Authors: Scott Flander
“Just a lucky guess.”
Kirk smiled. “Anyway, the owner came out and started yelling, and pretty soon there was a crowd around the car. They dragged the guy out and almost killed him. He’s at St. Michael’s now.”
“Any of Bravelli’s people involved this time?”
“You kidding? Nobody saw nothin'. Street full of shoppers, they all happened to be looking the other way.”
“You want me to drop by?”
“If you would. The detectives are all tied up on this thing with Steve.”
“I understand.”
“Talk to the store owner, he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t want to say anything this afternoon, but things have quieted down, maybe he’ll open up a little.”
I
never did talk to the store owner. I didn’t even make it to the store.
The closest I got was a few blocks away, at the corner of 80th and Locust, where a cluster of Italian bakeries filled the air with warm, sweet smells.
I was stopped at the light, gazing to my left at the pastries in the window at Carlino’s on the other side of the street. I noticed that the image of my patrol car—with me in it—was reflected in the bakery’s glass door. You don’t get to see yourself like that too often, and I was actually looking at the door when it opened and Canaletto and then Bravelli stepped out onto the sidewalk. A black Cadillac Seville had been sitting at the curb just around the corner on 80th, and the moment Bravelli emerged from the bakery, Goop hopped out of the driver’s seat and quickly pulled open the back door.
As Canaletto got in the other side, Bravelli spotted me, and paused. We just looked at each other for a few seconds, stone-faced, neither of us giving away anything. Then he abruptly turned and walked over to the Cadillac and got in. Goop—resplendent in a highway-worker-orange jogging suit—closed the door and got back behind the wheel. A few moments later, the car eased away from the curb.
Maybe I should have just let it go. I didn’t really want to be in Westmount—I wanted to be back in West Philly, trying to find the guy who shot Steve. But when I saw Bravelli, somehow all my anger got transferred right onto him. He was the reason this job was fucked up, he was the reason that everything went wrong, and that good people like Steve got killed. I knew it didn’t fit together like that, but I didn’t try to make sense of it. Whoever shot Steve was nowhere around; Bravelli was right here. And right now, he would do.
I took a sharp left onto 80th, pulling behind the Cadillac, and flipped on my overhead red and blue lights. Somewhere inside of my head a voice was saying, wait, you have to have a plan, you can’t do this without a plan. But I just pushed that aside. And as the Cadillac’s brake lights came on and both our cars slowed to a stop, I could feel the adrenaline starting to kick in.
It was a typical Westmount street, narrow row houses one after the other on both sides. I got out of my car and walked toward the Seville. When I reached the driver’s window, I almost yelled into Goop’s face. “Everybody out of the car.”
“What’s your friggin’ problem?” Goop asked.
“Everybody out.”
“Yeah? You’re supposed to say sir.” “No, I’m supposed to say asshole. Now, get out of the fuckin’ car,
asshole.”
“And if I don’t?”
“It’s OK, Goop,” a voice from the back said, and the rear doors opened. I had to be careful—I was going to have three guys out, with no backup. My goal was to get Bravelli alone, but first I had to make sure no one was armed.
“What happened, North?” Bravelli said as he climbed out of the Seville. “Get lost on a doughnut run?”
“Behind the car,” I said. “All three of you.” They walked to the rear of the car, half laughing, playing along for a while. Both Bravelli and Canaletto were wearing white shorts and pastel knit golf shirts.
“Hands on the trunk,” I ordered. Goop and Canaletto obeyed, but Bravelli hesitated. He was glancing around at the nearby houses, where people were gathering on their porches and at their windows to see what was going on. I knew he was worried about losing face. Good.
I quickly patted down Goop’s orange jogging suit.
“What, you want to feel me up?” he sneered. “You a fuckin’ homo?”
“Hey, Goop,” I said, finishing up with him, “Was that a baby carrot in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
Canaletto snickered. Goop gave him a dirty look, then sputtered a “fuck you” in my direction. I moved on to Canaletto. No gun.
“You’re next,” I said to Bravelli. He took a step back, like I somehow wasn’t permitted to touch him. “You want to fuckin’ pull us over,” he said, “do it somewhere else, not in our own fucking neighborhood.”
“Really? Well, guess what? I’m pretty sure I can pull you over any fucking place I want.”
I turned to Goop and Canaletto. “You two, back in the car. I’m going to search your boss, and then all three of you assholes can go.” They quickly complied, figuring that the sooner they got in the car, the sooner this would be over.
Once Goop and Canaletto were back in the Seville, I spun Bravelli around and pushed him against the trunk, and made a big show of frisking him. He was spewing obscenities, but I took my time. More people were gathering.
“Yo, leave him alone,” someone yelled. I turned. On the sidewalk, standing in front of the growing crowd, were four Italian guys in their early twenties, dressed in sleeveless white T-shirts and baggy shorts. Just corner boys, I thought, all they know how to do is spend their lives sitting on steps, playing cards and bullshitting and drinking beer.
Bravelli wasn’t armed, either. Now I could get started.
“Heard your boys beat up another black guy today,” I said.
He looked puzzled for a moment, then understood.
“That’s what this is about? You got to be friggin’ kiddin’ me, you should be thanking the people who are doin’ your job for you.”
“Don’t worry about how we’re doing our job.”
Bravelli half laughed. “You still haven’t found the moolie that whacked your cop, have you?”
“I would strongly suggest you shut the fuck up about that.”
“I heard you’re gettin’ a little help.”
“Help from who?”
He gave a little asshole smirk. “Like I said, you can’t do your job, somebody’s gonna do it for you.”
That was enough. I shoved Bravelli hard against the trunk, and when he bounced back up, I slammed my fist into his face. It felt great. He kept his balance, but looked at me with astonished eyes and tried to speak.
“What the fuuu—”
“I told you to shut the fuck up about that, didn’t I?”
The doors of the Seville popped open, and Goop and Canaletto jumped out, their faces contorted in anger. They quickly got between me and Bravelli, protecting him.
“Police brutality!” someone in the crowd called out.
The corner boys were moving closer. “That fuckin’ cop is beatin’ Mr. Bravelli,” one of them yelled.
I pushed Canaletto to one side and sent my fist toward Bravelli’s face again, but Goop batted up my arm and then pushed me back into the corner boys. They were right behind me, I didn’t realize they were so close.
“Fuckin’ cop needs a lesson,” I heard a voice say, and then someone shoved at my back, almost sending me sprawling onto the street. I turned to face my four attackers. They all had mean, fearless looks, it didn’t matter to them a bit that I had a badge. They were probably some of the ones who had been beating up the blacks.
I glanced back at Goop and Canaletto, they were ready to join in. Not including Bravelli, that made it six against one. I reached on my belt for my nightstick, but only came up with empty air. I had left the stick in the car.
“Now you’re gonna take a beatin',” said one of the corner boys, a big ugly son of a bitch.
I wasn’t too proud to call for help. I keyed my mike. “This is 20-C-Charlie, I need an assist, 8-0 and Locust.”
No response.
“Radio, this is 20-C-Charlie. Gimme an assist, 8-0 and Locust.”
Still no response. Fucking piece-of-shit radios.
“No one to help you this time,” said Goop. “That’s too bad.”
I keyed my radio again, but the big guy yelled, “Get him, quick.”
He was repulsive, he looked like a fucking hippopotamus. He lurched toward me and swung at my chin. I leaned back and a giant fist went harmlessly by, but at the same moment I felt a punch in my lower back, near my left kidney. The big one again threw his fist at my face, but he was slow and I grabbed his arm in mid-punch, stepped forward, and slammed his massive jaw. An instant later I was hit in the lower back, harder than before, and someone slammed the side of my head, and I was down on the ground, and the giant motherfucker got on top of me and started flailing my face with his fists, getting his revenge. Between the flashes of white light that came with each punch, I could see a wicked smile of dirty, broken teeth. All I could think of was, this asshole needs a good dentist.
Then there was a “thwack!"—like someone hitting a tree with a baseball bat—and the guy’s jaw went slack. I saw Buster standing over him, raising his nightstick, but the asshole wasn’t giving up, he was pulling back his fist to give me a final shot with all his might. I watched as Buster’s stick cut down through the air, it seemed in slow motion, a foot from the guy’s head, then a half a foot, then an inch, then it hit, and the stick shot back into the air like it had bounced off a rubber ball. The guy just closed his eyes and it was like a mountain falling off of me.
I couldn’t get up at first. My head hurt, face hurt, my back hurt, I didn’t feel so good. Buster was standing there protecting me, and Donna was trying to help me to my feet. I could see the other corner boys racing away in all directions, and the crowd was moving back.
“Where’d you come from?” I said to Donna.
“Civilian called in an assist,” she said. “We were right around the corner. You want Rescue?”
There was blood streaming from my mouth, but my head was starting to clear a little. “I think I’m OK,” I said. I glanced around for Bravelli’s car—where was it?
“Buster, you see a black Seville?” I asked.
Buster was chomping feverishly on his gum, looking up and down the street, making sure no one was coming back. “Not here when we pulled up,” he said.
Bravelli had slipped away.
W
hen I got back to district headquarters, and looked at my face in the locker-room mirror, I felt like going into hiding. I knew the first thing everyone was going to ask was “What the hell happened to you?” But I cleaned myself up the best I could, and headed upstairs to the operations room.
Sammy took one look at me and said, “What the hell happened to you?” I didn’t bother answering.
We had a tiny lunchroom with a sink, a scuzzy green refrigerator, and a picnic table covered with a plastic Italian tablecloth. Someone had just made coffee, and I took my mug down from its peg on the wall, filled it, and took a painful sip. The coffee was awful, like all cop coffee, but it was awful in a way that was familiar, almost comforting.
“Hi, Eddie,” came a woman’s voice.
I looked up. Michelle was standing in the doorway, in uniform, holding her police hat in her hand at her side.
“Michelle,” I said, pulling the cup away from my face in surprise. That was a mistake—she flinched a little when she saw the raw cuts and bruises.
“They’ll go away,” I said, and put the cup down on the counter.
Michelle’s own face had that washed-out look that comes from grief, and a paleness that her makeup couldn’t hide. I wanted to hold her, comfort her, tell her how sorry I was about Steve. I hesitated, not knowing whether it would be OK. It didn’t matter—Michelle simply stepped forward and hugged me. We held each other for a long time, and I could tell she didn’t want to let go. Well, there was no reason to. It didn’t matter if anyone saw.
“I’m going to miss him,” I said softly.
“Yeah,” she said through new tears. “Me, too.” She finally squeezed me tight and stepped back, and she had the saddest smile.
She looked at my face again. “Eddie, are you all right?”
“Just a fight,” I said. “Michelle, what are you …” I didn’t know how to ask it.
“What am I doing here?”
I nodded. “Well, yeah. I don’t think anybody expected you back so soon. You going to be in the Twelfth tonight?”
“I don’t know yet. I’d rather be in the Twentieth, where I can at least help out.”
“Have you talked to your captain?”
“Yeah, he said it’s fine with him if it’s OK with Kirk.”
“I’m sure he’s not going to have a problem with it. Unless … are you really all right to be out here?”
“I’m a cop, Eddie. This is what I do. I can’t just sit at home, that’s a hundred times worse.”
I would have felt the same way. “If you think you’re all right …”
“I’m fine. Well, maybe I’m not fine. Maybe it just hasn’t hit me yet. But until it does, I have to be doing something.”
“That’s understandable. Why don’t you ride with me, I’ll get the OK from Kirk.”
Her face relaxed and she gave me a grateful smile. As we walked back through the operations room, Sammy waved us over.
“How come you’re not over at Seventy-fifth and Pine?” he asked.
“What’s at Seventy-fifth and Pine?” “You didn’t hear on Radio?”
“Not on this one,” I said, pulling it off my belt. “I can’t even get static.”
“Supposed to be a body in a car trunk,” said Sammy. “Could be mob-related.”
“Hmmm,” I said, scratching my jaw. “Heart of Westmount, body in a trunk. Yeah, maybe just a slight possibility.”
W
hen Michelle and I got there, they still hadn’t opened the trunk. Captain Lanier and Doc Bizbee and all the other guys from OC were hanging around the car, along with some cops from my squad. The object of everyone’s attention was a deep blue Lexus, brand-new or close to it.
A crowd had gathered around, and as we made our way through, I caught Doc’s eye. He came over, and I could tell he was pretending not to notice my face. I introduced him to Michelle, I told her that Doc and I had become good friends when I was in the unit.
“I’m real sorry about your brother,” Doc said in his slow Texas drawl.
Michelle nodded her thanks, and I asked Doc what he had.