Authors: Scott Flander
“I wonder what they’re thinking,” said Donna.
“They’re wondering about Steve,” I said. “They’re all wondering about Steve.”
S
teve’s grave site was shaded by a green canopy, which somehow seemed at odds with the surrounding gray sea of granite markers. In the shade were three rows of folding chairs, filled with family members. At least a third of the men wore police uniforms—the family was full of cops. Behind the canopy, at the head of the grave, were a dozen large floral displays. One was an American flag, another was a big police badge made of carnations—Steve’s badge number, 34907, was in blue on a field of yellow.
There were two other groups near the canopy, and I wasn’t happy to see either of them. One, of course, was the media, the reporters with their notebooks, the photographers in their khaki vests, already hungrily snapping photos. And, as always, the television cameras, this time a forest of them on tripods, poised in wait for the grieving family.
Strategically placed next to the media was the other group: the politicians, seated on folding chairs. In the front row was the mayor, and next to him the governor. There were others I had seen in the papers or on TV: Philadelphia’s newly elected DA, city council members, state senators. It was hard to look at them and know that some didn’t want to be there. Maybe none of them did.
Nick and I headed for the hearse, where the other pallbearers were standing quietly. A red-cheeked young cop, walking in front of us, seemed surprised to see Steve’s casket still inside, and he stopped short. He lingered for a few seconds, then crossed himself and moved on.
Buster and Donna joined the front lines of the army of blue that was forming into a massive phalanx, fifty across, scores deep. It took another half hour before everyone was in place, and suddenly the cemetery became very still. Michelle and her parents emerged from a black limousine and joined the other family members at the grave site. From somewhere, a bagpiper began playing a mournful “Amazing Grace.”
Nick and I and the others carried Steve’s casket to the canopy, then gently rested it on the canvas straps suspended above the freshly carved grave.
I glanced at Michelle. She had her arm around her mother, comforting her. The Commissioner, wearing a dark suit rather than his uniform, was stone-faced. He must have known about the questions and the doubts. Now, I thought, he had to endure them as he put his son in the ground.
I was jerked into the moment by rifle shots, and it took me an instant to realize it was the twenty-one-gun salute. On a grassy incline, seven cops with rifles fired into the air, once, twice, three times. Then two buglers we couldn’t see played “Taps,” one echoing the other. Each note seemed to float in the air—almost as if you could see it before it faded. And then the funeral was over, and the great mass of cops behind me began breaking up.
I walked over to Michelle. Her eyes were red, but she was no longer crying. Without a word, she reached out and hugged me for a long moment.
“If you need me for anything …” I said.
“Actually, can we talk later?” “Sure, anytime.”
“At your house? Maybe around seven?”
I tried not to sound surprised. “Of course. Absolutely.”
She said she didn’t know where I lived, so I pulled a pen and small notebook from my breast pocket and wrote out my address. Someone was standing next to me, waiting to talk to Michelle. The new DA. Short guy with wire-rim glasses and a soft, pink face. I handed the address to Michelle, nodded to the DA, and took off to find Nick, Donna, and Buster.
T
he four of us all had the day off, so we had a long lunch at a diner near the cemetery, then headed back to district headquarters to pick up our cars. When we pulled up, there was a clump of television camera crews at the front entrance. Probably looking for quotes about Steve. If anyone asked, I’d tell them he was a good cop, that we’d all miss him.
But when we got out of the car, and headed toward the building, we could see that the reporters weren’t talking to cops. They were interviewing City Councilman Barney Stiller, the most powerful black politician in Philadelphia. And there weren’t just a few reporters surrounding him, there were a lot. They didn’t all happen to show up here at the same time, I realized. This was a press conference.
“What the hell is he doing here?” asked Nick. “I sure didn’t see him at the funeral.”
Stiller was a tall, imposing man, a former pro football player, and he towered above the cameras. We moved just close enough to hear what he was saying.
“We’re very sorry about the young police officer’s death,” Stiller said, like he was giving a speech. “And, out of respect for his family, we wanted to wait until after the funeral to make any statements.”
“Get ready for the ‘but,’ “ said Donna.
“But,” said Stiller, “the time has come to speak out. We can no longer tolerate the police harassment of black men in West Philadelphia. Nothing, not even an officer’s tragic death, gives police the right to mistreat our community’s young sons.”
Buster was incredulous. “He wants us to be nice to the black Mafia?”
Stiller was too far away to hear Buster, but when he spoke next he gave an answer.
“The police claim they’re just going after people they already know are criminals. But in reality, totally innocent black men are being rounded up like animals and questioned for hours without regard to their lawful rights. Some are even being struck down on the street.”
I glanced at Nick. He was listening to Stiller nonchalantly, like he just happened to be a passerby and that last remark had nothing at all to do with him.
“Today,” Stiller was saying, “we are announcing a people’s protest. We are calling on everyone—men, women and children—to join a march on the Twentieth Police District this Saturday afternoon. It will be peaceful—but it will be powerful.”
“Remind me to call in sick Saturday,” Nick said.
“Yeah,” said Buster, “I think my grandmother’s going to die Friday night.”
“Your grandmother died last month,” said Donna.
“That was my other grandmother.”
“You said that one died last year.”
“Yeah,” said Buster, taking out a cigarette, “but this is my other-other grandmother.”
“Cigarette,” said Donna, and he handed her his pack without thinking. They were both single, just boyfriend and girlfriend, but they were like a couple that had been married twenty years.
We stood in the Yard, and watched the rest of the press conference from out of earshot.
“He should have been at the funeral,” said Nick. “He’s an asshole.”
“He may be an asshole,” I said, “but he’s right about what he’s saying. We’re screwing this thing up.”
M
ichelle didn’t show up at my house at seven. About a half hour later, though, someone did knock at the door, a woman I’d never seen before. She was a classic Westmount Italian girl: lots of curly hair, half covering her face, heavy eye makeup, bright red lipstick. She had on skintight, soft, powder-blue jeans, and a black-lace halter that sort of draped over her breasts and fell short of her waist, showing her smooth stomach. I stared at her for ten seconds before I realized it was Michelle.
“Hey, can’t I come in?” she asked.
“Yeah, sorry,” I said, motioning for her to enter. Once she was in the living room I just stared at her some more. I kept expecting her to tell me what was going on, which she didn’t do.
“Can’t I sit down?”
“Sure, let’s go back to the kitchen, I’m just making myself a sandwich. Sorry the place isn’t cleaned up more.”
“Looks fine to me.”
Michelle followed me to the kitchen, and I pulled out a chair for her at the small, square, wood-topped table parked in the corner.
“Want a sandwich? I’m making ham and cheese.”
“No thanks.”
“How about a beer?”
“You have any wine?”
“Just beer.”
“Beer’s OK.”
I pulled a bottle from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, and handed it to her. I caught a slight whiff of fresh soap, like she had just come out of the shower.
“You look like a girl I used to date,” I said. In fact, she looked like
every
girl I used to date, until I met Patricia.
She smiled and held up the beer bottle. “Could I have a glass?”
I opened a cabinet, found a glass that looked like it might work for beer, and handed it to her.
“So, are you going to tell me?” I asked.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you look like this.”
“I will, in a minute.”
I laughed. “OK, don’t want to rush you. By the way, there’s something I’ve been trying to check out. Every once in a while, Steve would disappear for an hour during his shift. He’d just take off in the police car by himself.”
“That was probably Wendy.”
I thought for a moment. “Wendy Bass, the little blonde in the Twelfth?”
“You didn’t know about that?”
“No—they had something going?”
“That’s the first thing I heard about when I got put in the Twelfth, hey, you know your brother’s doing a Barbie-and-Ken with Wendy Bass.” That’s what we called it when two cops got together romantically, a Barbie-and-Ken.
“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “That’s probably where he was going.”
I finished making my sandwich, and sat at the table.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” I said, “your hair is extremely curly.”
“Yeah, it’s a perm. Isn’t it great?”
“It wasn’t like that at the funeral.”
“Yes it was. I just kept it under my hat. So to speak.”
“I got to be honest, with that makeup and hair, you look like you just moved to Westmount.”
“I did. The day before yesterday.”
When I laughed, she said, “No, I did. I got an apartment above Angela’s, you know, that beauty shop at Seventy-eighth and Locust.”
“You’re serious.”
“And, I got a job at Angela’s, doing manicures. There was an apartment available upstairs, so it worked out great.”
“Wait, when did you get this job?”
“Same day I got the apartment, day before yesterday.”
Today was Thursday, which meant Michelle would have gotten the job on Tuesday—two days after Steve was killed. It didn’t make any sense.
“What’s the deal with being a manicurist all of a sudden?”
“I’m good at it. I learned when I was in high school, at my aunt’s hair salon up in the Northeast. And every year I was in college, that was my summer job—doing manicures there.”
“Don’t you need to go to beauty school and get a license for something like that?”
“If you really know what you’re doing, the salon owners don’t care if you have a license.”
“You’re not quitting the Department, are you?”
“No, but I’m taking a leave of absence. Stress-related, because of Steve.”
“So you can be a manicurist.”
Michelle looked at me for a moment with a half smile. “You used to be in the Organized Crime Unit, right?” I nodded.
“Did you run any investigations? You know, undercover?”
“A few.”
“You want to run another?” She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?” I asked, but my mind was racing ahead, already beginning to understand.
“You said Bravelli knows why my brother was killed.”
“He may know, I’m not positive.”
“I want to find out.”
“By going undercover,” I said.
She nodded.
“And this is your undercover outfit.”
“Yeah.” She smiled, sitting up straight so that she was sort of modeling her halter. Which of course just emphasized her breasts and bare stomach.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“You have no idea.”
Michelle smiled again. “Anyway, would you help me? In a very unofficial investigation?” “Why unofficial?”
“I know my father, there’s no way he’d let me do this.” “You don’t think he’d find out?”
She shook her head. “I told him I’m taking a leave, that’s all he’s going to know.”
“And you want to go undercover by yourself?”
“Not by myself. I’d like you to back me up, to be my second set of eyes.”
“But what would you do undercover? It’s not like you could join the mob.”
“Obviously. But if I got to know Mickey Bravelli, I might be able to get him to confide in me. Maybe not right away, but eventually.”
I waved my hand to dismiss the idea. “Michelle, these guys don’t even trust people they’ve known all their lives.”
“I know that.”
“And the only way you could even get close to him, you’d have to be his girlfriend.” “I know that.”
I could feel my eyes widen. “You want to be his girlfriend?”
“No, but I’d be willing to go out with him a few times.” I felt sick, picturing Michelle arm in arm with Mickey Bravelli.
“He’ll expect you to sleep with him.”
“Doesn’t matter, I won’t do it.”
“Then he won’t have anything to do with you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Michelle, this is a fantasy.”
She looked at me for a few moments. “A lot of people seem to believe my brother was corrupt. Do you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either, Eddie. But I have to find out any way I can. You know, it’s like I lost Steve twice …” She broke off, shaking her head.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, once when he died, and once … never mind, it probably doesn’t make any sense.” “Go ahead.”
“Well, if Steve was into something he shouldn’t have been, then he wasn’t the person I thought he was. It’s like I lost the brother I thought I knew.”
“It does make sense, Michelle. But you’re not going about it the right way. I mean, how are you even going to meet Bravelli?”
“I’ve already done that.”
“You’ve already met him?”
“There’s this fruit store next to the beauty shop,” she began.
Now I understood. “And on the other side of the fruit store,” I said, “is the clubhouse.”
“Clubhouse?” she asked. “You mean, like Mickey Mouse?”
“No, like Mickey Bravelli. That’s a mob hangout.”
“That’s probably why I saw him in the fruit store. I went there on my lunch break the first day, to get something to eat, and there was Bravelli, buying a banana.”