 

The cops in the 18th Precinct weren't an occupying force. They were either a pain in the ass or a welcome sight. Most store owners were happy to see cops; teenagers avoided them as they did cops all over the world and the working poor sat on their stoops up and down the side streets, drank their beer, walked around the avenue and paid cops no mind. The real trouble for Rich and Tom that night was the gangs around 42nd Street from 7th to 9th Avenues. 

Groups of thugs hung around 42nd Street like wolves waiting for random opportunities to strike. Rich loved and hated 42nd street. He loved it for the action. He hated it for the sheer degeneracy of the place. It was one porn shop after another with movie theaters catering to every kind of pervert. Young boys soliciting old men; prostitutes openly parading up and down; pimps in furs riding east and west in their Cadillacs. Wannabe pimps, psychos, drunks, junkies, deviants and every form of evil walked the streets. They watched for the opportunity to grab a young runaway leaving the Port Authority bus terminal. They mugged the weak, old and drunk. They shook down store owners. They stabbed and beat people who crossed them. For Rich it was a combination of the Island of Dr. Maru and a basket of snakes. He had been assigned to 42nd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues on many Friday and Saturday nights between 6PM and 2AM. Eight officers and one sergeant were assigned to that single city block. By 10PM it was unusual for even two officers to be left on post. The others had either made arrests or went to the hospital with victims. More 10-13 calls were made to this one block than any other in the city. People coming here by chance, as Rich had when he took a subway to a movie in Manhattan as a teenager, were immediately descended upon by aggressive panhandlers, prostitutes, degenerates in business suits, and packs of vicious young men. He never returned until he was a cop and even then, he was especially careful. No one-man patrols worked at night on 42nd Street. Even during the day, it was dangerous to work alone. One situation, where lives were at stake, including his own, frequently came to mind.

He looked at Tom. “Tom were you working the day when I called the 10-13 on myself?” 

"No, I wasn't, but I heard a little about it," Tom answered. "You were lucky that day.”

“You ain’t said shit man. My post was 42nd off 7th. I was walkin’ past Grants Bar on 42nd off 7th.”

"Yeah, I know the place … full of skells." 

Rich continued, “At about noon a guy wearing an apron ran out of the front door right at me… grabbed my arm. He was covered in blood. He said, ‘Help me. He stabbed me. He stabbed me for no reason man, crazy mother fucker gonna kill me.’ His whole belly was bleeding. I took off his apron and told him to press on the wound. 

“He was a Spanish guy… looked real tough, about 35 years old. He was so scared he just kept screaming, ‘Help me! Help me!’ over and over. His arms were full of tattoos… skulls and guns and shit like that. Lot of muscle.” Tom was nodding with no comment.

“I sat him down on the front fender of a car at the curb and asked him who cut him. He said, ‘Him!’ and he pointed behind me. I turn to look and this 6’6” bald headed white guy is coming at us with a knife… I mean a fucking carving knife. I couldn’t get my gun out fast enough. He was on us.”

Tom nodded, “These holsters suck,” he said, “but if you practiced your quick draw like me the sucker would be dead.” They both laughed. Tom put his hand on his gun and moved it a few times in and out of his holster. He smiled and grunted, “Uh huh… Pow, pow, pow.” He jerked his gun in the holster like he was firing rounds into the imaginary skinhead. Crazy fuck, Rich thought, but at least he’s my crazy fuck.

“Yeah, he was tall, but he was skinny… like his cheeks were all sunken in. His eyes were wild and bulging… scary, but his arms were lean with no muscle at all. Had on short sleeves. Black and blue needle tracks up and down. ‘You fuck me for the last time.’ he yelled and I swear he acted like I wasn’t even there. Reached right over me and tried to stab the guy again. 

“I grabbed his wrist and boney ass neck and tripped him to the ground. He landed flat on his back and looked up at me, like he finally saw a cop in full uniform. He dropped the knife, jumped to his feet and ran right back into Grants. He was quick for a shriveled-up pin cushion. I was right behind him. He wobbled around like a bony Frankenstein screaming, ‘Help me man, this fucking pig is after me.’ Not good I’m thinking, know what I mean Tom? The prick thinks they’ll help him.

“The place was packed. It looked like the holding pen at Criminal Court. I thought I recognized all these guys… thought I collared half of them. I chased him about 100 feet to the back of the bar and grabbed him going down some stairs into the cellar. 

“There was hardly any light, narrow… smelled like piss. Dark wooden walls felt like a fuckin’ coffin. I cuffed him on a small landing where the stairway turned left to go further down to the cellar. I turned around to go back up but the whole stairway was full of men crushed together pushing down the stairs.”

“Shit Rich,” Tom said, “It was a trap.”

“Yeah, the further down I got the darker it got. I could hear a boiler rumbling. It felt like a hundred degrees.

“The crowd was yelling, ‘let him go man. He didn’t do shit. Let him go.’ They pushed down closer. I took out my gun and pointed it at the closest man. I have to shoot, I thought, I have to, but there are so many. I’m dead anyway. Not really, maybe if I shoot one, they’ll back off…..Maybe not….No help here. I’m dead.”

Tom was twitching and fidgeting with his gun. "I would have shot them all Rich. I have fast re-loaders for my gun. I can load six rounds in four seconds. I would have fucking shot them all." 

“I almost did shoot. I almost did. They kept on yelling shit, ‘Let the man go. That mother fucker he stabbed took his money — our money — and didn't give us our shit. He's nothin’ but a low life mother fucker. He belongs dead.’

“I backed down the second set of stairs to the basement level. They kept getting closer and moving me back. ‘Listen to me,’ I yelled, ‘This is an easy situation for me. I am going to shoot.’ I tried to sound calm and serious. ‘Don't doubt that for a second. I have to shoot. I’m not letting him go and I’m not getting stomped dead without six of you keeping me company.’ I backed further along the wall to two bathroom doors. The floor was wet, my feet slid around. The smell of piss was burning in my throat. On the filthy dark paneled wall between the doors was a pay phone!” 

Now Tom was just staring at Rich. 

“The guys in front were inching closer to me so I leveled my gun to one guy’s head. ‘I will fucking shoot you first!’ I yelled. They shuffled around a little, I think they believed me. I was ready. I saw they were trying to back up, but the pressure from the guys behind made it impossible. The people at the top of the stairs were just leaning into the crowd below, one prick at the top of the stairs was yelling, ‘Kill the pig, kill that fucking pig!’ but the guys in the front were worried by then. They kept their mouths shut and pushed back. Their feet slipped on the piss covered floor, one guy went down.

“I forced my prisoner to his knees, picked up the phone and dialed ‘0’ and got an operator. It was the slowest call in my life. I gave my shield number and was connected to police communications. I yelled into the phone, ‘This is officer Johnson 18th Precinct, I need assistance right away. This is a 10-13. I am holding a prisoner in the basement of Grants Bar and Grill on 42nd off 7th. A large group of men are trying to take him away.’ silence, ‘Do you understand?’ I said, ‘This is a 10-13. I am calling on myself. Get me help!’ I waited. I still thought I was gonna have to shoot. ‘Ok, it is out,’ the dispatcher said. ‘They are on the way.’ I just dropped the phone and pushed my prisoner into the men’s room. The toilet was overflowing and he slipped and fell backward into a pile of broken needles and piss.”

Tom was shifting back and forth on his feet, shaking his head. 

“The struggle and pushing at the stairs and yelling was still going on,” Rich continued. “I had no room to back up anymore. I decided to shoot the people at the top of the lower stairway first so the mob at the top would see them fall and back off. The guys at the bottom had their hands out wide and were pushing backwards. They didn’t want to get shot, but they had no traction and kept getting pushed closer. I made up my mind, I was gonna shoot.”

Tom raised his eyebrows, made two fists and looked up in the air, “You’re a real patient man Rich. If it was me the talking would have stopped when they blocked the stairs. You were justified to shoot.”

Rich nodded. “At that point I was yelling, ‘Now I shoot. Fuck it! Now I blow your asses away!’ The men right in front of me, maybe 10 feet away, sat down on the wet floor and folded their arms. I saw terror in their eyes. They knew I would shoot, that I had to. They would have killed me with my own gun. I took a double handed shooting stance and aimed like I planned. I aimed at a big guy on the first landing. He was yelling shit until he saw the gun pointed at him. He just shut his mouth and froze. Right then there was loud noises from upstairs. Some of the yelling stopped. I heard tables and chairs crashing and glass breaking. Guys were screaming from the top of the stairs.

“The cavalry had arrived. They waded through the men in the bar and soon were beating their way down the packed stairway with night sticks, black jacks and bare fists. The men on the stairs collapsed with their hands on their heads while our guys marched over them. It was a sight to behold Tom. A sight to behold. I was so relieved. The men in front went down face first and put their hands on the floor. It was like they were praying and thanking god they didn’t get shot. No one left the bar without a beating that day. I walked back out through the bar with my prisoner. The place looked like a bomb hit it. Tables and chairs everywhere. Men sitting and laying all over the floor. 

“After I finished the paperwork at the 16th, I walked the half mile back to the 18th. Like you said I was lucky that day.”

“Anyone else get collared?” Tom asked.

“No, just Frankenstein. Assault one, possession of a deadly weapon and resisting. I saw some of the wounded at St. Clare’s Hospital. No major injuries. My victim had surgery. He survived. Refused to testify against Frankenstein. All that was left was an arrest for resisting, he never hit me so he walked.”

Tom stopped, hooked both his thumbs in his gun belt and looked at Rich. “hey,” he said, “none of these shits we lock up ever do any time, but you are lowering the criminal justice standards here. In the 18th you called two 10-13s on yourself. Maybe you could have killed a few people or got killed. Real bad situations. …Still, nobody goes to jail again.”

Rich shook his head and lit a cigarette, “You’re right Tom… system sucks.”

“Could have been different results in both cases Rich. You coulda told the District Attorney you saw the 4 guys do the robbery and that that skinny scumbag at Grants did hit you.” Rich shook his head.

“Here’s what I think Tom: First, I won’t perjure myself to fix their criminal justice system and…” he blew a few smoke rings into the cool air, “…they wouldn’t go to jail anyway… all the collars I make and almost no one goes to jail… Even those vicious cock suckers I arrested for beating and robbing that old couple by Lincoln Center will walk. How many times can two old people, all weak and sickly like them, keep going to court? Over and over I see them there. It’s maddening. Their daughter is going to tell them to stop. It’s a waste. She’s right.”

Tom shrugged and nodded, “At least you gave those fucks a good beating.”

“It’s the least I could do.” They both smiled. 

Chapter 6

They continued walking south toward 43rd. Rich flipped his nightstick a few times until the leather tong wrapped around his right hand. “I see we have the same meal, 7 pm.” He said. “Where do you want to eat?" 

“McCann's is good," Tom answered, “and the food ain’t that bad.” ‘Good’ meant free. In this neighborhood, restaurants were happy to feed cops. They liked having them around unless the whole precinct gathered at their place. Rich always took out money and offered to pay, but it was a charade. They seldom took the money. What they wanted was cops to act as bouncers when they called about a problem customer. Cops mediated disputes all the time. They didn’t need free food to do it. Most neither insisted on paying nor avoided the ‘good’ places. That was the drill.

“OK McCann’s it is Tom. I want you to know I can't take a collar tonight, I have something to do in the morning." He waited for a reaction.

Tom shrugged, “I would usually take any collar made… I don’t mind. But I got a date after work tonight," he replied.

They both strolled along without another word. There would be no arrests tonight.

"You have a family Tom?" 

" I have a pretty steady girl, but I still live at home with my parents.”

Tom was a handsome guy, Rich thought. It was unusual to still be living at home at his age. Rich decided to leave that alone. He never went back home except for a couple of months after the Navy.

“I have an apartment with my girlfriend in Brooklyn,” Rich said. “Not far from my parents.”

Tom nodded, “Yeah… that works… you’re about 23 or 24? Most guys your age are married.” Tom smiled, “Dating her for long?”

“Her name is Karen. I’ve been dating her off and on for over a year. I was serious, but we really didn’t click right away. I saw a couple of other girls but that went nowhere. Now we’re both serious.” Rich looked to see what Tom thought. Tom just nodded and looked at Rich. Seemed interested but not nosey. Rich wanted to discuss it further. This was a big deal in his life. He felt any reaction or advise would be helpful. 

At the crosswalk on 48th Street and 9th Avenue a new Oldsmobile pulled up to the stop light. The windows were half open. The radio was playing loud rock and roll. The kid behind the wheel, maybe he was 18 years old, glanced at them. The blood drained from his face and he sat staring straight ahead. Both Tom and Rich were looking at him. 

“Not tonight Rich. No collars tonight,” Tom warned, and turned to Rich laughing.

“Right… Right,” Rich said. “Especially not some bullshit grand larceny auto.” The light changed and the car moved on very slowly. They walked across 48th Street and continued south. “Tom. You’re 28 or so and you ain’t married. That’s cool maybe… and maybe I should wait before I think about it.” 

Tom shrugged, “Up to you man… you love her you get married, ya know?” No help there, Rich thought. “How long you live together man?” Tom asked.

"We moved in together a couple of weeks ago. In Bensonhurst. Nothing fancy. A basement apartment in a two-family house."

"Brooklyn, that’s convenient Rich. Bensonhurst is an easy drive in for the late tours and the ‘N’ train is good for day tours. Where I am in Queens sucks for travel."

Rich nodded and they walked a while without saying much. Rich was thinking of Karen. The time they had drifted apart raised some doubts. Plus, 8 months wasn’t much time to judge how they would get along. She was very pretty; she was smart and she understood how crazy his hours were and didn't object. Other girls he met were already going steady or were in college and didn't think much of cops, especially cops who were military veterans. He was convinced they were in love. He felt like he couldn’t be happy without her. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He wanted a family. He read in some poem somewhere that ‘the God of Love lives in a state of need.’ Well, he needed Karen. That was that. She said she felt the same. So, they moved in together. They had a few pieces of furniture. A small dinette set, a twenty-one-inch television set and a bed. That was a good start. Enough second guessing yourself, he thought, let things flow along for a while.

  “Ya know Rich, I have a cousin who’s lived in Brooklyn all his life. He’s on the job. Works in Brooklyn South Anti-Crime. Says that a lot of places in South Brooklyn are drowning in junkies. Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island, Brighton Beach, the 60, 62, 64, 66, 68, 72 all over …So many burglaries every day…They can’t keep up. He lives in the 66 and everybody is putting up gates on their fire escape windows.”

“My place is in the 66 Tom, and I grew up in the 68. Haven’t heard much about burglaries …junkies yes…all over….not really around my new apartment. I haven’t been there long, but didn’t hear anything specific about burglaries. Crime yea. Everybody’s bitchin’ about crime in general and street robberies in particular. They talk a lot about people being afraid to walk around… you know… afraid to get mugged and hurt.”

“Sorry man. Don’t mean to get down on Brooklyn. Queens is no bargain. It has a big drug problem. We got burglaries yah, but my cousin says the precinct cops in Brooklyn are scrambling to keep up. It’s like they don’t know what the hell is goin on. Drugs, money, and burglaries like they never seen before. Almost like prostitution and gambling, ya know… like so much because no one cares enough to deal with it.”

“Or somebody somewhere is being paid off.” Rich said.

“Hey man this ain’t victimless bull shit. Burglaries are serious felonies. Cops won’t stoop that low.”

Rich looked at Tom but said nothing. Silence was enough. Tom waited a minute or so and said “ Well maybe some fucked up people would be corrupt enough. Who knows?” 

‘“I’ll tell you what.” Rich said. “Somebody comes through my window man, they’re gonna think they met quick draw Tom Anuke. Bang, Bang, Bang!” They both laughed.

“Good man.” Tom said. 

The sun was lower and the wind picked up just after 5pm. People walked faster and apartment windows were closed. Tom and Rich both scanned the rooftops. Attacks on cops in this neighborhood were rare, but a random asshole threw a bottle now and again.

Two girls walked by and smiled. Rich smiled back. 

"Nice ass in the brown," Tom said. 

"Nice tits in the blue," Rich responded.

Traffic got worse. The car horns were aggravating. People walked against the light. Drivers stopped in crosswalks.

“What do you feel all these people think of us Rich?” Tom asked.

“Who knows… depends on if they need us… sometimes ya never really know.” He put his chin down and blocked the wind with his hat. 

“Here’s an example for you Tom. Last month a call comes in for a fire on 47th between 7th and 8th. I’m on the scooter so I get there same time as Joe Simone from the next scooter sector. It’s a five-floor walkup. I go in and there’s some lady yellin’ upstairs… soon I can’t see shit, the smoke is real black… I follow the sound… stayin’ low up to the third floor.” 

Tom nods and points his nightstick at some motorist leaning on his horn. There is a moments silence. “There’s this old lady in bed, she couldn’t get up. I put her in a fireman’s carry over my shoulder and took her down three flights of stairs in pitch black smoke. She was screaming shit in Spanish and pissed all over my shoulder. I laid her on the front sidewalk and I puked in the street… ok… then the fire engines got there… she would be dead. In the meantime, Joe helped some other people out of the building.”

“The news wanted to write it up, but everyone disappeared. The building superintendent told me after that the people were grateful, but they were illegal and were afraid. So, the rescue never really happened. I got to go home early and get my uniform cleaned.”

“Was she Puerto Rican Rich?” Tom asked. 

Rich shook his head, “Puerto Ricans are U.S. citizens. She was something else. I don’t know what.”

They strolled along another block looking in and waving to a couple of store owners. “So, these people really were grateful Rich, but they were afraid to surface.” 

“Yeah, and people being afraid like that. They want to be invisible. Scary way to live.” 

Tom nodded to a guy sitting on an orange crate outside the A&P market. 

“Hey Rich, I hear you’re going to college. How do you do it and stay so active in the precinct?”

“Not too hard… I manage. At John Jay, classes rotate day and night “

“That’s the cop college, no? A lot of guys on the job seem to go there. How much is the tuition?"

“It’s free, Tom. Open admissions. Plus, the GI bill pays me $400 a month to go”

"Holy shit! I should go. It's like a second job for Christ's sake. I was in the Army, Went to Nam. I even got wounded. I should get some of that money."

"Apply Man. Just go… and the GI bill money is tax free”

“Good money Rich, but I’m not ready to listen to all that liberal shit about killing babies and stuff. How can you stand them? Did you go to Nam? I feel like I have leprosy when I’m around those fucks.”

“No, never saw Nam… They bother me too man. I just suck it up and do what I need to do. A lot of the students are vets. They know the drill. Say what they want to hear and get a degree.”

“Sure… I get it… like the army and the police academy… but these shits, these professors, they were never in the Army. They hate people who were. They’re not my kind of people. I can’t stand them.”

“Tom you gotta try to turn this shit around in your head. Yah, the war sucks, but that’s not what a lot of this anti-war shit is about. A lot of people envy that you stepped the up and did what you did. They did not. That gives them a problem. They did not want to step up, it was not convenient at all. So, as they gathered and commiserated in their world of power and wisdom they came to understand that you were actually evil and not worthy of envy, but rather deserved contempt. So these soft, spoiled ass, cock suckers, born with gold spoons in their mouths flipped the world on its’ head and established that you were evil. Yes, you went to war. You were called and went, but when Uncle Sam needed more than your humble brothers, and called them, they anointed you the running dog of imperialism and they became Che Guevara.”

Tom gave him a puzzled look. “You’re hot shit Rich. Where did that theory come from”?

Rich laughed, “I just pulled it out of my ass Tom.”

Tom smiled and paused for a minute. He shook his head. “Still Rich, out of your ass or not, it’s worth thinkin’ about”

Rich shrugged. ”Yea, I guess”. They continued to walk down the avenue. Rich flipped his night stick and thought. Let envy morph into resentment for those pricks. Fuck them. They are worth no more of my time.

“Tom, I can’t stand them either. I just regurgitate the psalms of peace and love. They think they are curing my mental defects and give me an A.”

They both laughed. Then Tom got a serious look on his face.

“Rich, I want to stop in this liquor store for a minute.” He pointed to a small store mid-block.

It was on the ground floor of a walk-up apartment building. The store was maybe 20 feet wide and 40 feet deep. A dirty little place with cardboard liquor signs standing up in the front window. Dewar's White Label was one, Segram’s 7 another. Both covered in brown dust from the air conditioner over the door.

"What's up Tom?" Rich asked. "We're 3 blocks short of our post.” Tom's face got red and his jaw moved like he was grinding his teeth. 

“Nothing big, I just want to see if he paid back the money he owes to the old lady upstairs."

"What money?"

“Long story short. I had this post a few times in the last month. Kept seein this same drunk around the store. First time I walked by the guy, maybe 30 years old, red eyes, big red nose, stumbling all over and arguing with the store owner and this old lady. I stopped and just listened. Turned out the old lady was his mother. He would steal off her and buy cheap wine in the store. Talking to the drunk was a waste of time. I just chased him away. The second time I came, I told the owner not to sell him anymore wine. He did anyway. So, the third time I came I told him that each time he sold anything to the son, I wanted him to give the money back to the mother. He looked at me like I was nuts, but he kept his mouth shut. Yesterday I stopped the old lady in the street, and found out it happened again. So, he owes her three dollars and thirty-two cents."

Rich said nothing, just walked in behind him. There were no customers. A fat man in his fifties stood behind the filthy counter eating from a bag of potato chips. Bottles of cheap liquor lined the shelves. Cheap wine, quart sized vodka bottles and a load of pint bottles of the shit Rich used to drink on his roof when he was a kid. The place smelled of cigarettes and wet wood. The cooler in the front was leaking on the floor. The linoleum was worn through and the wood was rotting. Two fluorescent light fixtures ran down the center of the tin ceiling. 

“Hey, fuck face,” Tom said. “Did you pay Mrs. Reilly the money you owe her?”

The man froze. Scraps of potato chip left his mouth and landed on his beard as he tried to talk. Tom banged his nightstick against the cash register and said, "Get it out!" The guy wiped his greasy nicotine stained fingers on his faded blue flannel shirt.

Rich could see his yellow teeth when he stammered, "what...what….”; Tom yelled “Fuck you, give me three dollars and thirty-two cents before I smash your head in." Tom was trembling with rage. His body shook when he hit the register, and his hat fell off. Rich even jumped a little. The store owner’s eyes were bulging out of his head. For a moment he stood staring with his mouth open dribbling potato chip pieces on the counter. Then he bolted to the register, got the money out and Tom snatched it out of his hand.

"The next time I hear he stole money from his old lady for wine, I better not find out he bought it here or I will kick your ass AND take the money!"

Tom picked up his hat, and walked past Rich toward the door.

"I'll be down in a minute Rich. I want to give her the money." Tom went out of the store and turned right toward the apartment house door.

Rich turned to see ‘Fuck Face’ still at the cash register with his mouth open. After a few seconds he took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He tried to light it, but his hand was shaking too much. He put out the match and walked back to his potato chips.

He looked at Rich, waved his arms and proclaimed, "That dumb bastard will never be anything but just a cop. I told him that and I will tell him that again. Does he think he can do this like he's a king? He's an idiot with a badge. I will report this." 

"You think it's okay that you always take the old lady's money?" Rich asked. 

"What fucking business is that of his?” His voice became high pitched and louder, "He's only a cop — a cop, not a judge — a cop. He told the old lady upstairs that he had a father who was a drunk and beat his mother. I didn't sell the God damn wine to that cop’s father.” He started coughing and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Anyway, that don't mean he can come in here and rob me? I don't want to listen about his sad life story. I won't be told what to do in my business by some cop." Sure, the guy was pissed, Rich thought, but the last thing he would do was report a cop. No one would believe him anyway. They might believe Tom shook him down and took money, but they would never believe the old lady story, not in a million years. 

Rich knew now why Tom still lived at home. That sucked, but he went too far. As bad as the liquor store owner was, he wasn't a criminal. A low life, money grubbing parasite perhaps, but not a criminal. What Tom did wasn’t the job of a cop. 

They met in front of the Building. Said nothing. Just walked. Tom had a little more spring in his step. Bad leg and all. Obviously, his conscience wasn’t bothering him. Rich even saw a smirk… a smile of sorts. He’s happy for God’s sake, he thought. So much for a moral imperative; some logical sense of duty. Tom did what his heart told him to do. 

Chapter 7

They picked up their pace and reached the lighting store the captain was worried about just as the sun went down. 

“Big place man.” Rich said “Lets go in and check it out.” 

They walked slowly toward the entrance. The chandeliers, ceiling lights, and lamps in the window were all on. The store was about 50 feet wide and 100 feet deep. There were three aisles. They walked down the center. Hundreds of lighting fixtures on the ceiling and walls sparkled as they walked. Shelves along the aisle and cartons on the floor were filled with electrical outlets, parts, bulbs, wire, everything to light up a house, apartment or business. Rich thought most of the store's clientele must come from other neighborhoods. The stuff in the store was classy. Two customers stood at the counter. They were stunned to see two cops.

"Oh shit, my car is not getting a ticket," one said.

“No, relax yourself man.” Tom said, "just stopped in to see if everything is OK here tonight."

The guy attending the register had on a white long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows and tie with a name tag that said Bill. Through the door behind him was a small storeroom. Bill was a white guy about fifty, clean shaven with gold wire rimmed bifocals. The hundreds of bulb in the light fixtures made the store as hot and bright as a day at the beach in July. Bill was sweating even though there was a large fan spinning just over his head. It shook noisily and the light from the attached yellow globes bounced across the ceiling, walls and countertop.

"Things are fine right now" Bill said. "Wait a minute please and I'll be right with you officers." When the customers were gone from the counter and two other customers looking through the aisles were out of hearing, he motioned Tom and Rich to the small back room.

“I'm glad to see you. With you around I think things will be OK”. He said, looking from Tom to Rich. “How long will you be here?” 

“'til about 11:45 or so. ” Tom replied. “Depends on what’s up.”

Bill sighed and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “OK. That’s pretty good.”

“We eat around 7 o'clock. We'll be gone for about an hour then,” Rich added.

Bill spoke in a nervous whisper though no one was near. “Oh… uhh 7 o’clock. I see… If there’s gonna be trouble here tonight it’ll start around 8 or 9… but ya know… could be any time.”

“We're eating right down the street. If we see anything unusual, we'll be right here,” Rich said. Bill just shook his head slightly and looked down at the floor, clearly scared. "What kind of problem is it that you’re having?" Rich asked as he glanced around the store.

Bill put his hands at his sides and clenched his fists till his knuckles cracked. ”Maybe 4 or 5 big guys come in the store at once. They walk down all the aisles and customers walk right out. They frighten everybody away. Then when I’m alone they tell me to give them money and they’ll protect my store. They’re mostly big black guys. Sometimes there’s a Spanish guy. Last week there was a bald white guy with tattoos on his arms. He was tall and skinny” He raised his hand over his head. “Very big guy. I said no the first time they came and they broke two lamps on the way out… worth 70 - 80 dollar each. They come back each week and get $40 each time. If they knew you were around here because I told the captain, they would definitely break my windows and my lamps." And probably your head, Rich thought.

“This tall skinny white guy…did he look like the Frakenstein monster in the movies by any chance”? Rich asked.

“Yes, he looked just like Boris Karloff! You know him”?

“Yes, he does” Tom Answered. “They met at Grants Bar a while ago”

“What… you go to Grants Bar?” Bill asked Rich

Tom laughed and turned away.

“Yea but only to lock people up…” Rich said. Smiling at Tom who was still laughing. “Bill if it’s him, I nearly shot this guy, and some of his friends the last time I was assigned that post. He tried to kill the bar tender with a 10 inch knife right in front of me.”

“Thats the truth.” Tom said. “I didn’t phrase my answer right…That’s how they met…It wasn’t a social thing.”

Bill nodded “I see, but how come he’s back on the street already.”

“Long story Bill. Suffice it to say the system sucks.”

“Oh boy…That doesn’t give me much confidence.” 

“Gangs understand turf Bill. We hope to do a little better for you. If we get the opportunity tonight.” Rich said.

Typical situation, Rich thought. We have to act. If they see us, the gang will just wait until we leave and then hit the place and Bill is at their mercy. He looked at Tom gestured toward the door. "We'll be back in a little while Bill,” he said.

They walked a block south to 43rd. 

“It’s the Skells from 42nd,” Rich said. “If we stay visible nothing happens tonight. We have to confront these fuckers.”

“Yeah but neither of us wants a collar tonight,” Tom said.

“I know, but I’d like to interrupt the game they have going. Worse comes to worse we'll call Sector Adam to take the collar. The Captain gets along great with them. They would love to kiss his ass with an arrest on a place that was a problem for him. The captain can waddle over here and get himself a free lamp. Icing on the cake.” They both laughed. 

“Agreed. How do we deal it out?"

"We eat at 7 but watch the place in case these guys stop in early. After our meal, I'll go in the store and put my overcoat and hat in the back room. I'll open my plaid shirt so it hangs over my cuffs and gun. They'll think I'm a customer. You stand on 43rd and act like you’re a traffic cop directing traffic. You see a group go into the store; you run over and look in the door—see what's up."

Tom nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

After they ate, they told Bill the plan. When they told Bill, he said he was worried that the gang would set him up. “They’ll just come back later and get me," he said. "This is bad." He shook his head and looked right into Rich's eyes. "They will kill me or at least put me in the hospital. You guys will be gone." He took off his glasses, took a rag from under the counter and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Oh shit, oh man," he mumbled, taking a deep breath.

Rich grabbed him by the left bicep. "Bill, listen. All of us are in a tough situation here… Either we stand outside, and they don’t bother you tonight, or we confront them. Try to stop them from shakin’ you down. Sure that has risks, but it might work. No guarantee Bill, but I think if we work on this, and they come tonight, they will not be back.” Bill looked back and forth between Rich and Tom sighed and nodded. He tucked his shirt into his pants and tightened his belt.

"OK. I complained and got you guys here. Just do it. This is my best shot.” He lit a cigarette sat on a stool and leaned his elbows on the counter. Then he sat up straight and wiped the sweat off his glasses and cheeks. He was steadier than before. This guy has balls, Rich thought. Figures, running a business here, you gotta have some balls.

"I bet this is one of a couple dozen stores these guys hit each week," Rich said. They agreed the group was making a lot of money on their shake downs. They were not going to let go easily. Worst case they figured was Bill would get a decent vacation from the group. Best case, word might get out and the group of stores near 42nd on 9th Avenue would be in the clear for a while. The stores on 42nd were hopeless. 

Tom gave a small salute to Rich and Bill, went out the front door and walked to the intersection of 43rd and 9th to do his mock traffic duty. It was a safe ploy, traffic cops worked out of Safety Unit B south of 42nd Street. They were generally older, more settled cops with steady work schedules. They seldom looked to make arrests. The bacteria on 42nd Street knew this and barely took note of a cop directing traffic. A cop walking a post was another thing all together. Beat cops took pride in keeping their post safe. For active cops like Rich and Tom it was a matter of honor. It was their post, and of course it was a chance to fuck with the bad guys. Often a detente was reached between a steady beat cop and the low-lifes. Even corrupt cops protected people on their posts. After all, good people didn't pay you to be useless and bad people only paid if they worried about you.

Rich stowed his hat and coat in the back room behind the counter, walked to the middle of the aisle on the south side of the store, and placed his night stick inside a box of four-foot fluorescent bulbs. It was 8:15. Customers were in and out. Few noticed the young man with the flannel shirt and bulky hips. 

Rich stood looking at a ceiling fan. It rotated slowly causing a pleasant breeze. He felt excited and anxious. Common feelings when he approached this part of his job. It proved helpful to relax and reflect. He breathed in deeply and slowly exhaled several times. Reflection was important. His intentions were good. He was not angry. Simple justice would be his reward. Thoughtful preparation was an integral part of his efforts. It helped control his emotions. It left him at peace. His anxiety began to subside. It would abate completely if the plan worked. 

In this manner he could temporarily control and suppress his frustration and anger, but it was always with him. He struggled to understand it. Karen had questioned his occasional somber moods. The anger was never directed at her. He would answer that he was pissed off about something else and she would let it go. This malignity preyed on his mind. She worried for him. She said he seemed sad. He was embarrassed to share the thoughts that angered and saddened him. What would he say? 

‘Hey hon, I haven’t known you for a long time, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m thinking about life. A lot of stuff. Like there was this guy Frankenstein I locked up. Most junkies like him do burglaries, larceny and robberies. I was trying to figure out what they think about their lives. Do they even think about their lives? You think this is life Frankenstein? I would ask him. You are woeful and oppressed by the drugs. They’ve become your life. All our lives are just a geological blink of an eye and look how you spend your blink. Yeah, I know, look how I spend mine, but I’m talking about you man. If you believe in God Frankenstein, you are fucked for what you do. If you don't believe in God, then this is all you will have, and it is nothing. Life — an astronomical random chance — a gift beyond all measure! Yeah, who am I to judge. I never walked in your shoes. Standing in a vacant lot in January next to a barrel full of burning garbage waiting for my next fix. Maybe the euphoria that follows is worth it. I don’t know. Who is more fucked up, you or me? Who has more value on the scale? You the junkie wasting away or me the plebeian cop siting on your chest, muffling your cry so you are neither seen nor heard by others living their equally unexamined lives on the east side of life. That’s what I’m thinking about Karen. That’s why I look sad. You want to hear what else I think about? No, OK. Man, how do you share something so messed up with your girlfriend? 

"Get your ass outta here man" the big guy said as he walked by toward the counter. Rich emerged from his disturbed repose. A cold draft reached him from the door. He heard others moving down the other aisles. One other customer was told to leave. He did immediately. Rich took his nightstick out from among the fluorescent bulbs and made his way quickly toward the counter where Bill stood.

"What were those fucking cops doing in here?" One said. Another went behind the counter and grabbed Bill, began to strangle him and pressed him against the shelving. Another gave him a punch to the solar plexus, and he gasped to catch his breath as the strangler raised him off the floor.

  Rich moved forward with his nightstick over his head. Four of them were around Bill. "You mean me," he said as he came up behind the strangler and hit him across the top of his shoulder. He yelped, let go of Bill and went down. The puncher turned and swung at Rich but got the butt of the stick in his stomach. 

"A cop!" the biggest guy screamed and ran up the center aisle toward the door. He met Tom a few feet outside and went down screaming from a night stick across the knee. The fourth guy tripped in the center aisle and landed face first in a box of electrical outlets. His face was a mess. Tom stopped him at the door and pushed him toward the counter as he dragged the big guy with the damaged knee back down the center aisle. All were made to sit on the floor at the counter facing the front of the store.

"You are all under arrest for extortion, grand larceny, assault and robbery,” Rich said.

"You are dead!” Kneecap said, getting up and limping over to grab bill by the throat. Tom hit him with the night stick on his forearm. He screamed and sat back down. Rich sat Bill in a chair and gave him a cigarette. 

He got ready to give his 'my post’ speech. Gangs understood turf. This post was Rich's turf. Things were so out of control, particularly in the 42nd Street area that the gang turf analogy was fitting. It was a model of social order they understood and lived by. They could not be bluffed. The confrontation surprised and bothered them. It opened the door for a serious discussion and understanding. He knew he had a head start when Outlet-Face told Kneecap "This is the athletic cop. He locked up Crazy Blake." 

Rich's rep was big around this area because he had wrestled a sawed-off shotgun from a deranged psycho. Everyone feared Crazy Blake. One day he threatened to shoot his girlfriend. She ran out of her apartment onto the street. Rich was passing on his scooter when Blake started chasing her down 44th Street. “He has a gun upstairs. He stuck it in my face. He’s crazy. He wants to kill me.” The guy was about 5'7" and all muscle. He had black hair down to his shoulders, tattoos all over his arms and neck, and wild eyes. Rich chased him back up the street on his scooter, got off and chased him into his apartment house. They ran through the hallway up two flights of stair and into an apartment. Rich caught him in the bedroom just as he grabbed a sawed-off shotgun from a closet. They both kept two hands on the gun and swung one another into walls, doors and banisters. They kneed and kicked at one another through the apartment and down the stairs. They crashed through another apartment door, fell over a banister, slid down a flight of stairs and wrestled into the street before Rich broke Blake’s grip on the gun, tossed it aside, and cuffed him. Blake was the strongest guy Rich ever had to personally deal with. Being able to bench press 300 pounds had helped, but just barely. He was gasping for air and nauseous as he waited for a radio car. Only afterward, when the guy was returned by the court to a mental institution, did he appreciate how close he had come to being killed. Most criminals are reluctant to shoot cops. Psychos, of course, are unpredictable. He was lucky that day. Strength and balls were useful, but that was a game that bad people could also win. Especially desperate and crazy bad people. Anyway, disarming Crazy Blake got Rich his rep.

"Gentlemen, this post is my post.” Rich began. "The captain embarrassed me today by saying my post was one of the worst in the precinct. He threatened to transfer me to the pussy posse. Said I belonged with the fucking girls, because they were the only ones that paid me any mind. Bullshit, that ain't happening to me. You shits are going to find another place to fuck around." He paused and looked from one to another. The guy who he hit in the stomach was nodding his head. This one was getting the drift, he figured. "Go downtown to the 16th precinct. Stay on 42nd Street. I don't give a shit what you do there. You stay the fuck away from 9th Avenue from 42nd to 47th. …. Also tell that Frankenstein lookin prick locked up in Grants a while ago to keep his ass out of here as well.”

“I remember you.” Said the stranger. “You were gonna shoot me down in the basement in Grants… Frankenstein walked on those charges. The bartender won’t press. You wasted your time man.” He said with a smile.

“Yah , and I remember you too fuck-o. You weren’t smiling in Grants basement with my gun pointed at you. In fact you are one of the guys right up near me who pissed his pants.” The other three looked at him and grinned. 

“That wasn’t my piss man….you know that…Shit and piss were all over the floor down there.”

“You didn’t get piss from the floor on the front of you. You were scared shit”. The three other guys shook their heads and Tom laughed. Bill sat still but he looked more relaxed now.

“Hey let’s get back to what this is really about Rich. Where are we with all this. We lock em all up For robbery…with force… class B felony and we are the witnesses. Bill here doesn’t need to do shit.” 

Rich looked at their faces as they sat facing him. As each leaned back against the counter he looked for a telltale smirk, a rolling of the eyes, a nudge one to another with an elbow. He saw none of this. He saw four faces that were dejected and bowed. He heard only an occasional moan from Kneecap and Outlet Face. They all often looked at Kneecap. Rich guessed he was the leader. He pointed at him and asked, "Do you understand me?"

“Sure man…What’s not to understand….stay away from this area or you fuck us up and guarantee our asses go to prison.”

“What about you other guys?” Rich asked, “Coming back here?” Each found their voice, “No." was all they said. But they looked like they meant it. Rich thought they did. Why the fuck not? No arrest! How lucky can you get? Best outcome for Bill too. Even with charges of extortion, grand larceny and robbery they would definitely walk. Their friends would get to Bill, scare the shit out of him and he wouldn’t show up at court. Then they would climb back into his pocket. Rich and Tom could only testify to ‘attempt’ based on what they saw and Bill would just fuck it up if he was subpoenaed to court.

Bill stood up and walked back behind the counter. Rich ordered the gang to their feet. He looked at each ones’ ID…..false or not…he didn’t care. “If you guys are not arrested , that is a big fuckin’ deal. No bullshit…I mean a big deal….You would go away for a long time. We personally saw you do it.” He looked carefully at each one. “You all agree?” They each nodded.

"You get a bye this time, but if you’re back on my post again, you are in — understand?" They nodded and walked out. Kneecap limped out last.

At midnight the tour ended. Tom went out on his date. Rich headed home.

Chapter 8

Home was a basement apartment in a large single-family house on the corner of 53rd Street and 18th Avenue in Brooklyn. Half a mile from the subway. Today he took his 305 Honda Dream Motorcycle to work. Faster trip home. There was a little ice on the West Side Highway. No big deal, but the cobble stones, drunk drivers and potholes were a bitch. The wind shield and wool hat kept him from freezing. Same gloves he used at work. At 12:30 am he rolled into the driveway. His eyes were watering and his feet were freezing. He parked next to the landlord’s big Buick and walked down the six steps to the basement door. Lights were on so he knocked.

“It’s me babe,” he announced. Karen opened the door and pulled him inside. She was in a baby doll night gown. Blue like her eyes. Invisible except the trim on the sleeves and neckline. “My God… you look amazing… Every time I see you… It’s like the first time…” He pulled her towards him and kissed her lips, face and then her neck.

“Wow your face is cold …and your hands are like ice. My poor baby let me warm you up, but first you have to apologize for lying.” She said with a big smile. “You always say that the first thing you noticed was my ass. You haven’t seen that yet tonight.” 

She was right. He first saw her standing on a stoop outside her apartment building on 57th and 4th in Brooklyn. It was July 1966. He just got off active duty and was walking from the subway with his sea bag on his shoulder. Getting a job was on his mind, but when he saw her, getting laid was on his mind. She ran down the four steps at her front door, bent down, picked up an empty Coke can, showed him a perfect ass in tight green corduroy pants, turned around and stuck out beautiful breasts barely contained in a strapless cotton blouse, and smiled at him. Beautiful face, beautiful body, great smile, he thought. Later he noticed and valued her other attributes, but 21-year-old sailors had their priorities. He put down his sea bag, smiled back and said “Hi”. It was hot, maybe 90 degrees, and his white uniform was a wet ball of wrinkles after his 7 hour bus and subway trip from Norfolk, Virginia. She smiled again and walked back up the steps. He wiped the sweat off his face and neck and centered the knot in his black navy kerchief. An older woman in a pair of slippers and a loose flowered house dress came out to the stoop holding a can of Reingold beer. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf. She smiled at Rich and looked at the girl. “Karen. That’s a cute hat on that sailor isn’t it….”

“Yes, it is mom”. 

“Listen honey. Come on in out of the sun. Lunch is ready”.

The girl smiled and waved to Rich.

“Bye Karen.” He said and picked up his sea bag. 

After some reconnaissance, he learned a little about her social life. She liked the “Irish Haven,” a bar on 58th and 4th Avenue. So, he went there from time to time, had drinks, played pool and got to know the crowd. Turned out she had a steady boyfriend. A glance here, a smile there kept him coming back. Guys he knew said he was delusional. Her boyfriend went to college with her. He had a Thunderbird Convertible, looked like a movie star and took her on trips all the time. So much for the initial ass flash. Not the invitation he thought it was. He didn’t obsess over her but other girls he met didn’t impress. During the few times he spoke to her he discovered her personality and sense of humor were as unique as her stunning appearance. 

Aside from Karen, the old neighborhood was depressing. ‘The Irish Haven’ was a typical old gin mill. There was one like it near any subway station. Inside was dark. A wooden bar ran the full length of the wall on one side. A few old guys were rooted to the end stools day and night. The jukebox was quiet all day and loud at night. The tiled floor smelled of spilled stale beer and cigarettes. Some Saturday nights corned beef, cabbage and burgers were served. He sold newspapers as a kid in ‘Dolan’s’ and ‘The Haven’ on weeknights. Drunks paid good.

Karen occasionally stopped in. Her parents were regulars. He went to a few other bars, met some people he knew growing up. Even on those nights the ‘Haven’ was last call. He was patient.

For two months in the summer of ’66 he drove a delivery truck for a small soda manufacturer in South Brooklyn. The money was OK, but when he got a shot at working for the New York Telephone Company he jumped. His uncle was a union shop steward and got him an interview. His electronics background got him hired as a telephone installer. The day he was hired he stopped for drinks at the ‘Haven’. Frank the bartender was impressed. He kept buying and Rich kept drinking. 

“No guys your age in the neighborhood have a good job like that Rich… That’s something to be proud of,” Frank said. “What were the requirements?”

“High school… and uh… pass the test.”

“They gave you a test… what did they ask you about?”

“It was a written test. Electricity and electronics… same stuff I did on ships for years… in fact a lot easier…” Rich paused and stared past Frank toward the front door. Karen walked in, sat two stools away, put her purse on the bar and looked at Frank. She was dressed in a two-piece outfit. Black shorts and a white tank top. Her blond hair was combed down to her shoulders. Her blue/green eyes hypnotized Rich with one glance. 

“Frank give me a seven and seven will ya?” She looks pissed, Rich thought. Big frown. No ‘please’ no ‘thank you’. Not like her.

Frank poured the drink.

“How you doing Karen?”

“No good Frank. Bad night.” She got off her stool and walked to the ladies’ room in the back.

“Make your move Rich. You spoke to her before. She knows you,” Frank said. “She’s been talking about trouble with her boyfriend. She is perfect for you. You both got brains.”

“She is not in a very romantic mood Frank,” Rich pointed to his glass for another drink.

“I never spoke to her a lot. Ya know just, ‘Hello, how are you doing?’ like that. Maybe 15 minutes a couple of times.”

“Don’t romance her. Just talk to her for a while. Talk about your new job.” Rich nodded.

“Hey Karen, that drink is on me. We’re celebrating Rich’s new job,” Frank said with a wink at Rich. She raised her glass Rich moved next to her. He did what Frank said. He talked about his new job and the fact that he was waiting to be hired by the NYPD. He told her he was on the list to be called in a few months. She asked why he wanted to be a cop. They talked and drank for a couple of hours. He talked about the navy, the phone company job and the fact that while it was a good job, it was not a career like the NYPD. Karen talked about her four years at college, her job at a commercial real estate company in Manhattan, her younger brothers, people who were gone from the neighborhood. They spoke until Frank needed to close. When they left, the street was almost empty. Just a few cars moving north and south on 4th Avenue. No one out walking. They stopped and talked for a while after they reached Karen’s front door. There was a warm breeze blowing, but it did little to relive the heat.

“You look nice in a suit and tie Richie. I never see you like this,” she said. 

He smiled.“Thanks… the job interview. Figured I should look my best.”

“Well you look sharp.” 

He took a deep breath and said, “Karen if you are not doing anything next Saturday, how about a movie?”

She looked away momentarily and seemed deep in thought. Her shoulders shrugged a little. She turned to face him.

“Ok,” she said with a smile. “Call me and we’ll work out a time.” She wrote her phone number on a matchbook and handed it to him. They dated a few times over the next couple of months. He was hired by the police department in March 1967. They dated off and on for another year.

The feelings he had for Karen grew stronger. The time he spent with her became the most important part of his life. When he held her he was happy. When they parted he felt empty. He told her this and she hugged him, said he was very special. A year and a half after their first date and a year after he became a cop, she broke it off with her college boyfriend and it was only Rich. He fell more in love with her each day. She was perfect for him. Beautiful, smart, warm, caring and strong. They moved in together. 

A girl at Karen’s office found them an apartment in Brooklyn on 53rd Street and 17th Avenue. The building was owned by a delightful old couple who soon adopted Rich and Karen. 

"You can stay here as long as you like — no rent increases for you,” The wife said after two months. It was a one-bedroom basement apartment. The walls were covered in dark wood paneling. The floors were covered with commercial grade carpet and the kitchen appliances were new. 

It was the best of times. They were soulmates. Karen had an easy commute to Manhattan on the subway. Rich bought a big Olds ’98 at auction in the Bronx. Karen drove it around Brooklyn for shopping and seeing friends. Rich had his motorcycle and a 1955 Nash Rambler with a hole in the floor. The car was difficult to start. He parked it at a fire hydrant near work so he could push it down the hill and pop the clutch, he did the same on the driveway at home. They didn't have a problem in the world. It was wonderful. His mother and father marveled at how much happiness they shared in such a small space, in a basement, with two jalopy automobiles and very little money. They discussed and planned for their future, but above all there was a wonderful now. Rich learned that love creates a singularly remarkable experience, especially when you’re young. He would tell Karen how much he loved her. She would smile and agree. He would write and read poetry to her. They would make love. 

"I am living with a tough cop who writes poems. An interesting combination.” He could see she really enjoyed them. 

One of his favorite love poems was "It Was a Lover and His Lass" by Shakespeare. She giggled when he read:

‘When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; sweet lovers love the spring.’ 

He would reread that poem years later and appreciate the wisdom of Shakespeare.

"Ever think about having kids Karen?" Rich asked one night after dinner at Howe's restaurant in Brooklyn. 

"Yes, I thought about it, but I don't know. Why? Do you want kids?"

"Not right away babe, but some day." She put her drink down on the table, folded her hands together and stared into his eyes. He could see her face begin to flush red. Her Irish is coming up and she is trying to get a grip, he thought. "I think it would be nice,” he said. She looked at him for a long time. 

"Honey," she said, "you know what my family is like. I’m the oldest. Dad is my stepfather. He married my mother when I was 10 years old. They had three kids together and I baby sat for all of them for almost 10 years. I’m not ready to start that all over again. Not for a while.”

“It’s different with your own kids,” he said. "It isn't as much of a job — I mean it is as much work, maybe more, but not a job….. I mean when we do things for one another I don’t think of it as a job. Even the cabinet work I did in the kitchen was hard work and took weeks of my spare time, but it's not a job when I do it for us.”

"Rich, I am 23 years old. Let's not talk about having kids right now."

Rich nodded. “That's fair Karen. Just know that it is in my mind for the future.”

She gave him a mock frown and squinted her eyes. “Is this idea coming from your mother’s head?”

He laughed, “What?! No, not at all. We just never discussed it. My mother is all involved with my sister's kids. She hasn't focused on me yet."

"When she does, please tell her to be patient. You’re still a kid as far as I’m concerned, and so am I."

"I will.”

He would mention kids from time to time, but never really pushed it. She was right, they were just kids themselves. There was no real pressure to get married and have kids right away. They could wait. Enjoy just being together. It wasn’t that she was selfish after all, she had already spent a lot of time taking care of kids that weren’t her own. He adjusted. In truth, he wouldn’t mind getting a head start on his education and career. There was truth to Lord Byron’s old adage: "the man who has wife and children has given hostage to fortune". 

Love is wonderful, understanding, forgiving and accommodating. Karen accommodated all his activities; he could accommodate her views. Love and marriage are successful if they include companionship and shared purpose. They were so different, but their relationship was young. He had never expected the happiness he had now. Karen was the most important thing in life. He remained a little uneasy.

"Oh, who is so fond will be the tomb of self-love, to stop posterity." 

Nonsense neither one of them was that selfish. She wanted to enjoy the freedom she now had at least for a while longer and he appreciated the head start that gave his career.

Chapter 9

  A couple of weeks later he and Tom Anuke were paired in sector "A." The sector covered 43rd street north to 48th Street, from 5th Avenue to 8th avenue.

"How the Hell did we get this sector Rich? Is someone setting us up? I mean this is one of the precinct’s big money sectors. The regular crew had to suck dick for years to ride here.”

Rich nodded. “Sometimes they stir things around… might be putting pressure on the sector crew to produce more. Who knows? Let’s enjoy while we can, the girls around here are beautiful.”

"You're right. Give it a little time and the usual suspects will be back in the car,” Tom said

The sector included the Diamond District. 47th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues was at it’s center. Millions of dollars in diamonds moved through both sides of 47th street every day. The street had buildings that were between ten and twenty stories high. Each had a storefront with numerous cubicles devoted to the retail sale of jewelry. Ninety percent of the diamonds entering the United States came through this street. The storefront windows displayed some of the most beautiful and expensive diamond jewelry. In the world. The street was alive with pedestrian traffic. People shopping for jewelry; merchants carrying suitcases full of jewelry; importers carrying bags of diamonds from South Africa and other international locations. There was so much money and diamonds moving in, out and through the street that any thief in the world would salivate just to stand, watch and wonder which suitcases held uncut diamonds, which held Jewelry and which held money. 

Above the shops that lined the street were the offices and small workplaces where wholesale business took place. Rough diamonds were cut by experts and pieces of priceless jewelry were created. Much of the business was controlled by Orthodox Jews. Men in long black coats, long beards, top hats, and prayer shawls carried on business all week except between sundown on Friday and sundown on Saturday when they retreated to worship in neighborhoods all around the metropolitan area, especially Brooklyn. The street also had its own synagogue, which saw regular daytime use. 

In small cubicles men with magnifying glasses, little hammers and metal chisels mumbled prayers in Yiddish and performed demanding feats. Cutting large diamonds required a master. One poorly planned stroke could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Day in and day out elevators and stairwells in these anthill-like buildings carried gold and diamond creations envied and lusted after the world over.

"Any one of these nondescript, dirty, Chevy sedans double parked on this street could hold millions of dollars worth of diamonds.” Rich said.

"No shit man” Tom said, “We work smack in the middle of it all and you never know what your gonna see.” He pointed across the street. “See that guy in the brown suit over there. He used to work in the precinct. He retired."

There was a guy with a bald head in a wrinkled brown suit, scuffed brown shoes and a slight limp walking beside an orthodox guy with long side curls and a black overcoat carrying a small attach case.

"The guy worked the sector then retired to be a bodyguard for people he met here. Good gig.”

"Yeah, but he looks like a pushover to me, Tom. The jeweler would be better off without him. His presence announces the guy has product. Kinda stupid.” 

Tom blew the horn and two cars ahead moved to the corner. People looked in the radio car. Tom and Rich nodded and waved. They were strangers, but uniformed cops were always welcome. Except when they gave out tickets. That was never done on this block.

"Agreed, but the whole workplace has product, man. I can't believe that a gang doesn't just come in here with automatic weapons and loot this place. One day, one job. Use motorcycles to get away through the traffic; disappear into Penn Station on foot and retire for life.” Rich nodded and lit a cigarette. They were rolling at a slow walking pace.

"Not a bad idea, but I think they would have two problems," Rich said as the car inched through the crowded street.

"What problems?"

"First there is no fucking way that all of this goes on without more protection than we lowly street cops know about.”

Tom shrugged and said, "Agreed. I didn't think of it but probably so. Either the street has a lot more guns than we see, or a lot of money went to the right people to guarantee peaceful enterprise."

Tom opened the window and threw out a cigarette butt. He then stuck his head out the window and yelled toward a taxicab blocking traffic. "Hey cabbie, move that shit box before I stick a summons up your ass." He turned his head toward Rich.

"I hate cabbies."

Rich nodded. He had this mental image of the cabbie with a summons sticking out of his ass. But he knew Tom would help a cabbie just like he would help anybody else. Problem was that the traffic was so aggravating to everyone that tempers were on edge all the time. 

"So Rich, what’s the second reason gangs don't raid this street?” 

"Can't fence the shit man. As soon as the stones show up, they are identified. It's not like someone steals stuff from a house or office and then sells it on the street, pawns it, or takes it out of state. This shit here is worth mucho dinero. Word goes out to law enforcement. Word goes out to major case squads. Word goes out to the feds. As soon as a piece of jewelry or some diamonds come up for sale — bang, the law is all over them."

"Yeah, right. But if the guys have a ready buyer, they're ok."

"True but that means an organized group and I think they are not here in a big way because of reason number one. They are taken care of."

"Hey, lookee here,” Rich said pointing to a man in dungarees and a blue sweatshirt. What the hell is Sergeant McDonald doing here?”

"Shopping maybe,” Tom said.

They watched him move up the street. He looked in their direction but showed no interest in their presence. They moved slowly in the traffic. He outpaced them.

"Three stops the prick made in less than ten minutes," Tom said, "and he's off today. The regular sector crew is not here so he makes the pickup." They both shook their heads.

"It’s amazing. These cock suckers don't care that the whole world is watching them. What will it take to stop them?"

"Jail Tom. They have been doing this for so long. They have breezed through so many bullshit investigations that a lot of them will actually have to be locked up before they stop."

"You're right. They figure, correctly, the whole system is on the pad. I wish a few would go to fucking jail."

Tom looked carefully at Rich. "Don't repeat what I said man." 

"No way. Besides, I feel the same way."

They reached the corner and turned right onto Sixth Avenue. It was five-thirty. The middle of rush hour. The traffic was heavier going north. At 57th Street traffic would swing east or west and the same would happen at 59th. The balance of the traffic would cross 59th, enter Central Park at Sixth Avenue and head north. The Park was crowded this early in the evening. It would be safe until about 9pm when the dark brought out the wolves. Even though New York City topped the crime charts each year it was still a tourist attraction. After dark, the tourists were reasonably safe in Midtown until the theaters closed. No one was safe in Central Park after sundown. 

They drove east on 50th Street and south on 5th Avenue and handled a minor accident on the corner of 49th and 5th. As they spoke to the motorists, two pretty girls dressed up to the nines came out of an Italian dress shop on the corner and waived to Rich. They had no coats on and were folding their arms to ward off the cold.

"What's up with that Rich?"

"Want to meet them, Tom?"

“Oh Yeah, but I thought you and Karen were a permanent item."

"We are," Rich said with a smile. "Seriously, we are. I met these two girls when I was helping some guy who had a heart attack in front of the dress shop. 

Tom smiled. "Oh, ok man, do me the honors."

Rich waved them over and they smiled. Two beautiful, tall girls each about twenty-three years old. Both brunettes and both Italian.

"Joanne and Rose, I would like you to meet my partner, Tom. He is an admirer of Italian clothing and would like to come over and look through your store…. Right Tom?"

They smiled at one another and laughed. "Come and shop any time, Tom."

He broke out in a broad smile.

"I will be by soon. Nice meeting you.”

The girls hustled back to the store as people watched and wondered. 

After they got back in the car Tom said, "My God those two girls are beautiful."

"Go for it man. Go for it. They both showed interest. You should come over— maybe before work tomorrow.”

"Shit yes," he said.

Rich said, “Look at the graffiti on that bus… I mean you can’t see any of the bus. The subways are usually worse, but that bus wins the contest today. Look at that huge parrot on the side sayin ‘fuck you’. They laughed. 

“Yeah,” Tom said. “Somebody musta snuck into the bus garage.”

7pm was sector "A”’s meal period. They ate at the Bun and Burger on 44th and 7th. At 8pm they called back in service with central.

"18 Adam, we have a silent alarm at twenty-two West Forty-seventh, 3rd floor. Bascom Fine Jewelry.” The radio announced.

"18 Adam, 10-4 Central," Rich said. “Ya know, Tom: Ninety-eight percent of all the alarms in the city are false. They should do something about them. We waste a lot of time responding."

"Yeah," Tom said, "but most of those alarms come between 8 and 9am and 5 and 6pm.”

"So we'll be careful before we go in the door. That’s all,” Rich said.

Twenty-two West 47th Street was a ten-story building in the middle of the block. Like most of the other buildings it was 40 feet wide made of plain grey stone. They double parked. The block was dark and quiet for Manhattan. A few people were out walking. Jewelry stores were closed. The ones without metal gates had empty windows. The jewelry was stored out of view. 

The lobby of building was dark. One overhead light was on by the two elevators. An old guy sat smoking a cigarette at a small desk near the entrance.

"Hey, we got an alarm call on the 3rd floor, Boscom Jewelry. Anything you know about it?" Rich asked. The old man shook his head.

“Nothin’ I heard… nobody in or out while I been here… an hour now.” His eyes were squinting like he couldn’t make them out. Rich figured they just woke up. "Sometimes people work late in the building officers"

"What is the room number for Boscom?” Rich asked.

"Just go to the elevator and press three," the old man said.

The marble tile in the foyer was worn and dirty. The building had seen better days, Rich thought. There were paint chips sticking out from the trim all along the ceiling. Dark and spooky place. The elevator made a loud popping sound when they pressed the call button. It took a while to reach the first floor from the tenth where it started. Tom and Rich stood watching an old bronze arrow move clockwise around the semi-circle dial over the door.

“Never believe so much money was made in shitty buildings like this,” Tom said. The metal door opened with a groan then closed behind them when Rich pressed ‘3’. The elevator was a dark, noisy box that shook as the old electric motor moved it up slowly.

When the door opened on three Tom and Rich were looking the wrong way down the barrel of a .45 automatic.

The elevator had opened directly into a large workspace. Big fucking gun, Rich thought. I should’ve listened better when the old man said ‘just press 3’ and no room number. 

There was no hallway with separate offices. Boscom Fine Jewelry had the whole floor. They just walked into the middle of an armed robbery.

The guy behind the .45 was dressed in blue overalls with a patch reading Delta Electric. He was about fifty years old and wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. He hadn't shaved in a few days, but he was no bum. His eyes were as clear as the diamonds he was there to steal.

"Come off the elevator," he said motioning toward himself with his free hand.

Behind the guy a man and a woman sat with their backs to a wall. The woman was sobbing. Doors were open to other rooms, they were dark. This guy had pistol whipped them good. Blood was all over both. A safe was opened to the rear of the 20ft x 20ft space they were in. Rich could see no other bad guys.

"Both of you move slowly over there to the left.” This guy is a pro, Rich thought, Calm and focused. He didn’t miss a beat when the elevator opened to two uniformed cops. “Remove those gun belts very carefully. No one needs to die today.”

The guy leaning on the wall slumped over sideways. His head rested on the woman’s lap. Blood was coming from his scalp. He had a flap of hair in the center of his head. Must have nearly been scalped by the pistol.

Rich glanced at Tom. He was staring at the .45. Rich knew what was going to happen. He just didn't know when.

"You," the guy said pointing the .45 at Tom, “Do like I said. Loosen the buckle on the gun belt and let it drop to the floor.” Then he moved the gun slightly and pointed it at Rich. "You do...."

That was all he got to say. It sounded like a single explosion, but it was six. Tom had drawn his revolver and fired six times in what seemed like a second. The guy in the blue overalls collapsed face down on the floor. He had been hit by six, .38 rounds.

The woman leaning against the wall began to scream. Rich kicked the .45 from the guy's hand and it slid across the beige linoleum floor. He took out his revolver.

Rich held his finger to his lips. “Quiet… quiet,” he said to the hysterical woman. “Are there any other robbers here?” he asked.

She held her hand over her mouth for a few seconds then said, “No. There is just him. Oh, God. He was here for hours and beat us with his gun till we opened the safe. Then he beat us some more because he wanted more.” She wiped her nose with her sleeve, “Please help us… I think John is dead!” she said to Tom.

Tom was calmingly reloading his gun. “John ain’t dead. He’s still breathing… and… this guy isn't gonna be beating anyone anymore.”

"You ok Tom?” Rich asked

"Yeah Rich, I'm fine. This piece of shit is still alive, so I'll add an ambulance when I call this in."

"I got it, relax. I'll order one for them too," Rich said pointing at the victims. John began to move a little. The woman was calming down. Rich stepped over the disarmed perp and went to a rotary phone sitting on a small desk against the wall. He dialed Police Communications.

“This is Officer Johnson, 18 Adam. We need two ambulances and the sergeant at 22 West 47th. We have two victims who were pistol whipped bad during a robbery. We also have the perpetrator who was shot by a member of the force.” The sergeant came, two ambulances were on the way, the duty captain came, the Precinct, Robbery, and Crimes Against Property Squads came, and so did the press.

At first no one except the sergeant and his driver from the 18th precinct believed how it went down. The captain from Internal Affairs suggested by his questions and tone that the perp surrendered before Tom shot him. Rich told the story so many times that he wanted to write it out and hand it to people when they asked. The precinct captain took some credit for the job done by Tom and Rich. He told the press that their presence in the area was part of his “special attention” initiative for the holidays. The Precinct and Robbery squads vied with the Crimes Against Property Squad to take over the arrest. Crimes against Property said that the perp, who they knew as Peter Grossman, was a suspect in other major burglaries they had under investigation. They argued aggressively to consolidate all the cases. The others finally conceded and left.

The victors questioned Rich and Tom several times. They wanted to know exactly what Grossman said to them before Tom shot him. 

Each time, Tom answered, “He said ‘loosen your gun belt and let it drop to the floor.’ Then I shot him.” 

Then they asked Rich what he said. He answered each time, “I couldn’t hear what he said to me, there was too much noise”!

One of the detectives got out of line with Rich when he kept giving that answer. “What the fuck do you mean there was too much noise”? He said looking back and forth between Tom and Rich.

“He means I was blowing that prick away. So, he couldn’t hear shit.” Tom said. “What do you think he said…. Merry Christmas.” He took a step toward him. “You don’t think this was a good shoot? Fuck You. Go tell that captain from IAD over there. He would love to hear that shit.” 

“All Right…All Right. The detective’s partner said, “This ain’t about the shoot. That’s as clean as they get. We need to know exactly what went down here that’s all. “He pointed to Grossman. “That bloody pile of shit on the floor has a lot to answer for. We want to nail the vicious prick for all of it.” 

“Then ask them man.” Rich said pointing at the two victims. “We were with him for three minutes before Tom put his lights out. He tortured them for a couple of hours.”

“You’re right man. That’s what we’re gonna do” The grouchy detective said. “Listen …you did a good job here. I’m sorry I got up tight. I just hope the fuck dies.”

Rich and Tom watched as the two detectives walked over and bent down next to the victims. 

After two minutes of compassionate commiseration and introduction, they asked the two victims what he said during their ordeal. The woman responded in a pitiful whisper. “He was lookin for more money. He found a few thousand dollars the boss’s desk. He said to us. ‘Where’s the rest of the fuckin’ money.’ Over and over.”

“What did you tell him”?

“First we said we didn’t know. The money he already found was all we knew about. He said he knew there was more money and he would beat us to death if we didn’t give it to him.” She stopped, wiped her nose and moaned. The blood from John’s head was running down her arm onto her dress. Her eyes were red and glazed over. Both she and John were clearly in shock. “He got really mad and smacked me across the face. He asked again and John said ‘maybe it’s in the safe’. He asked for the combination. When John didn’t answer right away, he hit him right here with the gun.” She pointed to his head. “John really started to bleed a lot.” She began to sob. John moaned and nodded slightly. She kept handkerchief over the bloody flap on his head ”John opened the safe and there were papers there, but no money. He started to yell and hit us both with his hands …then with the gun. Over and over, he yelled. ‘Where’s the rest of the money.’ We told him over and over we didn’t know about any money and he kept hitting us.” She started screaming and put her hands up as if to protect her face. 

The first ambulance came. Rich told the crew to take the victims first before Grossman. The detectives said to hold off, they wanted to ask a few more questions.

Tom said, “Fuck this.” and went across the room and got the precinct commander. He looked at the screaming woman holding her coworkers bloody head and directed the ambulance to take them first. He told the detectives there was plenty of time for questions. They should follow them to the hospital if they wanted to ask anything else. They finally agreed. They both frowned at Rich and Tom as they prepared to leave.

“What’s up with those ass holes Tom. You shot and captured one of their main targets, and not even a grunt of thanks. Just a ration of shit. This guy in custody let them close out some big cases.” 

“Fuck them Rich. We had a big night, and they can’t change that.” 

The victims said goodbye to Tom and Rich. Both victims held their hands and thanked them as they waited for the elevator.. John was confused and barely conscious, but he whispered. “You saved our lives.” 

The PBA Union delegate, Phil Masucci, made sure Tom and Rich got all the credit for the arrest and that they would be kept up on the prosecution, if Peter Grossman survived. Tom got a recommendation for the combat cross and an exceptional merit medal. The Daily newspapers did nice articles about the shooting and arrest of Peter Grossman. One had Tom’s picture. That made him a celebrity with Joanne and Rose from the dress shop. He hoped it would put him on a fast track to detective. 

Rich was happy to be alive and enjoyed telling the story of the night when all of Tom’s quick-draw practice finally paid off.

Chapter 10

Peter Grossman, survived. All six bullets missed his vital organs, but they did significant damage. He had taken one in each thigh, one in the left hip, one in his chest; one in his stomach and one in his right shoulder. He was kept in St. Claire’s Hospital awaiting arraignment and trial. Cops guarded him 24x7. A month after the shooting Rich got a turn. 

“You look like shit Grossman.” Rich smiled as he came into the smelly dark room. The man looked like a corpse, handcuffed to the bed. He was uncovered, had a catheter in his dick and a feeding tube in his stomach. Liquids were being intravenously fed into his left arm from two plastic bags. Rich shook his head. “It’s fucking hot in here and it smells like shit, sweat and piss, man. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m gonna gag.” Grossman lifted his head slightly and looked at Rich. His mouth moved. His voice was raspy and weak. The oxygen tubes fell out of his nose. His hands shook as he slowly pushed them back in. 

“I guess you don’t get many visitors in this room.” Prisoners weren't allowed visitors. Just lawyers and cops. A lot of cops guarded him over the past month. Seven cops’ times three, twenty-one a week. That was a hell of a lot of manpower and money. He had no television or radio, so he talked to the cops. Most were curious and talked to him. He was shot six times. They wanted to hear the story from his end.

“You know man; I neva’ woulda shot you guys, right… I neva’ woulda’ shot cops man.” 

Rich was shocked, Grossman recognized him right off.

“You’re a lying sack of shit. You pistol whipped that girl and guy for two hours. You woulda’ shot us if you needed to… you’re a vicious prick.”

Rich walked over and checked the handcuff attached to the headboard. He squeezed it one click tighter on Grossman’s right wrist. Skinny hand… a little moisture cream and this corpse would vanish down the stairs and out the door. He looked into Grossman’s face up close.

“You had a loaded .45 pointed at us… uh huh… case fuckin’ closed.”

Grossman shrugged. “You know my uncle was a cop in Russia. He never took any shit from anyone. He was like your partner Tom. He paused and shifted around in the bed and covered his legs with his free hand. “When I looked in his eyes I saw… ya know… something strange. I shoulda dropped the gun right as soon as the elevator door opened and I saw you guys.”

Rich looked closer. His eyeballs were set back deep in their dark sockets. They were red and yellow. Whiskers covered his face, but patches were thicker here and there where efforts to shave him failed. His lips and jowls hung loose showing a set of brown teeth.

“I wasn’t gonna shoot. I just wanted to get outta there. I was more scared than you guys man. I was shocked to see two cops… You both still had your guns. I was shittin’ my pants…”

“Why didn’t you just get on the elevator and go?”

Grossman again struggled to breath. He adjusted the oxygen feeds and laid his head back. Rich took off his uniform jacket, sat in the bedside chair and waited for an answer.

“I had to take your guns to get away, but before I knew it, I was falling down full of holes.”

Grossman’s eyes grew wide, his eyebrows arched dramatically, and his free arm stretched toward Rich, palm toward the ceiling. Laying in the bed, filthy, a bag of skin stretched over cracked bones, hair and beard reeking of sweat, grey, dry cracked swollen lips. A pathetic sight.

“You pistol whip and beat people, Grossman. You’re a con artist,” Rich said though he couldn't help feeling a little sympathy for the guy. “You have a yellow sheet going back to 1950 for armed robberies, assaults and burglaries. You’re gonna do serious time for this. Your actions meant that Tom and me had two choices. Drop our guns and catch at least a beating or pop your ass — Tom made the right choice.” Rich shrugged. “So that’s it man. You’re lucky to be alive.” But man, Rich thought, I’d rather be dead than in your position. 

Grossman groaned, laid his head back, looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. Rich opened the coffee he brought with him. He thought how Grossman was another example of the survivability of bad guys. He survived six rounds. Cops died if they got shot once. Maybe because the bad guys just had tougher lives, he thought. They seldom went into shock when they were shot. Maybe it was because they saw so many people around them live when they were shot that they didn’t expect to die. Maybe they’re just too busy thinking how fucked they are to focus on death. Whatever, it just seemed to be the way things worked. 

He finished his coffee, checked Grossman’s handcuffs, and opened his psychology book. Prisoner assignments included plenty of time for homework.

Grossman slept for the next two hours. He woke when a nurse came in to check his bandages. 

“How can you read in this shitty light?” Grossman mumbled. “I can’t even see my own hands never mind read somethin’.”

Rich looked at him, closed the book and walked across the corridor to the washroom to take a piss. When he came out Grossman was being washed by the nurse. The room smelled worse than ever. In the semi-darkness, Rich could see the damage from the wounds. Poor bastard he thought, but he caught himself. Better him than us.

“My name is Peter.” Grossman said wincing from the pain as the nurse dressed his wounds. “What’s your name?”

“Officer Johnson.” He answered, catching a stunned glance from the nurse. I know, Rich thought, I’m a prick and you are Florence Nightingale. Fuck you! This guy can be informal with you. I should show you the pictures of the people he pistol-whipped. You’d want both of his hands cuffed to the bed.

“Where are you from Peter?” Rich asked.

“Brooklyn.”

“No not now. Where do you come from? I hear a strong accent.”

“Russia. I moved here after the war.” 

“How’d you get out of the Soviet Union? Stalin locked it down like a prison back then.”

“I was in the army. I was sent to our Occupation Zone in Germany in 1946. One night I just walked into the American lines and asked to stay.”

“How’d you do that? The Stasi were everywhere in East Germany.”

“There was no East Germany until 1949. The…. ah.. Ministry for State Security wasn’t around in 1946.”

Rich doubted Grossman but didn’t care enough to probe.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Peter, it doesn’t matter much to me. I just figured you wanted conversation.” The nurse again glared at Rich. 

He made a mental note to tell the Desk that nurse Trotsky might be getting a little too close to Grossman. Maybe he or she should be moved before he escaped out the window one day.

“I had no family in ’47. They were killed in The Great Patriotic War.” Grossman said looking into Rich’s eyes. Looking for softness, like a wolf looks for weaknesses, Rich thought. Dangerous fuckin’ con man, he noted again. But the facts might be true. Over twenty million Russians were killed in World War Two.

“What about now, any family?”

Grossman didn’t answer. He looked away.

“No family?” Rich asked again. 

“None who want to hear from me… except one sister here in the U.S, but we’re not that close,” Grossman said. “No visitors. An assistant district attorney once asking who was my lawyer. Plus the detectives always breakin’ my balls”

“What do they want with you Peter? The case is made, man. Four witnesses and six bullet holes. You’re done.”

“That’s this case. They ask me about other cases.” Rich looked at him wondering what other kind of stuff he was into.

“I saw your rap sheet, Peter… nothin’ really recent.”

“They bring people in to look at me. They want to solve every robbery and burglary in this area by checking the box ‘Grossman’. That’s not right.”

“Not, right? You have some balls talking about what’s right.”

He relaxed his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. In a minute he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling and in a half-whisper said “You know what they really wanna know about. It’s a case from last year. The robbery three doors from where you caught me.”

Rich shrugged his shoulders…. “What robbery?”

Grossman turned his head toward Rich. “You know the one. All the cops from the area know. Seven hundred and fifty grand was taken from J.T. Jewelers’. He took a deep breath and coughed up some green slime onto his gown….” in a daytime stick-up.”

Rich did remember. There were no arrests. 

“Yeah, so was that you?”

“Some people they brought in here said it was me. That much your detective friends think is true. What they really wanna find out is who the two cops were that the witnesses saw”

“Two cops?” Rich said.

Now Grossman struggled up on one elbow and stared at Rich for a full minute before he fell back on his pillow.

“I told them there were no cops.”

Rich kept his eyes on Grossman. Manipulative prick, He thought. Looking to catch a break on this case by giving up some cops on that other case.

Rich settled back into his chair and opened his book. Grossman turned his head and, in a few minutes, he began to snore.

He read, and Grossman slept for two more hours. At 9pm Rich was relieved for his meal break by Police officer John Hanser. He walked around the corner, had a slice of pizza and a coke, and came back early. He called Hanser out of the room. Hanser regularly guarded prisoners and knew Grossman better than Rich.

“What can you tell me about this guy John ? He talks to me about all kinds of strange shit. I’m sure you know the background for why he’s here.”

“Sure Tom Anuke shot his ass six times. You were there …hot shit from how Anuke tells it.” 

“Yea, Tom is a piece of work. But besides that, what is this guy about …What does he talk about with you?”

“For one thing, the guy talks in his sleep. Plus, when I started watching he was so high on pain killers, that he ran his mouth about his whole life story."

Rich listened and watched to make sure Grossman didn’t hear them.

“He has some kind of relationship with the Russian mob in Brooklyn.”

Rich said nothing. Just listened.

“The Police Department, the DA and the mob are all interested in him for crimes here and in Brooklyn… The thing is, the interest is like intense… eh… the guys from crimes against property came here a few times… I mean I know the drill man. Squeeze the guy, solve the case … but they weren’t actin’ at all. They were mad. Like it was personal. Know what I mean?”

Rich looked at Hanser for a minute. “Yes, I do. Seems there is more to it than solving crimes.” Hanser nodded.

“Thanks John… Helps to know what Tom and I are dealing with.”

He walked back into the room.