The Crossroads

by F. P. Lione

  I angle-parked on 36th Street between 9th and Dwyer, halfway on the sidewalk. I brought a shovel with me so I could dig myself out tomorrow after the snow trucks plowed me in.

  Joe wasn’t in yet when I got to the precinct. I went downstairs and changed in the locker room, saying hello to Nick Romano, who was back in. I got a cup of coffee and waited by the front desk for the rest of the squad to straggle in.

  Cops commute to Midtown from all over the five boroughs and the outlying areas. Some come in from Long Island, some from Rockland, Westchester, Orange, and Putnam Counties, in Upstate New York. The snow would slow down the roads and the trains. It would have to be some storm to keep all but the upstate cops from getting in. Unlike other jobs, the NYPD runs 24/7, and calling in too often because of weather is a nono. I guess since Joe wasn’t in yet, the Long Island Railroad was running late.

  Sergeant Hanrahan approached the podium and looked at his watch. “I’ll give everyone a little more time before we get started. The roads are pretty bad, and I guess the trains are running behind schedule.”

  “Hey, Tony?” Nick Romano came up to me.

  “What’s up, Nick?” I said.

  “What does the flag of Italy look like?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because Bruno Galotti got a tattoo of the flag of Italy, and it doesn’t look right to me,” he said.

  “Mama’s boy Galotti?” I asked of the rookie who came on with Nick and reminded me of an Italian Baby Huey. When he first started working here, his mother called the precinct and told the lieutenant at the desk that Bruno was sick and he couldn’t come to work that night. She had called during roll call, and you have to call no later than two hours before tour to report out sick.

  Lieutenant Coughlin was working the desk that night, and we heard him yelling, “Who are you? Whose mother?” We saw him listening, and his face was getting red with fury. “He told you to call me because he doesn’t feel good and he can’t come to work?” Coughlin was quiet for a minute, and then he started yelling again, “I don’t care if he’s throwing up, you tell him to get his butt out of bed and call me right now.”

  Coughlin didn’t say butt, but I’m trying to watch my language. He slammed down the phone and stared at the startled faces in the muster room. “Do you believe this guy?” he said as the phone rang again. He listened for about two seconds and started screaming again, “Don’t you ever have your mother call me again! If you’re sick, you call yourself! What are you gonna do next? Bring me a letter that says ‘Please excuse Bruno from work ’cause he’s got a bellyache’?”

  The lou got off the phone and told everyone at roll call if their mother ever calls him, they’ll be on a fixer, standing in the middle of nowhere for thirty days. We all laughed hysterically, and Bruno hasn’t lived it down since.

  “When did you see the tattoo?” I asked Nick.

  “In the locker room, he got MOM on top, and the flag of Italy with ITALY FOREVER under it, but it looks funny to me.”

  About ten minutes later, the guys who ride the Long Island Railroad came in. Since I was standing near the front doors, I could hear the whoosh of wind as the outside doors to the precinct opened. There are two sets of metal-framed glass doors with a vestibule in between. Both sets of doors are kept closed, but you could hear the rush of air between them every time the outside doors open. The vestibule between the doors has a pay phone on each side and black carpet runners over the old marble flooring.

  I could hear light boot stomping, and then Carl Hart opened the door. He got to the precinct first like he always does; he never waits to walk with anyone. He’s pretty much a loner and keeps to himself to begin with, and a blizzard isn’t gonna make him any friendlier. He nodded as he walked past me and headed downstairs to the locker room.

  The doors opened again as the rest of the Long Island Railroad riders got there. It sounded like a small army marching in place as they stomped the snow from their shoes. Joe came in, along with O’Brien and about eight others who ride in with them. Fiore was dressed for the walk from 34th Street in a black wool hat, gloves, a blue down jacket, and construction boots. O’Brien was wearing an army trench coat, green rubber boots, and a gray wool cap. Linda Ryan was the only female in the group, and she pulled a scarf from around her neck as they shook the snow from their clothes.

  “Hey, buddy,” I said to Joe. “Finally made it in?”

  “Yeah, it looks like it’s gonna be a big one,” he said. He took off his hat, and his hair was plastered to his head. He went downstairs to the locker room with the rest of them to change.

  Fiore came down by 11:30. Most of the four-to-twelve tour was back in, and about three-quarters of the midnight tour was there talking and laughing. I saw Bruno Galotti come into the muster room.

  “Hey, Bruno,” I said. “I hear you got a new tattoo.”

  “Yeah, the guy did a good job,” he said, happy that I would talk to a rookie like him.

  “Let me see it,” I said. I could see he was getting excited, unbuttoning his shirt. I was gonna have him show me in the middle of the muster room, but something told me not to.

  “Come here,” I said, directing him toward the stairwell. He unclipped his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and rolled his T-shirt up, revealing a big patch on his upper arm. He peeled off the patch and there it was, the flag of Italy, backward.

  “Were you drunk when you got that tattoo?” I asked him.

  “No, why?” he asked.

  “Because it’s backward, you moron,” I said. “Cover that up before you can never show your face here again.”

  “Are you sure?” He looked horrified.

  “Yup, Italy is green, white, and red. Yours is red, white, and green.”

  “No, it’s green, white, and red.” But he was starting at the part of his arm that’s closer to his body, not the outside. I pointed it out, showing him where the colors go.

  “What country did I get?” he said, looking like he was gonna cry.

  “I don’t know, Portugal or something,” I said. I had no idea what country he had.

  “Can they fix it?” he asked.

  “Sure, they can fix anything these days,” I said, doubting it.

  I walked back in, feeling like I did the right thing not humiliating Bruno in front of the whole squad.

  Everyone was still talking and laughing in the muster room. Mike Rooney’s voice could be heard above everyone else’s as Sergeant Hanrahan’s “Attention to the roll call” announcement quieted the room.

  He gave out the sectors and the foot posts, and the color of the day was white, I guess because of the snow. He gave Romano a DOA fixer at a hotel on 43rd Street, and wrapped it up with, “The snow is starting to pile up out there, so everyone take it easy. I saw a couple of accidents coming in, and I don’t want anyone getting hurt. No rushing to jobs, and try to refrain from doing 360s in the parking lots.” His mouth twitched. “There should be chains in the trunks of the RMPs.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a “Yeah, that’s likely” look. “Since we’ll be getting more than four inches of snow, you’re gonna need them. If you don’t have any chains, come and see me. I don’t want you going out without them. Check your sector, check your foot post, we don’t want any homeless freezing out there.”

  We have to watch the homeless in weather like this because if they’re loaded, they can pass out and freeze to death. Nobody wants a frozen dead body on their post—how do you explain someone frozen on your post? A body would have to be there awhile to freeze, but it has happened. In the winter we usually bring the homeless to the hospital on a night like this. Most of the time they won’t go to a shelter, and personally, I’ve never taken one there. The fact that it was freezing outside would justify calling an ambulance.

  Hanrahan called Joe and me over after the roll call.

  “You guys up for some OT in the morning?” he asked. “Yeah, I brought clothes in anyway. I figured you’re gonna be short on the day tour,” I said.<
br />
  “Yeah, me too, the railroad’s gonna be delayed anyway. I might as well make some money,” Joe added.

  “Alright, I’ll give you your posts in the morning for the bomb detail.” He wrote down on the roll call, putting an asterisk next to our names.

  Vince Puletti was still on vacation, and my old partner, John Conte, who was covering for him, was out. Garcia, Mike Rooney’s partner, still wasn’t in, so they had Rooney giving out the radios. At least he was supposed to be in the radio room, but instead he was over by the desk, blabbering with Rice, Beans, and Yolanda Santiago from the four-to-twelve tour. He was so loud and obnoxious, trying to impress Yolanda with some baloney about how much money he won betting on the illegal football tickets some numbskull in the squad was running. You’d think Rooney would have the brains to shut up about it in the precinct.

  I got my keys to the RMP out. When I walked over to the radio room, Rooney told Yolanda to hold on a second and swaggered over to the radio room twenty feet from the desk.

  He popped his head into the room, holding onto the door frame as he leaned in. I was first in line signing out my radio, with about fifteen people behind me when he came in.

  “Hey!” he growled, “Make sure you sign out your radios.”

  “You’re supposed to be signing out the radios,” I said, but he was already gone.

  He stuck his head back in and yelled, “You hear me, Cavalucci?”

  I smiled. He was such a schmuck. I turned back to look at him, and I saw him say something to Yolanda and walk outside, probably to throw snowballs at the four-to-twelve cops still coming in.

  Everyone signs the radio log with their name next to the number that matches the radio. I signed out our radios “276 Rooney” and “277 Rooney” next to where Joe’s and my names should have gone. Then I pointed it out to McGovern so he could see it and follow suit. He smiled and nodded, signing “278 Rooney” underneath mine, and gestured to the guy behind him to do the same.

  “Joe, where’s our car?” I asked, handing him his radio.

  “Across the street. Why?” he asked.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, laughing.

  “Why, what’d you do?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I’ll tell you when we get in the car.” I nodded toward the front door so he would get moving.

  “Want a ride to post, Nick?” I asked Nick Romano, who was on the front steps smoking a cigarette.

  “Sure, I’ll take a ride, thanks,” he said. Technically he’s supposed to walk to his post, but no one will say anything if we give him a lift. Some old-timers could be real hard about it and would make you walk.

  I kept my eye on Rooney as he walked back inside toward the radio room that now had a line of only two people.

  “What’d you do, Tony?” Fiore asked again.

  “Ah, Rooney was being cocky about signing out the radios and singled me out in front of everyone. So I signed out our radios with his name, and everyone else followed.”

  Joe smirked and shook his head. He knew that Rooney would have no idea who signed out what radio and that he would have to straighten it out before the night was over.

  Our car already had chains on it, so we dusted off the snow that had accumulated on the windows. We tossed our hats in the backseat with Romano, adjusted our gun belts, and put our radios in the door handle. I backed the car out and saw Rooney come running out of the front doors of the precinct.

  “Cavalucci!” he roared. He was working himself up into a frenzy, scrambling to gather up some snow as I started driving toward 9th Avenue. He swung his arm back too hard as he started to throw a snowball at the car, and his feet went out from under him.

  We cracked up at the sight of him slipping as he tried to get up.

  “Shouldn’t we see if he’s okay?” Romano asked, still laughing.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said. “Knowing Rooney, he’ll find a way to get out on three-quarters for this. He’ll be thanking us later.”

  The plow trucks had gone down 9th Avenue, but the precinct block still wasn’t cleared. Why would the city plow a block where emergency vehicles need to get in and out?

  We stopped on the corner of 9th Avenue and 35th Street for coffee and drove around to 34th Street past the Lowe’s Theatre and up 8th Avenue. The shrubs along 34th Street toward Macy’s twinkled with Christmas lights and gave the empty streets of Midtown Manhattan the feel of a small town. The light turned red as I approached the intersection of 42nd Street and 8th Avenue. I looked down to take my coffee out of the cup holder, and something caught my eye across the street on the northeast corner.

  A bunch of skells had a boom box set up on the curb. It blasted out an old Four Tops song while the snow collected on top of it. They were dancing chorus line style to the song. Fiore, Romano, and I stared for a couple of seconds in amazement as they danced in the westbound lane of 42nd Street.

  They were a sorry bunch, teeth missing, holes in mismatched filthy clothes. I’m sure they stunk of booze and homeless, but I had to admit they danced pretty good. Alcohol was definitely at work here; I saw a few paper bags next to the radio.

  “Are they doing the bus stop?” Fiore asked, still staring.

  “I think it’s the electric slide,” I said, surfing the radio, trying to find the song they were playing.

  “Nope, it’s the cha-cha slide,” Romano said, wiping the fog off his window to get a better look.

  I hit pay dirt on 101, the oldies station, and put the Four Tops song over the PA system of the car. A cheer came up from the skells, and they danced away, waving at us and wishing us a happy holiday. I drove up 8th Avenue with the music still playing.

  I made a right on 44th Street, going around the block. I stopped in front of 245, the hotel where Romano had the DOA fixer. Joe and I left our coffee in the RMP and walked Romano upstairs so we could take the four-to-twelve cop who Romano was relieving back to the precinct.

  The hotel was a white building on the corner of 43rd and 8th. To the left of the entrance was an ice-cream store, a deli, and a cell phone/beeper place. The front of the hotel had three wide steps that rounded around the front of the building, leading up to a wide set of glass doors.

  It was an old hotel, used mostly by senior citizens and welfare recipients. It was the remains of what was once a grand hotel. The outside still had the original detail of the building—ornate scroll work, large oversized windows, and on the upper floors I could see the cement gargoyles perched on the ledges around the building.

  The lobby was spacious, with groupings of old couches, chairs, and coffee tables set up in different places. To our left was an old bellhop desk. In front of the lobby doors, set back about twenty feet, was the security desk. Big marble columns could be seen throughout the room; they looked to be part of the structure rather than decoration. There was a smattering of people in the lobby. Two old men were playing checkers while a third looked on. It was just before twelve, so most of the old folks were in bed.

  We threw a wave at the security guard and turned to the left, past the empty registration desk toward the elevator.

  “So how was the holiday, Nick?” Fiore asked.

  “Pretty good. I had my daughter most of Christmas Day,” he said. Nick had a baby with a woman he was involved with up until about a year ago. She got pregnant but didn’t want to get married, and she dumped Romano after the baby was born. He took it hard for a while, but he’s better about it now.

  “Oh!” he said loudly, getting excited. “I had my first interview with the Fire Department.” He was on the list to go over to FD. He hated being a cop and couldn’t wait to trade bullets for fire hoses.

  “How’d it go?” I asked.

  “Pretty good, I think,” he said, biting his thumbnail. “I mean, the guy who interviewed me seemed up-front, not like the Police Department interview where they try to mess with your head. It was pretty straightforward, personality profile, family background, current job, hobbies, those kinds of things.”<
br />
  “Where was the interview?” This from Fiore.

  “Down in South Brooklyn near Jay Street, 9 Metrotech.”

  “Any idea when you’ll get called?” Fiore asked.

  “Hopefully soon. Next is the psychological profile and the medical. Once I pass those, I wait for the call for the Academy. If nothing holds up the list, it shouldn’t be too long,” he said.

  “Good for you,” Joe said.

  “So, you’re gonna be a hose head?” I laughed.

  “Better than a flat foot,” Nick countered. “At least the hours are better.”

  “Can’t argue with you there,” Joe said.

  We got off on the 23rd floor into a dimly lit hallway. There was a musty smell to the place, probably more pronounced because of the damp weather. I’d been to this hotel before on jobs, mostly for nut-job EDPs (emotionally disturbed persons). It’s a sad place that makes you wonder what happens to people that they end up here alone. We walked east, toward room 2321. The DOA was a couple from the end, and there was a chair outside the door where the four-to-twelve rookie had been sitting.

  He was an Irish guy, O’Malley his name tag said. He was young, early twenties with short blond hair and blue eyes. He was pretty big, over six feet tall, with a solid frame. He stood up and stretched when he saw us, putting the newspaper on the chair.

  I saw lights flickering in an open doorway a little farther down the hall.

  “What’s up?” I asked O’Malley as I pointed to the open door.

  O’Malley said, “You gotta see this.” He tiptoed over to the doorway, waving us over to follow him. “Check this out,” he whispered, pointing to the interior of the room.