Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “I don’t know?” he shrugged with the type of acceptance Steve recognized that says give me the ticket and let me get on my way.

  “You failed to signal before you turned onto Chalkstone Avenue, Coach.”

  “Sorry, Officer. I didn’t know that. I must have forgot to . . .”

  “Coach.” Steve shined his flashlight on his own face before returning it to the car. He was enjoying the confusion in the coach’s face as he processed the information. He was never the coach’s favorite, but Steve had earned his respect by his hard work.

  “Logan?” he asked, putting his hands back on the steering wheel.

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “How . . . I thought you left after graduation. Didn’t you go to law school or . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Still in town. Getting a different legal education. I’m going to let you off with a warning, so drive carefully. Good to see you again.”

  “Thank you.” Coach fumbled a bit with his words. “Stop by the gym; I would love to catch up,” he said as he rolled up the window and cautiously drove away.

  Walking back to the car, Steve realized how much a year had changed things. He had graduated and now was part of the past for Coach. Maybe when the alumni giving time came around, he would remember his name. He had kept Coach sweating a long time, but he felt a certain satisfaction at the change in power after all the years. It wasn’t fear; rather, it was approval that he had wanted.

  Andy would crack up if he had seen the scene. He would tell Bill later over a beer and give him something to needle Coach with during the upcoming season. It was the uniform, the badge, the gun. It was power, and now what would he do with it?

  Crowley threw a black bag into the trunk of the cruiser before he took the wheel, driving away from the substation for the next midnight shift. It was an early spring night, a steady cold rain thickening the new shoots on the trees. Steve put his hat on the seat beside them and looked over the list of stolen license plates. He hadn’t really listened to the announcements at roll call that night; his mind was anticipating the street. He was enjoying the night shift and being awake when most of the city slept. He was trying to become more observant: a strange car parked on a street, newspapers piling up on the driveway, garbage cans uncollected. They told a story about the people. Each night was still new, and he wanted more.

  “Lousy night,” Crowley said as they stopped for coffee. “No criminals work in this kind of weather, just us cops.”

  Steve sipped the dark black liquid. A couple of overnight parking tickets would be the excitement with Crowley. They took a leisurely cruise up and down the residential streets that were clean of cars. The houses were from the early part of the century and sat on small lots. The houses were two stories, each with individual character like round landing windows, porches with potted plants, or grottos to some saint. They were very different from the cookie-cutter houses of Long Island, where the only difference was the color of the fake shutters. They scanned the side streets looking for a vagabond vehicle, destined to make the city a little richer with a ticket for overnight parking. Steve was starting to like Providence, though he still was a stranger.

  Crowley pulled the cruiser into an old factory lot that had been abandoned, circling the building to the rear loading dock. He stopped the car, put it into reverse, and backed into the dock until the cruiser was invisible. He opened the door and jumped out, returning with the black bag which he opened, revealing two pillows and blankets.

  “Front or back?” he asked Steve, who was stunned.

  “What?” Steve was trying the process the offer.

  “All the tickets are written, and nothing happens here, so we’ll coop ’til six.”

  “I can’t do—I mean, I’m not going to sleep.”

  “Suit yourself. I had hockey practice ’til I had to paint a bedroom for my daughter.” Taking both pillows and entering the backseat, he took his coat off and draped it over himself as a blanket.

  Steve sat behind the wheel, engine idling, listening to the little chatter on the radio. The city was very quiet on this Tuesday night. There wasn’t much crime fighting to be done; in fact, the major role tonight was sanitation patrol. No overnight street parking was allowed, so the tickets made for a good revenue source for the city. This spot was virtually undetectable if the captain was prowling about. Now that Captain Lynch was just promoted to captain of patrol, he might be looking for Steve—looking for a way to write him up. If there was a call, something in their precinct, Steve was answering it. Let Crowley wake up on the ride. He looked back at his partner who was soundly sleeping. He could never sleep on the job. That wasn’t police work. It wasn’t what he signed up for, but Crowley was a crafty veteran and knew his job too well. Steve needed to find another way.

  Several weeks later, Steve had settled in with Crowley, astonished at how little police work they actually did. He spent the time telling Steve about the old days. He told Steve to stay clear of the politics and maybe they would leave him alone. He said Captain Lynch never graduated high school, which wasn’t a good sign for Steve’s career. When Crowley introduced him to people, the reaction was always polite but distant.

  “And never give city councilmen a ticket. Just a word to the wise,” was his favorite refrain. Crowley was always about what to avoid and how to avoid it.

  The radio squawked, “Car 24?”

  Crowley replied, “24.”

  “That’s a disturbance at 246 Arnold Street.” The voice was male, flat, and robotic.

  “Roger.” Steve flipped on the siren and turned the car to head in the opposite direction.

  “Car 24, that’s a disturbance with hammers,” the voice said, still without emotion or intonation.

  “Slow down; we don’t have to be the first car,” Crowley said as Steve pulled up to the address.

  “24, we have reason to think this is a former mental patient.” This time, there was some urgency in the voice.

  Crowley responded simply, “Roger,” but made no motion for the door. Steve was ready for action.

  He got out of the car. Crowley followed him up to a single-family frame house. As they approached, they saw numerous round holes punched in the wooden door.

  A small, grey-haired lady greeted them at the door. She was wearing a worn blue housecoat and slippers. “He gets like this, and I don’t know what to do. He won’t listen.” She sounded like an annoyed parent rather than someone in fear.

  “Who, ma’am?” Crowley asked, taking a small notebook from his pocket.

  “My son. He’s got something loose.” She pointed to her head.

  Crowley and Steve entered through a small foyer into the living room. A man was lying on the couch with a Red Sox cap on and a ball-peen hammer in his hand. He looked over at the two cops and stood up; he looked at the floor and ceiling before returning his eyes to the two cops in the room. He was 6'6" and over 270 pounds, with a shock of uncombed black hair greying at the temples. Crowley blanched a bit and backed toward the door.

  Steve said quietly, “Call for backup. I’ll see what I can do.” He felt the adrenaline begin to race through his body, but he controlled it like he did before a big game. He loosened his shoulders and set his feet but kept a relaxed smile on his face.

  “Aw, Ma,” the man said. “I didn’t mean no harm.” He looked at her and at Steve.

  “So what kind of year is Yaz gonna have? Think the Sox can get to the Series this year?” Steve asked in a conversational tone as he held out his open hand to the man. The man looked a little off, with that goofy type of grin that says I’m not really here.

  “This is gonna be their year.” The man smiled, handing the hammer to Steve. Taking him by the elbow, Steve led the man to the door.

  “I have to take you to the hospital,” Steve said to the grinning man, who nodded in agreement. “Is he on any meds?” he asked the lady.

  “He doesn’t like to take them. Says it makes him sleepy. But he’s a good boy.”
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  Steve nodded and made a mental note to put it in the report.

  Opening the door, the street was crowded with cruisers and flashing lights as six officers followed Crowley to the house.

  “Under control,” Steve said, holding up his left hand.

  “Cuff him,” a sergeant ordered.

  Steve didn’t think it was necessary. He slipped the cuffs out of his belt and snapped it on the man’s left wrist, twisting behind him to grab the other hand. The man became upset at the show of force.

  “No, no . . .” The man pulled his free arm away from Steve.

  “Don’t hurt him,” the little woman screamed, running from the porch before a cop grabbed her.

  “Get him,” the sergeant yelled, and a cop hit the man in the stomach with the end of his baton, causing him to cry out in pain. Steve snapped the cuff on the other hand as another baton landed on the man’s shoulder.

  “No, no . . .” the big guy screamed, standing erect, towering over the cops. “Ma . . .”

  “Get him,” the sergeant ordered, and the man was surrounded by cops swinging batons at his knees and torso. He twisted wildly, screaming at each blow, his arms pinned behind him by Steve’s cuffs. Lowering his head, he charged at each tormentor like an angry bull. The cops closed in on him, swinging nightsticks wildly as if he were a giant piñata, until the man collapsed to the ground. Kicks and blows continued to descend, the faces of the cops becoming red with exertion, as each cop darted in and out to hit the man like wild dogs trying to get a piece of meat from the pack kill. Steve heard the sticks hit bone, reminding him of the ping of a ball off a bat.

  The man had stopped moving, and Steve realized he could be dead. It was under control—he had it under control. Was he responsible for the man’s death? Was this police work? He looked at the blood oozing from the man’s mouth and nose onto the concrete sidewalk. Why? As the ambulance pulled to the scene, Crowley and the other cops lit up cigarettes and talked about baseball while the medics struggled to haul the battered, barely breathing, handcuffed giant onto a gurney. What the fuck just happened? Steve turned the scene over in his mind again, hearing the woman pleading for them not to hurt her son. What should he have done? He was angry with himself for not doing more. And the sergeant encouraged the beating. He’d ordered it.

  “Whose cuffs?” the attendant asked.

  “Mine?” Steve raised his hand like a schoolboy.

  “Crowley, your call. Book him at the hospital,” the sergeant ordered.

  “Book him?” Steve turned to the sergeant, holding down his anger in a measured tone. “This man is on meds. He was under control.”

  “Assault on a police officer, resisting arrest, disturbing the peace . . . the sergeant will think of a few more.” Crowley was smiling and began whistling. Steve was going to write the report the way he saw it. But if he went on the record with facts, the report would just be contradicted by the other cops on the scene. He adjusted the pistol on his hip. Steve should write the report that would be more accurate with the facts. The man became belligerent after he was hit. But he knew they would just trash it and write a new report. Roxy would want him to write the real report—the man was in custody and the police beat the shit out of him. The reality as a rookie, he knew that wouldn’t fly. Maybe if he couched the language—“man became belligerent after being forced to comply”—he knew that language wouldn’t satisfy anyone—certainly not what Roxy would expect—or what he knew was the right thing to do. He wasn’t prepared now. Steve realized he needed a strategy, a plan.

  The squad room at headquarters was a noisy, busy square when Steve entered. He could hear the humming of the fluorescent lighting. Many of the desks had simple lamps, empty coffee cups, and an odd assortment of manual typewriters: Underwood, Remington, Smith Corona. Steve sat at a solid black Underwood typewriter from the 1940s. The keys were steeply pitched and the a and l made long, graceful loops as the keys struck through the ribbon to land hard on the page. Steve typed with both hands very quickly, striking the keys hard to make a clear impression through the three carbon paper forms. At the next two desks, the cops were typing one finger at a time.

  “Shit, Crowley. When you get a secretary?” Vincent Rizzo shouted as he stormed into the room. Five-foot seven with a stocky wrestler’s build, dark eyes, and an in-your-face manner, his dark stubble made his face look perpetually dirty. Steve recognized him as the kid who sat on the hood of the car, cigarette pack rolled into the sleeve of his t-shirt, talking trash to passing girls as if it were cool.

  “That’s the college boy,” a cop who was one-finger typing said disdainfully.

  Rizzo looked at Steve, who was still typing.

  Another cop chimed in, “Not only can he type, he can spell, too, which is more than Crowley can do.”

  The other cops laughed. Crowley gave them the finger and leaned over to Steve.

  “Rizzo thinks he’s already made detective.”

  “Is that going to happen soon?” a short man with a round moon face and tiny eyes asked from the front desk. He was paging through the daybook of arrests. He wrote several notes in his narrow reporter’s notepad.

  “Sooner than you’ll get promoted off the police beat, Toad,” Rizzo shot back.

  “Don’t see your name next to any of these arrests. On vacation?”

  “Fuck off, you drunken hack.”

  “What was that about?” Steve asked Crowley. He watched the man meticulously go through the arrest book.

  “Oh, that’s Larry Sutton, who’s the police reporter for the Providence Journal. He and Rizzo go back to high school. Seems Rizzo stuffed Sutton in a locker or some other such high school shit. Now Sutton never puts Rizzo’s name in as the arresting officer. Bugs the shit out of Rizzo.” Crowley smiled. Steve thought the reporter would be a good man to know.

  “Look at this, eight officers to make an arrest.” Sutton directed the comment at Crowley.

  “He was a big guy—resisted arrest.” Crowley said and walked away to get another cup of coffee.

  The reporter scribbled in his thin note pad.

  “The guy was sick—wasn’t on his meds. Probably will end up on the psyche ward.” Steve volunteered.

  The reporter bit on the end of his pen as he looked at Steve.

  “Sick? You a doctor?”

  “His mother said he hadn’t taken his meds.” Steve shook his head. “Could have been handled better.”

  “Better?” The reporter leaned forward.

  “Yeah, I think so, but who am I to say?” Steve looked down at the typewriter.

  “Tell me more.”

  “Nothing else to say.” Steve shook his head. He wanted to say more, but this wasn’t the time. “You can read the report.”

  Steve was trying to adjust to rotating shifts. At roll call for the four-to-midnight shift, he’d already had three cups of coffee. He was trying to get used to the constantly changing sleep patterns, but he couldn’t fall into a deep sleep during the day. He was looking forward to a few days off to catch up on his sleep.

  The duty sergeant made his evening announcements. “Here are the stolen-vehicle sheets. Let’s find some tonight. And captain wants you to report every streetlight that is out—can’t have the electric company charging the city for stuff we’re not using. And you guys on the residential side, we need more effort on parking tickets before Captain Lynch gets a hard-on for you.”

  The room filled with laughter.

  “Okay, some new assignments,” he started, reading pairings. “Rizzo, you have Logan.”

  Rizzo chortled, “I get the college boy.”

  “Shit, I wanted him,” an officer a row back said.

  Rizzo turned with a quizzical look at the officer. “What? Why?”

  “The kid can type.”

  Rizzo looked at Steve and smiled, “I know.”

  Other officers chimed in. “Rizzo, you can make more than one collar tonight because the kid can actually finish your paperwork.”

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sp; Rizzo made a crude gesture to the group. “Let’s go, kid.”

  Steve nodded to his new partner. He wouldn’t be sleeping on the job now. Rizzo had the reputation of being in the middle of things. Steve looked forward to more action and real police work, but he also knew Rizzo’s reputation as a bully. Steve could stand up for himself, and now this was an opportunity to show the brass what he was made of, like he did in the academy.

  At a small downtown coffee shop with six white plastic tables, Rizzo and Steve stopped for dinner. The waitress was in her early fifties, with thick hips and sagging breasts. She wore white nurse’s shoes. Finished, Rizzo nodded to the owner as he moved to leave.

  “Wait. I didn’t get a check,” Steve said.

  “Listen, kid: You’ve got the uniform on; you don’t pay for things.” He gestured at the owner, who handed him an envelope. “They like having us around. And they know if they ain’t our friend, then shit happens. Lots of things can go wrong with a business: parking tickets, trash, break-ins.” He pushed open the aluminum door so roughly that it strained the arm of the door closer. Steve turned and left five dollars on the table.

  In the car, Rizzo took the driver’s seat.

  “Let me give you a little advice, kid: You don’t fit in here, so don’t do anything to stand out. Keep your head down, and do your job. Say yes sir, no sir, and listen to the sergeants. Keep your nose clean. That’s it. With time, things blow over.” He was trying to make it sound like fatherly advice, but Steve was sure the message was not just from Rizzo. He had filed the report on the beating, so it could have been a harsher message. Since Captain Lynch had returned to supervise the uniformed patrol, Steve would have to keep his eyes open.