Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  In the coffee house on a second floor overlooking Thayer Street, Professor Whitney was sitting on a low chair in the far corner. There was a plaintive folk singer on a low stage, singing to the empty house in the early evening.

  Professor Whitney stood to greet Steve. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought you were off to law school.”

  “Thanks for meeting me. I am, in a way,” Steve smiled as they sat down.

  “Going to night school?”

  Steve was amused. “Yeah. Sometimes double shifts.”

  Whitney looked confused by the statement.

  Steve smiled, guessing what Whit’s reaction would be. “I’m a cop.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a Providence cop.”

  Whitney leaned forward, looking hard at Steve as he seemed to be processing the information. Steve smiled because he knew it was not what Whit expected to hear.

  “A cop? In Providence? Here?”

  Steve nodded.

  “I never—no one ever.” He was mouth moved sideways, searching for a response. “You don’t go to school here to become . . . Whatever made you . . .”

  “You said you have to become involved to make a difference.”

  “Yes, but that was theory. I mean, this is . . . Well, I mean this is different.”

  He took out an unfiltered Gaulois cigarette and offered one to Steve, who declined. The professor blew perfect smoke rings as he thought.

  “So you’ve acted on the theory, not just read the books. Brown students protest and then go to grad school or back to their inheritance.” He tilted his head at Steve. “Interesting. Different. But Providence—it’s such a . . . a low-class . . . What you must have to deal with. Do they even know how to . . .”

  “It’s a different city up here on the hill. But that’s not why I asked you to meet me. I need help or need to know where to go for help.”

  “How can I help?” He picked a piece of tobacco from his mouth.

  “This police force is corrupt, like in New York. Maybe up to the top. I don’t know, but I see it all around. You’ve read about the Knapp Commission in New York. I met Sergeant Durk during the strike, at the teach-in. He said you have to change it from the inside. It could be the whole city; I don’t know.”

  Steve took out a stack of envelopes.

  “People give you a hundred bucks to not see things. Not for not doing anything—for not seeing things. The money is bigger on the top of the force, where they can actually do or fix something.” He took a quick look around, having given it much thought while walking the punishment posts. He didn’t trust anyone on the force and wanted to know his options when he spoke to Roxy.

  He spoke more quietly. “Now, I know Brown has some big political connections. If I could get this information to the right people . . .”

  “I’m a political science professor, not a politician. I know the theory . . .”

  “Yeah, I know the theory too, Professor. But now I can name names. This isn’t textbook out there. I’m not the most popular guy on the force.”

  “But what do you want me to do?”

  “You have access to people. I need to know, need help in how to get this information to the right people. To people I can trust.”

  Whit paused and looked Steve over intently. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Steve finished a coffee in the Blue Room and walked through campus, past the statue of Marcus Aurelius on horseback, toward Thayer Street. There were signs on both sides on the path and a crowd of students around the Soldiers Gate. The signs said Save Fox Point, Stop the Greedy Landlords, and Help Fox Point. Steve saw Roxy in the crowd, which had gathered in front of a platform made of milk crates. They stopped milling as a tall man in long grey robes, with a full, bushy beard, took the megaphone. It squealed when he tried to speak. He looked at it and started again.

  “Students, thank you for being here and allowing me to interrupt your studies. I’m Father Hugo Schmidt. I’m a Franciscan friar from Brazil. My parish is in Fox Point, a short walk from here. We need your support. Our parish is mostly poor Portuguese immigrants who work hard for their dreams. God has a special place for the insignificant, the unimportant, the defenseless. The poor have a special place in God’s eyes. The spirit of the church is the line to universal salvation and eternal life, but our temporal role is to assist the helpless in their rights to dignity and justice.

  “We need volunteers to help us with English and to fight the greedy landlords who are trying to drive them out of their homes. We need volunteers, and we need money. I know we’re not in church, but,” he waved a battered bush hat, “I have brought this hat from my home in Brazil, and it will have to do.” He smiled at them, a St. Francis beatific smile, waiting for the birds to land on his outstretched arms. “We thank you for your support—and you are all welcome at Sunday Mass.”

  Steve moved to Roxy’s side. She put money in the hat and looked at Steve, who reached into his pocket for a ten-dollar bill. With Roxy pleased at his gesture, they exited through the gate. Steve wondered if this Fox Point issue didn’t tie into the reports he had typed. “What was that about? Are you getting involved in another protest?” Steve asked.

  Roxy said, “The landlords in Fox Point are raising the rents to drive the immigrants out. Where will they go? And where would the country be without immigrants—it’s not fair.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Who do they think will replace them? Millionaires or poor college kids? It’s not a great area.” Steve found there were no incident calls related to the reports he had typed. Was there a connection?

  “I don’t know. But Father Schmidt believes in the liberation theology that says the church is morally and socially obligated to actively help the poor reach economic and political equality.”

  “But you’re not Catholic. I am.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She looked at him with a little girl’s serenity and trust in how tomorrow will be better. “I can’t just study. We can all help, even if in little ways.”

  “Can I buy you dinner tonight? We can go to the—”

  “Sure,” she said. “But it will have to be early. I still have work to do.”

  “I’m off Saturday. Want to go to Newport?”

  “Yes, that would be fun.”

  Steve approached University Hall, the original college edifice that sat on the Brown campus, formerly known as the College in the English Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations. The history of the school, its connection to the Brown family and their involvement in the slave trade, and the school’s name were hotly debated subjects by students and faculty while he was at school.

  Dean Donald Toll IV sat behind an antique desk from the 1840s. His office was appointed with pieces from the two centuries of university growth. He was dressed in a conservative grey Ivy League suit. Steve entered the room dressed in khaki pants, cream shirt with blue knit tie, and his camel hair blazer. Professor Whitney was sitting in a wing chair to the side of the room. There were two guest chairs in front of the desk.

  Dean Toll stood. “Mr. Logan. Please come in and have a seat. Professor Whitney has told me what you’ve done with the fine education you have received here.” There was a sneer in his Boston-accented voice. “And now you are having problems. Obviously, you are not currently a member of the university community, but as you are an alumnus, I’m willing to listen, but I am not certain what help I can be.”

  “Sir, thank you for seeing me. I’m asking for advice as well as help. I’ve been a police officer since graduating last year.”

  Dean Toll leaned back in his chair and looked to the side, not directly at Steve.

  “I’ve learned a great deal about the real world, especially about Providence. It’s not what you see from the Hill.”

  Dean Toll cocked his head.

  “It is a different world down there.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well sir, the police force is full of corruption, from the ordinary c
op taking a free meal to protecting the New England mafia from the Feds. I think it might go all the way to the top. Brown is sophisticated, and you and the people here know all the politicians, so I thought you might be able to help or point me in the right direction to get help. You see, my plan would be . . .”

  “Young man, while I might admire your idealistic instincts, this is not anything that the university would want to be involved with. We have a good relationship with the Providence community. We have worked hard over the years to maintain that relationship so that our mission of educating young minds goes undisturbed. We do not get involved in local politics. It cannot result in any positive outcomes for the university.”

  “But I’m talking about big-time things here. Things that are wrong, that shouldn’t be going on. Something should be done.”

  “I’m certain there are, and I agree that someone should look into such things, but it is not the role of the university to be involved. That is all we’re discussing here.”

  “Well, I thought you might be able to help. To steer me in the right direction . . .”

  Dean Toll tilted his look down at Steve, the sides of his mouth turned tightly upward. “Perhaps you should talk to the U.S. Attorney or the FBI. This would be in their jurisdiction.”

  Steve had thought that there would be more encouragement. “I thought I might get some introduction or some help in sorting it through.”

  Dean Toll stood abruptly. “I am so sorry, but the university cannot get involved. I sympathize with your experience but really can’t help you.” He ushered Steve to the door. “I am so sorry to cut this meeting short, but I do have a pressing appointment.”

  As Steve was leaving, Toll flung a final dart. “If you go to law school, I’m certain you could learn how to address these types of issues.”

  He shook hands and pushed the door closed, but it didn’t close all the way. Steve paused by the door.

  Dean Toll harshly asked Whitney, “What possessed you to think the university would ever want to get involved with the local police? We have an agreement with them—we police ourselves and cooperate with them. We have significant expansion plans that require the cooperation of city officials.”

  He paused, correcting his tone to more conversational. “I mean, if we start stirring things up, it wouldn’t be good for our students. Do you know how many of our students could be arrested on alcohol and drug charges alone?”

  Steve heard a note of surprise in Whitney’s voice. “No, but I can imagine.”

  Toll continued, shuffling some papers. “We can’t do anything specific, but we need to create some distance from the university and that kid. Is he one of those wild-eyed radicals—SDS? You know that type. I don’t want a trail leading back here, back to the university. You understand? How do we let that type into this school?” Steve heard disgust in the Dean’s voice.

  Steve turned and left as Whitney opened the door.

  Another domestic-disturbance call, the third one of the night. Saturday nights were like that: too much time together with too much alcohol, and soon people were at each other, throwing obscenities and physical objects. Steve had already learned that you never knew what you were walking into. Crowley was affecting his limp up the dimly lit stairs to the two-family house, allowing Steve to take two steps at a time. Steve had noticed Crowley was slow to take calls or show up on scene when he didn’t have backup. Only months to retirement.

  “Police. Open up,” Steve said.

  “Don’t you go near that door.” He could hear the man’s angry voice, followed by some curses and a hard slap, sending a body against a wall with a thud. The brass doorknob turned, and the door began to open. The man’s voice screamed again.

  “I told you not to open that door.”

  Steve heard the sound of a strap, and a woman cried out in pain. He jammed his baton into the partial opening before it could close. The man pushed hard against the door, once, twice. Steve timed his push to when the man had let up pressure for another push. Ramming his shoulder into the door and driving with his legs, the door exploded inward, throwing the man back down the hallway as the door slammed against the wall.

  Steve saw a woman in her early fifties, with a doughy face and arms like water wings, looking dazed. Her sleeveless yellow housedress looked stained with mustard, coffee, and red wine or blood. She was seated on the floor near an aluminum kitchen chair.

  “Get up,” Steve ordered the man as he grabbed the three-inch-wide leather belt from the man’s hand. “Get against the wall.” The man, dressed in a blue denim work shirt and white painter’s pants, had several days’ growth on his face and thick, bushy eyebrows. His eyes were bloodshot and angry.

  “What’s the problem here?” Crowley pushed past Steve now that the danger was under control.

  “This bitch is a . . .” the man started, but Steve pushed him against the wall with his stick.

  “We’re not talking to you.”

  “He hit me,” the woman said. “He goes crazy. I burnt the meat, and he threw the dinner at . . . Then I tried to clean it up but . . .” Her words were slow and slurred.

  “Okay, ma’am. Are you hurt?” Crowley asked. It was another domestic disturbance, which meant lots of paperwork if the EMTs were called.

  She lowered her head, crying and revealing a large red welt on her neck.

  “Let’s go, buddy. We’re going for a walk,” Steve said, taking the man by the arm. He didn’t understand the wife beating, girlfriend beating—the violence and ferocity of it. And the way the women would take it.

  “No, no,” the woman protested. “I’m not gonna press any charges.”

  “’Course not.” Crowley said in disgust, passing by Steve and out the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Buddy, take a walk. Cool down,” Steve told the man.

  “She better have this place cleaned up by the time I come back, or else . . .” The man turned back to the woman.

  “Or else what?” Steve said putting his face inches away from the man.

  “I’ll teach her to . . .”

  “Teach her, tough guy.” Steve rammed his stick into the man’s solar plexus, causing him to double over. “And you’ll use this?” Steve held the leather belt up for the man to see before he slapped the man hard across his back with it. Again and again, Steve hit him, driving him to the front door.

  “No, no! Don’t hurt him. He’s all I got,” the woman cried and screamed.

  Steve drove the man down the stairs with blow after blow from the belt. Pushing him up against the front porch, Steve put the belt in front of the man’s face.

  “Don’t make us come back, because if we come back, I won’t be so nice next time. You’ll get a little ride around town that will make even your teeth ache. You understand me?”

  The man nodded in agreement and began walking down the darkened street. Steve returned to the car. Crowley sat in the driver’s seat, lighting up a cigarette.

  “You going to write it up?” Crowley asked with a look of satisfaction on his face.

  Steve could feel the adrenaline slowly subsiding as his heart rate began to drop. He didn’t mean to lose it, but the asshole deserved it. Why beat on a woman? He didn’t get it. He was judge and jury tonight. Was this how the system worked—simple, effective? The man wouldn’t forget him and might think twice next time. He had won a tough game, but the nagging realization that he had crossed a line lingered.

  “Yeah, I’ll write it up.” It meant domestic disturbance, husband left the premises.

  Steve and Roxy rode in the green Volkswagen on Bellevue Avenue in Newport, leaving the Gilded Age mansions. Steve had proposed the day trip from Providence. “Can you ever imagine being that rich?”

  “Rich—is that an objective? Not for me,” he said.

  “But having an army of servants for your every whim. Even someone to dress you?” Roxy shook her head slowly.

  “I can always be there to undress you,” he said with a smile.


  “You know what I mean—having so much money that this is a summer cottage. So unfair. Did you see the size of those safes during the tour? For the silverware?”

  “But look what happened to them—their homes are all museums now. They can’t afford them anymore. Help is not quite so cheap. I don’t think I could ever be that rich.” He turned pensive. “There are better ways to spend money than on parties.”

  “I’d like to try it for a while, you know. Being rich. Maybe not forever, but it would make things easier.”

  “When you’re a doctor, you’ll be set for life.”

  “Ten years from now,” she exhaled and stared out the window. “I guess so.”

  “I’m working; we could find a nicer apartment. Get some real furniture, a place where you could study. We could even go somewhere on summer break. Europe, maybe Paris. We could find a little hotel on the Left Bank. Have coffee with writers at Café Les Deux Magots. Find some paintings from an unknown artist in Montmartre. I get paid vacation now.” His love for her was a constant ache. He’d do almost anything to make it work between them.

  “It would be wonderful to see Europe.”

  “I’ll buy you fresh pain au chocolat in the morning, and we can eat wine and cheese in the evening along the Seine.”

  “Now you’re dreaming, but keep it coming.” He saw a sparkle in her eyes as she thought about the offer. Why not? He had the cash. And it would be a new beginning for them.

  As they reached the row of restaurants along the water, Steve parked the small car.

  “Supposed to be the best seafood.”

  “It’s so different down here. A world away from Providence.”

  “Once upon a time, a world away from everywhere. Only the rich need apply, unless you were a servant,” Steve said.