The Good Cop

by Dorien Grey

  Officer Clark and Jonathan headed for the bus stop as Richman, Detective Carey, and I got into the van to join the driver and another man in a CityPower uniform, and headed toward Warman Park.

  *

  We got there at about 6:40. There was already quite a bit of traffic, both auto and pedestrian—the park concerts always drew a big crowd, and many people brought picnic baskets and made a night of it. The van pulled up into a yellow zone on the park side of the street, about twenty feet from the down ramp leading to the underground garage. The other uniformed man, who was never introduced formally, but who I’d heard called “Johnson,” put on a hard-hat, got out of the van, walked to the rear, and opened the back doors to a partitioned utility area to take out several yellow traffic cones which he placed in the street in front of and behind the van, then returned for a couple Day-Glo white and black striped sawhorses with the word “Caution” and set them around a manhole a short distance in front of the van. The main body of the van was windowless except for a couple small, slotted smoked-glass windows through which those on the inside could get some idea of what was going on outside. There was a second partition between the driver’s area and the main section, which extended about three-quarters of the way to the roof to keep passersby from seeing fully into the interior. The main body of the van, other than the space taken by the side door, was lined with an impressive and totally confusing array of built-in electronic gear, the purpose of which I could not even imagine. There was a small desk with a swivel chair opposite the door, and a regular bench seat against the back partition.

  At about ten ’til seven, Carey also put on a hard-hat and got out to help Johnson remove the manhole cover, then went around to the back of the van, opened the door to the utility area, and pretended to be busy doing whatever CityPower guys do. With Johnson in the front of the van, and Carey behind, they could keep a good eye on the area.

  The man who’d remained in the van with Richman and me sat at the small desk and began pushing buttons and flipping switches and being no-nonsense efficient. I heard a small crackle and Johnson’s voice on his two-way: “They just got off the bus.”

  By looking over the front partition, I could see the bus pulling away from the curb on the other side of the street, and Jonathan walking to the corner. Several other people had gotten off, and one of them I saw was Officer Clark.

  The man at the desk fiddled with some knobs and levers as I watched Jonathan approach. Two teenagers walked past him, talking and laughing, and the sound of their laughter came into the van. Richman and the man looked at each other and exchanged nods.

  I didn’t want to get in the way or make my concern for Jonathan too obvious, but Richman sensed it.

  “You can look out there,” he said, motioning to the small slot closest to the rear.

  “Thanks.” I moved to it.

  I’d lost sight of Clark, but Jonathan walked to one back corner of the down-ramp and stood leaning against the railing, watching the entering cars passing below him. While he was a little too far away for me to see his face clearly, he looked very calm—well, a hell of a lot more calm than I probably would have been under the circumstances.

  Seven o’clock came. And went.

  Five after seven. Nothing.

  And with every second I, for whom patience has never been much of a virtue, got more and more edgy.

  Jonathan had turned around, and was leaning backwards against the railing, looking up at a large elm tree about fifteen feet from him.

  “Heads up!” I heard Carey say. Looking around, I saw a guy I assumed to be Giacomino—I’d never seen him in person, just his photo—walking along the side of the ramp toward Jonathan, who had his back to him. He was dressed casually, wearing a light windbreaker, and looked exactly like everybody else moving toward the band shell.

  “I thought it was you.” Giacomino’s voice wasn’t completely clear. The man at the controls adjusted a knob and moved a lever to clear the static.

  I saw Jonathan turn around to face him.

  “Did you bring my watch?”

  There was what sounded like a contemptuous snort. “I don’t have your fucking watch! Forget your fucking watch. What’s your game here?”

  “No game. Did you bring the money?”

  There was a pause. “And exactly why, again, should I be giving you a fucking dime?”

  “Come on,…Joey…you know why. You beat me up. That’s worth a lot. You killed my boyfriend: That’s worth a lot more.”

  “Why in hell would a cop pick up a cheap hustler like you? I don’t buy that for a second.”

  “Hey, a union boss picked up a cheap hustler like me. Why wouldn’t a cop?”

  “You’re scum,” Giacomino spat.

  “Scum who knows enough about you to put you in jail for the rest of your life. Now where’s my money?”

  Another pause. I was watching through the slit, straining to try to see the expressions on their faces. To others passing by, they appeared to be just two guys, talking.

  “So how did you get hooked up with that faggot Brady, anyway?”

  “Same way I met you. He was going to bust me, but I convinced him not to, and…well…we saw each other a lot after that. Then, when Tom’s dad came here for the labor talks, Tom started telling me about you. He laughed a lot. I didn’t know who you were: Not even when you beat me up. But when I saw your picture in the paper and told Tom…and he told me what a pathetic excuse for a man you were. Told me about having beaten you up when you were kids….”

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” Giacomino hissed, the fury showing itself not so much in volume as intensity. “Do you realize who you’re talking to, you pathetic piece of shit? Do you realize what I could do to you if I wanted? I could squash you like a fucking bug!”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t even kill Tom yourself! You wouldn’t have the guts to pull the trigger!”

  “I pay my own debts,” Giacomino spat. “I didn’t need anybody else to pull the fucking trigger. Your fairy boyfriend never even saw it coming, and neither will you.”

  Richman picked up a two-way radio. “Go!” he said.

  I watched as Giacomino reached quickly into his jacket and pulled something out.

  Jonathan!

  I saw Giacomino’s arm make a quick forward motion and heard a sharp, exhaled “huhh!” And the sound went dead.

  Richman already had the van’s side door open, and was halfway out as I turned to follow him.

  I remember running up the side of the ramp, of seeing Officer Clark struggling with Giacomino as Johnson and Carey raced up to join them. And I remember seeing Jonathan slumped on the ground, his back against the railing. Richman had his two-way in his hand and I heard him say “Get an ambulance!”

  *

  It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon: Warm, crisp blue sky. Music, flags, floats, and thousands upon thousands of us stretched out as far as the eye could see. Tim, Phil, Jared, Bob, Mario, me…and Jonathan, who had insisted on being there even though he was still in some pain from his stitches. The doctors had said that if Giacomino’s knife had struck three inches in any direction other than where it did, it would not have been blunted by the transmitter Jonathan was wearing and would almost surely have killed him.

  We stood at the corner of Beech and Evans, near the Moxie, within 200 feet of the spot where Tom had died. We chose that place to watch the parade deliberately…for Tom, who I knew was standing there with us.

  The gun Giacomino used to kill him was never found, but the fact that Deputy Chief Cochran announced his “retirement” the day after Giacomino’s arrest struck me as a little more than coincidental.

  At the bottom of the hill, at the corner of Ash and Beech, bulldozers had almost finished clearing the site of the burned-out police substation. The arsonist(s) still hadn’t been caught, and maybe never would be. But work was progressing on the parking garage across the street and the fence surrounding it had been repainted. Construction on the replacement substatio
n was scheduled to begin shortly.

  Joey G. was still in jail, of course. He’d have the best lawyers his old man’s money could buy for his trial for Tom’s murder, but there was no way he could avoid spending a lot of time in prison for his attempted murder of Jonathan.

  *

  And Jonathan? Well, he’s been staying with me since he got out of the hospital. The first couple days any kind of moving around was pretty painful for him, so I set him up in the guest bedroom and played Florence Nightingale. The day of the Parade was his first full day out of bed. And while Jonathan slept in the guest bedroom, I found myself getting less and less sleep every night as my crotch grew increasingly pissed with me for not doing what I increasingly wanted to do. In a way it was very much like that game of Tease Tom liked to play, only I was playing it by myself. I even forced myself to shut my bedroom door when I went to bed—I didn’t think I could take seeing a naked Jonathan padding past my door on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

  It was pretty late when we got back from the Pride Festival, and I could see Jonathan was tired, so I suggested we go right to bed. I got into bed and tried to sleep. No luck. I decided to try the one thing that usually relaxed me when I was too uptight. I closed my eyes and, as usual, began thinking of Jonathan. Suddenly I heard a slight sound and opened my eyes. Jonathan was standing in the opened doorway, wearing one of the most beautiful birthday suits I think I’d ever seen, and a smile that turned me to jelly.

  “Can I help with that?”

  What about your steadfast rule against getting involved with anyone under 21? My mind voice chided primly.

  Well, Jonathan was turning 20.

  Close enough. I threw back the covers and welcomed him to bed.