Nothing to Report

Nothing

to

Report

by

Patrick Abbruzzi

NYPD Lieutenant's Shield used with permission of the New York City police Department.

© 2012 Patrick Abbruzzi.
All rights reserved

No portion of this book may be stored for retrieval, reproduced, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN:
1494738074

Library of Congress Control Number:

Forward

“I am the Officer”

I have been where you fear to be,

I have seen what you fear to see,

I have done what you fear to do -

All these things I have done for you.

I am the person you lean upon,

The one you cast your scorn upon,

The one you bring your troubles to –

All these people I’ve been for you.

The one you ask to stand apart,

The one you feel should have no heart,

The one you call “The Officer in Blue” –

But I’m a person, just like you.

All through the years I’ve come to see,

That I am not always what you ask of me;

So, take this badg
e
take this gu
n


Will you take i
t
Will anyone?

And when you watch a person die,

And hear a battered baby cry,

Then do you think that you can be,

All these things you ask of me?

(Author unknown)

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Dawn Urcinoli, my life-long partner and best friend, who has inspired me to persevere and finish this novel.

It is also dedicated to police officers everywhere, especially those of the New York City Police Department, who daily plac
e
their lives on the line for the citizens of our great city.

Finally, it is also dedicated to Nay
Nay Bear. Thank you for being there.

One

Part of the never-ending duties of being assigned as a chauffeur or driver for the sergeant or lieutenant was the simple task of making the much needed coffee run. It probably dated back to the times when men made their rounds and trod their beats on the old Bowerie, which stretched all the way from the tip of Manhattan to the grassy farms of what we now call Soho, the area just south of Houston Street. The men likely drank their tea from heavy metal flutes they stashed in their call boxes that were affixed to the gas lamps along Broadway.

Lt. A. remembered when, as a rookie assigned to the 1
st
precinct on Old Slip, he had found an old, musty blotter and read an entry likely written with a feathered quill pen. If his memory served him, the entry was dated in the early 1890's. Although smudged, it was beautifully written and took up much of the waterlogged page. The first letter, which was a C, took up three of the log’s lines.

“Cries for help on the old
Bowerie reported. Police officer McShanewill tender report at end of day.
”


Charlie had to wait for the sergeant to finish the roll call and when the eager troops of the first platoon turned out before taking the coffee order. The chauffeur would grab an old, yellow piece of scrap paper and quickly jot down the requests from the house brigade and then be on his way.

The Platoon Commander or Lieutenant would also get a quick cup even though he could just as easily go out into the tar and brick laden streets to get his own brew. Then the Lieutenant would finish any last minute paperwork that the 3
rd
Platoon Lieutenant hadn’t been able to finish or simply left hanging.

The chauffeur would also bring back coffee for the desk sergeant, who surely would die quickly and with much fanfare if he did not get his injection of caffeine along with the rest of the troops.

The list would also have orders from the cell attendant who was affectionately called ‘the broom,’ the 124 man, and the telephone switch-board operator.

The assignment of cell attendant stemmed from police houses in the past in which policemen were actually assigned to
sweep the floors and empty garbage cans filled with stained coffee cups and as well as endless volumes of Guinness Stout bottles. The broom would make sure to keep a wary eye on the teletype machine and whenever the pages and pages of paper covered the filthy floor, he would rip them off and file them appropriately in the teletype logbook. In this day and age, the broom was not allowed to leave the cell block area. As a result, he could not even join in on the loud and vulgar bullshit session that was now taking place behind the desk.

The 124 man was the precinct’s clerical man. He would type all the reports, such as aided cases and accident reports, as well as assign numbers to complaints or U.F. 61's. He would also assist the desk sergeant in any way he could.

On this particular night, Charlie Goodheart was the Lieutenant’s driver and would make the coffee run. Lt. A. had offered to buy for the entire house. The Lieutenant was not a millionaire, far from it, but he would have still offered even if he were just a regular cop. It was just the way he was. The other sergeants wanted to contribute, too, so they would buy on alternating nights.

Charlie took the list and walked through the rear door into the back yard of the precinct. The rear lot was well lit from the full moon, which actually was so bright it caused eerie shadows to form around him. Thanks to a cloudless sky, he was able to spot the RMP immediately.

The RMP, also known as auto 2231, was the Lieutenant’s official method of transportation. The old blue and white was dirty and had seen plenty of action in its short lived but full life. Charlie could imagine how a fair number of perp’s had bled sticky, red blood in its back seat over the years. He’d heard the stories about a few Puerto Rican babies saying hello to the world there, being delivered en route to hospitals in the cavity between the aged vehicle’s back doors. He could also safely wager there had been more than one boss’ pointy toes curled up all the way to his nose on that seat as they got a blow job from some female officer who chose to suck her way up the ladder of success.

He got into the car and right off the bat was almost succumbed by the sexy and delectable aroma of Shalimar.

“That new policewoman, Pastore, must have been a boss’ driver on the 4x12,” he thought with a smile.

The entire precinct had turned out with bells on its toes and fingers to welcome the newest addition to the hallowed halls of the 120
th
. Adele Pastore had only been in the precinct for two weeks and already the old fort at St. George was bristling alive with ripe and rampant rumors that she had the plushiest and sweetest tush on this side of Jersey Street. It was also said that she had learned quite quickly who to shake it at.

As he started up the car, Charlie noticed
Pastore had left the gas tank bone, fucking dry. He made it to the side lot where the gas pump was on fumes alone, then went back into the house and retrieved the gas log and pump key. The bullshit session was still going strong and a small cloud of smoke hovered over the participants, created by those in the group puffing away on cigars, cigarettes and pipes. Charlie simply walked behind the desk and took what he needed, not surprised in the least when the conversation didn’t even break a stride.

After he gassed up the car, he pulled out of the lot onto Wall Street and made a right turn onto Richmond Terrace. He then headed south to Victory Boulevard and headed west on Victory until he reached the Dunkin Donuts on the corner of Victory and St. Paul’s Avenue. This local coffee shop wasn’t good to the precinct and absolutely nothing was on the arm, but it was convenient and they made good, fresh coffee every day and night. They also had their own private security force comprised of square badges so they did not depend on the local constabulary for help; hence, the full price was in effect.

Charlie pulled into a spot directly in front of the joint on a fire hydrant that still bore the red, white and blue leftover from the bi-centennial hoopla of the seventies. He didn’t like to make a habit of parking on johnny plugs but this area of the precinct, as well as much of the north shore, had a blight cast on it. In addition, the local clientele had a disdain for law enforcement officers, or ‘pigs’ as they loved to shout, with an oink, oink here and an oink, oink there.

He walked in and spotted some locals sitting in the colored booths in the back of the room. The wooden, carved cubicles wore the scars of overuse and lack of cleaning. The phone on the far wall was being used by a local bookie. Charlie knew it had to be a personal call because no action was ever taken that late at night.

He glanced to his right and was struck by a Sicilian thunderbolt.

She was a pretty, young thing with long, straight, black hair that stretched down the entire length of her back. He could tell she was wearing a bra but figured she had to because she was built like the proverbial brick shithouse. He also noticed she had on an ebony black apron and when she turned around she displayed the cutest and tightest ass Charlie had ever seen. He fell in lust with her right there on the spot. He knew, without a doubt, that he had to get into this chick’s panties. She smiled at him with a set of pearly white teeth that would put Farah Fawcett’s shiny whites to shame. This chick was clean.

“Do you work in the 1-2-0?” she asked.

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you before. Are you new here?
”
he shot back.

“Yeah, I started yesterday but I still have to get used to these hours,” she answered.

Charlie understood this all too well. Working late hours year after year sapped the very lifeblood out of one’s soul. It was almost as if an invisible Dracula rode with you in the RMP and helped himself to a pint of your most precious fluid night after endless night. Charlie didn’t even dwell on this anymore, however. He just accepted the fact that he felt perpetually dog-tired, looked ten years older, and felt more ragged than he really was.

For a young girl as attractive as this waitress was it probably meant she either went to school during the day, so she would not have to work in a sleazy coffee joint at ungodly hours forever, or she had a kid she had to care for during the day. When she worked she probably left the kid with a teenaged babysitter who ate non-stop and ran the Con Edison bill up with the stereo blasting. If the waitress was lucky, the kid was left in her parents’ care instead, but would probably grow up to be a spoiled brat.

Charlie didn’t want to scare this fox off so he played it cool with her and simply told her he would probably stop back during the night if he had a chance. He wisely added that if she were to encounter any problems at all, she was to call him right away, and he furnished her with the precinct phone number and his first name.

He said goodbye and gave her a long look with a smile that hopefully told her he wanted to eat her from top to bottom, but he
did not say the words. Instead, he left it as a mystery for her and a growing lasciviousness for him.

He returned to the station house but did not blab about her like some mischievous high
schooler who couldn’t keep his tongue in his mouth or his cock in his pants. Charlie also knew, in sure and certain time, that every male on the late tour would find out about her and every slippery snake with a gun belt on would begin scoping her out as if she were a piece of delectable cheese on a mousetrap.

Once he turned out onto the street with Lt. A. Charlie mentioned the girl but the lieutenant played it cool and did not ask Charlie to pass by so he could get an eye full, too.

Part of the Platoon Commander’s duties on the 1
st
platoon was completing the nightly visits to cooping prone locations. Some cops were notorious as well as ingenious in avoiding work. They would park their RMP’s behind gas stations, in parks or generally anywhere hidden away from the public eye, and these visits by the Platoon Commander had to be done twice during the shift, with one of these visits being made after 4:00 a.m. The other visit could come at any time. Lt. A. knew no one would be in the heave at 1245 hours so this was when he chose to make his 1
st
visit and the men loved him for it. The men on the 1
st
platoon in the 120
th
knew that cooping was futile anyway because it was always so busy. Besides, you couldn’t make any money sleeping on your back in the coop and most collars made on the late tour allowed them to attend court for drawing up affidavits and arraignment garnishing them time and a half in overtime.

Lt. A. also helped the men get collars. He had been a cop himself prior to leaving when he made sergeant having served there seventeen years. He knew the precinct like the back of his hand and was familiar with where all the crime happened.

The lieutenant and Charlie had a fairly busy night but it was mostly run-of-the-mill family disputes and aided cases. There had been no felonies or 49's (forms which had to be completed regarding serious, past crimes) for the lieutenant to prepare, and they surprisingly hadn’t even run into any Puerto Rican mysteries for Charlie to get some summons activity.

Puerto Rican mysteries were usually difficult to solve but were a good way to fulfill the much dreaded monthly quota of summonses that the Commanding Officer demanded and extracted
from each cop on patrol. Quotas were the unwritten and unspoken part of the job that everyone knew existed privately but which were vigorously denied by the brass as well as City Hall.

The typical Puerto Rican mystery would involve a Chevy being driven by a non-English speaking Puerto Rican. The registration plates wouldn’t belong on the car and the vehicle identification sticker and plate would be long gone or defaced. Usually, the car would be uninsured and uninspected. After determining the car wasn’t stolen, tickets could be written, and it was not uncommon to give the driver five or six moving violations. In mysteries such as these, the car was usually owned by a cousin twice removed or any other person the driver could conjure up in his brain.

A good patrol cop could complete his monthly quota with one Puerto Rican mystery. Men of the 120
th
were lucky because the Hispanic community did not learn from their mistakes; either that or they just did not give a good, flying fuck about the whole matter. They just kept on driving those ‘chebbies,’ much to the pleasure of the entire 120
th
patrol force.

Charlie was tired when he signed out at 0757 hours. The hours were crazy but the police department had to justify their productivity give-backs for the last big raise of 3½% which had been graciously bestowed on them by the city’s fathers.

He began to think about the strength of his will power. He had not visited his brunette beauty once during the night, not that he didn’t want to. Although he had fantasized about her many times during his shift and since he didn’t even remotely know her, he valiantly fought off all temptations that haunted his mind as well as his cock, which he felt stiffening every time he pictured her tight ass.

He slipped out the back door of the precinct and made his way up the steep, grassy embankment to his car where it was parked on Stuyvesant Place. To his left was the Health Department, a building resembling a fortress, and to his right was the Staten Island Museum, which all area residents cursed.