Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  Crowley was standing with several other cops by the squad cars, smoking a cigarette. The student crowd across the street was thinning out as the cops milled around without any real purpose once their curiosity was satisfied. Steve saw Liz and Suzi watching from the sidewalk. He was just another uniform to them. It was uncomfortable how people looked past him when he was in uniform.

  Captain Lynch arrived, driven by a patrolman. The older policemen moved to the side or slipped away to their cars, knowing they were far out of their districts. The captain stopped and looked at Steve as if making a mental note. Steve did not back down from the stare, knowing that he couldn’t hide his presence at the scene. It was the right thing to do, to be here. He was sorry he couldn’t help the girl.

  “Let’s go. Nothing we can do here,” Steve said to Crowley as he walked to the car.

  Taking his cap off, he stood at the car door, surveying the college neighborhood. How different it looked tonight. He was seeing it for the first time: small single-family homes squeezing in kids who lived on munchies and beer. A pizza joint and a package store—what else does a college neighborhood need?

  It would be nice to be back in school. As he turned, he met Suzi’s wide eyes as if she had just seen a ghost. She had seen him in uniform many times, but not in action, with a car, one of them. He touched his forefinger to his eyebrow in a small salute and entered the police car. To her, he was one of them. But he had never left the hill. It couldn’t just stay like this, but where to start? He couldn’t just let it pass, not this time. Did he have the courage? Courage for what? He wasn’t afraid, he was . . . what . . . unfocused? He would talk to Roxy. They would work it out. He had to believe that.

  Over the next weeks, Rizzo, with his perfect flattop haircut, was Steve’s regular partner. Steve was becoming immune to the crude jokes and comments about hippies, blacks and broads. Rizzo was quick to jump on any call even if it wasn’t in their territory. And the brass didn’t seem to care.

  “Car 28, family disturbance 201 Ford Street. Take a CCR of 278 at 10:58.”

  “Roger.” Steve hit the siren and lights. He pulled up to a three-family floor-through wooden house with wide grey asbestos shingles that were chipped at the corners. Steve and Rizzo entered the left door, leading to the upstairs apartments. He could smell the cooked garlic and heard Louis Prima singing from the second-floor apartment as the old stairs creaked under his feet. The shouting and screaming were coming from the top floor. Rizzo took two steps at a time, knocking hard on the door with his baton.

  “Police. Open the door.”

  The door opened a foot, and a small woman in her early twenties looked at the two cops like uninvited cockroaches. Her face was flushed from shouting; her unwashed, stringy black hair was wet with sweat. Rizzo kicked the door wide open with his foot. Inside the apartment were about thirty people, all arguing heatedly. A short Italian in his late twenties with a gold chain around his neck came to the hallway from the living room.

  “Who called you fucking pigs? That old witch downstairs?” the woman screamed.

  “Angela . . .” the husband screamed at the girl. “What the fuck?”

  Rizzo pushed the woman back into the apartment as he entered the small foyer.

  “Shut up, you fucking whore. You answer my questions,” he ordered, leading with his chin. Steve hated the way Rizzo talked to people. It was time to defuse the situation, not throw an accelerant on it. Steve was sick of Rizzo screwing with other people. The change had to come from the top. Steve imagined the captain was like Rizzo as a young cop—aggressive, demeaning, and ready to use force first. That was how you got ahead in Providence.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” the girl screamed as she tried to push Rizzo back to the door. He shoved her hard against the wall, knocking to the floor a plastic crucifix that had been holding a dried palm frond. He turned to look at the room of people and screamed, “Shut the fuck up!”

  Some who had seen the two cops enter stopped arguing and began moving toward the foyer. The small woman sprang back like a fighter off the ropes and unleashed a roundhouse punch directly to Rizzo’s nose, causing his head to snap back, spraying blood on the rose wallpaper. Stunned, Rizzo was still for a second before he turned to the woman, raising his baton to crush her skull. Her husband jumped forward, blocking Rizzo’s arm as it came down.

  Steve tackled the man, hitting him hard in the midsection with his shoulder before the man could throw a punch at Rizzo. He drove the husband to the floor in one motion and pinned the husband’s arms with a double bar arm wrestling hold, immobilizing his body so he could cuff him. A hail of plates and glasses showered the room, greeting the backup units as more cops charged up the stairs swinging clubs.

  Steve and the man were being hit by wildly undirected police batons and flapjacks as the cops swung furiously at anyone who moved.

  “Take it easy,” Steve said into the man’s ear. “We’ll figure this out at the station.” He felt the man stop struggling and, with help from another cop, got the man to his feet. He hustled him downstairs to the police wagon as more adrenaline-filled cops crashed up the stairs.

  Rizzo, with a little blood on his face and nose, came charging downstairs and rammed his baton hard into the cuffed man’s midsection. He hit him on the knee, spilling him to the ground, and, as he tried to get up, Rizzo hit him again across the back, dropping him to the ground with a grunt.

  “Fucking shit.” Rizzo was breathing hard. “Fucking shit!” A fresh trickle of blood ran from Rizzo’s nose. “Fucking shit. Hit a cop.” The cuffed young woman screamed a litany of obscenities at Rizzo as she was put in the back of a car and driven away.

  Rizzo watched the car turn the corner and then whacked the husband again with his stick. Detective Bouley and his partner arrived in an unmarked car. Dylan and his partner arrived with the wagon but made no move to assist the man.

  “Easy, man. The girl hit you.” Steve put himself between Rizzo and the prisoner.

  “What are you, a fucking priest or something?” Rizzo glowered at Steve, pushing him to the side as he hit the man again.

  Bouley looked down at the handcuffed man. “You hit a cop? You don’t hit cops, you piece of shit.” The man looked up, a bit dazed. And Bouley kicked the man in the ribs, dropping him to the ground.

  The man looked fearfully from Rizzo to Bouley. “Don’t let them hit me,” he pleaded to Steve.

  “Into the wagon.” Steve grabbed him to put him out of danger.

  “Fuck you, Logan. I’m not done with him,” Bouley said as he hit the man in the ribs with a blackjack.

  “Shit, man. Enough. He’s cuffed.” Steve shielded the man with his body.

  “Get out of the way. Gimme that cocksucker.” Bouley tried to push Steve away, but he kept his body between the prisoner and the detective. Bouley tried to swing around Steve, but Steve was quicker. He didn’t like Bouley and hated his sadistic approach to being a cop.

  “Son of a bitch, I gonna teach you.” Bouley grabbed the front of Steve’s jacket with both hands. Steve clamped his hands on top of Bouley’s and began forcing him to the ground. Eyes locked, he could see Bouley’s surprise. He was losing this battle, but the rookie was learning to fight back.

  “Enough. Let’s get this scene cleaned up.” A sergeant barked the order. “Logan, stand down.”

  Steve released Bouley, having made his point.

  Bouley grabbed the prisoner roughly by the back of his shirt and slammed him face-first into the back of the wagon.

  “He probably could use a little tuning up,” Bouley snarled, turning to Rizzo and the other cops.

  Steve was ready to have it out with Bouley right there. This was his prisoner; if Bouley wanted an arrest, he should get it himself. But the scene was now full of cars, with a sergeant and a lieutenant having arrived. He knew he wasn’t going to win this battle, but it didn’t change anything. It was fucking wrong, and Rizzo had started the whole damn mess. But he wasn’t going to be responsible fo
r what was about to happen to the prisoner. His cuffs, his responsibility. He turned to Dylan. “Give me your cuffs.”

  Dylan hesitated before throwing them to Steve. Steve pinned the man’s arms and put Dylan’s cuffs on him before removing his own.

  “Your prisoner, Dylan,” Steve said.

  Dylan shrugged and shook his head. Dylan was a good soldier, and Steve didn’t want to put this shit on him, but he didn’t trust Bouley.

  “You shitting me?” Bouley looked fiercely at Steve and then grabbed the man and again slammed him hard into the side of the wagon. “This guy wants to see the park. Let’s take the scenic route,” he ordered Dylan before he got into the wagon behind the prisoner. As Dylan closed the door, Steve heard the man grunt again in pain as he was hit.

  More police and prisoners poured from the building as several more wagons arrived. Steve looked over the chaotic scene, knowing it was his call and his paperwork. He wasn’t going to let this one slide.

  Later that night, the station room was packed when Steve arrived with Rizzo after a stop at Rhode Island General. Most of the officers involved in the fight were sitting at typewriters, hunting and pecking their reports. Looking up and then quickly back down at their reports, no officer spoke to Steve. Foley made eye contact with him and slowly shook his head as he returned to typing. The steady clicking rhythm of keys and ringing bells filled the unusually quiet room.

  Steve rolled the form into the typewriter and filled out the date, time, and call number. He looked at the paper, the anger still roiling inside. He took several deep breaths to calm himself before he began.

  Loud noise call. Upon reaching the residence, a female responded to the door. The female refused the officer’s request to enter the premises upon which the officer forcefully opened the door pushing female occupant against the wall . . . .

  Rizzo read Steve’s finished twelve arrest reports and then his injury report. The nose injury would give Rizzo sick leave for a couple of weeks with pay. He said nothing to Steve but dropped the report in the basket at the front desk as he left to change into civilian clothes. Rizzo was still angry, but Steve could hear him laughing as he boasted about the number of collars he would be credited for. One step closer to detective.

  The prisoner was in a holding cell downstairs after Bouley’s handiwork. The perpetrator fell down all three flights of stairs trying to escape from the police was the wording of Rizzo’s report that Steve typed. He did not go downstairs, having seen enough tuned-up prisoners.

  Steve typed up a separate report which followed the facts. Someone had to do it. It disgusted him the way bullies like Rizzo liked to beat on handcuffed prisoners.

  “Logan!” the desk sergeant yelled into the room. “Captain Lynch wants to see you.”

  Steve turned around and went to the captain’s office. It was dark and filled with stale cigar smoke. The captain was sitting at his desk, and a single green desk lamp shone on some papers. Steve waited by the door as Bouley rose from the seat next to the captain. Exiting, he eyed Steve and mouthed, “Fuck you.”

  “What was that shit tonight?” the captain demanded. He was twirling a yellow pencil between the fingers of his left hand.

  “Sir?”

  “Cuffing and re-cuffing the prisoner?”

  “I used sufficient force to make the arrest. The prisoner was in my custody and was providing no resistance, as you taught us at the Academy. When I turned him over to the wagon, I transferred custody to the wagon so I put the wagon cuffs on the prisoner.”

  Lynch glared at him and took the cigar out of his mouth, as if he knew the answer to his next question. “Why did you do that?”

  “I knew the condition of the prisoner when he entered the wagon, but I had no control over him afterward. I passed along custody; he no longer was my prisoner. It is in accordance with police protocol as you taught us at the Academy.”

  Lynch bit harder on the end of the cigar. Smoke came from his nose as the tip of the cigar burnt a bright red. Lynch began slowly, “Logan, legally and technically, you are correct.” He paused. “But that’s not how things are done around here. This isn’t book learning.” He glared at Steve, tapping the ash from the cigar without breaking eye contact.

  Steve held his look, trying not to reveal that his somersaulting stomach made him feel like he was before the principal in grammar school, Sister Mary Bertha. Steve stood tall at attention, trying not to show any weakness. Technically, he was correct. He was following the rule book. The captain didn’t have many options.

  “Dismissed,” Lynch snapped without removing the cigar. Steve saluted, pivoted smartly, and walked straight through the squad room, his shoulders square. The typing stopped as he passed. He was pissed and angry.

  He sat on the wooden bench in front of the locker to change into civilian clothes. He put his pistol and holster into his tan canvas gym bag and was removing his shirt when a sharp blow to his left shoulder knocked him into the locker. Another blow, aimed at his head, glanced off his forearm as he raised it to deflect the blackjack. What the fuck? The locker room, hit from behind; would they really do that? His mind raced, trying to put the facts in order. Cowards, not willing to face him. He’d had locker room scuffles after intense practices before, but always face to face. He tried to see his attacker, but a boot landed against his rib cage, forcing a cry of pain from his lips. There was more than one, and he was on the ground.

  From his side, he swung a clean leg sweep, catching one of his attacker’s heels, causing Steve to fall back into the lockers on the other side of the bench. Could he reach his service revolver? Another blackjack blow to his back and then his arm caused him to curl more into a ball to protect himself. This was no college-boy argument. These were professional thugs. Why didn’t he see it coming? He was pissed at himself. He never imagined that they would go this far.

  “Fucking cowards,” he screamed at them. “Come face me.” He struggled to his feet, keeping his face in the locker for protection. His kidneys and buttocks were taking the blows. He was the tough guy when he played football in high school, never backing down from even the biggest linemen. Stay low and keep your feet moving. He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of quitting. He kicked back hard, knocking the bench against the lockers. They vibrated and rang with a hollow, bell-like sound. The loud noise caused his attackers to pause, looking at the door, and Steve kicked hard like a mule, finding the knee of one of the men, who loudly cursed.

  Another blow across the back of his legs with a baton caused Steve to crumple back to the ground. Stay down, he told himself. He wasn’t going to win this one. With his right hand, he fumbled in his gym bag, looking for his gun belt.

  “We protect our own, asshole.” It sounded like Bouley, but even Steve’s hearing was cloudy. “Don’t get in the way again.”

  Steve felt the handle of his pistol and slowly surrounded it with his fingers. I should finish it right now. They have it coming. He knew he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t who he was.

  “What’s going on in here?” He heard the deep voice of the patrol sergeant.

  And there was silence—that silence that existed on the force. He imagined the looks that were exchanged between the men as they looked at him, still on the ground. The college boy better understand the rules. Don’t stand in the way, don’t buck the system. He waited, and the silence remained. Hurting but more ashamed, he slowly pulled himself to his feet and finished dressing in civilian clothes. They had made their point, but it didn’t change anything.

  “Holy shit,” Steve said later, slamming his hand on the steering wheel of his car. “Holy shit. You do the right thing and you get fucked.” He had followed his instincts, not that it helped the poor bastard in the wagon. And he stood up to that prick Bouley, just to be ambushed in the locker room. He sat forward in the seat to keep the welts on his back from touching the seat. He would play along with them for now, but they had just changed the rules.

  He drove up the hill, realizing he f
ought battles without a strategy for winning. What was his next step? Where could he go in the department? Not the chief. Steve wanted the satisfaction to remain, but he knew he had to be careful now. Now they thought he was afraid, and that was good. He would talk to Roxy—they would think it through.

  Reporting to work the next shift, Steve was assigned a walking post. Crowley drove him in the patrol car north toward an area stated for redevelopment but currently wasn’t much more than the remains of factory buildings in various stages of decay. Steve rode shotgun as Crowley drove slowly up north Main Street.

  “How’s Rizzo?” Steve asked.

  “She broke his nose, stupid bastard. But he’s on paid sick leave for three weeks.” Crowley nodded with a smile. “And tonight you get punishment post. That’s Providence justice.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t want the street to know he got creamed by a chick,” Steve said as he got out of the car. He enjoyed Crowley as a partner, even if he was a lazy cop. Their relationship was professional, and Crowley didn’t avoid him. Steve trusted him not to fuck him over.

  “I understand you met the enforcers.”

  “They have a name?”

  “Not technically.”

  “Fucking cowards.” Steve turned to Crowley, who continued to look forward out the front windshield.

  “You’re a good kid, so don’t take risks. It’s not worth it. Nothing’s gonna change, believe me. They can burn you whenever they want—little dope found in your locker, planted at your apartment, slow radio . . . All sorts of shit can happen.”

  Steve liked Crowley. He breathed a little more easily. Crowley was looking out for him, and he appreciated that. “Thanks.”

  Crowley said change was impossible. That if Steve continued the crusade to change the things that he’d talked about, the enforcers would escalate the situation for him. He had to be smarter than them. He had been keeping records but not systematically. Now he would, and he would have to push in farther.

  It was a cold March night with a light drizzle. Steve adjusted his gun and radio and pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck against the raw air. Walking along the desolate abandoned warehouse area, he had never given any thought to punishment posts. It seemed to be a waste of manpower since no criminal would be in this part of Providence on this shitty night. Any good scrap from these buildings had long been stolen. But he understood Lynch’s logic—Steve had broken an unwritten code. He had not participated in savagely beating a man who almost took a swing at a cop because the cop was about to rearrange the man’s wife’s head with his baton. Steve had taken the man down, fought him into custody, and brought him to the van, but vengeance needed to be extracted somewhere. Steve had stood up to the sadistic detective. Steve hadn’t stopped them, which he knew was the right thing to do, but he hadn’t participated, either. And that wasn’t how things were done around here. But it was wrong and had to move forward . . .