by Lou Manfredo
“Can you imagine this, Mike?” she said. “Finally, after all these years, I hook up with a woman who is totally cool with being gay, completely out, squared away with her family, and then I run into this bullshit. You have any idea how pissed I am?”
He smiled at her. “Oh, I think I might have some idea, Cil. Believe me.”
She swallowed some vodka and screwed up her face as she responded.
“Picture it, Mike. Christmas eve. I’m sitting in their living room, we’re all making small-talk chitchat, picking at hors d’oeuvres and sipping that crappy honky eggnog. Very civilized, and I’m thinking, ‘How fine is this, Mama and Papa all cool with the black lesbian their baby white girl hooked up with.’ Then, out of the blue, Mama leans across the coffee table and says to me, ‘So, dear, are you giving any thought to your future career plans?’ And me, little Miss Naive-Ass, I say, ‘Oh, sure. I’m on the list for sergeant.’
“Well, Mama’s jaw just about hits the tabletop, and she forgets all her rich liberal manners and says, ‘Sergeant? You mean, it is your intention to continue to work as a policeman?’ ”
Mike’s laugh caught some alcohol in his throat, and he broke into a racking cough. Priscilla folded her arms across her chest and sat back in her chair, her scowl deepening.
“This is funny to you?”
Mike waved a hand at her while he regained his voice.
“No, no, Cil, really. It’s just … just … policeman? She actually said that?”
Cil reached for her drink. Despite herself, her face gradually relaxed into a small smile. For countless times since he had first met her, Mike thought to himself how very beautiful she was.
“Word, Mike,” she said, holding her right hand up, palm outward. “Imagine that? Fancy East Side do-gooder turned into a tight-ass, redneck bitch right before my eyes.”
Mike stirred absently at his drink with an extended finger.
“Funny you brought all this up. I’ve got sort of a similar situation going on myself. The first case I worked with the squad, I met a girl, Amy Taylor. Remember? I mentioned her to you before.”
Cil’s smile broadened. “Not the first hookup you made through the job, as I recall.”
“Yeah, but this one was different. I think I was in love with this one.”
She leaned across the table and ran her fingers gently across Mike’s cheek. “Judging by the look on your face and the word ‘was,’ I’m gonna guess there’s trouble in paradise. Am I right?”
Mike smiled sadly into her dark eyes. “You could say that,” he said. “She broke it off about two months ago. We’re done.”
Priscilla shook her head in mock disbelief. “She dumped you?” she asked. “That don’t sound like the way it works with you, partner. Ain’t you first out the door, usually?”
Mike took a slow sip of his drink. “Not this time,” he said.
Priscilla smiled at him. “They say the first cut’s the deepest, Mike. I guess now you know.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Priscilla leaned closer to him and spoke softly.
“What happened, Mike? Can we figure a way to make it better?
” McQueen sighed and patted her hand. “Not this time, sweetheart. Not this time.”
After he finished filling her in on the details, she frowned and sat back in her chair.
“That sucks,” she said. “Big-time.”
She rubbed at her jaw and blew air through her lips before speaking again.
“You know, Mike, life is funny. You never know with this stuff. Look at me and Karen. She tells me her parents have known she was gay since high school, no problem. She tells her mother about me being black, and the old lady tells her that she, herself, dated a black guy in college. So again, no problem. I figure— bingo!—at last, I don’t have to deal with the bigotry bullshit. And then what happens? I go and run smack into a copbigot! So, like I say, life’s funny. You never can figure it. Maybe this chick will get over it, see you for who you are, not some flashback to the bogeyman in the subway.”
She shook her hair and pulled at her vodka.
“Listen to me, you never know. You get home some night and she’s on your machine. ‘Mikey, baby, I miss you so much! I’m sorry. Call me!’ ”
McQueen shook his head and smiled. “I got as much chance of that happening as I have with you, Cil: zero. Believe me.”
They drank slowly and continued to vent to one another, and as they spoke, Mike thought back to their blue-and- white sector car and the many long hours they had spent together talking, getting to know one another, exploring each other’s backgrounds, so different from the other. It was during those long talks that Mike had first fully realized how privileged his own youth had been.
Priscilla Jackson was the third of five children born to a single mother amid the rubble of the South Bronx. Through sheer strength of character, she had dodged each pitfall pockmarking her environment and had managed to graduate high school and go on to an associate’s degree at Bronx Community College. From the chaos of her daily existence, she had sought sanctuary in the discipline and regimentation of the police department. When finally she had found the strength to announce her sexuality to her tired, beaten-down mother, it had culminated in shock and rage and near violence. It was the last time she had ever seen the woman who had birthed her.
When McQueen had first been assigned from Greenwich Village’s Sixth Precinct to the East Side’s Nineteenth, he and Cil had worked together on an intermittent basis. After his years in the Village, with its almost carnival-like atmosphere, he had experienced a certain amount of culture shock with the transition. Cil, with two years already logged in the silk-stocking Nineteenth, proved herself an able and patient guide. She had found Mike’s obvious and genuine indifference to her sexual orientation refreshing and impressive. Eventually, they asked to be partnered and had ridden together until his promotion to detective.
“Of all the nights to call in sick,” she had moaned when Mike’s solo arrest of the would-be rapist had led to his being awarded a gold shield.
After his transfer to Brooklyn, they had seen and spoken to each other periodically and had remained good friends. On this eve ning, as they exchanged Christmas presents and caught up with one another’s lives, both found the friendship mutually therapeutic.
As their eve ning together drew to a close, Mike shared a final confidence with his ex-partner.
“It’s an Internal Affairs thing Joe Rizzo is caught up in,” he said.
After hearing him out, Cil sat back and waved for the waiter.
“Well, that calls for another drink, Mike,” she said with a smile. “One more for the road.”
When their second drinks arrived, she leaned in against the table and spoke in low tones, her dark eyes intense.
“I’ve got a friend, old partner of mine, went over to I.A. years ago. It was his path to a gold shield, so he took it. He once told me that they like it when a young clean cop gets partnered with a guy they’re looking at. They figure the young guy will kind of keep a check on things and if he ever does see something that looks wrong, he’d come forward with it. Plus, they know a young guy would be easier to squeeze if it came down to that— giving the other guy up. Guess it makes sense in their world.”
She sat back and sipped at her drink. “Just watch your ass, Mike,” she said. “Keep your eyes open, and if Rizzo is wrong, don’t fall on any grenades. Give him up and move on.”
McQueen shook his head. “I’ve got a strong feeling he’s okay, Cil. Maybe he turned his head a few times with the drinking and the fuckups, but nothing as heavy as a mob setup. He’s an old-fashioned guy and he has some kind of strong sense of obligation to Morelli, something from the old days. He says it’s not job-related, but who knows?”
“Well,” Cil said, “just keep those baby blues wide open, Partner. Don’t get slicked is all I’m sayin’.”
He nodded. “I don’t intend to. See, the thing is, I like Joe, I think he’s a g
ood guy and a friggin’ great cop. I want to work with him, at least for a while. I’m kinda stuck with him now, anyway. I agreed to work with him just before he told me about this I.A. thing. Then, when he mentioned it, I didn’t want to back out. But I’m not sure what I would have done if I’d known in advance.”
Cil shrugged. “Well, just go with it. Play it by ear, one day at a time. If it starts to look like maybe he was in on that gangster shit or maybe covered it up or what ever, you can walk away. Meantime, you learn from the guy.”
Mike drank his Manhattan. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess. I’d just feel better if I knew where Joe’s sense of obligation to that guy came from. I think it would help me evaluate things better.”
“I.A. can get rough, Mike. If they start to play hardball with Rizzo, you’ll know it. He’ll show the signs.”
“Yeah, well, every once in a while he seems a little distracted, maybe stressed. He gets quiet. You know.”
She nodded. “Yeah, Mike. I know.” After a moment, she spoke again.
“Don’t be surprised if they stop in to see you. I.A. I mean. If they do, hear them out. Don’t get all macho’d up. Hear them out.”
“Okay, Cil,” Mike said with a sad smile, “that sounds like good advice.”
Cil’s return smile was bright. “Bet your ass it is, bro. I’m the source for good shit. You know that.”
When at last they were parting, Cil leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek.
“You get past that girl, Mike. Nobody better than you.”
He kissed her back and smiled into her deep brown eyes. “Or you,” he said.
As he walked to his car, he heard her shout out his name. He turned into the cold wind that blew down the length of North Moore Street from the Hudson River. They were now a half block apart.
“Remember,” she shouted through cupped hands. “If you ever do need a best man, I’m available!”
McQueen drove north and then east through the cold streets of Manhattan. He found open curb space at Twentieth Street just off First Avenue and parked the Mazda. Climbing out, he glanced up at the parking regulations posted on the red and white sign next to the car: “No Parking— Trucks Loading and Unloading Only.” With his NYPD Official Business plaque on the dash, Mike locked the doors and crossed diagonally to the massive residential building housing his co-op apartment.
He entered the warmth of the lobby and strode across the black marble floor toward the elevators.
He noticed the neatly attired security guard look up from his desk as he approached.
“Hello, Mike,” the man said, his face beaming with a broad smile. “How you doing?”
Mike smiled back. He knew the man to be a retired police officer supplementing his pension with steady night tours at the lobby desk. Mike was very much aware that the casualness of the man’s tone was reserved only for him: the other residents— bankers and lawyers, doctors and a minor celebrity or two— would receive more formal greetings.
“I’m good, Hal. Real good. How are you?”
“I’m okay, thanks. Oh, your parents left about twenty minutes ago. Your dad wanted me to tell you they’d be home late, not to worry. They were going out with some friends.”
Mike nodded. “Thanks.”
Hal nodded, comfortable with the young cop with whom he shared a common ground. “No problem,” he said. “How much longer they in town?”
Mike punched at the elevator button. The doors slid silently open, and the soft lighting and gentle Muzak beckoned him to enter.
“Couple more days. They want to get home for New Year’s eve. Must have a big hoedown going on back in Hootersville.”
Hal laughed and waved a dismissive hand as he turned back to his paperback. Mike stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the twelfth floor.
When he reached the apartment, he found his mail, no doubt courtesy of his mother, stacked neatly on the small, round foyer table. He glanced through it and decided to leave it there. He removed his heavy outer coat and hung it on the antique coatrack.
The sound of his phone ringing led him into the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and, without glancing at the caller ID, answered the phone.
“Hello?” he said absently.
“Hello, this is Detective Sergeant Ralph DeMayo. I’d like to speak to Michael McQueen, please.”
Mike felt a cool emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat before answering.
“This is McQueen,” he said tightly.
“Hello, Mike,” the voice said. “Sorry to call so late. I tried reaching you earlier but there was no answer. You got a minute?”
“Who is this?” Mike asked. “What’s this about?”
“I’m Ralph DeMayo, Internal Affairs Division, One Police Plaza”.
Mike kept his voice neutral. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Well, you know we’re looking at your partner? Joe Rizzo?”
“Yeah.I heard.”
“Well,” DeMayo continued, “I thought you should know. That’s why I called, to make sure.”
“So, okay,” Mike said. “Now you know that I know.”
“Right,” DeMayo said casually, “that’s taken care of. You got a pen and paper handy, Mike?”
“Why?”
“Just want you to jot down my number, that’s all. In case you need to call me sometime.”
“Why would I need to call you?” Mike asked, a tightness creeping into his voice despite himself.
He heard DeMayo’s chuckle come through the line. “Well, I guess I don’t know, Mike. But you never can tell. Just in case. Maybe after you and Rizzo work together for a while and you get all buddy-buddy, maybe you’ll have something to tell me.”
Mike hesitated. Some seconds passed before he spoke again.
“Give me the number,” he said softly.
After he did, DeMayo’s voice grew lighter. “Have a nice night, Detective,” he said. “Hope to talk to you again sometime.”
The line clicked dead in Mike’s ear.
He hung up and stood slowly. He undid his belt and slipped the sleek Glock nine millimeter free, then placed it, still holstered, under his mattress near the head of the bed. Finally he undressed and pulled on worn sweatpants, dropping heavily onto the edge of the bed.
He had wanted to be a lawyer, he remembered. That first year at NYU before declaring a major, he had wanted to study law. He rubbed at his eyes, heavy from the alcohol he had consumed earlier, and tried to recall exactly when, and under what circumstances, he had changed his mind. But he hadn’t, he realized. Not consciously, anyway. His mind had simply changed itself. He finished his four years of college, took his degree, and then, one day, the notice had come in the mail.
They had reached his name on the civil ser vice list for police officer. They were calling him in for a medical screening.
And suddenly Mike had felt a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders, a weight he hadn’t been aware existed until it was blessedly gone.
No suits, no ties, no subway rides at eight-thirty, coffee at nine, meeting at ten-fifteen. Instead, dark city nights, rain-swept weekends, sunrises and sunsets, excitement, some danger— an adventure.
“Your father’s blue-collar genes,” Edward McQueen said with a smile when he heard of his son’s plans. “The PBA is a hell of a good labor union.”
His mother had concealed her disappointment well, and a less loving and respectful eye than Mike’s own would probably have missed it. But he hadn’t missed it. He knew it was there.
Along with something else. Fear.
But they gave him their full support, and he had gone ahead and done it. And it had worked out pretty well.
But that was almost seven years ago. Now Mike lay back flat on the bed, staring at the gently illuminated ceiling.
He wasn’t quite sure how it was working out now. Not sure at all.
He closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts and doubts from his mind, letting the alco
hol in his blood seek sleep for him.
As the thoughts slowly misted and floated away, Amy’s sad, beautiful face materialized gently to replace them.
He opened his eyes and sat up slowly, willing her away. As he realized she may periodically appear to him in his quiet hours, he also realized, with a cruel and absolute finality, that she was gone.
Gone forever.
Mike allowed his body to slowly lie back down, and as he drifted into a fretful sleep, he wished her well.
CHAPTER FIVE
March-April
THE WINTER RAN ITS COURSE HARSHLY, punishing the city with dismally cold days and frantic, swirling snowstorms. The officers of the Six-Two found themselves spending many an overnight at the precinct house, watching tele vi sion and sleeping between shifts, the snows too deep and the ice too treacherous for them to wend their way home to Staten Island or Nassau or Suffolk.
By mid-March, the citizens as well as the cops of the precinct wore the haggard, ashen faces of a winter-weary people, tired of the cold, tired of the bleakness of the cityscape, tired of the slipping and sliding, the fender-benders, the shoveling and sore backs. Their shoulders carried the perpetual slump of the challenger of constant cold winter winds, and their skin had become dried out, itchy, brittle to the touch. Each gray day that dawned brought silent, stoic skyward glances and soft, resigned sighs.
“Worst winter I ever seen in Brooklyn,” Joe said to McQueen one midnight as they stood at the squad room window, watching as the swirling snow obliterated Bath Avenue once again.
And then, one morning, it was all over. March 20 dawned yellow with sun. The stubborn masses of dirty, frozen snow that seemed to cling to every curb, every corner, every patch of grass or soil had softened on that day. In a week, they were gone, and the balmy breezes sweeping the streets chased the air’s cold bite from the nostrils and erased the last shadows of the dissipating dark gray clouds.
It was just such a morning when McQueen walked into the squad room at seven-fifty and signed in on the duty board. He went to his desk, bade farewell to the two morning shift detectives as they left for the day, and sat to sip his coffee and pick at his bagel.
