“Hmmm. Not sure. Doesn’t ring a bell,” Paul lied.
Damn right Paul knew the name. He was a scumbag politician that somehow managed to avoid jail time despite enough indictments to make a Tammany Hall crook proud.
“What did you do? In the NYPD, I mean.” Lance said still bored.
“Just about everything. But mostly undercover narcotics on the Lower East Side.”
“In the Eighties and Nineties?” Lance said suddenly perking up.
“Yeah, why?”
“Can I shake your hand?” Todd said sticking out his puppy paw.
“Sure. For what reason may I ask?”
“Well, you and your people, were sort of, how can I put this? Were instrumental in making my father a very rich man.”
“Go on, you’ve got my interest now.”
“Well,” Todd said, leaning in, trying to keep his voice down. “My uncle on the city council kept my father abreast of what was going on in your ‘hood. He worked closely behind the scenes to make sure, um, the streets were safe, but on a particular schedule. My father bought blocks of real estate at ridiculous prices, and now, oh my God, don’t even ask!”
“Brielle, you know what? It’s time to go. Are you coming with me, are do you want stay here with Todd.”
“What’s the rush?” Brielle asked, disappointed, as she had just started another drink.
“Don’t go! I want to buy you a drink for your efforts!” Todd said holding his water bottle high.
“Just for me? Or for my dead fellow officers who helped you and your uncle get rich through the scumbag city council cabal?”
“Now wait a minute!” Todd said, just getting the insult. “Nobody talks to me –”
Paul reached across the table and grabbed him by his rubber earlobe ring. “Listen junior, you better take your Great Gatsby shtick to some other table. Because I’m about to pop a champagne cork right up your ass.”
It got quiet in their section and people were staring at them.
“Paul, stop!” Brielle said, grabbing his arm. “Todd’s an old friend.”
“I’m not feeling well,” Paul said releasing Todd and standing up. “It must have been the clams casino. Too rich,” he said glaring at Todd.
“I’ll go if you want, Paul,” Brielle responded.
“Let’s go. I’ll pay at the bar.”
Of course Paul wasn’t sick from the clams. But he was sick. There were always rumors that certain powerful politicians used sweeps of targeted neighborhoods in complex real estate flipping rackets, but you just ignored those conspiracy theories. You were sworn to duty. You did your job. Even if it meant going into burnt-out abandoned buildings to root out junkie squatters. Or raiding basement fortresses where heroin dealers were holed up. Paul was lucky. He was alive. But he attended funerals too many times for cops in his precinct who weren’t so lucky. He carried their caskets, and cried with their kids and wives and parents and other cops. Was it really just so scumbags like the Connecticut Beaumonts could get even filthier rich?
He handed the bartender his bill and the cash and looked over at the table where Brielle was sitting with Todd. He was leaning in to her and getting a little too close either for Paul’s or Brielle’s comfort. “Keep the change,” he yelled to bartender as he rushed over to the table. “Hey, Todd, I think it’s time for you to go,” he said lifting Todd’s hand off of Brielle’s shoulder.
“Hey man, what are you going to arrest me, or something?” Todd said incredulous but slurred.
“I’m not a cop. But you don’t want to find out what I might do next, so just go away. Come on, Brielle, the bus is leaving. Now.”
Todd left in a huff as Brielle stood up and stumbled slightly.
“Thank you for saving me. Todd is such an ass. But you’ve got to control yourself.”
“I don’t know; how do you beautiful women put up with such jerks?” Paul asked, leading her out to the avenue and quickly whistling a yellow cab to a halt. “Fifth Street and Second,” Paul told the cabbie.
“Oh, we learn. Just like you learned to fend for yourself when you were a rookie cop.”
“I don’t know what’s more dangerous: junkies or Toddskies?”
“Toddskies? I like that. Fits in with the garagshki,” Brielle giggled. “Where are we going?”
“We’re taking a cab to pick up my car, then I’m driving you to your house in Yonkers. And thank you very much, for celebrating my retirement night with me. It means a lot to me. Really.”
Brielle studied Paul’s face. He was tough to read. Figuring out the difference between sarcasm and honesty was not an easy task where he was concerned. “Really?”
“Yes, really. What?” Paul asked, mystified.
“I can’t tell when you’re being serious.”
“I’m being serious. Thank you.”
She wasn’t convinced.
They arrived at Paul’s Lincoln, got in, and headed north to Yonkers. Paul only had one Guinness the whole night, and he couldn’t wait to drop off Brielle at her place so he could have a few nightcaps at The Buckeye. He looked over at her as she gazed out the passenger window when they passed Yankee Stadium. Sometimes Paul wished he was a Yankee fan. He could be there in ten minutes if he wanted to go to games. But his old man was a New York Giants fan, then a Mets fan, and that’s just the way it was.
“Paul, I forgot to tell you I can’t go back to my house.”
Paul looked at her, trying to figure out what kind of female conundrum was about to unfold.
“And why is that?”
“My roommate’s boyfriend is visiting from out of town, and I promised her I wouldn’t be home tonight.”
“And where were you planning on staying?”
“I meant to ask you earlier, but can I stay over at your place?”
Paul smiled as he shook his head. How many times in his life did he fantasize about moments exactly like this?
“Of course.”
Paul parked on the street in front of his house. He rented the downstairs of this home for the past 20 or so years. It was on a tree-lined street just a couple blocks from the Broadway No. 1 elevated line, a few blocks from the much tonier and more expensive neighborhood of Riverdale.
They entered Paul’s apartment, which was tidy, clean, and furnished à la Sears furniture department circa 1985.
“Well here it is. Sit on the couch. Can I get you something to drink?” he asked Brielle.
“Just water, please.”
Paul grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, handed her one, went to a closet, pulled out some linens and a pillow and placed them next to her. “This is a pullout. Here’s some clean bedding. Do you want to turn in now? Or watch TV? Because I was going to head over to The Buckeye.”
“Paul, come over here and sit next to me.”
He complied. “Brielle, look, I like you a lot. You’ve been a great friend to me….”
Brielle sidles up practically on top of him. “Paul, you know I like you. It’s a special night. It won’t change anything.”
“Brielle, I can’t.”
Brielle pulled back, terribly embarrassed. “Oh my God. Paul, if you’re gay, there’s nothing wrong with that….”
“I’m not gay.”
“Then what is it?”
Paul stood up, took about five steps in a circle and sat back down. “Brielle, you’re gorgeous. But….”
“But what?”
“When I look at you, I see my daughter.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes. I don’t get to see her much, and it’s really complicated, but I see my daughter when I look at you. And I just … couldn’t. In fact, ever since I saw you, I thought, hey, maybe this is what Tracy is like. Like you. And it gave me some solace.”
“Why don’t you see your daughter?”
“Guess.”
“Your wife.”
“Ex-wife. Triple X wife. Tracy has been trained like a ninja warrior since birth to hate me. It’
s just the way it is. I don’t blame her. I’m hoping that now that she’s a woman, she’ll grow out of it. But if she doesn’t I don’t blame her. My wife has problems. Let’s just leave it at that. You should probably get some sleep. I’m going to see who’s over at the bar, okay?”
“Okay,” Brielle said as she gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “I’ll make up my own bed. Thanks.”
There was a wisp of autumn cool in the late-night air as Paul walked the cracked slate and concrete sidewalk towards The Buckeye. Quite a few leaves were already on the ground even though summer still had a few weeks left. He didn’t look forward to winter. It was the snow and ice he abhorred more than the cold. In fact, the colder the better because it kept of lot the bottom-feeder criminals off the street. But the snow? The worst. Especially when you had to park on the street every day. You’d spend a couple hours digging your car out, shoveling the snow into the middle of the street – where the hell else is it supposed to go? – and next thing you know a snow plow comes down the block and puts all the snow right back onto your car. And if you do dig out your car so you can drive to work, when you get home, some slob is in the spot you broke your back clearing out. Then there’s the worst kind of jerk, the one who digs out his car, goes to work, and while he’s gone puts some garbage cans and old chairs in his spot so nobody parks there. And if you dare move the junk and park there, chances are when you wake up, you’ll have four flat tires. If you’re lucky, they’re only deflated, not slashed. No, he had it with winter. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be a Florida snowbird?
It was before closing time, so there was still a small crowd in the bar. A couple played pool, two guys were throwing darts, and there was the usual assortment of neighborhood characters who’d rather be there than in an early 20th Century walk-up apartment, guaranteed to have roaches, peeling paint, bad plumbing, and noisy neighbors.
“Seamus, I’ll have a Guinness. Have you seen Mickey?”
The diminutive bartender, who always wore a white apron, white shirt, and black bow tie, put a little extra elbow grease into cleaning the pint glass for Paul. “No, I haven’t, lad. Maybe he’s already home with the little lady.”
Bobby Three Shirts was there as usual, but Paul didn’t want to strike up a conversation because it would quickly evolve into being informed how much he owed him. The rest of the crowd were semi-regulars, but Paul didn’t like engaging them either. He knew a couple of them were meth heads, and kept his distance. As long as they didn’t bring any of that or any other hard drugs into the bar, he and Mickey didn’t mind. Seamus made sure everyone knew that little code of conduct. Violators were swiftly dealt with.
On this day, more than any other, Paul wanted to hang with Mickey. Only another cop would understand. They both watched too many cops retire then quickly drop dead. Mostly suicide by Seagrams. A slow, painful and sometimes bloody death usually preceded by divorce, excommunication, and large payments to Bobby Three Shirts.
He was bored watching horse racing from Hong Kong and infomercials on green pots and pans. “What the hell is the big deal about green pots and pans? Do you only use them on St. Patrick’s Day?” Paul shouted to no one in particular. “Seamus, if you see Mickey, tell him I went home.”
He opened the door quietly to his apartment and Brielle was fast asleep on the pullout bed. He thought it was cute that she snored slightly. He tiptoed to his bedroom and shut his door. No sooner did he kick off one of his New Balances did his flip phone ring.
“Mickey! You didn’t have to call…. You’re outside the door. Now? Okay, here I come.”
Paul walked past the pullout bed and stubbed his toe on it. He tried his hardest to stifle every bad curse word he knew as he opened the front door.
“Be quiet. I have a guest sleeping,” he said to Mickey, leading him through the living room and into the bedroom.
“What’s a babe like that doing out there sleeping?”
“It’s a long story. So is something up?”
“Yeah. It’s bad. You better sit down.”
Paul knew Mickey wasn’t kidding. They’ve told each other about too many accidents, shootings, cancers, and deaths to fool around at times like this.
Paul looked stone-faced. “Let’s hear it. It’s about Marcy, isn’t it?”
It wouldn’t be the first time Paul heard bad news about his ex-wife Marcy. She had her share of car accidents, DUI’s, drug busts, hospital stays, and – yes – jail time to keep Paul aware of her lifestyle, even though she lived way the hell upstate and wouldn’t let him near her or Tracy, their daughter.
“Yeah, it’s Marcy. I’m sorry. It looks like an overdose. Probably suicide.”
“What? Jesus Christ. Who discovered the body? Tracy?”
“No. She was alone in a motel room. The cleaning lady found her.”
“Christ almighty. I thought she was clean. She swore to me she was. I talked to her a few weeks ago. Tracy was going to start classes at a college up there. Things seemed to be looking up. I can’t fucking believe this….” Paul’s voice trailed off as he wept.
The way Mickey sat next to him on the bed and put his arm around him, it was clear it wasn’t the first time one or both of them wept together in the middle of the night after some terrible news.
“Pam phoned me as soon as she heard.” Mickey said, referring to his childhood sweetheart and wife of 25 years. “A friend of Marcy’s called her as soon as she heard. It happened tonight, actually. Do you want me to do anything? Call anybody?”
“Yeah, call the job … oh wait. Shit. I don’t have a job. Can you believe it, I’m not even retired one full day and this happens. Yeah, my number for Tracy isn’t good. Can you ask Pam to get me her number? I’ll call her in the morning. Maybe I’ll drive up. I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to stay? I will.”
“Nah. I’m okay. Thanks. I’ll walk you out in case the princess wakes up and sees a crazed red-headed Irishman in the room.”
Paul let Mickey out and as soon as he shut the door a light was switched on and Brielle was sitting up.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s okay. I’ll tell you in the morning.”
“No you won’t. You’ll tell me now,” Brielle demanded, not drunk anymore.
He took a seat across from her. “My ex-wife died.”
“Oh my God! Illness, car crash?”
“It looks like an overdose. Maybe suicide.”
“I’m so, so sorry, Paul.” Brielle got up from the bed, a sheet wrapped around her nude body, and comforted Paul.
“Yeah, it’s bad. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Get some sleep. You’re a good kid, Brielle. You should get out of that bar. Away from boozers and druggies. So should I. Good night.”
He went into the bedroom, closed the door, turned off the light, and laid down in his bed. He did something he hadn’t done since his mother died, five years earlier; he said Hail Marys until he fell asleep.
Steven Schindler
Chapter Three
Brielle was gone by the time he was up, at nine. She left a note saying she Ubered it home. It took Paul almost an hour on five different phone calls to finally get details on what happened, what the arrangements were, and where his daughter, Tracy, was. He packed a gym bag for the trip, got in his ‘85 Lincoln and headed over to the Major Deegan northbound towards Utica, New York, about four hours away.
It didn’t take long for the high-rise apartment buildings of the Bronx and Yonkers to fade in the rear-view mirror, and the thick, lush greenery of the northern suburbs of New York City to take hold. Even with the windows closed and the air conditioning on, he could start to smell the change in the damp air thick with forests, ponds, lakes, and rivers.
Before they were married, Paul and Marcy loved getting out of the city. Group vacation homes were all they could afford, but it was Hampton Bays in the summer, Hunter Mountain in the winter, Stones, Springsteen, or Who concerts and weekend getaways to Mets or Jets away games. Paul organized thos
e epic trips with crazed neighborhood fans venturing into the enemy territories of Philadelphia, Boston, and one time all the way to Wrigley Field. He was the one who put the deposit on the bus, bought the tickets, and ordered the food and beer for the bus ride. It was always a mad scramble to try and break even, but no matter how much he lost over the years, he and several hundred of his closest friends had unforgettable times. That’s where Marcy fell in love with him. Paul was a doer. A risk-taker. A leader. And he knew his classic rock. Marcy was a drifter, literally and figuratively.
Marcy Hastings was born in the Bronx neighborhood of Kingsbridge, but moved to somewhere near Utica when she was six. But as she grew up, she spent a week or two with relatives in the old ‘hood and wound up closer to her cousins and their friends on Bailey Avenue than she did to her classmates upstate. As soon as she was eighteen she shocked her parents by moving back to the Bronx, the very place they wanted their child not to wind up.
Marcy was a wild child. She liked to party and have bad-boy boyfriends. Paul wasn’t a bad boy, but he liked to have fun. And with lots of friends. That drew Marcy to Paul from the very first bus trip she went on to a Jets/Patriots away game. After her bouncing around from boyfriend to boyfriend, from crowd to crowd, from thrill to thrill left her feeling empty, Paul was her rock.
Paul never had a problem with females. He had his share. But he didn’t go for relationships where they expected him to change his lifestyle of hanging with the boys, and having fun with busloads of people. Marcy bought into his lifestyle and Paul fell for her. What started out as just hooking up after mad parties and adventures morphed into more and more excursions between group trips. Paul thought this was it; Marcy was the girl for him. And she was. Marcy got pregnant and they were married. Marcy went clean for her pregnancy, but after Tracy was born, the old wild child Marcy was reborn. Was it some kind of strange postpartum reaction? Who knows? All Paul knew was that he had to put a limit on Marcy’s drinking, staying out all night, leaving the baby with her cousins, and even visiting old boyfriends. Paul laid down the law. Either she changed or he was out of there. Tracy wasn’t even two when she and Marcy were on the next Greyhound out of town. He figured it was Utica. They were divorced shortly afterwards.
High Desert High Page 4
