AHMM, October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  It was a tremendous letdown. I had visualized all kinds of scenarios, some involving a life of crime, a few on the romantic side. This was so ... so routine, so commonplace.

  McKelvey was still talking. “...but no one would hire him on an ore boat because of his gimpy leg, so he's working for a ship's chandler."

  "Then his memory came back? For both lives?"

  "Not really,” said Jack Eddy. “Or so he says. He's okay on the Stankowski end of it, and Mac kind of rebuilt a memory on the Cermak side for him."

  I took a chair in the corner and sat through their bull session, not really paying attention until Cal Andres said, “Jack, did I ever tell you about a couple of boaters I talked to up at Lorain who swear that on foggy nights they saw the Carty-Jamison No. 2? Came too close for comfort, both said, and they could read the name clear as a bell."

  Oh no, I thought, a ghost ship. As if there weren't enough unanswered questions. The others were laughing, making remarks about people with overactive imaginations. Maybe, but I wasn't as sure as they were. It was Lorain where Roman Stankowski had been born. I could see it in my mind, a ghost ship taking one of its sailors home.

  When the others had left I turned to Jack and said, “I don't know what to make of it. When you think about it the whole story is kind of crazy. It seemed like such a mystery at first. You know, who he really was, what had happened to his wife and kid, what he had been doing during those years missing from his memory. And now it seems like nothing."

  "Come on, buddy, do a little real thinking. This survivor of the storms, a not-too-brilliant sailor who somehow managed to live when two ore boats split asunder with him on board comes to town and breaks up a huge record counterfeiting operation, decides the woman he was once married to is a grouchy old shrew with a fifteen-year-old kid who is a foul-mouthed punk, then quietly slips away and goes back to a life he enjoys. You call that nothing?

  "You know, friend, I didn't realize you were such a dreamer. You wanted it to turn out that Stankowski was one of the triggermen in the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre, then hooked up with the Dillinger gang to rob a few banks, and all the while was secretly married to Greta Garbo. Now when you find out the truth, which actually is pretty exciting stuff, you find it anticlimactic."

  I didn't want to laugh but couldn't help myself. “Put that way, maybe you're right. I can't imagine what Sue Baney's going to say when I tell her about this final development."

  "I thought she wasn't having anything more to do with you."

  "Oh, she'll come around."

  "You think so, huh? If you're right she'll say the same thing she said before. She'll cluck her tongue a few times and say ‘that poor lost soul.’”

  I laughed again and headed for the door, turned there, and said, “She's right, you know. Stankowski really is a poor lost soul. And now we're never going to know what he really does and doesn't remember about those years."

  "The human mind is a funny thing, buddy."

  "You can say that again. After all this I don't think mine will ever be the same. But I wonder what Stankowski or Cermak, whatever you want to call him, was doing from the spring of 1923 until the spring of 1925? And what about that ghost ship?"

  He grabbed a pencil from his desk and threw it at me. “Get out of here, troublemaker. I've got work to do."

  * * * *

  I wrote a letter to Ernie Pyle briefly outlining the end of the Roman Stankowski story. And every night or two I called Sue Baney, said, “Hello” and then moved the phone a foot from my ear because without fail she slammed the receiver down when she heard my voice. It sounded like someone slapping two boards together.

  Was our year-long romance finished? I didn't know the answer any more than I knew what was going to happen with Europe seemingly on the brink of war. And that ghost ship—had those men really seen it, or were they the types that enjoyed stirring the pot just to get a rise out of people? Irishmen like Jack Eddy, maybe. I didn't really believe in such things, and ghost stories didn't do a thing for me. And yet...

  I took some late evening walks on the gritty streets of East Akron, a little lost, a little lonely. Why, I wondered, did life have to be so complicated?

  Copyright (c) 2007 Dick Stodghill

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  STREET JUSTICE by Frank T. Wydra

  The black and gold cruiser crawled through the dark underbrush of the city with the grace of a panther. This neighborhood, half the homes demolished, those still standing, a third abandoned, good only as dope dens. Streetlamps shot out, so the only illumination came from the moon and the halo of the nearby downtown. Second time around the block, nothing seemed to move, not even the shadows hidden within shadows. Then Rollo, riding shotgun, growled, “There, on that porch."

  Kenny Kozlov, handling the wheel, blinked to better see through the chiaroscuro night. From the cut weeds in the front lawn, the house Rollo pointed at looked to be one of the few places where someone lived.

  "That kid,” Rollo's voice now down below his knees, “been watching us. See how he pulls back, like now. Trying to hide. He's pushing. Go around once more. Next time, cut the lights before we make the turn, see if we can spot the action."

  Kenny nodded and kept the cruiser steady at fifteen, as if all were normal. They were out of their territory, but Rollo had called dispatch and reported that their turf was quiet, volunteering to do a circuit around some of the bad spots. No argument from Washington, the watch commander, and here they were.

  Roland Macero, Rollo to his friends, was an old line bulldog: twenty years on the force, all street duty, most of it graveyard shift when the slime cats prowled. Far as Kenny could tell, it was the life for which he'd been born. Try to cover his lap with a desk, within a month the nervous energy would go nuclear. In some ways, for Kenny, Rollo was what being a cop was all about: sensing evil, catching perps, herding them off the street so that the gentle folk could leave their doors unlocked at night. Never going to happen, but year and a quarter out of the academy that was the fantasy.

  First nine months behind the badge Kenny had bumped from cruiser to cruiser on temporary duty, TDY, never pulling more than two weeks with the same guy. Then six months ago, Rollo's sidekick had taken early out, and Kenny's number came up for the slot. For Kenny, Rollo was top of the class, but that first day, when the duty roster came out, Rollo had said, “You're TDY, right?"

  "N-no,” Kenny stammered. After the rookie slush he had taken on the rotation, he expected welcome arms on this, his first permanent gig. The sneer on Rollo's face said otherwise. A half dozen blues, including Krannert, the admin sergeant who'd made the assignment, stood around catching the act, somehow knowing it was a laugher.

  "I'm no wet nurse. You're TDY. Krannert, what's this shit?"

  Krannert, propping the wall, arms folded, big “say cheese” grin on his face, said, “Watch your mouth. Boy's a comer. Year, tops, he'll make lieutenant. Figured you'd want to be on his good side. Teach him the tricks.” All the blues yuk-yukked.

  Rollo's eyes flicked around, as if checking who was in on the joke, then he pawed the air in disgust and pushed a finger toward Kenny's face. “You got a week."

  That first day, although Kenny tried a half dozen times to make words, Rollo seemed to have his lips stapled shut. Next day, the bull surprised him by saying, “You ask to ride with me?"

  Kenny shook his head. “Luck of the draw."

  "Draw? Krannert's gag, more like it."

  Kenny nodded, not wanting to look at Rollo. “I that bad?"

  "You're a rookie. Stuff I do, need solid backup. No time to wet nurse.” Rollo had the wheel, doing forty down Michigan Avenue, but that didn't stop him from swiveling his head to Kenny. “What you know about me?"

  Kenny had heard a lot but said, “Not much. Some say you're a Dirty Harry type, Pied Piper of the street. Toot your flute, the rats follow you out of town."

  "Who's talking this shit?"

  "It's around."

  "They
'd be better off keeping their mouths shut."

  Scuttle was, six years ago Rollo had taken out a perp who turned out to be short on hardware, a third-rate hood, sheet an inch thick, including armed robbery and assault with a deadly, though on that particular night the bad boy was not carrying. Two other blue suits who witnessed the action gave deps saying they thought the perp was reaching. Still, there was a six-month suspension while Internal Affairs shouldered the grindstone of justice. In the end, Rollo got a clean bill.

  To someone on the outside, six months off with pay might sound like fat city. But “with pay” means a standard, vanilla check: no overtime, no special duty, no free donuts from the local diner, not enough for most cops to live on. Gospel was, six months on straight pay put you a month in hock. Since then Rollo had gotten three citations for taking out perps, every one of them armed, plus more cuffings in a month than most street fighters got in a year. To Kenny, Academy Award performance. “Hey, guy's good, people talk."

  Rollo gave him another look, but the hint of a smile was also there.

  The third day, Rollo tossed Kenny the keys, saying, “I'm tired of doing all the work."

  Two guys, riding together all day, either talk or go to war. Once past yakking about the Pistons, Red Wings, Lions, Tigers, deer hunting, what a jerk the mayor was, how the union wasn't doing shit, it being too cold, too hot, too rainy, too snowy, what was left was the personal stuff: religion, politics, and family. To Kenny, religion was as dry as toast. End of the second week, Kenny figured Rollo tagged anyone with hair longer than a crew cut to be a bed-wetting Commie. Bring up anything more liberal than peanut butter and jelly, Rollo'd go into a rant. So Kenny cooled the politics. It took until the fifth week for them to get into family.

  "You married?” Rollo asked as they cruised West Grand, checking the topless joints, party stores, and sex shops.

  Kenny, now a fixture behind the wheel, said, “Seeing someone. Nothing serious."

  "Keep it that way. Mistake I made fifteen years ago, getting serious, figuring there was something to that marriage stuff. Got this kid, just turned sixteen. Thinks she knows everything.” Kenny glanced over, and Rollo was looking straight ahead, as if he were saying this for his own benefit. “Some advice. You get married, do what the Chinese do, have one kid and make sure it's a boy."

  "So this daughter of yours, she have a name?"

  "Louise. Sweet Louise.” Kenny could feel the glow in Rollo's face. “Used to bounce her on my knee. Never figured she'd be into lip piercing, tattoos, and that shit. Where do they get this stuff?"

  "You and the mother still together?"

  Rollo pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not for ten years. Me and her can't stand each other.” Rollo leaned over and picked up the transmitter. “Unit twelve here. Slow going in our sector. Any you girls having a rough night?"

  The radio crackled. Woman's voice. “Ten-four. Unit forty-seven. Ah, we're tied down with some family business. You want to buzz our turf, we'd appreciate. And, so you know, cut the sexist crap."

  Rollo gave Kenny a wink. “Ten-four. Sarge, you buy it?"

  Bernie Washington, the watch supervisor, came back, “Ten-four. Go to it."

  It was what Rollo did on slow nights, go out looking for trouble. Also, seemed to Kenny, a good way to change the subject.

  A month passed before Rollo brought up the kid again. This time, the night after Kenny had introduced him to the looker he was seeing, nurse by the name of Katie.

  "Good-looking girl, that Katie. Woman I married looked that good once. After a while, though, she turned mean, always ragging about how I'm never home, always working or having a beer. No matter how good a looker, once they start nagging, my eyes, they're ugly. Only thing kept me around was the kid, just going into school when I left."

  Kenny did the math. Six, seven years. Long time to stay in purgatory. “Kid must be something."

  Rollo gave him a long look, one that seemed to say it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. “Something, now. Got her old lady's looks, but innocent and not mean. Trouble is, my ex don't know how to raise a kid, lets her do what she wants. Getting wild."

  "See her much?"

  "Weekends. Every other holiday. Not enough time to set her straight. What I'd like, she rides with me for a week, sees these dregs, understands what happens when road you're on takes a bad turn, something like that'd straighten her out."

  "Kids now are pretty smart, know what's up."

  Another one of those looks. “Yeah, right.” End of conversation.

  For Kenny, riding with Rollo was like taking a graduate-level course in street justice. Cold days he brought the hookers hot coffee; street fights he cleared with a rap from his baton; guy beats his woman, a trip to the alley; sticky pushers lost their stuff to the sewer; hot contraband got sent back to the owner or delivered to the Salvation Army. Way Rollo put it, “Who's getting hurt?"

  But that troubled Kenny. For him, the book was the book. “What about due process?"

  Rollo gave him one of those looks. “You're watching too much TV. This is real world. Take ‘em in, they get a release and a record. These punks to learn, got to be consequences. Take ‘em in, what do they learn, answer me that, what do they learn? Nothing. They let ‘em go fast as we bring ‘em in. Revolving door. Out here, I'm the consequences."

  Kenny shook his head. “You're something, man."

  That gave Rollo a big smile.

  Other side of the coin were the people Rollo called the bad guys—perps who sold candy to sixth graders or smack to anyone, scum who did the rape thing or played at sex with kids, dumb-shits who didn't get the message in the alley, and anyone with a gun. Perps who, when they went in, wouldn't get out. These he cuffed. But before running them in, nine times out of ten he took them up on contempt of cop charges—making sure there were no cameras running when he applied the sentencing.

  Once, with the perp in the back cage with two black eyes, broken nose and ribs, Kenny said, “Man, you can't do that. They catch you, it's your badge."

  "Guy was resisting. SOB's peddling blow to grade-school kids, we collar him, and he resists. Way it was."

  Way Kenny saw it, no kids around, Rollo flashed the badge, the creep ran. Rollo chased him down, clubbed him to the ground, and put a steel toe to the ribs and face. But they'd been watching this one for a week and knew he was into something. Kenny nodded, said, “Way it was."

  For all of Rollo's brand of street justice, never once did Kenny see him pocket a nickel or do mean for mean's sake. End of day, their circuit had fewer majors than any other ride. Still, the rough justice left Kenny with an odd feeling. Not the way it was supposed to be done. But then, Rollo was Rollo, the cop's cop, and Kenny was just one class removed from being a rookie.

  Twice they got a call with high odds the perp was armed. Both times Rollo reached into his off-duty bag and slipped a Saturday night special, H&R snub-nosed thirty-two, into the back of his belt and examination gloves into his pocket before exiting the cruiser. First time, Kenny asked afterward, “What's that all about?"

  "Nothing you need to worry about,” Rollo told him, slipping the piece back into the off-duty bag.

  He let it sit, but a week later, they were sampling the goods at a Dunkin’ Donuts and out of the clear Rollo said, “That extra piece I carry, that's insurance. One of these times, a bad guy is going down a little light on hardware. That happens, not going to be a question of whether he's packing or not. For me, next time, there is no next time."

  For a while Kenny didn't say anything, thinking it over, remembering the story of Rollo on the beach for six months with straight pay before getting cleared. Thinking about his bringing coffee for the whores and settling with wife beaters in the alley; thinking about his being a clean cop when it came to graft. Thinking his partner had some odd ways that seemed to work even if they weren't all in the book. Thinking Rollo ever had to use the snub nose there would be a dead man on the floor. Thinking that happened, how's the perp
going to learn from the consequences? Thinking somehow, the old grade-school thing of two wrongs not making it right ate at him. Then he said, “Thanks for mentioning it. Want to take some java for the girls?"

  Rollo gave him a slow look, then a small snort, and said, “Naw, slow night. Let's see if we can do some good. Boys in the fifth usually need help."

  Once, after they had finished agreeing that the Lions wouldn't win another one this season, Rollo pulled his wallet and showed Kenny a picture of Louise. Kenny had to admit she was going to be a looker, not just saying it to make his partner feel good, but because she had the bones. Eyes alone would make a saint sin. “You believe she's sixteen?” Rollo said. “Could pass for twenty any day."

  And he was right. She had none of the little-girl-innocent look you'd expect of a kid. “She doing okay now?"

  Rollo shook his head, looking long at the picture before sliding the wallet back into his pocket. “Mixed up with some bad ones. I talk to her, but sixteen, who listens to the old man?"

  Give Rollo another four inches and he could be a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, so Kenny had trouble getting his head around the “old man” thing. Something in the image bubbled up and came out as a snort.

  Rollo scowled, “You think it's funny?"

  Kenny shook his head, waving a hand to drop Rollo's blood pressure. “The ‘old man,’ couldn't see you as the old man, like you were helpless or something. So, this bad crowd, what we talking here?"

  "Couple of punks. Other side of town, must have four years on her. Rings in their noses, tattoos, pants hanging down to show the crack in their ass, seems like they never saw a shower, not the crowd I want her running with."

  "So why not talk with them, you're good at settling things."

  It was Rollo's turn to snort. “Tried that. Kid named J. J. Mex, I think. Went out to see him. Gave him good advice. Told him, stay clear. He laughed, said Lulu, that's what he called her, Lulu, was legal tender. Said keep my nose out of it. I backed him against the wall, knocked his head around a few times, figured he'd get my drift. Damn if he didn't rat me out to Louise. Now she's pissed."