The Deuce

by F. P. Lione

  A lot of people from the neighborhood were there. People I hadn’t seen since the eighth grade must have read the obituary and come to offer condolences. I said hello to Mike’s cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents that I’d known from over the years. I saw firemen Mike worked with, and Dave from Dave’s Tavern. Grandma Jean, Mr. Ellis’s mother, was sitting in front. She looked like someone slipped her a valium, her eyes vacant and emotionless. I bent over to give her a kiss, but she didn’t seem to recognize me.

  As the room filled up, people gathered in groups and the noise level rose until everyone realized they were at a wake and shouldn’t be socializing. The viewing was over at 9:00, and everyone planned to go across the street to the Loft, an old-time Staten Island bar that had been there since the sixties.

  I signed my name in the visitor’s book and knelt in front of the coffin and said a prayer for Mr. Ellis. I didn’t know what to pray, so I prayed that God was merciful with Mike’s dad and added that I needed some help with all the drinking that was sure to be going on for the rest of the night.

  I went downstairs to have a cigarette in the smoking room. Mike’s Uncle Tommy was sitting there staring straight ahead.

  “Hey, Uncle Tommy.” I walked over and shook his hand.

  “Hi, Tony.”

  He looked stunned, that look I’d seen so many times over the years when tragedy strikes unexpectedly. I tried to remember something about him, to strike up a conversation, but nothing came to mind. I remembered seeing him at Mike’s for the holidays, drinking and laughing with the family. He’d never had any kids, so I couldn’t ask about them.

  “How’s the job?” he asked, trying to be polite.

  “The job’s the job,” I said.

  He nodded. “I better go back up and see how Joan’s doing.”

  We shook hands again as we stood.

  “Take care, Tony.”

  “You too.”

  He shuffled slowly up the stairs.

  At 8:30 I heard a murmur in the crowd, and I looked up to see who had caused the commotion. It was Kim, my old girlfriend. This would be interesting. She spotted me from the doorway as she hugged Mike and Laura. From there she stopped at my father and Marie. I could hear Marie say, “You look great!” as she hugged her.

  My father and Marie were in their element. My father was making his rounds with Marie, showing off his trophy wife to his middle-aged friends. He made all the right noises to Mike’s mom while Marie paraded her cleavage around the room. I couldn’t believe she showed up at a wake looking like that. She had on a black cocktail dress, something more suited for a night on the town. As I watched Kim and Marie gush over each other, I realized how thankful I was that Kim was out of my life. If only getting rid of Marie were that easy.

  “Hi, Tony,” Kim said as she walked up and hugged me. “You look good.”

  “You too. How are you?” I said casually.

  “Great.” She smiled.

  She did look good. Her hair was straight and very blonde. Her extension nails were painted in what Denise calls a French manicure, white tops covered in light pink. She wore a sleeveless black silk dress with a gold link chain around her very tan neck and diamond studs in her ears. The results should have looked elegant, but instead she looked bogus, trying to be something she wasn’t. I was thinking how much better I liked Michele and how glad I was to have met her. My mind must have drifted because Kim said something, and I had to ask her to repeat it.

  “I said do you want to go get a drink?” She tilted her head to the side.

  “I think everyone’s going over after the wake.”

  “You too?” She smiled.

  “For a little while, before I go to work.” I got a little nervous when she sat down. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

  “So—are you seeing anyone?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said brightly.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Anyone I know?” Her smile was forced.

  “No, she’s from Long Island.”

  “A cop?” A little more threatening.

  “Nope.”

  “Is it serious?”

  I almost asked how her boss was. Considering the fact that she left me I didn’t think she had any right to ask me anything. “Serious enough that I don’t want to screw it up,” I said honestly.

  Denise and Sal came over to where we were sitting, and Denise, tactful as ever, said, “So Kim, how’s your boss?” If I cared I would have laughed, but I just wanted to finish the night and go to work where it was safe. Kim stared at Denise, who stared back. It was the equivalent of a cat fight at a wake.

  “Have some respect for the dead, Denise,” Kim said before she walked away.

  Denise rolled her eyes. Then she looked upset. “Do you believe Dad had the nerve to tell me my dress was inappropriate for a wake?” She looked like she was going to cry.

  I was stunned. “Are you kidding me? Did you take a look at what Marie was wearing?”

  “Which part, Tony? The wonder-bra dress or the sandals with stockings? Her outfit is so tacky.”

  Denise’s dress was a little short, but nothing as revealing as Marie’s.

  I heard my father laugh at something someone said and resisted the urge to start something with him. It wasn’t the time or the place, and I’d learned a long time ago that fighting with him was useless. I’d also learned that Marie takes great pleasure in getting Denise and me to explode.

  Denise checked her watch again, willing the time to move so she could leave. I checked mine, 8:50, ten minutes until we could go to the bar. I had already decided to order Sprite or 7-Up so it would look like vodka if you didn’t get close enough to see the bubbles. I’d bet that Marie and my dad would stop for a drink and so would everyone else in the room.

  “Denise, I’m gonna say good night and get an early start across the street,” I said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Are we drinking?”

  “No, but you don’t have to broadcast it,” I snapped.

  “Wait, we’ll come with you,” she said.

  We made our way back up to the coffin, where we hugged Debbie and Mrs. Ellis. I didn’t see Mike, so I couldn’t say good night to him. Denise and Sal were still talking when I exited through the front and crossed to the bar, leaving my truck in the parking lot. The air was thick and hot. It was cloudy, and a mist had settled on the cars and pavement.

  The Loft was a one-room establishment. There were a good number of people at the bar, with a few of the tables occupied. A lone bartender moved up and down, tossing ice, washing glasses, refilling glasses, and using the cash register. He was a veteran, using both hands, dumping as he refilled, putting money in his tip cup as he rang up an order. I spotted Mike at the far end of the bar and ordered a 7-Up before he spotted me. Armed with my drink I made my way toward him. He was downing a shot of something amber, and as I got closer I could see how drunk he was.

  “How are you holding up, Mike?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “Anything I can do?” I took a sip out of my drink, trying to look comfortable.

  “No, there’s nothing anyone can do. He was a good man,” he said with feeling.

  “Yes, he was,” I agreed. We clinked glasses and toasted. I sipped, he guzzled.

  By 9:15 the funeral crowd had made its way over, and the place was filled with well-dressed mourners. The mood was more upbeat as drinks flowed and tongues loosened. My father and Marie stopped in but didn’t stay for a drink. Vinny and Christie were there, but Denise and Sal had left. Kim was ignoring me, talking to a fireman and laughing up a storm. I said good night to Mike and spoke to Vinny and Christie before leaving.

  I stopped home to change. I was feeling like a liar and a coward for not telling everyone I’d found God and quit drinking. I laughed out loud at the thought of their reaction. I could picture their baffled faces followed by waves of hysterical laughter. I should probably ask Fiore how to handle it. I couldn’t
go through the rest of my life ordering clear soda so it looked like vodka.

  I searched through the fridge for something to eat. There was a piece of pizza with meatballs and ricotta that I popped in the microwave while I went upstairs to change. I put on shorts and my “Midnight Tours” T-Shirt that had Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, the Road Runner, Elmer Fudd, and the Coyote dressed in NYPD uniforms and standing outside our precinct. I grabbed my bag and a clean set of clothes in case I collared up.

  For once I watched the 10:00 news while I ate, checking for accidents, severe weather, or anything else that would hinder my ride in. It had started to rain while I was inside, and a steady drizzle rubbed across my windshield, blurring my view. The rain makes people afraid of hydroplaning, and traffic slowed my commute. It took me close to an hour to get to the precinct, but I made it for the fall in at 11:15.

  Maureen Courtney, a new sergeant from the north precinct, was calling attention to the roll call. Sergeant Hanrahan leaned up against the desk behind her, shuffling through the notifications as she addressed us. I had met her a few times over the past several weeks. She was in her late thirties, with an easygoing, pleasant nature. She’s about five foot five, skinny with blue eyes. She was pretty in a worn kind of way, with her curly red hair spilling from the clip that held it back from her face. She had some time on. You could tell by how comfortable she was around the other cops, unaffected and tolerant.

  She gave out the sectors and the color of the day (red). She ended the roll call by telling us a little bit about herself, where she came from, and how much time she had on. She began instructing us on the use of bug spray to combat the West Nile mosquito virus when a disturbance interrupted her address. Tonight was our night to be sprayed for the virus, and we were warned to keep the car windows closed. I wondered what the foot posts would do. We were reminded to pick up our bug spray as we filed out.

  Fiore had signed for his radio and was waiting outside. I picked up my radio and stopped to talk to Vince, who asked me about my trip to the drunk farm.

  “Where do you get this from, Vince? I’ve been here every night. Who’s saying I went to the farm?” I was getting tired of this crap.

  He held his hands up. “Tony, you know I can’t say who told me. I told them you were here every night, but people have noticed you’re on the wagon.” He waited for an answer.

  “Whether or not I’m on the wagon is nobody’s business, Vince. Pass it along.” I left without saying good night.

  Fiore was outside talking to Romano. I think Fiore felt bad for the kid; he was always going out of his way to be nice to him when most people ignored him or goofed on his hair. Romano was young, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three years old. His dark hair was cut short and spiky with the tips bleached blond. He was a good-looking kid, olive skin, dark eyes. He clearly worked out and was pretty built.

  “Hey, Mike Piazza,” I said.

  “Why does everyone call me that?” He was clueless.

  “It’s the hair, birdbrain,” I said. I don’t know why I always get sadistic with rookies. I guess because everyone tortured me when I came on.

  He shook his head and started to walk away.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” I called after him. He waved me away and kept walking up the street. I shrugged and started walking toward the car. I stopped when I realized Fiore wasn’t with me.

  “What?” I asked.

  He seemed to be thinking. “Let’s get Romano. Something’s bothering him, and he seems to want to talk about it.”

  “What’s bothering him?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. He started to talk to me before you insulted him.”

  “The hair thing? The kid’s too sensitive.”

  “The hair thing,” Fiore said absently.

  We cleaned out the car; there were no newspapers again. We put our hats in the back, books on the dash, and radios in the side armrest before moving out. I caught up with Romano near the corner of 8th Avenue.

  “Romano!” I called out.

  He kept walking.

  “Hey!” I yelled, my voice stern.

  “What?” he said, still walking.

  Something was up with him. He looked upset. “What’s his first name?” I asked Joe quietly.

  “Nick,” he said.

  “Hey, Nick! Come on, let me give you a ride.” The first name must have got him, because he stopped walking and came over toward the car. He got in the back, moving our hats over and adding his to the pile.

  “Where are you going?” I asked. The clean smell of his cologne filled the car.

  “They got me on a fixer at a synagogue on 6th Avenue,” he said.

  A fixer is a foot post assigned to guard a specific location. In this instance the synagogue had been having some problems with vandalism and needed someone to watch the place. Fixers are boring, because you often stand alone for the whole tour. You get relief for a one-hour meal, and then it’s back to looking at your watch. Rookies always get stuck on fixers. They also get stuck watching dead bodies until the coroner gets there, or sitting on front breaks where a burglary leaves a building vulnerable to looting.

  “What’s the matter, Nick?” I looked at him in the rearview mirror.

  He shrugged.

  “Is it the job?”

  His eyes met mine in the mirror, and he shrugged again.

  “It’s a lot of things,” he said.

  “So talk to us, maybe we can help,” Fiore said, turning toward him.

  At first Romano looked doubtful, but then he started to spill his guts. “I don’t even feel like a cop. I feel like a security guard. I don’t get to do anything, I don’t know anything, and I don’t know if the job’s for me.”

  “Listen, we all did this for our first two, three years,” I said.

  I remember feeling the same way. The old-timers when I went on weren’t half as nice as me and Fiore. They would have driven right past me and let me walk to my fixer. I remembered one of my first days at the command—an old-timer pushed me out of the way, saying, “Move it, rookie, I’ve got more time in the trial room than you’ve got on the job.” At the time I’d never heard of the trial room, never mind been there. Over the past ten years I’d learned a lot about it. It’s the place you go when you get suspended or fight a command discipline and go before a department trial judge.

  “Why did you become a cop?” Fiore asked.

  “My father was a cop,” he said.

  “Where did he work?” I asked.

  “In Brooklyn.”

  “Is he retired?” I asked.

  “No, he was killed. Line of duty,” he said quietly.

  We were stunned. It was quiet in the car until Fiore broke the silence.

  “How?” he asked.

  “Shot in the face in a domestic dispute.”

  “Why would you become a cop if your father was killed in the line of duty?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m on the list for the fire department too.”

  “You may get called for FD and decide to take it,” I said.

  “I’d definitely take it,” Romano said with feeling.

  “How old were you when your father was killed?” Fiore surprised me by asking.

  “Ten, and my brother was eight.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Fiore said. We both got quiet, thinking about Romano’s father. I didn’t remember the incident; it would have happened before I was on. Fiore would have been a rookie at the time, but he showed no recognition of it.

  “Is it me, or does everyone hate us?” Romano asked, changing the subject.

  “Not everyone, but most people. What else is on your mind?” I asked.

  “My girlfriend and I broke up, and she won’t let me see my daughter.”

  “You have a kid?” This surprised me, but a lot of the younger guys were doing that, having kids without being married.

  He nodded. “A little girl, she’s two.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-
three.”

  “Why didn’t you get married?” I asked.

  “I wanted to get married, but she didn’t want to. She’s still in college and she’s not sure she wants to marry me. I thought if we lived together it’d be better, but she wants to stay at home so her mother can help her with the baby. We broke up at the beginning of the summer, and she’s been going out a lot, seeing other guys.”

  “I don’t get this,” I said. “She has a baby with you and lets her mother take care of it so she can go out with other guys? You have a right to see your daughter.” He’d even offered to marry her, the old-fashioned Italian boy that he was.

  “I know. I hired a lawyer, and I’m taking her to court for visitation rights. Cost me five grand up front, and the lawyer gets like three hundred bucks an hour.”

  “Have you tried talking to her?” Fiore the peacemaker asked.

  “I can’t get her on the phone. She leaves the machine on. I go to the house, and her mother says she’s not home. But I got loud with her mother today, and she let me see my daughter for a little while.”

  “Be careful with that, buddy. If you lose your temper over there, it’ll work against you,” Fiore said.

  “But I don’t know what else to do,” Romano said dejectedly.

  We parked outside the fixer. As long as we didn’t have a job we could stay and talk to Romano. He talked about his family. He grew up in Staten Island, which surprised me. He lived on the south shore. He went to college in Ohio for a year on a football scholarship. He got hurt playing ball and came back to New York and did another year of school at St. John’s. He took the test for the department and came on two years ago. He was pretty high on the list for the fire department but got called to the police department first.

  He met his girlfriend in a club. She was three years younger than him and got pregnant in her first year of college. Now she went to school, went out on the weekends, and even went to Mexico during spring break with her friends. I thought of Michele and Stevie. Michele was a single mother too. Granted, she’d been older when she had Stevie, but she was the one responsible for her son. Romano’s girlfriend sounded spoiled and selfish, and I told him so.