Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  Both Rizzo and McQueen laughed.

  “I told you not to fuck with her, Joe,” Mike said pleasantly.

  Rizzo shook his head and found Priscilla’s eyes in the mirror.

  “Don’t you worry about the neighborhood, Cil. I’ll hang a cannoli around your neck and tell everybody you’re my cousin from Sicily. And lesbians are cool nowadays, don’t you read People magazine? Besides, I’m talking gold here, not black, white, green, or purple. Gold. You come to the Six-Two, I hook you up with some of my— our, me and Mike’s— cases. Then we stat you on the precinct reports to the Plaza. I have friends, Cil, influential friends, in the department.”

  McQueen raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief. “Friends, Joe? Say it ain’t so, buddy. Please.”

  Rizzo smiled. “Well, not friends exactly. But a bunch of guys who owe me. One big shot that owes is worth twenty friends with nothin’ but their joints in their hands, believe me. Cil, if I get your name on some paperwork, that’s all the justification they would need to square me a favor. I can get you a gold shield, and I know you well enough to know you should have one. Think about it. Let me know. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Mike turned in his seat and looked into his old partner’s face. “The man’s magic, Cil,” he said. “I’d listen to him if I were you. Just think about it.”

  Priscilla sat back in her seat and sighed.

  “What good is being a cop if you got to think about something?” she said, a tight smile on her face. “Can’t we just go get some donuts?”

  THE ONE Hundred Twenty-third Precinct was housed in an old, limestone and steel building in the Saint George section, on the south side of Richmond Terrace. The front of the building overlooked the dour waters of the Kill Van Kull and the industrialized waterfront of Bayonne, New Jersey. Detective Jim Downing smiled as he shook their hands.

  “Welcome to the boonies,” he said. “I was told you needed a hand with The Others.”

  Rizzo nodded as he took a seat at a desk in the small second-floor squad room opposite Downing. “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve got a warrant to pick up a young girl that’s been riding with them. She has some mental problems and we need to get her to the hospital.”

  Downing frowned. “So this is a mental hygiene case? And Brooklyn can spare three cops for it? Maybe Staten Island isn’t the boonies after all.”

  Rizzo laughed and waved a hand. “It’s a long story, Jim. She’s some big shot’s kid.”

  Downing nodded, his eyebrows raising. “I got it,” he said. “None of my business, anyway. Stay here, I’ll run downstairs and have them radio the sector car to meet us a few blocks from the location, then I’ll come back and we’ll leave. I might as well ride with you, I can hitch back with the sector. Where are you taking this kid?”

  “Into the city, Gracie Square Psych ER.”

  Again Downing frowned. He knew procedure: a mental hygiene warrant was executed by delivering the respondent to a sitting judge in the county of apprehension or county of original jurisdiction. But he stood slowly without comment.

  “I’ll be back in a minute” was all he said before leaving them.

  Rizzo smiled when the man had left the room. He leaned in toward Mike and Priscilla and said in a low voice, “Now, that’s a good cop. He knows exactly what he doesn’t want to know.”

  THE HOUSE stood desolate on the north side of the road, not another structure in sight for three hundred yards in any direction. Like the precinct, it stood on Richmond Terrace, the winding, snakelike thoroughfare that traversed the entire northern edge of the New York City county of Richmond, also known as Staten Island.

  The two-story wooden-frame structure nestled in among the tangled, overgrown vegetation surrounding it and running down to the banks of the water’s edge where the Kill Van Kull spilled its murky contents into the equally dismal, meandering Arthur Kill. Despite being less than ten miles from the precinct, the ride along the narrow, twisted, and often potholed and crumbling Terrace had taken them more than thirty minutes.

  Rizzo swung the Chevy off the roadway and onto the graveled expanse to the right of the house, the blue-and-white sector car following behind him. A dozen motorcycles sat randomly scattered before them. At the rear of the property stood a makeshift kennel, a chain-link fence surrounding the large shedlike structure. From the far side of the house, the thunderous roar of a half dozen Harleys coming to sudden life drew the gazes of the cops. The bikes appeared from behind the house and turned right onto Richmond Terrace, accelerating quickly away. Three huge mongrel dogs, aroused by the approach of the police vehicles, trotted up to the fence and began to growl in low, threatening tones as the cops climbed from their cars.

  In a bedroom within the house, Rosanne Daily blinked her eyes open, unsure of just what had awoken her. Had it been the slight light that filtered through her eyelids and touched her ret i nas, or the angry rumblings of the huge Harley-Davidson engines as they had growled to life just outside the window?

  She rolled onto her back and steadied her head with trembling fingers. The bed seemed to turn slowly beneath her, and she pressed her thin body deeper into the bare, soiled mattress she had slept on. Her blond hair, cut almost boyishly short, was dank and matted with perspiration. A sickly sweet odor rose from her armpits and bit at her nose. Bile rose in her throat, but the equally bitter remnants of the previous night’s gin and cigarettes lingering in her mouth chased it back down into her churning stomach. Her temples throbbed heavily with each heartbeat.

  Rosanne heard the motorcycles crack with sudden acceleration, rattling the spiderwebbed, glass panes in the window behind her. The red digital of the clock radio next to the bed, blurry in her vision, read 10:45. The faint daylight leaking into the small bedroom told her it was a.m., not p.m.

  She closed her eyes and found herself sobbing silently as reality slowly reentered her consciousness.

  Another of her unwanted days was beginning. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and willed herself back into a fitful, shallow sleep.

  Outside, a lone biker, investigating the dogs’ reactions, appeared from around the side of the kennel. He looked across to the six cops watching him and smiled. Wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, he crossed the yard and stopped in front of Rizzo.

  “You need somethin’?” he asked in neutral tones.

  McQueen produced the picture of Rosanne and held it out to the man. He appeared to be in his late thirties, scruffy but not filthy. He wore jeans, black leather boots, and a faded Jets football jersey with the sleeves cut off. His arms were sinewy and powerful-looking.

  “We need her,” McQueen said.

  The man looked at the photo and sighed. He stuffed the rag into a back pocket and nodded slowly.

  “I figured somebody was looking for the bitch,” he said. “Either that, or she’s paranoid on top of the rest of her problems.”

  “You got a guy named ‘Cake’ here?” Rizzo asked.

  The man seemed surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s me. Why?”

  “We heard the name,” Rizzo said. “Is she with you?”

  Cake shrugged. “Last I know she is, but that was a few days ago. I’ve been kind of avoiding her lately.” He smiled and looked from man to man and then back to Rizzo.

  “I don’t mind a little funky pussy once in a while, but man, this one was startin’ to peel the paint off my helmet. If you know what I mean.”

  His smile turned evil as he swung his eyes to Priscilla.

  “No offense, sis-tah,” he said sarcastically.

  Priscilla held his eyes with her gaze but remained silent.

  “Is she here?” McQueen asked, keeping his voice flat.

  Cake turned from Priscilla and nodded. “Sure. She’s upstairs, sleeping off a quart of Beefeaters. What did she do?”

  Rizzo produced the warrant from his pocket.

  “Nothing,” he said. “She’s sick, she’s going to the hospital.”

  The man scrunched up his forehead and g
lanced at the papers Rizzo held out. “Sick? What do you mean, ‘sick’? I been fuckin’ this bitch, what’s she got? Can I catch it?”

  Now Priscilla responded. “Relax, bro-thah, it ain’t HIV. She’s bipolar, that’s all. Mental stuff. I can tell from just looking at you what a good job your momma did on your psyche.”

  Cake smiled without humor. “Well, that’s real good, Lady Po-lice. That’s very funny. But this here is private property. So go get her and then fuck off.”

  “Show me,” Joe said, stepping toward the house.

  THE BEDROOM stood on the top floor at the rear of the house. It was a small room, barely large enough for the double bed that sat in the right rear corner against the back and side walls. The only other piece of furniture was a small night table that stood beneath a single window next to the bed.

  McQueen and Rizzo peered into the semidarkness of the room. The blinds were drawn closed, and someone had taped large, square pieces of cardboard partially across the front of the window recess. Weak sunlight showed through gaps. A vile, bitter odor touched them from within the room. A small figure lay at the center of the bed in a fetal position beneath soiled sheets. The sound of a troubled, nasal snore was barely audible.

  “She’s been like this for a bunch of days,” Cake said to them. “She only comes out to get more booze or hit the head. I can’t remember the last time she took a shower. I mean, this ain’t exactly the Miss America training camp, but at least the broads here hose down every couple of days.” Now he shook his head. “Funny thing is, not too long ago she was the life of the party, dancing on the picnic tables out back, butt-ass naked, a joint in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. Now look at her. Go figure.”

  Rizzo turned to face the man. “Okay, Cake, thanks for your cooperation. What were you doing when we got here?”

  Cake furrowed his brow. “When you got here? I was feeding the dogs when you got here.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Good. Go feed the dogs. We’ll handle Rosanne.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  McQueen pointed into the room. “Her. Rosanne. That’s her name.”

  The man nodded. “Oh,” he said. “She told me her name was Chicks. After the guy I won her from.”

  He turned and walked away, squeezing past the other cops and toward the staircase.

  “Don’t forget to clean up the dog shit,” Priscilla said with an exaggerated smile as he passed her.

  Rizzo took a breath. “Okay, Mike,” he said. “It’s showtime.”

  The three cops entered the room, and Rizzo switched on the small light atop the night table. The twenty-five- watt bulb threw an anemic glow about the room, a semicircle of light falling across the face and shoulders of the sleeping Rosanne Daily.

  Rizzo looked down at the drawn and pale, expressionless profile of the young girl, trying to erase thoughts of his own daughters from his mind. The remnants of a slight teenage acne dotted her cheek, and her lashes, thick and full, fluttered slightly under the invading light of the lamp. Her breathing began to quicken, and suddenly her eyes opened wide, showing an immediate and compelling fear. Rizzo reached out and touched her shoulder gently, prepared to restrain her if she bolted upright and attempted to flee.

  “Rosanne,” he said soothingly, looking into the red-rimmed green of her large, pretty eyes. “It’s okay, Rosanne. Don’t be frightened.”

  Her eyes darted from Rizzo to McQueen and back again. Then they closed tightly, and a second later, the first tear of her day squeezed out from under the left eyelid and across her cheek. Rizzo noticed the web-like wandering tracks previous tears had left on the dusty, dirty skin of her face. Again he patted reassuringly at the bare shoulder beneath the sheet.

  “It’s okay, honey. Really. We’re here to help. We’re here to make things better for you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Instinctively, and without communication, both detectives squatted beside the bed, making themselves smaller, less looming before her. When her eyes reopened, they were listless and dull. Her first rush of fear and feeling was gone now, replaced instantly by a void and vacuum of emotion.

  “My father sent you,” she said in a hoarse, cracking whisper. “To bring me back. So he can lock me away like a lunatic.” Her eyes moved slowly from one to the other of their faces. A false, empty smile flitted across her mouth, but it couldn’t take firm hold there.

  Priscilla pushed passed Rizzo to the bedside and laid a gentle hand on Rosanne’s head.

  “I don’t care,” the girl said, her eyes closing once more. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Now Priscilla spoke as softly and clearly as she could. Emotions jumped wildly in her throat, and she was unsure how she might sound if not careful.

  “Everyone is worried about you, Rosanne. We just need to get you away from these people,” she said.

  Rosanne’s eyes opened slowly, the dullness still dominating them, chasing their green beauty away.

  “He doesn’t care,” she said flatly. “You all know that. And my mother’s so afraid of him, she just wishes I’d die. That would be best for everyone, if I would just die.”

  Rizzo and McQueen exchanged looks. Rizzo patted her shoulder gently. “That’s not true, Rosanne. Dr. Rogers is waiting for you. And we can have Father Charles come and see you. You can trust us, Rosanne. I swear. We just want to help you.”

  Now she looked at Rizzo with open distaste.

  “You’re a liar. Just like him. And you’ll never get what he really sent you after. The money is all gone. So fuck him. And fuck you, too.”

  Rosanne closed her eyes firmly and compressed her thin body into an even tighter ball beneath the sheet. As Rizzo and McQueen stood, Priscilla squatted next to the bed. She stroked Rosanne’s head gently.

  “Step out of the room, gentleman,” she said in a whisper. “I’ll get her dressed.”

  She turned and looked over her shoulder and up into Rizzo’s face.

  “We need to get this child out of this hellhole. We need to get her to the hospital.”

  She dropped her gaze back to the young girl’s tormented features.

  “Now,” she said softly.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE THREE COPS FOLLOWED DR. ROGERS into the small consultation room just outside the electronic doors of the hospital’s psychiatric ward. Rogers closed the door behind them and they took seats around a small, round table.

  “Well, she’s resting comfortably,” Rogers said, a small smile on his face. “We’ve got her cleaned up and sedated, and she and I had a very productive talk. You may have found her at exactly the right moment: she truly seems receptive to treatment, more receptive than ever before. I think she honestly believes that she can get well, and that kind of attitude has been shown to make a significant difference in cases like this. We’ll be starting her on psychotropics as soon as possible.”

  Now his smile broadened and touched at his eyes. “I’m actually very optimistic.”

  “That’s good to hear, Doc,” Rizzo said with a smile of his own.

  Rogers cleared his throat. “Of course,” he said, holding up a precautionary hand, “we need to detox first— there’s been considerable alcohol and substance abuse at play of late. I’ve arranged for a full medical and gynecological examination and God only knows what we’ll find. But, in general, I’m quite optimistic.”

  “We know you’ll do your best, Doctor,” McQueen said.

  Rogers nodded. “Be assured of that, Detective. And let me say this …” He paused here and looked from one to the other, his face somber. “If I’ve misjudged your motives in any way, if I’ve seemed … defensive, I apologize. My concern was only for Rosanne and what was in her best interest. I hope you can understand that.”

  Rizzo smiled. “What exactly are we saying here, Doctor?” he asked in a light tone.

  Rogers hesitated, then returned the smile. “Well, Detective, I’ll maintain my doctor-patient confidentiality, and you maintain your policeman’s enigma. What e
ver your motives, Rosanne is safe now. That can only be a good thing.”

  They rose and shook hands and Joe said, “Well, good luck, Doc. We’ll check in periodically to see how she’s doing. If you need anything, call. We’ll do what we can.”

  “I believe you will, Detective Rizzo,” Rogers replied.

  Joe turned to his partner. “Mike, you get the warrant lodged by the admitting desk, I’ll go get the car and bring it around to the main entrance and meet you downstairs.”

  “I’ll ride down with you, Joe,” Priscilla said. “I’ve got to get going. I’m supposed to meet Karen for a late lunch.”

  “Will you be notifying Rosanne’s parents?” Rogers asked of Rizzo.

  Joe paused at the doorway and turned to smile broadly at him.

  “Oh, you bet, Doc. We’ll take care of that.” He turned and left the room, Priscilla following.

  Rogers looked at Mike. “Your partner is a very interesting man. His first impression does not quite do him justice.”

  McQueen laughed. “No, that it does not,” he said.

  “Come, I’ll walk you out to the desk and speed up that paperwork for you.”

  When their business was done, Rogers walked with McQueen to the elevator banks. He faced the young detective and took hold of his hand in a warm firm handshake.

  “Again, I must thank you. It’s incredible that you were able to find her, truly a remarkable piece of police work. You should be very proud of yourselves, you’ve done a marvelous thing for this poor young tormented soul. God bless you for it.”

  McQueen shook the hand and smiled. He thought suddenly of Ted, the black beat cop who had treated young Priscilla with kindness and ice cream.

  He smiled with his answer.

  “Well, you know, Doctor, I’m a cop. It’s what I do,” he said.

  As he stepped into the arriving elevator, he heard the doctor speak to him one final time.

  “Oh, and Detective McQueen— I almost forgot. Rosanne told me I should thank you on her behalf.” He smiled sheepishly and spoke just as the doors began to close between them.