Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Rizzo backed the car into the street. “They’ve got to fear you, know that you can take away their living or their freedom anytime you want,” he said, looking over his newest snitch.

  Steve understood Rizzo was about power and money. He liked the fear in their eyes and their shuffling deference to his power. It wasn’t about protecting the people. These shakedowns were disgusting, but there wasn’t anything he could do. As a detective, Rizzo would have even less supervision than now, which was a frightening thought. Steve thought Rizzo—divorced twice—wanted a woman only for sex or to serve him. Steve was struggling to understand it. There was good and evil, but here it was grafted onto each other so that it was hard to tell it apart. He had thought it was easy to understand when he started, but now it was murkier. There was all this brutal shit, but that was just the symptom of the overall corruption—no one was accountable. Where do you begin?

  Rizzo drove into the parking lot of a warehouse complex. A small lit sign that read Mickey’s, large enough for its purpose, was in front of a steel door. He parked the cruiser in the fire lane and got out. Steve followed. As Rizzo pushed open the door, a wall of music assaulted them. The bar was dimly lit and crowded. Rizzo and Steve made their way inside, and patrons moved away or allowed a path to appear and then close behind them. Steve’s eyes adjusted to the low light, and he slowly surveyed the scene. The patrons, some in halter tops and skirts, and others in jeans and tight t-shirts, were all men.

  Rizzo kept plowing his way past the bar to a small door next to the men’s room. He rapped on the door with his baton and pushed his way in. A tall, thin man with bony features and long, thin fingers sat behind his metal desk. His short, cropped hair was grey at the temples, and he had an Italian cornicello on a chain at the open neck of his nylon shirt. He looked at Rizzo and didn’t try to hide his disgust as the sides of his mouth turned. Steve closed the door after them, but it did little to deaden the music.

  “Hey, Smitty. Looks like business is pretty good.”

  “Just making a living.” Smitty had a frozen smile and was staring at Rizzo like an unwelcome relative.

  “If you call being a butt-fucking faggot living.”

  Smitty didn’t change his expression but opened the center desk drawer and took out a large manila envelope. He handed it to Rizzo, who opened it and thumbed through the cash inside.

  “It’s all there. Now, would you tell the captain to stop ticketing my customers on side streets? Shit. There is no one working on the docks at night.”

  “Tell them to park legally. Or we might get you a deal on the lot on the corner.”

  “No thanks; I can’t afford any more of your overhead. Jimmy will set you up with a drink before you leave,” Smitty said. Steve heard the sarcasm, but it seemed to escape his partner.

  “Your choice.” Rizzo turned, and Steve followed. As they walked through the bar, a large man with rouged cheeks and red lipstick slid off a barstool and looked Rizzo in the eye.

  “I love a man in uniform,” he said and petted Rizzo’s sleeve.

  Rizzo pushed the man’s hand away with his stick and continued to the door. Steve saw the man smile to his friend as if he were going to collect on a dare. A low laughter came from the crowd as they exited.

  Back in the car, Rizzo muttered, “Those fags make my skin creep. Every time I have to make this pickup . . .”

  “They think you’re their kind of man,” Steve smiled. It was nice to see Rizzo not in control.

  Rizzo scowled and turned hard down another deserted street.

  “Now, at this pickup, I never mind staying to have a drink at the bar.”

  There was a sign ahead that read Alley Cat Club in the shape of a buxom girl bending over.

  The thickly tattooed bouncer at the front door stepped aside as Rizzo entered with Steve following. The cashier, wearing a pink negligee that revealed the outline of her breasts, gave Rizzo a peck on the cheek as he walked in. She smiled at Steve to demonstrate she understood the game, and Steve caught her eye.

  A short girl with very large breasts was dancing on the semi-circular stage in the center of the room. A row of chairs hugged the apron so that men could reach the dancer from below to put money in her garter. The dancer’s pole gleamed in the spotlight as the girl encircled it with her arm and spun around it on one foot, slowly lowering herself to the ground until she was on all fours, facing the three men sitting at the edge of the stage.

  Steve watched Rizzo take in the scene as several girls quickly hovered around him like bees. He moved through the room slowly, looking at each man, some sitting at tables or others in booths along the wall, with a partially clothed girl next to them. The men averted their eyes or were too drunk to care.

  As he passed the small green door to the girls’ dressing room, he asked a large blonde dressed in a secretary’s skirt and a deeply plunging blouse waiting to go on stage, “Is Lily working tonight?”

  The girl stopped for a moment, sizing up Rizzo before replying, “Yeah. She dances after me.” Rizzo smiled at the girl before entering the small office.

  The shock of the bright light caused Steve to blink as he got his bearings. The small office had a metal desk, metal filing cabinet, and three Playboy centerfolds taped to the wall.

  “How’s business, Frankie?” Rizzo extended his hand to the middle-aged man with a mole on his left cheek. Frankie stood and extended his hand.

  “Could be busier. Need more of you boys to stop by after work. I got a nice crop of new girls—some even from Boston. Great place for a promotion party,” he said, nodding to Rizzo. Reaching into his desk, he handed the white envelope to Rizzo, who put it into his jacket pocket without checking the contents. As Steve watched the exchange, he guessed that they had been doing business together for years. How much this time? Steve was realizing there was organization to the pickups, and Rizzo was one of the trusted. This is what Durk was talking about. But Durk had help, which Steve didn’t see happening in Providence.

  “Now I need a little closer inspection of the merchandise,” Rizzo smiled.

  “Knock your lights out,” Frankie said.

  Steve and Rizzo re-entered the bar, which was beginning to fill with the evening crowd. The girls raced to the door at each arrival, looking to hustle a table dance. A tall girl with bleached platinum hair completed a split on stage and swiveled her hips until she was flat, then slithered across the stage like a blond anaconda. She allowed dollar bills to be stuffed in her G-string as she passed. Rizzo followed her serpentine movements and offered her his hand as she stepped down the stage steps. The next girl, a small brunette, finished putting quarters in the jukebox and stepped up to the stage in a babydoll blue camisole as “Satisfaction” began to play.

  “Buy you a drink, Lily?” Rizzo asked politely.

  “A VIP drink?” she smiled at him.

  “Only the best for you, baby.” He took her by the arm, leading her to the steps to the private VIP rooms upstairs.

  Steve stood there, unsure of what to do next. The girl on stage threw her blue panties at him, and he caught them instinctively. He politely placed them at the edge of the stage. The girl danced toward him, shaking her breasts rhythmically to the music. Steve watched them and looked at the girl, who was no more than nineteen. She caught his eye with a practiced vulnerability. He wondered how her tight body would feel under him. VIP room—did that come with the job? To touch her, feel her body on his, have a little fling? Roxy was the second girl he had ever been with, and his only real relationship. He shook away the thoughts—it came with the job, temptations. He wanted to give her some money but was aware of the eyes on him.

  He backed away from the stage and took up a less-conspicuous station by the front door. He watched the girls approach the men around the stage, taking them by the hand to darker parts of the club while he waited for Rizzo to achieve satisfaction.

  The racial tension at Central High School had not improved since Steve had begun teaching two days a week. Wh
en he entered the teacher’s lounge, the three teachers by the door went silent. He found that when he made small talk, the teacher quickly exited to attend to other pressing duties.

  “Ready to quit your night job?” Mr. Zulo came over with a cup of coffee. “Get you a cup,” he said, pointing to the hotplate on the counter.

  “Never during the day. With all I drink at night, it’s eating a hole through my stomach.”

  “Never mind these shitheads.” Mr. Zulo motioned at the two teachers sitting at a table. “Most of them don’t know what’s good for them. I’ve been trying to get them to form a union for years. Maybe a half a dozen of us care, but the rest? They say, ‘We’re educators, not factory workers.’ If you ask me, we’re in the warehousing business. What do you think?”

  “It’s tough. I think I might be getting through to a couple of them.”

  “Maybe for a minute, but it doesn’t stick. That’s what’s so damn frustrating. You think they see the light, and the next day they come in, and you know the bulb needs to be replaced again.”

  “It’s the times; nobody wants to trust authority. I was just there, and look at me now.” Steve felt he connected better with the kids than Zulo did because he respected them. Or was he just kidding himself and projecting how he dealt with high school? He was close to their age and remembered the difference a teacher could make in a class. Zulo looked him over critically, like a recruit, and patted him on the back. “You’re okay, kid. Who you subbing for today?”

  “A math teacher today, Mr. Bozo. If that was my name, I would have changed it,” Steve said as he headed for the door.

  “When you meet him, you know that it fits.”

  “Hey, teacher man.” Norvell was walking down the hall with his swagger and troupe of followers, including a very tall, large kid.

  “Norvell,” Steve acknowledged. “How’s your Shakespeare coming along?”

  “Sucks. Coming to the basketball game tonight? See, my man Marvin,” he motioned to the big kid, “do a little schooling on Pawtucket. Better get to see him while he’s cheap. He’s goin’ to the pros. Big bucks.”

  “And you are his manager?”

  Norvell puffed up more. “I’m just giving him trusted advice.”

  “I’m teaching a math class. You should get to one so you can count all that money.”

  “I can count.” Norvell was offended.

  Steve looked at the big kid, who he seemed to hang on every word Norvell said. Maybe he appreciated the protection and smarts Norvell seemed to offer.

  That night, to Norvell’s surprise, Steve climbed the wooden bleachers and sat down next to the students. The sounds of bouncing balls and hoots and insults ricocheted in the packed gym. Students from both schools were huddled in prides, ready to pounce on any opposing weakness. The stamping of feet on the old bleachers caused the structures to wobble like an old man.

  “You got money on the game?” Steve asked, knowing Norvell was uncomfortable but proud that the cop was sitting next to him.

  “I’m not a gambler, I’m a businessman,” he shot back. “But if I was making book, I’d take Central and give you ten. Marvin is that good.”

  “So what kind of business?”

  “Money business. Ya know, buying and selling.”

  “Buying and selling what? Stuff that falls off the truck?”

  “Man, don’t insult me,” Norvell said, opening his mouth and raising his eyebrows. “I’m an entrepreneur.”

  Norvell nodded at Steve as if the two of them were on the same page. Maybe they were, Steve thought. Norvell was smarter than he let on, quick with numbers, and had enough schooling to talk over most of his crowd. If he stayed out of trouble, he could go far.

  The whistle blew, and Steve stood to return to the floor with the other teachers. “Tell your friends to keep it in line. Or I’ll have to be back up here. Don’t fuck with me.”

  “No need for that shit. This game won’t be close enough to have a fight. Besides, I already covered all my bets.” Norvell smiled and nodded as Steve returned to the hardwood, standing by the door with several other teachers.

  On the opening tip, Marvin put home a mighty dunk to the roar of the home crowd, and the game was all Central, who beat the opposition by eighteen points.

  “You covered the spread,” Steve said as Norvell exited the gym.

  “Told you my boy Marvin was money. Now we’re gonna do a little partying.”

  “See you in math class, Mr. Entrepreneur,” Steve said, but Norvell just smiled and shook his head to the amusement of his crew.

  “That’s a report of a rape, 125 Benevolent Street,” the dispatcher’s flat voice said.

  Cars quickly responded to the call. “Car 12 going. Car 20 on the way. Car 15 on the way.”

  Steve picked up the microphone. “Car 24 on the way.” And he moved the car from park, heading up Olney Street toward college hill.

  “Why the fuck did you do that?” Crowley asked, still holding onto his second cup of coffee. “It’s out of our district. Not our call.”

  “Yeah, but I might be of some help up in my neighborhood.” He knew that Suzi lived on Benevolent Street, but he didn’t know the number. It was probably Brown students involved, and he wanted to be able to help.

  “Not our call. You know the captain gets pissed when you cross town for a call.” Crowley said.

  “It’s adjacent, okay? Not across town.” Steve saw Crowley roll his eyes, but since Steve was driving, he didn’t have much choice.

  Steve hit Waterman Street and gunned the cruiser up the hill, all siren and lights. It was past three in the morning on a Friday night. Campus was relatively quiet, but he was already working the situation in his head. Was it a grab-and-drag rape or drunk kids, too much touching, not enough no, and next thing rape. It wasn’t like south Providence, where someone gets pulled into a vacant house or pushed into their apartment.

  As he pulled up to the two-story wood frame house, he recognized the building that had been divided into student apartments. The blue and red lights of the police cars colored the night. A crowd of students from adjacent buildings was gathering on the sidewalk. Steve opened the front door and slid past two cops. The first floor was divided into three apartments. The door on the left was open to a studio apartment. Two cops and a sergeant were talking to a girl sitting on the bed. On the walls were posters of album covers: Jimi Hendrix, the Doors, Beatles, and Che Guevara, his dark eyes surveying the scene from under his beret. The girl was a familiar face, someone Steve had seen but didn’t know. He wondered where she was from and what she was hoping to do. Her face was round and puffy from crying. Her mousey brown hair was tangled and damp. She wore a loose-fitting cotton blouse and pajama bottoms. When she came to Brown, she was probably at the top of her class, all achievement and promise. Steve thought of his freshman class—and the kids who washed out trying to be the best and hating their failure. Drunk too many nights or high, they disappeared over the years. Not saying goodbye, just never returning. Roxy was an A all the way and killing herself for the grades. He was in awe of her determination and jealous for more of her time.

  A sergeant was questioning her. “Did she want to press charges? Is this the guy? When did it happen?” Steve could hear her unsteady voice slowly enunciating words through a thick haze of liquor.

  “He did it. I didn’t want him to, but he forced me,” she was saying. More cops were arriving to gawk at the poor girl. Steve felt sorry for her. These guys would make her go over the story again in even more detail, asking about where she was penetrated, how it felt, did she know him, did she enjoy it? They would write the report, and the day shift would make her relive it all over again. There was not a woman in the mix.

  When she was sober, would she want to go through it again and again? She would be embarrassed. She was in pain—anger pain, existential pain. And the system would only generate more. She would drop the charges, frustrated with the callousness of the state. How could he change it? Wouldn
’t it be better if the girl could speak to another woman? It was how it was, the brass would say. But why couldn’t it be changed? He was angry, but there was no place to channel it right now.

  A thick-set boy with hair hanging like a beaded curtain around his ears and a small goatee sat handcuffed in the hallway. He was wearing a green t-shirt and boxer shorts.

  “I didn’t do anything. She’s crazy. She’s just pissed off ’cause I want to break up.”

  “Sure, Romeo,” another cop said.

  A strong odor of pot drifted down the stairs with the plaintive sounds of an off-key Donavan. Two cops followed the smell upstairs and banged on a door. The hapless folk singer with shoulder-length dirty blond hair was brought downstairs in shorts and sandals.

  “Man, I wasn’t bothering anyone,” he said, looking confused at the interruption of his concert. The cops were laughing at their bust. Another hippie busted; one more for the good guys. Steve was disgusted, knowing there was nothing he could do to help the girl. He wanted to take the girl to Roxy and Heather and let her sleep it off so tomorrow she could think straight. He hated the leering cops on principle. By the time she went through her story for the fifth time, she would realize that it was better to let it go.

  “She was asking for it,” Meatball said, walking down the hall. “College sluts.”

  “Asshole.” Steve moved toward him. “She’s got a right to her body. What if she was your sister?”

  “My sister wouldn’t be drunk with some low-life hippie. And if I caught her, she’d be crying more than rape.” Meatball laughed with the audience of cops.

  “You’re right. She wouldn’t be in college because she was already knocked up,” Steve said.

  “Logan, you scumbag.” Meatball pushed forward toward Steve, who squared off against him.

  “She deserves some respect and privacy, just like your sister would. Look at this fucking circus.” They stood facing each other as more patrol cars arrived. Steve pointed at the cops arriving to gawk. “This is so fucking sick.”