Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “You finish it on the street,” he heard Lynch yell over the cadets. “There are no rules or referees.” Steve looked at the officer with his half-closed left eye, realizing this was a planned beating.

  And then he snapped, like when he played in lacrosse games. He went from a rational, strategic player to an animal playing on conditioned instincts. The adrenaline exploded into every muscle. He tensed his stomach and sprang forward like a cat, catching Dylan’s front leg in a single leg takedown. The surprised bigger man crashed to the floor. No rules, the captain had said, and Steve pivoted to the man’s back, intertwining his left leg with Dylan’s, preventing him from regaining his feet. Steve used both hands to pull Dylan’s right arm into a half nelson while shoving his left shoulder into the floor. A low, guttural growl escaped Steve’s throat as he drove off his free right leg while lifting on the right arm to drive Dylan’s face into the mat on the floor. Cursing, Dylan could not grip with the boxing gloves. Steve pulled back and lifted his arm again, driving Dylan’s face again into the floor as Dylan cried out in pain.

  “Enough! Enough!” Lieutenant Smith shouted, pulling Steve by the shoulders off the prone Dylan. Steve fell back hard onto his ass, the blood still flowing into his mouth and his mind feeling like a cloudy day. He was aware that the room was quiet as he sat taking one deep breath after another. “No rules, no rules . . .” The words turned over in his mind as he looked over at Dylan sitting on a chair, head tipped back with a towel to stop his nose bleed. “I don’t quit.”

  The police firing range was a small and tightly packed space squeezed in among other municipal outcasts like the sanitation yard and public works department at the border with North Providence. There were ten stations, and the cadets fired in groups.

  Lieutenant Smith said, “Don’t draw your gun unless you intend to use it. But if you must, know how to use it. Logan, do you know how to use a weapon?”

  “No, sir. I have never even held a gun other than a BB gun.” The response earned a derisive smile from the captain, who was watching the cadets shoot. Steve thought he was the only cadet to have never fired a weapon.

  “Here is your police-issue Colt .38 revolver,” Smith said, handing the gun to Steve, handle first. “It has six shots, but it’s the first one that counts. Learn how to use it. You will also need an off-duty gun. Police officers must be armed at all times. Look at buying a snub-nose .38, which is easy to carry and conceal. Get over to the range and learn how to shoot.”

  Steve stayed back, carefully watching the other cadets shoot with two hands in a semi-crouch, tactical position. The targets at the end of the range thirty feet away were silhouettes of the upper torso of a man. Dylan returned from his range having fired six rounds from his pistol, hitting the target every time.

  “You make it look pretty easy,” Steve said as Dylan returned to the group.

  “Steady solid position, sight over the barrel, and squeeze. Don’t pull the trigger. It’s the great equalizer.” He looked at Steve, his nose swollen from its meeting with the mat.

  “I could have used this yesterday.” Steve held the revolver in his hand.

  Dylan nodded. “Me, too.”

  “Steady and squeeze.” They shot for two hours, taking turns in the ten shooting lanes.

  As they came off for the day, Lieutenant Smith had targets in his hand. “Logan, never held a weapon?” he asked.

  “No, sir. Not until today.”

  Smith held up the sheet that showed that one bullet had actually hit the paper but not the target. “You’re going to need some work.”

  Steve was pissed at the smirk on the lieutenant’s face. Yeah, they didn’t want him there, but fuck them. He wasn’t going anywhere. “Must be the teachers,” he said.

  He worked hard every night at studying the statues of the city and the state. He wanted to understand the law. He read the police procedure manual, highlighting sections like he did in college. He was going to graduate because he was going to be like Durk: some disinfectant for the department.

  CHAPTER 6

  MORNING HAS BROKEN

  After graduating the academy in December, Steve was assigned to Brian Crowley, a career patrolman in his late forties, as his first partner. Crowley was a heavy, jowly man with black liver spots on his neck and hands. Their Ford Fairlane cruiser was several years old, with a worn driver’s seat that seemed to fit Crowley, the experienced cop, perfectly.

  Crowley got into his usual driver side, not even asking Steve if he would like to drive. Steve settled into the shotgun side of the cruiser, removing his cap and putting it on the seat in the middle. He adjusted the revolver so it didn’t cut into his side.

  “It’s been a while since I had a partner.” Crowley didn’t look at Steve as he steered the car to his precinct north of the Capitol Building.

  “Captain says all rookies will be teamed for at least several weeks,” Steve shrugged.

  “Yeah, but two-man cars are needed down in south or up on Federal Hill, but not up here. I’ve been patrolling here for fifteen years; not much happens. But for me, it’s just to the end of next year; then I retire. Twenty and out. Not bad. I’ll go work for my brother down in Cranston. He’s got this garage and towing business. He’s got the permit for I-95, so he does okay. Hang on.”

  Crowley pulled the police car over to the curb and jumped out, leaving the car running. He walked into a dry cleaner and emerged a few minutes later with plastic-covered hangers holding women’s clothing. He talked to a couple on the sidewalk before getting into the car. Steve could see he was the cop, someone who would tell the kids to go to school or give out parking tickets if you weren’t from the neighborhood.

  Crowley continued, “So we figure with me knowing Providence, we can expand the business up this way. I can hook up with a couple of guys we know who have a garage but don’t have the big tow rig like my brother.”

  He pulled over again, got out, and entered a butcher shop. He returned with several pieces of meat wrapped in brown paper. He put them in the backseat and went back to a liquor store, to come back with a bag filled with several bottles. He stopped to talk to a small lady in a grey cloth coat with a rose kerchief pulled tightly over her head. He nodded several times before patting her on the shoulder.

  Crowley was just the neighborhood cop, Steve thought. This was the way it should be, the cop as a friend, the guy who keeps the order but is a good guy. Not the goons with riot helmets and batons from the demonstrations He didn’t know Crowley, but riding with him eight hours a day would fix that.

  “So we figure with the big rig, we can help these guys get the license for the north end of 95 as well.”

  He pulled into the driveway of a small house with a blue Madonna grotto in front, got out, picked up the dry cleaning and groceries, and entered the house. Was this how Providence was policed? Near Brown, the police were always seen as the enemy waiting to bust a kid for something. And down in South Providence?

  “See, with the big rig, you get the truckers,” Crowley continued after getting back into the car. “And they work for the big companies and have insurance that will pay. Big trucks mean big money.”

  Money—it always comes down to money, Steve thought. His salary was more than he had ever made, yet the cops always talked about money.

  The two weeks on the job went by quickly. And Crowley was right: the district was very quiet, the way Crowley liked it. His partner told him about his four kids: the two girls were married, and now one grandkid on the way. The sons played hockey and were big Bruins fans. He introduced Steve to the coffee shop guy, the car wash owner, the candy store owner who also took numbers. His advice to Steve on how to survive the brass was fatherly. The major lesson was to be invisible most of the time. Steve listened to every call from dispatch, but most of the action was in South Providence.

  “Car 24.”

  Crowley replied, “Twenty-four.”

  “That’s a report of a dead body at 425 Weybosset Street. Apartment 10.” />
  Crowley scowled. “Roger. Got it.”

  As Steve and Crowley approached apartment 10, Crowley said, “I hate these; never know what to say. I could hardly stay at my own mother’s wake. We have to wait until the medical examiner arrives. He will take over from there. We have to file the paperwork.”

  As he knocked on the door, Crowley announced, “Police.”

  The door was opened by a small woman in her late seventies, whose face was tear-streaked.

  “It’s my Edgar. He’s passed.”

  Crowley and Steve entered the apartment and followed the woman into the single bedroom. The smell of death, feces, and medication was suffocating, triggering a vomiting sensation Steve fought to overcome. In the double bed, the dead man, in his late seventies, was motionless and gray. Crowley looked for a pulse, but it was obvious that he was dead. Staring at the corpse that was once a man, those abstract college bull sessions about the meaning of life seemed silly to Steve. This wasn’t a violent death like in war, sudden and gruesome, but the man was just as dead.

  “Ma’am, the medical examiner is on his way. Patrolman Logan will stay with you until he arrives.”

  Crowley looked at Steve, who looked back, raising his eyebrows with a “what the fuck?” question on his face. Crowley was holding his hand to his mouth, as if trying not to vomit as he ran to the front door.

  “I’ll meet you at the car when you’re done.”

  The woman closed the door behind Crowley and ghostwalked into the living room. Steve spent a minute staring at the grey couch. It had gold trim, and a red bed pillow and blanket were spread over it, as if it the newly made widow had been sleeping there. The window shades were drawn tightly, bathing the room in a yellow purgatory glow.

  “Edgar was a good man, though he farted too much, especially in his later years. He wasn’t much of a dancer, but I made him do it anyway.” Her eyes moved around the room, distracted, but her voice was firm as she spoke to Steve. He didn’t think she really recognized that he was there. Photos of Edgar and the woman when they were younger were on the table by the couch. Steve still stood stiffly near the door.

  “Do you want a glass of sherry?” she asked.

  Steve shook his head “No.”

  “Well, I do. Forty-nine years with the man. I thought he would make it to fifty so we could have a big party. But no. He wasn’t that considerate. Not that he was a bad man. No. He just wasn’t that interested in me—well, not for the last thirty years.”

  Is this how Roxy would react after they were married that long? She would be controlled, the doctor—but she wouldn’t cry when it was over. But what if she went first? Could he hold it together after all that time? He didn’t know.

  She sat down on the couch with her crystal stem glass of sherry. Another tear leaked from her eye.

  “It wasn’t always like that. When we were courting, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on me. But men change, and women do, too.” She looked at Steve, who was still standing.

  “Young man, sit down here.” She motioned to the side chair next to the couch. Steve was trying not to let the smell get the better of him. Taking off his hat, he sat in the too-soft side chair.

  “Is your family coming? Your children?”

  “Oh, they will come.” She waved absently. “Probably sometime. Not the one in New York—he never comes to visit. My daughter in Fall River will be here. They will all be fussing—Edgar doesn’t care now, but maybe he can do something to get his damned Red Sox to win a World Series. All he did the last few years was curse at the television every night they were on. I guess it kept him alive.” She refilled her glass.

  “Can I get you anything? Is there anything you need?” Steve asked, not knowing what else to say. Nobody had said anything about assignments like this at the academy. His experience with death was very limited. He had only seen one embalmed body in a funeral home. He had served many funeral masses, but the caskets were closed, and he realized that he never really thought about the person inside as he incensed the casket. He looked at his watch. How much time did it take for the medical examiner to get here? Lucky the guy was dead because he’d be dead based upon this response time.

  “Thank you, young man; you are very considerate. Need? I don’t know what I need. I don’t know what I am going to do. My children will probably want to put me in some home so they don’t have to worry about me. They never came to see us—we always went to them for any holidays, the few we ever celebrated. What do I need?” She began to cry. “I need Edgar back. I need to hear him cursing away at the Sox. I needed to die before him because I don’t know how . . .” And she began to sob more. Steve took her hand, patting it.

  “That’s right. Let it out. You’ll feel better.” Steve thought he sounded like his mother soothing one of the children.

  The woman looked directly at him.

  “Feel better? I won’t ever feel better. I may not notice it as much, not cleaning up after him day after day, but better . . .”

  There was a knock on the door. Steve got up and let in the Medical Examiner, a small man with round metal glasses. He carried a medical bag, which made him look like a country doctor making a house call. He walked into the bedroom and then back to Steve.

  “We’ll take it from here,” he said.

  Steve nodded and went over to the woman, who was still sitting on the couch, blankly looking at the new man in the room.

  “I have to go now. The medical examiner will take over things. Everything will be all right. Your children will take care of you.”

  She looked absently at Steve and gave him a polite smile. Steve stepped into the bedroom for a final look and smell of death.

  Returning from the library, Roxy entered the bedroom and dropped her science books on the chair by the door. Steve was at the desk, his back to her as he worked on something in front of him. He had moved the typewriter to the floor.

  “Ready for the test?” he asked, not looking up from his task.

  “I guess. Bio isn’t as hard as Chemistry.” She walked over to see what he was doing.

  Steve had spread a Providence Journal on the desk. There were some wads of white cotton squares, several long brushes, a long, narrow metal needle, a bottle of solvent, oil, and a wire-type toothbrush. She could smell the solvent.

  “What are you doing?”

  Steve was holding his blued .38 Smith and Wesson service revolver in his hand, with the cylinder open. Five bullets were on the desk, four jacketed and one hollow point. He had inserted a cleaning patch dipped in solvent through the barrel of the gun until it protruded from the other side. He then extracted it carefully. He repeated the same action with clean patches through each of the six cylinders.

  “Cleaning my service revolver. They showed us at the academy,” he said, not looking up.

  “Do you have to do that here?” she asked, moving tentatively to the side of the desk and looking at the weapon and bullets on her desk.

  “I live here; where do you want me to do it, on the campus green?” He put a few drops of oil on the moving parts and spun the cylinder, which rotated smoothly. He loaded the ammunition in the pistol, putting the four jacketed bullets in first and the hollow point last. If he needed a fifth shot, it was going to end any discussion.

  “Do you have to put bullets in it?”

  He turned and smiled at her with amusement. “I’d be a hell of a cop with an empty gun.”

  “I mean here. You know I don’t like guns. And knowing we have a loaded gun in our room—it makes me uncomfortable.”

  “It goes with the job. I keep it out of sight most of the time.” He patted his lap, and she sat on him. “I never really thought about a gun growing up—all the cowboys wore them. And I had a Roy Rogers double holster as a kid. But in real life, these fuckers are heavy. And depending on how you sit in the car, they really can dig into your side.”

  Her look changed to perverse pleasure. “Oh, I’m so sorry for you. I thought all you men wanted bigger
guns.”

  “I’ll give you a bigger gun,” he said as he jumped up with her in his arms, swung around in an easy movement, and laid her flat on her back on the bed, holding her hands over her head. “Should I get the handcuffs now?”

  She kneed him and rolled over on top of him. “No so fast, big fella. I think I need the handcuffs.”

  Near her, he thought how their life together had changed so much from their first date last October. The idea to go to the anti-war March on Washington was Roxy’s; the decision to hitchhike was Steve’s. His option offered her adventure and danger; for him, it was a practical case of money. It was a first date with a half million other people and her high school boyfriend. He had thought it was a stupid idea, but since he met her, he was having many stupid ideas.

  “Are you going to the protest?” the driver with greying temples had asked as he leaned out the window of his green Volvo. The oddly sloped vehicle had a peace symbol on the back bumper.

  “We are, too,” the woman with short pixie hair in the shotgun seat of the car replied. “All the way to DC.”

  “I’m Professor Morrison Whitney. This is my wife, Priscilla. Are you Brown students?”

  For the next four hours, Whit lectured about the immoral nature of the Vietnam War and the failings of the Nixon administration. He asked questions on policy and the history of the American engagement, and he seemed pleased when Steve knew the answers. Roxy chatted with Penny about the need for women and the working class to get involved to stop the war. Steve listened to Roxy as much as to Whit, wanting to know more about how she felt and thought.

  Whitney exited onto 50 West, entering DC from the northeast as it turned into New York Avenue. The row houses were part of the urban decay, the fleeing of the middle class from the city to the safety of the suburbs. Penny, who had been dozing most of the trip, locked all the car doors, pushing down each button emphatically.