Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  “Yes,” Mike answered.

  “Well, suppose the guy raped your daughter? You walked in on it, saw him doing it. You blow the guy away, cold-blood. Is that wrong? I don’t know. Could be wrong, could be right— hell, it just is. But I’ll tell you something: it’s totally illegal, and I’d have to lock you up for it. I might also give you a pat on the back, but I’d lock you up.

  “That thing with old man Romano, was that legal? Is it right? Is it wrong? I don’t know. It just is, Mike, that’s all.”

  McQueen shook his head. “That’s a cop-out, Joe. It’s just a cop-out.”

  Joe smiled. “Well, kid, that’s what makes it so interesting. You think it’s a cop-out, but you did it anyway. You going to report it to anybody, Mike? DeMayo maybe?”

  He shook once more. “Of course not, Joe. You know that.”

  Rizzo smiled. “I rest my case.”

  McQueen leaned forward and switched on the car’s radio. They drove to the city with little further conversation, the classic rock station they had agreed on playing softly.

  PRISCILLA JACKSON glanced at the wall clock above the front desk of the Nineteenth Precinct and turned to the sergeant seated beside her.

  “Time for me to get into my civvies,” she said to him.

  He spoke without raising eyes from his paperwork.

  “Okay, Jackson. You comin’ back to the house later?”

  She stood and began to walk away, toward the stairs leading to the small, cramped, second-floor female locker room.

  “Nope,” she said over her shoulder. “When I’m done with the detectives, I’m going home.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Be careful.”

  Priscilla had been scheduled for a four-to- midnight tour on patrol, but a call from the Six-Two detective squad commander, Vince D’Antonio, had freed her for temporary assignment to the Detective Division.

  To night, she would once again team up with her old partner, Mike McQueen.

  As she changed out of her dark blue patrol uniform, she reflected on the young cop she had ridden with for two years.

  Priscilla had recognized early in their relationship the refreshing lack of pretense and superficiality in her new partner. Without ever verbalizing it or even alluding to it, Mike had made it obvious that her sexual preference was of no concern or significance to him. Although reluctant to ever admit it, Priscilla preferred working with a male partner, but finding a suitable one had always been difficult. She found herself constantly having to make allowances for their macho posturing and lack of empathy for the citizens they came in contact with, be they victims or perpetrators.

  But with Mike, it had been different. He was a unique combination: a smart, educated man who also commanded a tough, street-smart attitude instilling in Priscilla a cold comfort: he would handle himself well and was capable of covering her back even in the worst of situations. And although his deep blue eyes could grow icy and hard, he never lost his humanity or concern for those they served. When circumstances so dictated, Mike could be coldhearted and was not a cop to be pressed or fooled with. Yet he carried with him a sensitivity and gentleness that Priscilla found herself sometimes having to work hard to try and equal.

  Priscilla had always enjoyed those occasional long, slow nights together, usually during the harsh winter months, where their conversations were not limited to sports and women and the evil nature of mankind, as with most male partners, or to the never-ending man trouble and child-care issues of female partners. No, with Mike it had been different. Music, movies, cars— even art and theater— had been discussed. They had even reflected on the more philosophical nature of life, each from their varied backgrounds and viewpoints, and Priscilla knew they had both broadened and grown as a result.

  She missed him. And as she finished lacing her sneakers and adjusting her black leather ankle holster, she smiled as she realized that Mike’s strong, confident good looks and aura of danger hadn’t been hard to deal with either. He had attracted good-looking young women like a magnet.

  Priscilla closed and secured her locker. As she left the room and made her way to the front entrance of the precinct, she wondered how Mike was faring with his new partner. Joe Rizzo seemed so different from Mike; not just older, different. She wondered if Rizzo’s problem with Internal Affairs was in some way contributing to Mike’s gnawing unease and dissatisfaction with his career. She had always known Mike to be mildly unhappy somehow, but no more or less than any other cop she knew. On their last few meetings, though, it appeared more pronounced. It had almost intruded on their time together.

  She remembered Mike telling her of a chance encounter he recently had with some old war veteran, victim to a burglary. The man had apparently sensed Mike’s melancholy and asked about it.

  “This guy lived a long time, Cil,” Mike had told her. “He’s seen a lot, knows a lot. He saw something in me, just like that. It’s more than just losing Amy. I just wish I knew what the hell it is.”

  She had shrugged. “A lot of those old war dudes are half nuts, Mike,” she said with a casualness she hadn’t really felt. “They come from a different time. A bad time. Repressed as hell— couldn’t ask for help, couldn’t cry— all fucked up. They kept everything inside. He sees you showing your concern and feelings for him, so he figures you got a problem, a weakness. He’s puttin’ his cross on your back, that’s all. I’d not let it ruin my nights, you know?”

  Mike had smiled sadly. “Yeah, okay, Mommy, I know how special I am.”

  Priscilla had laughed. “You call me ‘Mommy’ again, I’ll give you something to be unhappy about, boy.”

  Now, as she waited for the gray Impala, she hoped it would pass. She already had enough confused people in her life. She’d hate to see Mike become another one.

  When Rizzo and McQueen arrived at the East Side precinct, they saw Priscilla waiting under the eave out front, shielded from the rain, dressed in civilian clothing. They pulled to the curb and Rizzo hit the lock release for the rear passenger door.

  Cil ran through the rain and scrambled into the backseat of the Impala.

  “Okay, guys,” she said. “Let’s do it. St. Mark’s Place, between First and Second Avenue. I just got off the phone: Papa Man is there and awaiting our arrival.”

  “Thanks again, Cil,” Mike said over his right shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to get dragged along.”

  She shrugged. “The only way the Angels would agree. My man at The Cheetah’s told them I was good people, but he couldn’t vouch for you guys. I’ll vouch to Papa for you, then all the little niceties are tied up. It’s no problem, I’m glad to help.”

  McQueen had little trouble finding the building once he turned onto St. Marks Place. Two thirds of the way down the street, on their left, stood a tenement surrounded by nearly forty motorcycles. Some were covered against the rain, others exposed, some on the street, others up on the sidewalks, their high handlebars and chromed engines and pipes glistening under the streetlights.

  He angled the car into the curb in front of a fire hydrant and shut the engine. Joe reached for the Motorola and turned it off, slipping its thin body into the inner pocket of his sport coat.

  “I hope you remembered to oil up that fancy Glock of yours, Partner,” he said with a grin. “This place looks a little like Dodge City to me.”

  McQueen laughed. “Do you have that flintlock you call a sidearm on you?”

  “My Colt? I sure do. Any gun you can carry for twenty-six years and never have to fire, that’s a goddamned good gun. A guy keeps a gun that good.”

  Priscilla sounded up from the rear seat.

  “Gentlemen, please,” she said. “Put the testosterone back in your scrotums. There will be no trouble to night. We came under The Cheetah’s banner, we ain’t kicking the door down. You’ll see: these guys are very classy, in their own way, of course. They’re like old-time Mafioso, or Hollywood’s idea of old-time Mafioso. Relax. And Joe, just think before you try to be funny. Subtle irony may be lost o
n these guys, and it’ll be tough trying to get a motorcycle boot out of your ass.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Okay, Cil. I get it. I’m Henry Kissinger tonight.”

  “Well,” she said, opening the car door to get out, “whoever the fuck he is, I hope he’s tactful.”

  Their knock at the door was answered by a tall, slender, blonde who appeared to be about twenty-five. She wore dirty jeans and a thin white T-shirt under a black leather vest. She was bra-less and well endowed, barefoot with a nice, easy smile.

  “I’m Cheryl,” she said. “Papa Man is expecting the heat, and you guys seem to fit the bill. Am I right?”

  Rizzo chuckled. “Well, I’m Detective Sergeant Rizzo, and this here is Detective McQueen and Officer Jackson. But I don’t know if we generate much heat, Cheryl.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together and waved an index finger at Rizzo.

  “Shame on you guys,” she said. “Two white males and you’re detectives, one black female, and she’s just an ‘officer.’ ” She turned to Priscilla and smiled. “What was it, honey? Sexism or racism got them promoted over you?”

  Priscilla smiled. “Both, sister. Both.”

  They followed Cheryl into the foyer, an uninhabited living room in pleasant disarray to their right, an open staircase rising before them. To their left, a doorway, the door ajar, led to the basement stairs. The odor of cigarettes and burning marijuana wafted up the steps into the foyer, and the heavy bass of an elaborate sound system pounded from below. Cheryl smiled.

  “We party on Wednesday nights,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “And any other night when it’s raining. If you can’t ride, you party. We keep it simple.”

  She turned and led them up the exposed main stairway to the second floor, then knocked on a closed door. When they heard “Come in,” Cheryl led them into the room. It appeared to be what probably had once been the master bedroom of the residence, a spacious room with two narrow floor-to- ceiling windows looking out across some backyards. Leather chairs and two broad, black leather sofas dominated the room. Against one wall, behind red velvet ropes that hung from gold-plated posts, stood the bent frame of a battered and broken royal blue customized Harley-Davidson motorcycle. A black, World War II–era German Army helmet sat atop the twisted, torn padded seat. The name “Jose” was stenciled onto a white piece of poster board taped to the wall above the cycle. A slight odor of gasoline hung in the air. The three cops looked at the display, surprised to see the carcass of an eight-hundred-pound Harley in this second-floor room.

  “All that remains in earthly goods from our departed brother, Jose the Cuban,” they heard from their left.

  Turning, their eyes fell on Papa Man, a sight familiar only to Priscilla.

  He sat spread-legged on a black leather love seat at the rear corner of the room. He appeared to be about sixty, although Rizzo felt with allowances for lifestyle, he could very well be in his early or mid fifties. He was a huge man, over six feet tall, and carried a paunch that brought him to over two hundred and sixty pounds. He was dressed in black jeans and a black riding jacket over a bare chest and bloated, hairy stomach. He held a bottle of Budweiser in one hand. His black hair was grizzled and unkempt, but oddly not unpleasant-looking, and his face carried the graying shadow of a day’s growth of beard. He smiled at them and rose from his seat.

  “It’s a tradition of ours. Whenever an Angel dies on his bike, we set the wreck up here. It stays until the next guy goes down. Jose there, he’s been dead for three months. We had a good run this spring.” He smiled at them, wolflike. “But hell, it’s the summer now. I figure we should be moving old Jose out in about a week or two.”

  He turned to Cheryl. “Go find Mama Man and send her up here, honey, and bring our guests beers. But not this piss”— he waved the long-neck bottle of Bud—“the Sam Adams Summer Ale. New York’s finest deserve our best stuff.”

  Cheryl smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her. They all shook hands, Priscilla kissing Papa lightly on his lips, then got arranged in their seating. The boom-boom of the bass from the basement vibrated the floor beneath their feet and the chair cushions they sat on.

  “Please, Officers,” Papa said, “before you begin, I ask that you wait for my lovely bride to join us. There are those who will say— outside of my presence, of course— that she’s the brains and I’m just the brawn of this operation.” He flashed the wolflike grin again. “They may be right.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, McQueen fidgeting ner vous ly on the couch, Rizzo scanning the room and its eclectic and not uninteresting contents. The twisted motorcycle, oil seeping from its broken motor, sat like a specter beside them.

  Mama Man entered the room, followed by Cheryl carry ing a cooler full of Summer Ale. Mama greeted the three cops with a smile, shook their hands, then went to the love seat and sat beside Papa. She was dressed in a fashion similar to his, but with a black vest like Cheryl’s over a red T-shirt. A large black button with white lettering pinned to her vest read “My Other Toy Has a Dick.” Her brown hair was tied back behind her head in a casual knot. She seemed about thirty, fairly trim, only a hint of a midriff beer belly. She wore no makeup and was not unattractive.

  Cheryl set the cooler down in front of the couch where Rizzo and McQueen were seated. She knelt on the floor next to Mike’s left knee and smiled up at him, opening a beer and holding it out to him.

  “You’re the cutest pig I’ve ever seen,” she said, her eyes running across his face and body. She turned to Priscilla. “Is he yours?” she asked.

  Priscilla laughed.

  “Not at all, girl, not at all.”

  Cheryl turned to Papa.

  “Can I have him, Papa?” she asked.

  The man smiled. “Well, I don’t know.” He looked at McQueen, addressing him directly. “Would you be interested in young Miss Cheryl, Detective McQueen? I can assure you, her charms and talents are quite considerable.”

  McQueen felt his stomach tighten and his ears redden. He glanced at Joe, who was staring fixedly at what appeared to be an actual stuffed alley cat sitting on a small table next to Papa’s seat, its paw raised, claws extended and teeth bared. Priscilla, Mike saw, wore a small, amused smile, merely raising her eyebrows at him in a questioning manner as their eyes met.

  Mike cleared his throat before responding. He felt Cheryl’s hand fall gently on his leg, above his left knee.

  “I’m working to night, Papa,” he said, his voice sounding strained, even to his own ears. “I don’t think I can.”

  Papa frowned. “Well, Cheryl, there you have it. I’m sorry, but we have here a man convinced of his own nobility, blind to the middle-class bullshit he drowns in. Go on, Cheryl, go find a more agreeable amusement. I suggest you start in the basement.”

  She stood and smiled sadly at Mike, then turned to Papa. “Will you need anything else?”

  “No, thank you, Cheryl. Go on.”

  She nodded pleasantly at Rizzo and Priscilla, then turned and walked from the room with a bounce in her step that tossed her not-quite- clean hair jauntily around her head. She closed the door behind her.

  “Gentlemen,” Papa Man said, with a slight nod to Priscilla, “I have a few items of business to attend to to night, you being only one of them. So let’s get started. I’ve been told by my associates in Brooklyn that Priscilla here is good people, and I remember her to be so. I assume she will tell me the same about you— with the understanding, of course, that you are all three pigs, and the scope of your trustworthiness can only be so broad. I accept that. I’ve also been told by Brooklyn that you need access to The Dutchmen. Access that you believe I can arrange for you.”

  Rizzo nodded. “That’s correct. Can you? Arrange it, I mean?”

  Now it was Mama who smiled and spoke as she leaned forward in her seat.

  “Papa can do anything he wants, Detective Rizzo. The Dutchmen are evil and sick people, and periodically, Papa finds it necessary to remind them whose city this
is. That’s why he agreed to this meeting in the first place. If you have an even remotely reasonable request, Papa will grant it. Forcing those savages to meet with you will reinforce his supremacy.” Now her smile broadened and she sat back in her seat, lifting a beer bottle to her mouth as she spoke.

  “And it’s so much more civilized than throwing one of them off a roof, don’t you think?”

  Now Papa Man spoke, his eyes moving from Rizzo to McQueen.

  “Can you see, gentlemen, why I’ve married this woman? She uncomplicates my life.”

  He took a long pull on his Budweiser.

  “So,” he said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “What brings you here? What’s your beef with our friend, The Surgeon?”

  “No beef, Papa. No beef at all. Let me tell you the situation,” Rizzo said.

  When he had finished, Papa Man sighed and looked at Mama. She smiled and shook her head.

  “This is about some runaway rich kid?” he asked. “That’s the problem? Hell, I got three of ’em right here, in the basement, probably with their asses up in the air right now. Why don’t you take one of them and forget about The Dutchmen?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “I’m not after them, Papa. I’m after her.”

  Papa compressed his lips and ran a hand through his hair. He sipped at his beer, then spoke.

  “Detective, you’re jaywalking a dark boulevard.”

  Rizzo frowned. “What does that mean, Papa, I’m not following you.”

  “This is nothing but an ego thing with you,” Papa answered. “It’s like when I’m riding in the night. I’m tearing down some broad street somewhere, and some citizen, he’s jaywalking across the road, in the dark, his head up his ass. He’s all wrapped up in his own history, full of his own memories, making his plans, the center of his universe. He can’t conceive of being nothing but an unseen object on somebody’s road, like some scrap of paper or a grain of sand. No, he believes he’s so important, so special, that everybody must see him, must know who he is. He can never get it that in a split second, him and his memories and his plans can all be gone, just like that. Erased from the slate. That’s ego. That’s what this is for you, Detective Rizzo, ego. Find the big shot’s daughter, and you’ll be a big shot, too.”