Revolver (2 page)

Homicide Detective Jim Walczak stands on the corner of Seventeenth and Fairmount holding a bunch of flowers and a cold bottle of Schmidt's. His boy, Cary, fifteen, kicks the sidewalk, looks up at the shuttered bar.

“I thought you said it'd be open, Dad.”

“I said I
hoped
it would be open.”

Jim crouches down, flowers in hand, props them up against the front door. Or where the front door would have been, had it not been covered and nailed shut with wooden boards. A warm breeze flutters the petals, the wrapping.

Then Jim removes the Schmidt's from its brown paper bag. Twists off the cap. Drops it into the bag.

“Here's to you, Pop.”

Takes a sip. It's not good beer, but it's what his father drank.

Cary watches him. Jim waits a second, as if thinking it over, then hands the bottle to Cary. But Cary shakes his head, mumbles, “No thanks.” Good kid. When he offered the bottle to his older boy, Sta
ś
, he'd pretty much downed half the fucking thing before Jim could pry it out of his fingers.

The bar closed five years ago. Sure, it was a sad little dive on its last legs, holding on to what little trade could be drummed up in this neighborhood. All the action is downtown; nobody wants to hang on the fringes.

“So this is where it happened, Dad?”

Jim nods, lips pursed. “Yeah. This is it.”

He brought Sta
ś
here the last couple of years, but this is Cary's first time. Jim also wanted to bring Audrey, but Claire put her foot down. No way. Not a five-year-old, not in this neighborhood. Jim reminded his wife that he was a cop, carried a big-boy gun and everything. But it was no use. She told him he was lucky she let Cary go.

Shame the bar was still shuttered. Each year, on the anniversary of his father's murder, Jim liked to go inside, sit on the same barstool in the same place (best he could figure), soak in the warmth and the dark, order a Schmidt's. If someone was already occupying that barstool, Jim would wait until the patron left, then take his place and drink his beer in silence. He'd have just the one, then leave a very generous tip.

This tradition changed with the loss of Schmidt's on tap back in '89, and then the closing of the bar in '90. Jim hoped someone would open it up again. It wasn't the same thing, standing outside in the heat, with a bottle of not-so-great beer and a bunch of flowers. No wonder the older boy took a pass this time.

But it is important that they remember. Important they hear the story. They might tear this corner down, but what happened here needs to be remembered.

Jim stands there, staring at the shuttered door as if he can will it to pop open. He wonders what the place looks like inside now, after five years of decay.

“What happened?” Cary asks.

Jim hesitates, but in truth he's already made up his mind. Cary's old enough to hear this. Hell, he was younger than Cary when it happened. He'll be able to handle it.

“Thirty years ago today,” Jim says, “right around this time, your grandpop Stan and his partner, Officer George W. Wildey, were inside this bar when an armed man walked in and tried to rob it.”

“He tried to rob it with two cops inside?”

“It was a Friday. Maybe this robber thought the till would be full.”

Cary nods slowly. It's clear he doesn't know what a till is but quickly figures out it's the same thing as the cash register.
Till.
Jim watches him commit the word to memory. Once he learns it, the boy never forgets anything.

“Apparently the robber held your grandfather and his partner at gunpoint, then made them take off their uniforms.”

Cary blinks. “Why'd he do that?”

“No one knows for sure, but probably so they wouldn't run after him right away. Their uniforms were found in the trash about a dozen blocks away, along with their belts and guns. Unfired.”

“But he didn't just run away.”

“No, he didn't.”

Cary processes this, but clearly something bothers him about it.

“How did one robber manage to hold up two cops? Didn't they have their guns on them?”

Jim smiles. His boy knows to ask questions. Look for evidence. Be smart. He drums this into both his boys, and will do the same with Audrey when she's old enough.

“Well, that's a great question, Care. One I've been asking myself ever since I was your age. And the answer is simple. They knew their killer. It was most likely someone they trusted.”

“Jesus,” Cary says. “Who was it?”

Jim shakes his head. “No one was ever officially charged with the murder.”

“But you know who did it.”

Jim nods. “Yeah, I have a pretty good idea.”

There's not much to do except hang around here on the corner with a bottle of beer that's beading sweat and flowers that are already wilting. The May sun is punishing and hot. God help him the day they knock this place down to build condos or some such shit. Jim realizes that yeah, cities need to change and evolve, but this corner should stay the way it is, as a reminder. But nobody remembers. Nobody cares. Jim is lost in a reverie when he feels a tug on his coat sleeve and hears an urgent plea from Cary.

“Dad.”

“Hey, man,” a weary voice calls out.

Jim turns around to see some homeless guy wearing a green army jacket, cautiously ambling up Seventeenth Street toward them. He's scuffed, dirty, and shivering despite the heat.

Jim puts his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezes it. “It's okay, Care.”

The mayor has spent the last four years chasing the homeless out of Center City, so they've started drifting up here, to the outskirts, in increasing numbers. This guy probably sees Jim in his jacket and tie and thinks he can hit him up for a few bucks. Or maybe whatever's left of the Schmidt's in his hand.

“Sorry, can't help you, buddy.”

Jim turns his attention back to the flowers on the ground. He's not in the mood to deal with this shit right now. But it looks like his visit is going to be shorter than usual. He squeezes his son's shoulder again.

“You ready to go?”

“Hey, man,” the guy says again, pleading now. Jim senses Cary tensing up. He's a fragile kid, easily spooked, just like his mother. Jim's deciding whether it's worth flashing his badge or not, tell the guy to go bother someone else, when the guys says,

“Jimmy…it's
me
.”

Jim gives the guy a closer look. Red eyes, trembling lips. High on something. But his features
are
familiar, even if Jim can't place them. Somebody he busted? No, somebody he busted wouldn't call him Jimmy.

“It's
George,
man,” the guy says, and then it all clicks so hard Jim's head spins a little.

Jesus.

The last time Jim saw George Wildey, Jr., it was more than ten years ago, in an interrogation room, back when Jim was working narcotics.
Guy says he knows you.
Yeah, Jim knew the guy. He did what he could for him, which wasn't much. He had a few felony arrests for burglary, dope dealing, auto theft. There are two paths you can follow. Even as a kid, Jim knew George Junior here was headed down the wrong one, despite what his father did for a living.

“Hey, George,” Jim says. “I'm sorry, it's been a while.”

“Yes it has, yes it has. Is that your oldest?” George asks, looking at Cary.

“No, no. This is Cary, my second-born,” Jim says. “Care, this is my friend George. His daddy was—”

“Grandpop's partner,” Cary says, getting it.

George Junior gestures to the bunch of flowers leaning up against the wall.

“Shoulda thought of that.”

Jim shakes his head. “They're for both of them. My pop and yours.”

George Junior nods at the beer in Jim's hand. “Heh heh. That for them, too?”

“Yeah, I guess so. You want a pull?”

“Nah, man, I don't drink anymore.”

They're roughly the same age. In the short time their fathers were partners, they socialized twice—and both were very awkward experiences. Jim actually liked Officer Wildey quite a bit. His big bear laugh, his cool taste in soul, jazz, and even rock. Wildey was the guy who pointed out that the Stones pretty much ripped off “The Last Time” from the Staple Singers, and this always came to mind when the song came on the radio. Or when he played it at home, late at night.

His son Junior, though, is another story. Always has this look in his eye that's part accusation, part confrontation.

“You still working narco?” Junior asks now.

“Nah. Moved over to homicide about ten years back.”

“Hom-i-cide,” George Junior says, drawing out the syllables as if holding the word up to the light to inspect it. “That's good, real good.”

George Junior stands there shivering in the heat. He seems to want to lean against the wall but doesn't want to appear weak. Jim wants to ask a lot of questions—where are you living, what are you doing, how's your mom—but decides he really doesn't want to hear the answers. Jim just wants to go home to his family and hope the visit next year is a little better. Maybe someone will finally decide to reopen the bar.

Jim pulls out his wallet, flips it open, reaches inside.

“Here.”

“No, man, I don't need nothing like that.”

Jim shakes his head as he pulls out a white business card, emblazoned with a golden badge and his beeper number. Your basic get-out-of-a-gentle-scrape card. It wouldn't help you with, say, possession with intent to sell. Or homicide. But it could make a traffic stop a little easier.

“Just in case,” Jim says.

George Junior takes the card, blinks. “In case of what?”

Every time Jim pulls up in front of his house he can't help but feel disappointed. They bought their row on Unruh Avenue as their starter home in the late seventies when Mayfair was still solid—lots of guys on the force lived in the Northeast—and they had one kid. The loose plan was to stick around for five, six years, then bolt for someplace bigger. Maybe even out in the near burbs.

But those five years passed in a blink, and in the meantime came their second boy (Cary), and before long it was 1990, and they realized they'd been there a dozen years and now with a new baby girl in the house. Instead of moving they doubled down, building a deck off the back of the house to make up for the lack of a yard. According to conventional wisdom in Northeast Philly, once you put on a deck you were there for life. But who cares. In the warm weather, the deck is pretty much where they live.

Jim holds the door open for his widowed mom, Rose, whom they picked up after their visit to the shuttered bar. Rose Walczak still lives in the house she bought with her husband almost fifty years ago, but sooner or later she's going to have to move. Not necessarily to an old-age home—she's a bit too young for that—but to a small apartment, maybe, in a better neighborhood. This was a decent slice of Frankford for a long while, but lately it's joined the rest of the city in becoming one sprawling high-crime area. Jim dreads taking the call someday that someone's attacked her.

Rose will refuse, of course. This is her world, and all she knows. Part of Jim can't blame her—and if he's honest, that same part of him will be gutted to put the house up for sale. The ghost of his father still looms large there.

“DADDEEEEEEEEEE!”

Audrey comes thundering across the wooden floor. She's five years old and crazy and strong as a bull.

BAM
—a wrecking ball right to Jim's upper thighs. He scoops her up and blows raspberries into the side of her neck, causing her to wail and squirm around in his arms.

Rose hands Claire her homemade potato salad (which the kids love) and beet salad (which they loathe). She kisses Sta
ś
on his forehead, then pats his girlfriend, Bethanne, on her cheek. “Such a pretty girl,” she says. Bethanne blushes.

Cary walks behind Rose, in her wake, and winks at Bethanne, his gaze lingering. He has a public crush on his brother's girlfriend that sometimes borders on the inappropriate.

“Fuck off, Care,” Sta
ś
says.

Jim wanted to name their firstborn after his father. But Claire didn't want him going through life saddled with a name like Stanisław, or even the shorter version, Stan. (“Stan's the guy who fixes your plumbing,” she said.) So they settled on the alternate form Sta
ś
, pronounced “Stosh.” People mishear it all the time, call him Josh, which drives him nuts.

Claire wraps her arms around Jim's burly torso and tucks herself in.

“Time to get your disgusting Polish meat out of my fridge onto the grill,” she says.

Jim whispers:

“I can think of someplace more fun than the grill.”

She pokes him again, harder this time, laughing despite herself. But she really does hate the smell of the kielbasa. Despite this, she already has the links cut and butterflied so all he has to do is char them a little. Jim buys kielbasa from Czerw's, a small shop in Port Richmond that's been grinding and smoking the stuff since the Great Depression. Pop used to shop there.

Claire doesn't eat red meat—and even if she did, she wouldn't eat pork—so this is something she only tolerates on special occasions. To Jim there's nothing better than the aroma of the smoked stuff wafting out of the fridge whenever you open it. Claire more or less gags every time.

As Jim turns the links, Audrey is spinning around lip-syncing to her new favorite song, which is pumping from a CD boom box:

Jim doesn't know whether to laugh or burn the goddamned CD. Then again, his parents never stopped him from listening to whatever he wanted. Songs about how sweet brown sugar tasted probably went over Ma's head anyway.