Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “What the fuck, Tommy?”

  “Just a little coke. It will keep me going till Virginia.” He looked around Steve’s apartment again. “What a waste. You gonna do something with your life?” He motioned around the room. “Expensive education and all?”

  “Yeah. I got to clear up some personal things.”

  “Forget it. No bitch is worth it. There are so many of them out there. Come visit; I’ll show you how to live.” He smiled. Steve smiled too; Tommy was always the ladies’ man.

  “Tommy, be careful.” He was worried Tommy was spinning out of control; coke was hardcore. “And put something back in the drawer.”

  “Huh?”

  “A story this Italian baker told me—you got to put something back. I’ll tell you the whole story next time.”

  “Steve, thanks for the backup. I really appreciate it.” He offered him five hundred dollars. Steve refused the money.

  “What’s a big brother for?” he asked, wondering when he would see Tommy again. He looked around the room. Tommy was right: it wasn’t much to look at. It was time for the fourth quarter, and he had to dig deeper. The pieces were there, and now he had to concentrate on putting them together.

  CHAPTER 13

  DOCTOR MY EYES

  “Is the university buying more buildings in Fox Point?” Steve asked, sitting in the coffeehouse that he and Whit liked to use for their meetings. The professor continued to absorb Steve’s point of view, which was so different from anything he encountered on the Brown campus.

  “I’m sure they are always looking for property.” He smoked his Galois while he drank his espresso. “The long-range plan is always expansion. We have the medical school beginning. And I’m sure they want to expand the science and engineering sections. I even heard they want the Bryant College property.”

  “And they’re offering top dollar?” Steve didn’t think the professor knew much, but he did hear things.

  “I don’t think everyone would agree with that assessment. I understand the relationship is a little strained right now.”

  “You mean people won’t sell at the offered price?”

  “So I understand.”

  “But the university has friends?”

  “So I understand.”

  “Do you know more?”

  “Is this an official interrogation?” The professor shifted in his chair uncomfortably and looked around the room.

  “Sorry, Professor. Guess I fall into professional mode.” He sipped the coffee. His face relaxed as he took a deep breath. “I can’t seem to fit it all together.”

  “Is that part of your job?” Whitney asked. “Or are you looking into things on your own?”

  “I told you what the department is like, but is it the entire city, even Brown?”

  “Are you surprised? Do we need to discuss the nature of virtue or the venality of politics and politicians? I may be too idealistic about how the system should work, but for how it actually works, follow the money.” Blowing small smoke rings from his cigarette, the professor tilted his head back so the rings rose to the ceiling. “I’ve never had to look at corruption this close. Ancient Rome is easier to dissect.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you to know that you could do something about . . .?”

  “Bother me, maybe. Do something? I’m afraid I’m too comfortable to want to rock any boats. Sign a petition, participate in a march—all protected by tenure. You, however, there might be hope.” He took a long drag of his cigarette. “You read about the cop Serpico, who’s been helping Durk and the Knapp Commission?”

  “No.” Steve shook his head. Between the job and Roxy, he had stopped reading the paper every day or even watching the news.

  “He was shot in the face during a drug bust. There seems to be suspicion that he was set up by other cops. In fact, his partners didn’t even call for help; it was some guy who lived in the building.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Somehow, the bullet missed anything vital. He’ll live, but no one will ever know the true story. You understand what they can do—cops can get killed on the job. You understand what you are doing?” The professor raised his eyebrows while letting out a stream of smoke from the side of his mouth.

  They shot a cop. Actually pretty easy. He thought about the number of times he was first up the stairs or the first into a room. Bang. He would never know what hit him. All the more reason for secrecy. But he could see it happening.

  Whit passed Steve a business card, face down on the table. “Why did you become a cop?”

  Steve read the card and nodded appreciation.

  “I ask myself that more each day. Not to change the world. Maybe to make it a little better. Maybe to prove to . . .” He hesitated, not wanting to bring Roxy in as an excuse. “Prove to myself that I wasn’t B.S.—like most college kids.”

  “How is it turning out for you?” The professor leaned in again, and Steve shifted his shoulders backward.

  “Not exactly what I thought. I’ve got a few ideas. But we’ll see how it works out.”

  “One word: Serpico.”

  After the professor left, Steve looked over the card, thinking hard. If he took this step, he couldn’t go back. But go back to what? Things had to change and he might be able to help them, even a little bit. He dropped the change, into the pay phone and closed the door.

  “U.S. Attorney’s office,” the voice on the other end answered.

  “Yes, Agent Adams, please,” Steve said.

  At the Blue Room, the small café on campus, Bill and Heather, in a cotton dress and headband, were sitting with Steve in a booth.

  “Life gets weird as you get older. You think you know stuff, but you don’t.” Steve shook his head.

  “You took the jump off the cliff without looking how far down was. You regretting it yet? Ready to do something saner?” Bill’s curly black hair was uncombed and his long mutton chops, as usual. Steve liked Bill’s steady presence in his life. Their upbringing on Long Island was similar. Bill was one of the few people he felt comfortable talking with about the job. “I was thinking about Roxy. I don’t know how, where I screwed it up. I stayed around, didn’t go to law school. Finally have a little money to treat her better, but everything is worse. How do I get through to her?”

  He looked at Heather.

  “You can’t make people love you; it comes from within. And we change. You’ve changed, and so has she. She’s not the young, vulnerable girl you met. She’s become a woman.” She smiled as if she had said something profound.

  “No, but I’m the same guy.”

  “In your head, but not in your outer being. Your karma is disrupted, more aggressive, more demanding.”

  “She means you’re more of an a-hole than you used to be,” Bill said, cutting her off with a chuckle.

  “Fuck. That’s a lot of help.”

  “Roxy is searching, too. She’s growing, expanding, discovering her womanhood—we all are and always will be changing. Trees grow through rocks, looking for the sun, light, and air,” Heather said with a practiced patience.

  Steve looked at her, not on the same wavelength but happy she was listening. “Yeah but, but sometimes it’s hard.”

  Heather stroked his hand gently with her rough potter’s hand. Steve gave her a weak smile. She was beautiful as a night sky—ethereal and beyond comprehension. Her warmth was genuine and an antidote to the cruelness of the street.

  “But it’s not that simple anymore. I have to make some decisions. Decisions about . . . things. About her and me.” He became pensive, thinking about the card the professor had given him. Now there wasn’t any excuse. “Stuff I can’t take back.”

  “You have to do what’s right, what will ease your karma.” Taking both his hands, she looked intently at him without blinking her pale blue eyes. “You’ll do what’s right because that’s you.”

  Her eyes were calm and almost peaceful. She radiated a security he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  “
You guys hungry? I could really go for some Italian,” Bill said.

  Heather nodded with some excitement.

  “I know this great place on Federal Hill. All the mafia guys eat there,” Steve said as he pulled his hand away from her. “It’s got a great history. It once had this big plate glass window so you could see the tables and the people eating. One day, a guy gets a phone call. When he goes to the booth by the window, two guys with shotguns kill him right through the window. Classic mafia hit. Right out of the movies. Now it’s a brick front with some high windows for light.”

  “Cool. You know all this history stuff.” Heather jumped up, her long arms wrapping a scarf around her bare shoulders.

  Steve thought for a minute and patted the waistband of his jeans. “Let’s stop by my apartment on the way. I forgot my wallet.”

  Picking up some bills and a letter in the mailbox on the way up to his apartment, there was a thick envelope marked Peace Corps that he slowly turned over in his hands. He opened the package, and all the paperwork was confirmed. Andy had written several times saying how much he loved the Peace Corps. Putting the package of material in the drawer, Steve pulled out his off-duty gun.

  What the fuck am I doing? he thought, tucking the gun inside his waistband. I’m going to dinner with friends, and I’m carrying a gun. He paused and looked critically at himself in the mirror and shook his head. What the fuck am I doing?

  He had made his decision, but now he had to carry it out. He didn’t have a plan when he joined the force, but now it was clearer what he would do. Roxy would see—she would be proud. He returned slowly to Bill and Heather, who were waiting in his car.

  “All set. Let’s eat.”

  Sitting in the small carrel on the third floor of the Rockefeller Library, Steve looked east at University Hall, waiting for the midnight closing of the Rock. He remembered many nights spent fighting to stay awake after practice to finish a paper. Dressed in a t-shirt, jeans, and a dark blue windbreaker, he looked like a typical student carrying a small backpack. With the closing call, he slowly exited the Rock, waiting at the foot of the stairs until all the students had dispersed in different directions back to their dorms and apartments. Tonight was the night. He had been watching and waiting for weeks, trying to get up the nerve, but it would be tonight.

  He walked slowly past Van Winkle Gate across the front of the green, looking for any straggling students. Ascending the steps to Manning Chapel, he concealed himself behind one of the Greek columns, waiting. His heart was racing, knowing that he was about to cross another line. It would be a perfect time for a cigarette, he thought, even if he didn’t smoke. Saturday night was the right night—campus security would be busy with loud parties and drunken students.

  Looking around one more time, he crept deliberately in the shadows to the door of University Hall and slipped out a gas credit card, quickly opening the door’s nineteenth-century mortise lock. Entering the dark hall, he closed the door behind him, froze, and listened while his eyes adjusted to the dark. He held the dark oak banister and cautiously made his way up the stairs to Dean Toll’s office, guided by his small pocket flashlight.

  The door was locked, but Steve again used his academy training to open it. The office was how he remembered it, but this time he was the one making the decisions. When he had been there the last time, there was something about the dean that he didn’t trust. Was he developing cop instincts? Body language, tone of voice, or maybe the way the Dean hurried to get rid of him—a piece of the puzzle was here.

  Quietly, he jimmied open the top drawer of the desk. It contained papers, correspondence with faculty, and antacids. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for but was confident he would find something of interest. In the credenza was an invitation to a golf tournament, tickets for a benefit at the Hope Club, and assorted student files.

  The three metal file cabinets against the back wall were locked. Steve took a lock pick from his bag and, holding down the pins, quickly popped each lock. He opened the first top drawer and pulled out folders. Disciplinary Files. Motivated by curiosity, he opened the first to find the names of four football players He knew two of them, but they all had been caught cheating on an Engineering 6 exam—wires and pliers—one of the gut courses that Professor Hazeltine taught. How could they screw that up? All failed. Next one: two fraternity boys, Delt’s Angels who were caught pissing on students who passed under Wayland Arch. In spite of Steve’s nervous rush, he found himself lost for a minute with guys he knew. Just some Saturday night fun. He wondered how they ever got caught. He began thumbing other disciplinary files but had to stop himself. This wasn’t what he was here for.

  The next cabinet had fundraising returns and a list of big donors. Looking through the folder, there were many letters expressing extreme displeasure at the school strike last spring and the new co-ed dorms. The writers refused to contribute to the annual drive.

  He heard a creak, maybe a step, so he switched off his flashlight and waited. A person in the building or just the old building groaning from age? He waited. What would he do—fight, run? Breaking the rules was new to him. He moved to the door and waited, his ear against the door. He felt his waistband and touched his off-duty .38. What good would that do? He held his breath until it was quiet again.

  In the third file cabinet, a folder marked University 2000 drew his interest. Inside a legal folder was a lot map of the East Side areas, shaded in different colors. An area of Fox Point was shaded in grey. Next to several lots closest to the university were numbers: 15k; 25k; 15k. The lots on Williams Street, John, Benevolent Street, and Thayer Street were cross-hatched, with numbers next to each.

  Loud laughter from outside prompted him to switch off his flashlight. Having reconnoitered the hall, he knew campus police patrolled the perimeter twice a night. He listened to the voices. Students, definitely inebriated, singing, “Young strump, old strump, every strumpet come, to the strumpet carnival, we’ll have a lot of fun . . .” They stopped outside the building, and Steve could hear the sound of running water—great time to take a piss. He saw a flashlight coming toward the boys as they were finishing their business in the bushes.

  Shit, shit, he thought. Get the fuck away from the building.

  As campus cops came closer to the building, Steve heard, “Come on, assholes. You’re gonna get busted.”

  From the second-floor window, he watched one Brown cop break into a trot. There were shouts as the boys scattered into three different directions, the campus cop chasing one of the boys toward Waterman Street.

  He sat on the floor, waiting, until the voices passed. He carefully opened the blind to see if the commotion had attracted any more campus police. He could hear his heart beating as he compressed each breath to regain control. Extracting his notebook and a brownie camera from his bag, he decided he didn’t have time to edit here so he would copy everything. He was certain the files would point him somewhere. He set the folders under the desk to conceal the flash and methodically photographed each file. Changing film, he continued with other files from the east-side real estate files.

  What was he looking at? He didn’t have time to read it all. Just get it and get out. He looked at his watch: already twenty minutes had passed. How much longer would it take? He wanted it done in one trip.

  When he finished with the drawer, he felt as if he had just finished wind sprints. Locking the cabinet, he looked around the room to see if there was anything else he had missed. He felt like pissing on the chair just to leave his mark, but he let the urge pass. At the door, he looked back across the room with the flashlight. Was anything out of place? He stopped and returned to push the desk chair back where it belonged.

  As he inched his way down the steps, his hands were sweaty, but there was a giddy feeling of adrenaline racing through his body. He didn’t want to fuck up now or trip an alarm. Did the place have an alarm? Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that.

  He paused by the door and examined the frame with the flashl
ight for any connectors. What was he thinking? It would have gone off when he came in. Too much overload; he had to get out. He turned the oval brass knob and slowly opened the door, pressing against the wall until he descended the steps. He began a steady walk, feeling the wetness in his armpits.

  What was on the film? He would bring it to the photo shop in the morning—no, not in Providence. He would drive to Attleboro in Massachusetts, better to be sure of its security.

  He wanted to break into a run, a sprint, as the excitement of what he had just done hit him. But he steadied his pace to that of a tired student. He exited the green, passed the grinder truck, and cut through the quad to Benefit Street. Better to take the long way around to the apartment.

  After a night shift, Steve walked to grey granite City Hall, with the mansard roof. The Haven Brothers diner next to it was packed up and ready to leave. The tax assessor’s office was located in the City Hall, and he thought that would be a good starting point. The files from Dean Toll’s office gave him a list of names that didn’t mean anything. There were lots of files about real estate and expansion plans. But he didn’t know how they fit together. He came prepared for a research project, ready to footnote every primary source. He had his note cards neatly organized in an envelope that was tied with a cord.

  He asked for the real estate assessment records, and the woman clerk looked up from her coffee and pointed him to a room with large plat books measuring nearly two feet long. The clerk sat behind the large partition that separated her from the public. He was trying to be calm, natural, but was he trying too hard? He looked around the office; it was empty. No one had followed him. Why would they? They didn’t know anything—did they? But what could they know, since he wasn’t sure what he was looking for? But evidence didn’t matter; it could be created, or it could disappear—that was one lesson he had learned early on the force. Was he taking all these risks for nothing? Still, he felt he had to try.