Nothing to Report (3 page)

Vito was married and a Guido Italian, which is what the Italians who were born on Staten Island called the Italians who had traversed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Guido Italians brought with them crudeness, disrespect and two tons of gold per family member.

Vito was also a typical Brooklyn cop. He had transferred from Brooklyn’s 68
th
precinct in Bay Ridge and thought the 120
th
was still Brooklyn. He was boisterous, painfully brutal to all his prisoners, and generally disliked by the entire late tour crew. He hesitated in picking up his jobs and tried to talk his way out of most of his collars. Most of the men and some of the women called him a coward but he didn’t seem to give a flying fuck. What did matter was that he tried to do as little work as possible. In doing so, he jeopardized everyone on the force.

Lt. A. had Vito’s number right away. After Vito warned everyone to stay away from Terry, Lt. A., who was also sitting in the muster room having his coffee, approached Vito with a question.

“Vito, are you telling me that I can’t talk to that pretty young thing? I saw her the other night. She’s a doll,” Lt. A.
coyfully exclaimed.

“No, not you lieutenant. I mean all these other guys,” Vito stammered.

“Now, Vito, all is fair in love and war. Did you ever hear that?” replied the lieutenant.

Not to look any dumber than he really was, Vito answered in the affirmative.

When the conversation ended, Lt. A. gave Charlie a wink out of the corner of his eye and went up the rear stairs to the lieutenant’s locker room, which was on the second floor facing the front of the station house. There was a magnificent view of New York Harbor from this room and, in the distance, the lights of the famous New York City skyline glimmered.

The locker room was fairly sparse and painted in the pale green which seemed to cover most precinct walls in almost every station house throughout New York City. Paint was peeling in some places, however, laying bare the plaster hidden beneath. There were two neon ceiling lights overhead, one of which continually flickered
on and off, and approximately fifteen full lockers reaching from ceiling to floor. There was one wooden bench mounted to the floor between the lockers which enabled the lieutenants to sit while they changed into their uniforms.

Lt. A. kept most of his uniforms for all seasons handy in one of the dented, metallic cabinets. He had his black leather jacket, which was only waist length and really didn’t keep him warm but was suitable enough for riding in the RMP, as well as his knee length winter coat, which hardly anyone ever wore, tucked behind the scratched, metal door. The latter he’d had when he was a rookie in the 1
st
precinct and kept it more as a memento than as an article of clothing to wear.

Along one locker room wall was a single desk with a lamp which furnished just enough light in case anyone wanted to read or finish any reports. On the desk was an old, black phone, used only within the station house to warn the lieutenants of any unwanted visitors from the Chief of Department’s office. A few feet away was a single, comfortable chair frequently used to grab forty winks if one so
chose. The final piece of décor was a torn calendar hanging on the wall, courtesy of some scotch tape and two push pins.

Charlie headed for his locker room and on the way he used the male bathroom which was adjacent to the muster room. You could walk through the bathroom to another door leading to the rear stairs which then led to the third floor officer’s locker rooms. Many a female cop often forgot to knock on the bathroom door by mistake, or perhaps it was intentional, and more than once some female officer caught some good looking stud of a cop with something more than his summons book in his hand.

There were several locker rooms available for the officers in the station house, and Charlie’s locker was on the 3
rd
floor. When he reached it, he opened it and immediately saw the picture he had taped to the inside of his door. It was a photo of his wife and kids. Most cops hung pictures of their wives and girlfriends inside their lockers in the same way, while some hung Penthouse beauties in all their full nakedness. Many cops even carried photos of loved ones inside the lining or pocket of their uniform caps.

Charlie quickly changed into his uniform, securing his shield on his shirt. Then he grabbed his briefcase, which was full of various forms he knew he might need during his shift with Lt. A. Often, when it was busy Lt. A. was assigned jobs and Charlie was his scribe as well as driver. He was also responsible for filling out the reports.

He went down the front stairs, this time passing the telephone switchboard operator en route to the muster room.

The cop assigned to the T.S. called him over and handed him a folded piece of paper. Those who were assigned to the T.S were a special kind of cop. They were the go-between for single cops, married cops, girlfriends and mistresses and always had to be discreet. They were forever delivering messages to the guys and many times were forced to lie to wives who were trying to reach their husbands. These T.S. operators had special talents for lying and it was not uncommon for the snakes to grease their palms once in a while.

Some cops actually went away for days at a time with their girlfriends, having told their wives they were on special assignment or had made large busts and were going to be tied up in weekend court for extended periods of time. Two things might have been true; they probably were involved with large busts and they were also probably tied up in some way.

Charlie took the piece of paper handed to him and opened it right away. It was from Terry. It simply said, “Thanks, Terry.” He smiled knowing he was in her thoughts because God knew that she was in his.

He glanced at Terry’s note again and felt frightened all of a sudden. He didn’t want to lie to Annette yet felt as if he just had to pursue this. To him, this was more than his wanting sex or an urge to get laid. Sure, Terry was younger than he was, and sure she had a great body, but he really felt as though he wanted to get to know her and get closer to her emotionally.

Christ, who was he kidding? Charlie wanted to fuck the living daylights out of her! As he read the note a third time, he thought perhaps she was just being friendly.

“Yeah, that must be it,” he rationalized out loud. After all, she could have any guy she wanted, he thought silently.

After roll call was completed and most of the troops had hit the bricks, the coffee list was compiled and, as usual, Charlie got to make the coffee run. Lt. A. even told him to take his time because there were enough sergeants working and the lieutenant wanted to catch up on his paperwork.

After some brief chit-chat, Charlie took the list and drove over to the Dunkin Donuts shop. As usual, he parked right in front then walked in with a shit-eating grin on his face, fully expecting to see Terry. Much to his chagrin, she was nowhere to be seen anywhere behind the counter.

He wanted to be cool so he walked up to another waitress and ordered his coffee and donuts. In the middle of his order, another waitress walked over to him.

“Are you Charlie?” she politely asked.

“Yeah, I’m Charlie.”

“Terry had to leave on an emergency. Something came up and she wanted you to know that she was sorry she didn’t get a chance to see you tonight,” she said.

The waitress had sort of a mischievous smile on her face as she spoke.

Charlie thanked her and walked out of the joint, almost forgetting to take his order with him.

He got in the RMP and began the five minute long ride back to the barn as his mind filled with questions. What was the emergency? Did she have sick kids at home? Maybe she had to go care for a sick husband.

He felt the onset of a fit of nausea stirring deep down in the pit of his stomach as another thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Did she even have a real emergency?” Perhaps she met someone else and went to a motel with the guy.

His stomach was in knots and he was angry for allowing himself to feel this way. He had an entire night ahead of him and could not afford to fall apart now. Thankfully, as he neared the station, he began to get his emotions under control.

He did not even know this girl. He was much older than she and the entire thing was absolutely fucking crazy, yet he would have to go through the entire shift, day and evening, before he could see her again. He wondered if he would be able to even fall asleep when he got home.

He tried to think cleverly and logically as he sorted through the questions in his mind. As he did, he wondered why Terry would go through the trouble of telling another girl to watch for him and deliver such a personal message.

It was driving him crazy, not knowing the circumstances surrounding her absence, but he knew he had to calm down. By the time he got back to the precinct, the boss had finished his paperwork and they headed out to the streets. Lt. A. was in a talkative mood, for which Charlie was eternally grateful. His mind had been reduced to liquid Jell-O and now he wouldn’t have to spend the night thinking and imagining weird things about Terry.

Two

Lt. A. had many wonderful war stories, which he thoroughly enjoyed sharing with his driver. He was especially fond of his days when he was also a cop in the 120
th
. The lieutenant’s partner back then had been Frank Brownell and they had been partners for twelve years.

“Charlie, Frank and I were together for twelve fucking years. It was busy as hell but we loved every minute of it,” Lt. A. said with a reminiscent smile.

That’s when the boss began to tell Charlie about a family dispute on Sand Street, just off of Bay Street in the Stapleton section, which was located in sector Eddie.

Stapleton and St. George began to have a big influx of Albanians as well as Yugoslavians in the seventies and eighties. Most of them were either afraid of the police or simply held no trust in them, which could be traced back to their roots in the old country. Many of the men carried concealed weapons and took care of business in their own way, while the women were cleaners who worked in Manhattan at night servicing the high risers, generally from 6:00 P.M. until 2:00 A.M. They would often be seen walking from the ferry, right up Victory Boulevard and along Bay Street, saving the bus fare.

Anyway, one day Frank and I were doing a day tour and we got a job from Central directing us to respond to a family dispute at an old wooden framed, two-story house on Sand Street. As soon as we pulled up in front of the home we noticed pretty yellow flowers that had been planted along the crumbling edge of the ancient sidewalk. The front yard was small but well-kept and had a religious statue adorning it. To the left of the statue were several plastic Disney characters which had obviously been repainted. It was very apparent that the family who lived here at least tried to maintain some neatness to the neighborhood.

This area that had been taken over by the Albanians was a welcome change. Previously it had been inhabited by mostly blacks.
In those days the yards were untouched and the household garbage barely made it outside into pails. More often than not the garbage was just flung out to the yards and street.

Lt. A. continued with his reminiscing and Charlie listened attentively.

Because of all the chicken bones and ribs which littered the streets and yards on Sand Street, the guys in the precinct used to call it “chicken bone alley”.

We approached the front door and gave it a few raps with our night-sticks, and after several seconds, a woman who was probably in her late thirties or early forties greeted us. She was wearing an old, blue house dress that reminded me of something my seventy year old grandmother would have worn. It was tattered and covered with stains. The woman’s face was weather-beaten and the wrinkles on her brow hid a multitude of pain and sorrow. It looked as if she had been crying because her left hand clenched a snot-laden tissue and her eyes were as red as beets. She kept turning around and looking behind her as if she expected a fire breathing dragon to suddenly appear and drag her away.

Eventually she motioned for us to come in and led us to a front parlor. Close to one wall was a table with a dirty lace doily. In the center of the table was a cracked flower vase with no flowers in it. A mirror hung on one plaster wall, deep cracks running across it in all directions. The room was fairly clean even though it was sparse. To this day I still remember the aroma of cooking cabbage that filled the room; it smelled good. After several long seconds, the woman began to speak to us with a broken accent.

Lt. A. paused to take a sip of his coffee then continued.

The woman’s voice was aged and tired.

“Please to sit down, here. My husban
d
he has been drinking the vodka for two days now. He become very mean when he drink the vodka,” she moaned.

“Where is he now?” asked Frank.

“He is basement with dogs,” she answered.

Both Frank and I were concerned about their dogs so we asked her what breed they were.