The Good Cop

by Dorien Grey

  He paused, and looked slowly around the room from face to face, before continuing.

  “Of course there are gays in the department. They’ve been there for years. But they are there today only because no one can prove they’re there. The only difference between Tom Brady and other gays on the force is that now the chief’s enemies have a name, and a face, and an incident from which they can launch their assault on the chief. But their biggest problem, and Chief Black’s strongest defense, is that no one…no one…in the department or out—” he paused for only a heartbeat, but it was long enough to make the point of the last two words, “—can prove that Tom Brady is gay. For Officer Brady to boldly step forward and admit to being gay, as some in the community would have him do, would do absolutely nothing but destroy his career, quite possibly drive Chief Black from office, and most definitely start a witch hunt for other gays within the department.”

  He paused yet again to give his message a moment to sink in.

  Finally, he said: “The question each of you must ask yourselves, and every single member of the community you can talk to, is this: Is the gay community, by its reaction to this incident, going to hand the chief’s enemies a loaded gun?”

  The meeting broke up shortly thereafter, and I only had a quick moment to talk with O’Banyon and a couple other attendees before I had to head off for the Montero. The overall impression was that a concerted effort would be made to laud Officer Brady for his actions during the shooting incident, but to ignore as completely as possible his sexual orientation.

  Everyone seemed greatly relieved, but no one expected it to be the end of the story.

  *

  I got to the Montero at 7:40—not too bad, considering parking was, as usual, a bitch. I walked through the lobby and into the cavernous dining room. A quick look revealed maybe thirty people, but none of them were Tom, Lisa, or Carol. I crossed the lobby to the cocktail lounge on the other side, thinking perhaps they were waiting for me there. Nothing. (Though the bartender was a real hunk; I made a note to return some evening soon.)

  Back across the lobby to the dining room where the maître d’ was just returning to the podium from seating a family of four.

  “One?”

  “No, I was supposed to meet the Bradys….”

  He gave me a classic “Ah” complete with raised eyebrows and a slight heads-up gesture. “Mr. Hardesty. The Bradys are expecting you: If you’ll just take the last elevator to the left: The code is two-four-four. It will take you to the President’s Suite. I’ll tell them you’re on your way.”

  The President’s Suite? You’ve arrived, kid! Hey, I admit it: I was impressed.

  As I walked to the elevator, I realized that since the elder Brady owned the place and as far as I knew the President was occupied elsewhere, he could use any damned room he wanted to. Still….

  The last elevator on the left did not have buttons, but a small numbered keypad; the same system used, I’d learned in an earlier case, to gain entry to the guest parking garage and from there access to the guest floors. I pressed two-four-four and the door swooshed open as though the elevator car had just been standing there, patiently waiting for me. I stepped in and, with a muted chime, the door closed and the elevator began its utterly silent ascent. It stopped at the seventeenth floor and the doors sighed open onto a small, richly paneled foyer; through the large open double door directly in front of me I could see a room about three times the size of my entire apartment.

  Now try not to gawk, my mind cautioned, and don’t pick your nose.

  Yeah, yeah, I got it, I mentally replied.

  Tom got up from a small semi-circle of chairs at the far end of the room and came over to greet me. He had on a powder-blue short sleeved shirt, which appeared to have been tailor made to hug every contour of his body. And as he moved across that vast room, he truly looked “to the manor born.” Beyond him another man rose from one of the chairs—I didn’t have to be told who it was. Aside from having almost pure white hair, the resemblance to Tom was incredible.

  Tom was still wearing his sling but otherwise looked to be in perfect health. We shook hands and went over to the semi-circled chairs. Lisa and Carol were seated on either side of the now-standing elder Brady, and looked truly beautiful. They’d obviously both just had their hair done for the occasion.

  Mr. Brady, Sr. stepped forward and extended his hand. “Dick, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Mr. Brady,” I said by way of acknowledgment as I took his hand.

  He smiled. “John, please.”

  Good Lord, even his voice sounded like Tom’s—or, I realized of course, more correctly it was the other way around. I could imagine that when Tom reached his dad’s age, he’d look exactly like his dad looked now.

  The women and I exchanged greetings, and I bent over to give each of them a peck on the cheek, then Tom’s dad motioned me to the empty chair beside Carol.

  Let the Breeder games begin! my little mind-voice said.

  “Can I get you a drink, Dick?” Tom, who had remained standing, asked. I noticed that everyone else seemed to have one, so I said: “Sure, thanks.”

  “What would you like?”

  As if you didn’t know, I thought, but then caught just the trace of a smile that told me he was well aware of the games.

  “Manhattan, I think.” I turned to Mr. Brady as Tom went over to what appeared to be—and I’m sure was—a fully stocked bar. “Congratulations on acquiring the Montero,” I said. “It’s a real landmark, and since its restoration….”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Yes, and were I not so much a blatant capitalist I might very well feel a little guilty. The restoration nearly bankrupted the previous owners, and I got it for far below its true value. But now, with it back in pristine condition, it won’t require major work for years.”

  “So how long will you be staying?”

  He picked up his drink and took a sip, then set it back down onto the small table between his chair and Lisa’s.

  “Until these contract negotiations are taken care of…which may be quite a while, I’m afraid. I’d hoped that when Joe Giacomino was put away, it would make the A.H.W.A. more responsible and reasonable. But the leadership just switched around, it didn’t change. And with Joey G. heading the local here, I’m sure he’s going to be under a lot of pressure from Joe Sr. and the union leadership to prove he can be just as big an arrogant bastard as his old man.” He looked up as Tom brought my drink, handed it to me with a smile, then went to sit beside Lisa. Tom’s dad’s eyes never left his son.

  “But the longer the talks drag on,” he said with a smile, bringing his eyes back to me, “the more time I’ll have to spend with my son and my charming daughter-in-law.” He reached over to pat Lisa’s hand. Lisa smiled at him warmly.

  The conversation moved on to and through a wide variety of subjects, with a great many questions from the elder Brady directed to Tom and Lisa, though politely phrased to include Carol and me, however peripherally. I was touched to see how obvious it was that the older man adored his son and was extremely proud of him.

  A pleasant-looking, middle-aged waiter suddenly appeared from somewhere with menus in his hand. Brady Sr. smiled at him, nodded, and the waiter handed a menu to each of us. “Thank you, Walter,” Brady said, then turned to Lisa, Carol, and me. “Walter has been on the Montero’s staff for…?” he looked up at the waiter who was standing with his hands folded in front of his apron.

  “Twenty-eight years, sir,” Walter said, quietly.

  “…twenty-eight years!” Brady repeated. “The Montero couldn’t do without him,” he said, and Walter, though trying to remain waiter-stoic, allowed himself a quick smile of pleasure. I was beginning to see how Brady had built his empire.

  “I could have had the chef come up and use the kitchen here in the suite,” he said, almost apologetically, “but didn’t want to impose on him. And this way, we don’t all have to have the same thing.” He asked Walter to refresh o
ur drinks while we looked at the menus and, after enquiring politely as to what each of us was drinking, Walter picked up the glasses that were empty and moved off to the bar.

  *

  Dinner, in the suite’s formal dining room, was not surprisingly excellent. The wine, while I of course hadn’t the foggiest idea of what it was, was very good, as was the Strega served with desert.

  The conversation flowed smoothly, with both Lisa and Carol going out of their way to charm Tom’s dad—and obviously succeeding. But I’d noticed, throughout the evening, the senior Brady looking back and forth from Lisa to Tom and, more disconcertingly, from Tom to me. I wondered, somewhere in the back of my mind, if just perhaps the elder Mr. Brady were a lot sharper than any of us might have realized.

  Over coffee, as we finished our desert—the Montero’s staff included the best pastry chef in the city, and his apricot-brandy cheesecake was pure heaven—the talk moved back to the upcoming labor negotiations, scheduled to begin in two days, and the bitter enmity between Brady and Joe Giacomino, Sr.

  “Of course, Joe Senior and I don’t have a patent on hating one another,” he said, smiling. “Joey and Tom aren’t exactly the best of buddies.”

  “You know Joey Giacomino?” I asked.

  “They grew up together,” Brady senior said. “Well, same town, same school, though young Joey was two years ahead of Tom.” He paused for a moment to take a small sip of his Strega, then a sip of coffee. “Joey is a real chip off the old block,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Every bit as much the blustering bully that his father was—and is. All the other kids were terrified of him, but not Tom!” His father’s pride all but sparkled from his eyes. “Tell him about the Cracker Jack, Tom,” he urged.

  Tom looked embarrassed and quickly forked the last piece of cheesecake off his plate. Then he looked up and shrugged. “It wasn’t anything much,” he said.

  But his father wasn’t about to let a choice story go untold…not when it concerned his son. Although Tom was reluctant to tell it, his father was not.

  “Tom had stopped after school at the candy store across the street. He was…what, eleven?” he asked, looking to his son for confirmation.

  “Around that,” Tom said, noncommittally.

  “Anyway, Tom comes out of the store with a box of Cracker Jack: Tom loved Cracker Jack; and there’s Joey Giacomino with a couple of his bully buddies. They see Tom with a brand new box of Cracker Jack, and Joey comes right up to him and says, ‘Gimme the Cracker Jack, Stupid.’ He’s standing right in front of Tom, and he’s a good half a head taller. Tom just looks up at him and says ‘No, it’s mine. Go get your own.’

  “Well, Joey just stares at him, wide-eyed. No one except Joe Giacomino Sr. ever said no to Joey. Not ever—at least not more than once. Joey’s eyes narrow, and he puts his face about two inches in front of Tom’s and says ‘I told you to give me that Cracker Jack!’ and Tom doesn’t bat an eye and says ‘No.’ Joey reaches out to grab it and Tom just punches Joey in the stomach with every ounce of strength he has in him. Joey goes flying backward, knocking over one of his buddies in the process, and just lies on the ground, crying like a baby. And Tom just walks away, with his box of Cracker Jack. Joey never messed with Tom after that day.”

  I’m sure the older man embellished a little, but it was a story he obviously took great delight and pride in telling, and I was very glad to know that Tom had a father so proud of him.

  Brady Sr. sat there, shaking his head in pleasure, grinning to himself.

  “Yeah,” Tom said, “I ate so many Cracker Jacks when I was a kid, I can’t stand to look at them anymore. Seems like a long, long time ago. And I haven’t seen Joey since he left school.”

  “Just as well. Although Joey hasn’t forgotten about you. I ran into him today during a brief pre-talk meeting to lay out some of the details. Joey was there—he hasn’t changed much since he was a kid, and he made some remark about ‘I hear you’ve got a cop son.’ The Giacominos are like elephants: They never forget, or forgive.” Then a momentary look of sadness crossed his face as, I would guess, he thought of his dead son, Art. “But then,” he added, “neither do I.”

  One of the things I found most interesting about the evening was that while Tom sat there wearing his arm in a sling, the one subject that was never brought up was the shooting. I knew full well the elder Brady was aware of what had happened, but whether he knew anything other than was reported in the papers, I had no way of knowing. And of course, Tom would never have brought it up. And so neither did the rest of us.

  But all in all, it was a very pleasant evening. I really liked Tom’s dad, as I had been sure I was going to. I’d forgotten what a great sense of humor Carol had, and she spent a good deal of time kidding with Tom’s dad, who seemed to enjoy the attention. And I was greatly relieved that Mr. Brady made no open assumptions about Carol and me being a couple. I came away from the evening with a strong suspicion that Tom’s father knew more about his son…and his daughter-in-law…than he let on.

  *

  I got to the office a little earlier than usual the next morning and was taking my time drinking my coffee and reading the newspaper when I heard what I thought was a knock at my door. “Come on in,” I called, but no one turned the knob. I thought I could make out a figure on the other side of the opaque glass panel in the door, but wasn’t sure. Then it came again, softly, tentatively. I set my coffee down and got up, moving around the desk toward the door.

  “I said ‘Come on in,’” I repeated, mildly exasperated by somebody afraid to open a damned door. I opened it rather swiftly and saw…nothing. Nobody. Then I stuck my head out the door and saw someone with his back toward me, leaning against the wall about five feet from the door.

  “Jonathan?” I asked, and he slowly pivoted around, his shoulders against the wall.

  “Jonathan! Jesus! What happened?” I asked as I moved quickly to him. His shirt was torn, all the buttons ripped off; he had a badly cut lip and a deep bruise on his cheek. His left eye was black and swollen. He kept his head down and to one side and he wouldn’t look at me. I put my hand under his chin and raised it up. He still wouldn’t look at me.

  “Jonathan, tell me what happened.”

  Finally, his good eye moved to my face and his jaw began to quiver and his shoulders shake in silent sobbing. He was trying very hard to be brave, but he couldn’t keep tears from running down his face.

  I grabbed him by his arm and guided him into my office, closing the door behind us, and led him to the sofa. I made him sit down, then sat down beside him, our thighs touching. There was blood on his pants.

  He took little shuddering gasps of air, still struggling to keep from sobbing audibly, though his shoulders still made small jerks as he fought to suppress them.

  “Now tell me what happened,” I said, calmly.

  He kept his head turned away, but he shook it. I reached out again for his chin, turning his head toward me.

  “I want you to tell me what happened,” I repeated, slowly.

  His chin and lower lip quivered, but he took a deep, rasping breath and said: “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to bother you. But I didn’t know where else I could go. I don’t know anybody here, and you were nice to me and…I’m sorry.”

  I let him regain a bit more composure, then said. “Now tell me who did this to you.”

  Actually, I didn’t have to know who. He probably didn’t know, either, but I knew perfectly well what had happened. I was equal parts anger and sorrow, and some small part guilt.

  Guilt? For what? my mind asked.

  For letting this happen to him, I replied.

  You can’t save the world.

  This isn’t the world, it’s one poor kid!

  Ah, Hardesty….

  “Do you know who did it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It was that man; that man who gave me all the money.”

  He looked at me now, hard, as if looking for an answer in my face.
“Why did he have to do that? Why? I never did nothing to him.” Then he raised his right arm, as he had done at Hughie’s to show me his new watch. But the watch wasn’t there.

  “He took my watch,” he said, his voice almost dry with disbelief. “Why would he go and do that? And he took my money, too. All of it.” He suddenly reached into his pants pocket and came up with a closed fist. “Except this,” he said, and opened his hand to show me a nickel and a penny.

  JEEZUS! My emotions were still in a close race, but the anger was surging ahead rapidly.

  “He didn’t have to take my watch or my money.” He said it more to himself than to me. “He’s a rich man. He doesn’t need it.”

  I got up to get the coffee from my desk, and brought it back to him. “Here. Drink this. Have you eaten?”

  He shook his head again. “I’m okay.”

  “When did you eat last?” I asked, pressing him.

  “Yesterday morning, I guess.”

  I got up again, went to the phone, and called the diner downstairs. “This is Dick Hardesty in Six-thirty-three,” I said to whomever picked up the phone. “I want a breakfast to go: Three eggs, scrambled, toast, bacon, a large coffee, black, a carton of orange juice and two cartons of milk. I’ll be down in five minutes. Thanks.”

  Hardesty, for chrissakes…my mind started to say.

  Shut the fuck up! I told it.

  I went back over to sit down beside Jonathan, who was sitting quietly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands folded between his partly-spread legs, head down, looking at the floor.

  “When did it happen?”

  “Last night. Late. I went back to where he’d picked me up those other two times, and he came by in his van and we went where we went the other two times and we got in the back and then he went to get a rubber and he didn’t have any and I told him I didn’t either and that I couldn’t have sex without him having a rubber and he told me yes I could and I damned well was going to and I told him no and that I wanted to go back to where he picked me up and I started to put my shirt back on but he grabbed it and tried to tear it off and then he held me down and he started to do it anyway and I pushed him away and then he just started beating on me and beating on me until I managed to get up and jumped out of the van and he stood there in the door and took all the money out of my pants and then he wadded them up and threw them at me and kicked my shoes out the door and then he slammed the door closed and just drove away. I didn’t have chance to get my watch.”