Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

Rizzo leaned across the desk and softened his tones when once again he spoke.

  “You know, Mike,” he said. “We all wind up where we belong in this life. I don’t know how it works out, but it does. Everybody, and not just cops, winds up right where they belong. So if you belonged in the Six-Two, that’s where you’da wound up. If it’s the Plaza where you belonged, then that’s what it will be. In the meantime, guys like you and me, we just wander through people’s lives looking for things they wish never existed in the first place. That’s what we do. And on the way, we just have to be who we are. The rest will work itself out.”

  After a moment had passed, Rizzo spoke again, softly.

  “So, tell me, Mike. Who are you?”

  Mike sat silent for a moment. He sighed before speaking, and Rizzo could feel the burden on the young man’s shoulders. Yet he remained silent, and waited.

  “There was this kid once,” Mike said, his eyes hooded and tired-looking. “Hispanic, maybe nineteen. I was riding a sector car in the Village back then, me and a guy named Bobby Noe. We partnered for about two years. Well, we knew this kid was dealing a little grass to the preppies from Jersey and Long Island, down by the Café Wha? but we looked the other way. After all, we were in the Village and you had to prioritize. So one day, Noe hears that the kid started moving H and some crack. We check him out, and sure enough, he’s holding ten bags of heroin and twenty vials of crack, not to mention a sack full of grass. We arrest him and he gets an attitude with us, mouths off a little, so Noe, who never had much patience, gives him a little smack. Just to shut him up. So we’re heading for the house, I’m in the backseat with the kid, Noe is driving. And all of a sudden, the kid turns on me. ‘This is bullshit, man,’ he says. ‘Bullshit.’ So I say to him, ‘Hector,’ I just remembered his name was Hector. I say, ‘Hector, how do you figure it’s bullshit? You’re dealing heroin on the street, scaring all the tourists, where’s the part that’s bullshit?’ ”

  Rizzo smiled. “And his answer was … ?”

  McQueen chuckled, a sad, unhappy sound. “His answer was, ‘Why don’t you pretend like I’m some hooked-up white rich kid from NYU, then you’d drive me home and daddy’d grease your palm for you.’ ”

  Rizzo nodded. “Kid wasn’t too far off base. Bet that’s happened a few times.”

  McQueen spoke again, leaning forward in his chair. Rizzo saw a new animation in his partner’s eyes, strong enough to push away the fatigue.

  “Yeah, Joe,” he said. “But at the time, the kid really pissed me off. Who did he think I was, some two-dollar hooker? Now, though, now I get his point. There’s so much crap in the water you can’t see anymore. It’s like some giant polluted lake nothing can survive in.”

  A few seconds of silence passed, the two cops gazing at each other over the cluttered desk. The fan and faint hum from the overhead fluorescents was the only sound they could hear.

  “That’s why we have to go to the feds, Joe. Because of that kid. Because of all the people like that kid. If we don’t go to the feds with that tape, we could never lock up another soul. Not ever. No matter what they did.”

  Rizzo sat back in his seat. He felt his jaw muscles relaxing. He smiled at Mike.

  “You sure, kid? Hundred percent?”

  McQueen nodded, smiling sadly. “Hundred percent. We’ll take it in as soon as you think the time is right.”

  Rizzo grinned. “So, we’re riding out from Goliad and back into the Alamo? Like a couple of crazy heroes?”

  “I guess so, Joe. You always wanted to be that guy— what was his name?”

  “Bonham. James Butler Bonham. That’s right, Mike. I always wanted to be him. But you got to remember, that was just a game, and I was just a kid. As a kid, Bonham going back in made sense. As an adult, I always sort of wondered: What was the guy thinking about? What we got here is no game, and neither one of us are kids. If I wanted to be a fuckin’ hero, I’da been a fireman.”

  McQueen looked puzzled. “I’m not following you, Joe. What are you saying?”

  “Well, Mike, you remember when we first caught this case? Back when The Swede made his pitch? We knew it was po liti cal, we knew it smelled bad, remember? And we decided to take it on anyway? I told you something then. Do you remember?”

  McQueen shook his head. “No, Joe, I don’t think so. What?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t let us get hurt on this. I assured you of that, as I recall.”

  “And?”

  “If we go to the feds with this, we will get hurt. You more than me. We go to the feds with this, your career is dead in the water. Some hard-on at the Plaza can let six months, a year go by, then set you up on something, get you jammed up real good. Indicted maybe. Who the fuck knows?”

  McQueen felt his cheeks flushing red. “So what? We knew that all along, we’ve discussed it ten times, at least. How come all of a sudden you’re having reservations? Were you hoping I’d be the one to cave on this, I’d want to play it safe? Get you off the hook with I.A.D. and you could tell yourself it was my idea and you just went along for my sake? Is that supposed to ease your conscience? What’s going on here, Joe?”

  Rizzo laughed and held his hands palms out toward McQueen.

  “Relax, Partner, relax. Hear me out. Trust me a few minutes more, okay? You can start preparing your apology while I explain it. It’ll save you some time when I’m done.”

  McQueen’s face was grim, his jaw set. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “When we first got the tape from Father Charles and listened to it, the idea started to come to me. You see, there were two legit priests we ran into on this case. Remember Jovino? Father Tillio Jovino down at the Non-Combat Zone runaway shelter in Red Hook?”

  McQueen’s face puzzled over. “You mean the guy who extorted the donations from us?”

  “That priest, yeah. Well, I went to see him last week right after I left The Chink at the Starlight. I told Jovino there was a slight chance I would be comin’ across some evidence in the near future, evidence against Daily, from Rosanne. I explained to the good Father that if I did, I had a problem. I didn’t get real specific. But I told him, I figured with him running that shelter, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for anyone to believe that Rosanne’s little goody bag could fall into his hands. And if it did, he’d be obligated to turn it over to the proper authorities. Funny thing was, his eyes lit up when I told him about it. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggestin’ the good Father is looking for any un-Christian like revenge, but it seems he’s come across Daily a time or two in the past. Like the time when Jovino was trying to get some money for his shelter. It seems Councilman Daily got wind of it, and suddenly, this private, for-profit agency submits a proposal for a similar shelter, funded entirely by the city, and at roughly twice the amount Tillio Jovino would ever need. He figured Daily was in for a kickback so he started up enough of a stink that Daily got cautious. Jovino had this newspaperman friend, an editor at the Times that served with Jovino in Vietnam. So the guy called the good councilman. Next sound they heard was the council vote authorizing a contribution to Jovino’s operation. The whole episode left a bad taste in the priest’s mouth, and he’s been bothered by it ever since. He felt he should have done more to try and redeem Daily’s soul. Or at least kick his ass, as Jovino phrased it. Well, he said he’d help us. He even said he’d visit Rosanne at Gracie Square and offer her a little spiritual guidance. Not to mention establishing a direct link between them, and a priest-confessor relationship to boot.”

  Rizzo crushed out his cigarette.

  “Rosanne is so screwed up, she probably won’t even remember what she did with any of this stuff. We’re clear on the box we got from Father Charles and handed over to Manning. I read the second diary and tore out the page implicating Daily. Remember the first diary we found in her room? With that page torn out? We wondered what she needed to hide from her parents considering all the other shit in there. Well, that was it. She made reference to him being a crook in that first
diary, and she couldn’t let him find out she was on to him. So she tore it out. And when she started her next diary, she made damn sure to take it with her when she left.”

  Rizzo held up a hand to cut Mike off as the young cop tried to speak.

  “Wait,” he said to McQueen. “Let me finish. Six months from now, if you still want to, we could take the tape to Jovino. He takes it to the feds, says he found it in some old stuff some kid left behind at his shelter. Remember, Mike, we filed no official DD-fives on this investigation: there’s no link between us and Jovino. So after the feds get the tape, the shit hits the fan. All of Daily’s pals run for cover, especially his buddies at the Plaza. If some of them begin to suspect it was us behind it, they’ll figure it was more me than you. And I’ll be retired by then. Plus Daily’s Plaza flunkies already squashed the I.A.D. case on me. None of them will wanna have to explain that, it would expose them too much. They’ll be all too happy to avoid tracing anything back to us, and let it all rest in peace. Most of them are too stupid to imagine this story could be anything but the truth. Once Daily gets jammed up, he’s on his own. Everybody runs for cover and tries to save their own ass. Even Rosanne won’t have to fear him anymore. He’ll be history. Him and half the crooked politicians in the city.”

  Now Rizzo smiled and softened his voice.

  “It’s perfect, Mike. We’re even covered with that psycho, The Surgeon. If he ever tries to squeeze us over the box he told us about, we’ll tell him fuck off. I personally turned that box over to a supervising police inspector.”

  McQueen smiled grimly. “To save himself, Manning would have to say he gave the box to Daily, the father and legal guardian of an incompetent person.”

  Rizzo nodded. “There would be no reason for him to deny it. We could easily prove he was pulling the strings on the Rosanne investigation. Hell, he set it up with D’Antonio. And up to then, nothing he did was illegal. Irregular, maybe, but not illegal. Any lawyer with a brain would tell him to admit he took the box from me, recovered property from an investigation, and returned it to the kid’s father.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, McQueen digesting it all, running Joe’s words through his mind. Then he leaned forward in his seat, a frown on his lips. When he spoke, anger tugged at his words, exasperation in his tone.

  “You had this figured out all along, and you didn’t tell me? Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through the last couple of weeks? Any idea? I swear to Christ, Joe, I feel like punching your fucking lights out!”

  Rizzo chuckled. “And you probably could, too, Mike. But afterward, you’d know you’d been in a fight, I can guarantee you that.”

  They sat in silence while Mike cooled down. When he spoke again, it was in a calmer, conversational tone. Rizzo noted the relief in the young man’s voice and body language. It made him feel good.

  “You could have saved me a lot of grief here, Joe, if you’d have let me in on your little plan.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Sure I could have, kid. But then you’d never know. You’d never know how you would have played it. You’d never know just what kind of a cop you really are.”

  McQueen smiled grimly and looked deeply into Rizzo’s eyes.

  “And you, Joe,” he said softly. “You’d never know what kind of a cop I was, either, would you?”

  Rizzo compressed his lips and nodded. “That’s right, Mike. But I know now. We both know now. See, I had to see what you would do. At your age, it’s good you want to be noble— it shows character. And character doesn’t change, only circumstances change. So, when you get older, when you’re my age and you been fighting off mortgages and doctor bills and tuition— not to mention crooked bosses and lying citizens— you’ll adjust to it. We can joust windmills, Mike, and lose, or we can fight dirty and maybe win once in a while. That’s what this is, a dirty fight. We sneak the ball into their court and we walk away. It’s the best we can do.”

  Rizzo paused for a moment before continuing.

  “This is a perfect example of what I’m sayin’. This whole Rosanne business. Look at what we’ve done here, Mike. We saved that poor girl’s life. We got me out from under a bum rap with those I.A.D. vultures. And we’re getting you the job you deserve, a job you’d never have gotten on merit alone.” He nodded his head as he spoke again.

  “Did we break any rules?” he asked softly. “Cut any corners? Sure. But Mike,” he said, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice. “That’s how it’s done. It is what it is.”

  After a moment or two, Mike raised his eyes to Rizzo’s.

  “One thing, Joe,” he asked quietly.

  “Yeah?”

  “When you started telling me all this, you said something. Something you need to explain.”

  “Oh, yeah, Mike? What’s that?”

  “You said, ‘In six months, if you still want to, we turn the tape over to Jovino.’ What do you mean, if I still want to?”

  “Like I said, Mike. Circumstances change. Six months from now you’ll be over at the Plaza in a nice sharp suit, dictating memos to some secretary ain’t wearin’ no pan ties. You might want to rethink things. That’s all I was sayin’.”

  McQueen shook his head. “You also said now you know—we know— what kind of cop I am. What about that?”

  Rizzo reached for another cigarette. “Yeah, Mike,” he said softly. “We know what kind of a cop you are going into the Plaza. We still have to see what kind of a cop you’ll be after you’ve been there awhile.” He paused and lit the cigarette. “See, Mike, it never really ends. The test, I mean. It grinds a lotta guys down.” He paused again. “So, we’ll see. In six months, you call me. And we’ll see.”

  They sat silently for a few moments, a sadness settling on McQueen. His eyes fell to the crumpled pack of Chesterfields lying beside the whirling fan next to Rizzo.

  “I haven’t had a smoke since I was a freshman in college,” he said.

  Rizzo smiled and tossed the pack to McQueen. He produced his lighter and struck a flame.

  “One won’t hurt,” he said.

  McQueen placed a cigarette between his lips and leaned over the desk to accept Joe’s light. He pulled tentatively on it and sat back in his chair, expelling smoke slowly.

  They sat and smoked without speaking. After a few moments, Mike broke the silence.

  “You know, Joe,” he said. “This stuff is universal.”

  Rizzo squinted. “What stuff?”

  “All this po liti cal bullshit. I was talking to my dad last week. When I first got down there. I guess he suspected something was bothering me. Something from the job.” He looked up from the burning cigarette in his hand. His steely blue eyes met Joe’s.

  “You know what he said?” he asked softly.

  Rizzo shrugged. “No, Mike, I guess I don’t.”

  “He said he and my mother had met some U.S. senator. Some guy from the county they live in. My parents have been helping out with some local union stuff down there, and this senator is a big supporter of labor. And vice versa.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Let me guess the rest,” he said happily. “Your old man said something like, ‘So, Mikey, if you need a favor sometime, maybe ol’ Senator Beauregard B. Blowhard can help.’ ”

  Now McQueen laughed. “Something like that,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

  “Well,” Joe said, “I’d keep that in mind, I was you. If this Daily thing ever gets hot, that senator could maybe be a cool breeze.”

  Again they sat in silence, and again it was McQueen who spoke first.

  “One more thing, Joe,” he said, his voice soft. “I gotta ask you one more thing.”

  Rizzo nodded. “Sure, Mike. Ask.”

  “Morelli. I just don’t get it. I know you’re no angel, Joe. I know you’ll bend a rule, play outside the lines sometimes. But you’re not a fool. This whole mess with Daily could have been played out a lot differently if you weren’t in that I.A.D. jam-up he got you into. Why’d you carry him so long, Joe? Why
do you owe him?”

  Rizzo sighed and sat back slowly in his chair. He laced his fingers together and laid his hands across his stomach.

  After a moment, he spoke. His voice was soft, almost wistful. McQueen had never heard the tone from the older cop before.

  “Couple more weeks, Mike,” he said, “will be one full year we’re workin’ together.”

  McQueen smiled. “Happy anniversary,” he said lightly.

  Rizzo’s answering smile only touched at his lips, then disappeared.

  “Not very long, really. I’ve worked with guys a lot longer than that,” Joe said. “A lot longer.”

  McQueen sat silently. After a moment, Rizzo sighed heavily.

  “What the hell,” he said. “All these friggin’ priests running through this case, I guess I got confession on my mind.”

  He reached to the ashtray and took up his cigarette, crushing it out gently as he continued.

  “I never told anybody this, Mike. It was never nobody’s business.”

  McQueen felt a slight discomfort. The sudden vulnerability he sensed in Rizzo was unsettling, almost frightening, and he wondered how he had provoked it with his question.

  “Look, Joe,” he said, “if you’d rather …”

  Rizzo raised a hand. “No, Mike. It’s okay. I want you to know.” After a slight pause, he continued.

  “We’re different generations, Mike, and maybe this’ll sound lightweight to you. But believe me, it’s heavy with me. See, my whole life is my family. Jennifer and the girls. So many guys let the job destroy their families. Too many. But over the years, Jennifer has been my oasis. No matter what the job brought, no matter what I saw or what I did or felt, at the end of the day, I had my family. My Jennifer. My girls. My little house and my peace of mind. It’s what’s kept me sane. It’s what’s kept me going.”

  McQueen nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I can understand that.”

  Rizzo slipped yet another Chesterfield from the pack. He lit it slowly and inhaled deeply. Then, smoke tumbling from his lips, he continued.

  “I almost threw it all away, Mike. About twenty years ago. Marie was very young, my middle girl Jessica about a year old. Carol wasn’t born yet.”