Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  Rizzo shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said. “The only paper we’re holding is a mental hygiene warrant. We can’t storm the place on that. There’s no indication of any crime here, Priscilla, just a screwed-up runaway kid. We’ll have to play it through the local precinct.”

  Priscilla frowned. “It won’t work, Joe. If she’s there, and they don’t want to give her up, they’ll stonewall you and the Six-Oh and tell you what you can do with your civil warrant.”

  “Then what, Cil?” Mike asked, frustration surrounding his tone. “If the kid is with these animals, she’s in deep shit, believe me. From what we’ve been told, she’s in a tailspin. We may not have a lot of time here.”

  Joe rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his left hand.

  “He’s right, Priscilla. We have to act fast,” he said, dropping his hand and looking at her.

  She sighed. “Look,” she said. “I told you I could get you in to see Papa Man over in the East Village. If anybody can get you an audience with The Surgeon, it’s the Angels. I think that’s the way to go with this.”

  “The Surgeon?” Mike asked.

  Priscilla nodded. “Yeah, that’s what they call the guy who runs The Dutchmen. Because of the earlobe thing … since he’s the one who does the cutting at the initiations. He’s known to bikers as either The Surgeon or Chirurg, which I think means surgeon in Dutch.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this, Priscilla,” Joe commented.

  She nodded. “Yeah, more than I care to. Years ago, when I rode with the Cheetahs, one of the guys was married to Papa Man’s sister. Back then, I was still in the pro cess of sorting through the straight-gay- straight-gay thing, and I went with the guy’s main man for a time. We’d hang out with the Angels, and a couple of times The Surgeon and a few Dutchmen showed up, and I just happened to be there.”

  She looked from one to the other, a small smile on her face.

  “My misspent youth,” she said, a sadness prying into her voice.

  Joe laughed. “Hey, Cil,” he said, waving for the check. “Me and two of my friends robbed a car once, when we were all in high school. Shit happens. It’s called, ‘growing up in the big city.’ ”

  Mike looked at them, his face without expression.

  “I once took violin lessons,” he said.

  Now Rizzo and Priscilla burst into laughter.

  “Damn, Mike,” she said. “I know we’re confessing heavy shit, but some things you got to keep to yourself, boy. That’s just too freaky!”

  When the check came, Rizzo took it and waved it at Priscilla. “You can thank the good Lieutenant D’Antonio for the meal. We’ve been eatin’ off him for the past week or so.”

  “Set it up, Cil,” Mike said. “Get us a sit-down with this Papa Man character. Whenever and wherever he wants, just make it soon. This kid is probably with The Dutchmen. We need to get her back.”

  She nodded. “Okay, Partner, I’ll run over to see the Cheetahs today. Maybe in two or three days we’ll have something set.”

  “What’s it going to cost us?” Rizzo asked.

  She shrugged. “Something, for sure. Papa Man may want a favor, The Dutchmen will have their hands out. I’ll get it by the Cheetahs for free. They owe me a couple of good turns.”

  Joe nodded. “Thanks, Cil, Mike told me you were a good cop. When this is all over with, maybe we can square it with you.”

  Priscilla shrugged. “No need. What goes around, comes around.”

  Rizzo rose and dropped bills onto the tabletop.

  “Amen,” he said. “Amen.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  IN THE DAYS FOLLOWING THEIR MEETING with Priscilla, Mike and Joe traversed the streets of Brooklyn in their continuing search for Rosanne Daily. As they waited to hear of any progress made in arranging a meeting with the Hell’s Angels, they chased other leads culled from the teenager’s spinster aunt and the Daily’s live-in maid and the alcoholic custodian of her former high school. Despite all efforts, the only promising discovery remained the winged wooden shoe emblem of The Dutchmen and the black Harley Rosanne had last been seen riding off on.

  On this particular day, McQueen had spent the morning interviewing some of Rosanne’s ex-classmates, then met with Rizzo at the diner on Fourth Avenue to compare notes. Rizzo had successfully managed to isolate some of the young drinkers from McDougal’s Tavern and attempted to gather additional leads on Rosanne’s involvement with the motorcyclist and her possible whereabouts.

  Both detectives found it implausible that Rosanne’s friends had no knowledge of or information on The Dutchman she was involved with. Rizzo could not decide if they were stonewalling him or truly had nothing to add. Neither detective had learned anything new, so Rizzo decided they would call it a day and start fresh in the morning.

  McQueen met with Priscilla in a cop watering hole one block from the Nineteenth Precinct where she had just finished a day tour. Over an early dinner of bar food and beer, they discussed the case.

  “How’s the search going, Mike?” Priscilla asked as they sat at the scarred wooden bar and began to eat. “Any closer to finding the princess?”

  Mike shrugged. “No, not really. That lead to the biker gang is all we really have. And a nickname we can’t run down. If you can set us up with the Angels, who knows? We may get lucky and find her.”

  Priscilla smiled at him and winked. “I ever let you down before, Mike? I’ll get it done ASAP. You watch.”

  They ate in silence for a while, then Priscilla spoke again.

  “I really wish you didn’t have to deal with those motherfucker Dutchmen, though. They’re dangerous skells. You need to watch yourself. And keep that wise-ass Rizzo on a leash, or he’ll get your skull busted for you.”

  He winked at her. “You bet. But believe me, we’re not in any danger. It’ll all be very cut-and-dried, just a series of business dealings. We give them this, they give us that. You know. It’s not like in the movies, Cil, no car chases, no shootouts.”

  She shook her head. “These dudes are a different kind of danger, Mike. Can you and Joe kick some ass? Sure you can. But these motherfuckers are evil. The Dutchmen don’t see shit like we do. They twist up life and chew on it, then they spit it in your eye. They look to hurt just ’cause it feels good. To deal with them, you gotta connect with them, and then you better watch your soul. It ain’t your ass I’m worried about, lover, it’s your fuckin’ soul.”

  Mike nodded and poked at his food with a fork. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he said, looking up and smiling sadly. “That’s why I think, sometimes, this job really blows, you know? Like, what’s the point of all this? You lock up one scumbag, there’s twenty more to take his place.” He took a long pull on his beer and turned to look into her deep, dark eyes.

  “What’s the point of even finding this kid, Cil? So they can pump her full of medication and give her a teddy bear to sleep with? Maybe she’s better off wherever the fuck she is.”

  Mike shook his head. “I mean, I’m going to try to find her, of course, it’s what we have to do. But in general. I don’t see the point in a lot of what I do. I’m not saying I’m unhappy being a cop, not exactly. Just … I don’t know … unsure. That’s the word: unsure. I’m not certain I see myself doing this for the rest of my working life.”

  “Well,” Priscilla said, a smile on her lips, “you lookin’ for a point, start lookin’ at life. What’s the point of that? Damned if I know, but I ain’t rushin’ out to die, not just yet. You do what you can to help out, and then you move on. Let God sort out the details.”

  McQueen flagged the bartender with two raised fingers. He watched the man draw fresh beers for him and Priscilla.

  “See?” Mike said as the man placed the steins before them. “Now that’s a job with a fuckin’ point.”

  Priscilla shook her head and reached for her beer. When she spoke, anger touched at her eyes. “This is why I got so few white friends. Here you are with a full stomach, a good
paycheck, a fat pension comin’ to you, and you’re bitchin’ about ‘what’s the point?’ You all uncertain about it? Go sell insurance. Or shoes. See the point of that.”

  McQueen smiled. “I forgot how it never pays to piss you off, Cil,” he said.

  Despite herself, Priscilla laughed. “Damn right,” she said.

  They sat in silence for a while, each in their own thoughts. McQueen realized his feelings of uncertainty, his lack of purpose, were nothing new. They had begun to nag at him some time ago. The focus and sense of simplicity he had seen in Rizzo had somehow highlighted his own career doubts. Although McQueen didn’t quite understand it, he knew it to be true.

  After a few moments, Priscilla spoke again. Her tone was softer, reflective, and McQueen found himself taken by it.

  “I ever tell you why I came on the job, Mike?” she asked.

  “No, not really,” he answered.

  “When I was growing up, I lived in a terrible, fucked-up environment. My mother had problems with men and booze and it wasn’t a very good time for me. Well, when I was about ten years old, there was this black beat cop walked my street in the Bronx. I remember he was tall with bushy hair and he had a big old gray mustache. His name was Ted. He always had a good word for me, used to give me candy, and when it was my birthday or the end of the school year or some other special day, he’d take me to the corner ice cream parlor and treat me to a sundae.” She laughed. “Looking back, I figure the guy was getting the ice cream on the arm. But he was always neat, clean-looking, soft-spoken. I used to pretend he was my father. It went on for a couple of years.”

  Priscilla shook her head slowly. “I never knew who my father was. My mama probably didn’t either.” She laughed again. “Hell, maybe that cop was my old man.”

  McQueen looked into her now sad eyes. “What ever happened to him?” he asked.

  Priscilla took a drink of beer and ran a hand across her mouth. “I don’t know. One day,” she said, her tone now flat, “he was just gone. I never saw him again. He must have retired or gotten transferred. I made a half-assed try at tracking him down after I graduated from the Academy, but never did.

  “But that guy, he really made a difference,” she continued. “He showed me I could mean something to somebody. He showed me one big old black man could be something, too, something special. I never forgot that.”

  Mike nodded. “I guess not,” he said.

  Then Priscilla nodded, smiling. “You go work for Merrill-Lynch, Partner. See what kind of difference you make there. You see what I’m saying?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, maybe. I guess. I don’t know. But I do know this: if I stay with the department, I want to move up. I understand Joe’s point of view about the little crimes being important and the local people needing us. And I understand what you’re saying, too. That works well for both of you, but I need more than that. I want to move up, get back across the river, get into the Plaza.”

  “Well,” Priscilla said as she drained her beer stein. “You need a hook to do that. And I’ll bet my sweet little black ass that if you save this honcho’s daughter, besides doing a righ teous thing, you might just get that hook, my honey. Know what I’m saying?”

  Mike poked at his french fries, then reached for his beer.

  “Well,” he said, “I don’t know. But I guess we’ll find out.”

  He turned to face her.

  “And,” he continued, “maybe soon. You get us that sit-down, Cil, and then we’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  RIZZO AND MCQUEEN WALKED OUT of the Sixty-second Precinct and climbed into the gray Impala, McQueen behind the wheel. It was ten-thirty on an early summer Wednesday night, warm rain falling steadily.

  “Well,” Rizzo said as he belted himself into the car, “here goes nothin’.”

  McQueen started the engine and spoke as he adjusted the rear-and side-view mirrors.

  “It’s got to be better than the last few days. I’m so tired of spinning our wheels and chasing shadows, looking for other answers. We have the answer: she’s with The Dutchmen. All we need to do is get in there and grab her.”

  Joe nodded. “Yeah, I guess. That’s probably true. But the rest of it, all the stuff we’ve been doing the last couple of days, had to be done. Couldn’t be avoided to handle this right.”

  They were both referring to the long, tedious, fruitless hours they had spent interviewing and reinterviewing family members, friends, neighbors, and former teachers of the missing girl, then tracking and running down the few leads they had received. It had taken them nowhere: the only road that had ever held any promise at all led straight to The Dutchmen. To night’s work would, they hoped, put them on that road with the guarantee of clear passage, that guarantee courtesy of the New York City chapter of the Hell’s Angels.

  As he pondered it, Rizzo shook his head. “Talk about strange bedfel-lows,” he said with a humorless smile. “A couple of Six-Two detectives and the Hell’s-friggin’- Angels.”

  They rode in silence, each with his own thoughts, rain beating against the car in tinny counterpoint to the solid slapping sound of the windshield wipers. McQueen found himself fighting a sudden melancholy. He was just about to switch on the car’s FM radio, when the Motorola handset on the seat near Rizzo began to click rhythmically. Three clicks, a pause, three clicks, another pause, then three last clicks.

  Rizzo sighed and glanced at the digital on the dash.

  “The old man must be closing up a little early to night,” he said. “I guess the sector car is busy on a job.”

  McQueen slowed for a traffic signal, the reflected red of the light glaring watery in the windshield’s wet field of vision.

  “What?” he asked.

  Joe smiled. “That clicking. It’s kind of a code. Remember those free clams you were getting all frantic about? The ones they gave you at Romano’s Restaurant? Well, kid, the check just arrived. Drive over there, Thirteenth and Seventy-second Street.”

  McQueen had been a cop long enough not to ask any more questions. He frowned and shook his head slightly. “It figures,” he said grimly.

  When he rolled up on the restaurant, a double-parked white Buick sat out front, a man behind the wheel, its motor purring softly, hazard lights flashing in the darkness. The restaurant appeared to be closed.

  “What now?” Mike asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Nothing. Old man Romano comes out, gets into the Buick with a bagful a cash from the night’s receipts. We follow him and his son to the bank on Seventy-fifth Street, they toss the bag in the night-deposit box, toot their horn ‘thanks,’ and we go our separate ways. Takes about three minutes, the whole deal. The sector car usually handles it, but when they get busy, they click for any units in the area that might be available.” Joe looked at Mike in the dark interior of the Impala. “We were available.”

  Mike watched silently as Romano stepped out of the restaurant, locked the front door, and waved them a greeting. Once inside the Buick, McQueen followed him to the bank. When they were done, he pointed the car back toward the Gowanus Expressway and Manhattan and turned briefly to Joe.

  “How smart was that, Joe?” he asked curtly. “I.A.D. breathing down your neck and you still working old contracts?”

  Rizzo chuckled. “Relax, kid. I’ve got one eye on our mirrors every second. If I.A.D. could work a good tail, they’d be out doin’ real police work. There’s nobody watchin’ us. Besides, I.A.D. investigations go on for years: they don’t spend a lot of consecutive time on most cases. I can’t be all paranoid for the rest of my career.”

  “It’s not paranoia, Joe, if someone’s really out to get you.”

  Rizzo let out a full laugh. “Good point, but, you know, they may not be out to get me. They might just wanna put the fear of Jesus into me so I’ll give up Morelli. Which, by the way, I would’ve done on day one if I could’ve proven he set the murder up. But free clams and following an old man to the bank, that ain’t nothin’. You know that.”

&n
bsp; “I guess that’s one of those things that isn’t right, isn’t wrong … just is, right, Joe?”

  Joe nodded and reached for his cigarettes. “Exactly,” he said. “Nothin’ illegal about it. The guy is a citizen and he’s afraid to go three blocks at night with a bag full a cash in his hands. So he calls the cops, and we help him out— protect him. That’s our job. If the guy appreciates it, offers some thanks, what’s the problem?”

  McQueen shook his head. “If you’re not seeing it, I can’t show it to you.”

  “Mike,” Joe said patiently. “We’re cops. We don’t do ‘right’ and we don’t do ‘wrong.’ We do ‘legal’ and ‘illegal.’ What we just did, that falls in between, that’s the gray area. It’s a judgment call. Don’t lose any hair over it, okay?”

  After a moment, Joe spoke again.

  “You know, Mike, people are people. They’re always going to do certain things— like smoke or drink or gamble or even go to prostitutes. All of those things were once, or still are, illegal. But things change. Prohibition came and went. Gambling? My old man got locked up the first month I was born for being in a poker game in back of a bar. Now you can do it anyplace, plus go to Off-Track Betting or Atlantic City or Las Vegas Night at the church fund-raiser, buy a Lotto ticket from the state … what ever. See, it all changes— right, wrong, legal, illegal— most of that stuff can’t be regulated ’cause it’s human nature. If you tell somebody it’s illegal to drink or smoke or gamble or go to a cat house, next thing you know there’s some guy banging on a pulpit someplace telling you it’s illegal to be gay or read some book or see some movie.

  “That’s why being a cop is so simple. If the good citizens tell us something is illegal, we lock people up for it. If they tell us it’s okay, then it’s okay. If it’s illegal, you can’t do it, period. If it’s legal, you can. When you get into that gray area, you decide for yourself. But ‘right,’ ‘wrong’? What is that? It’s wrong to kill someone, right?”