Election Day: A Harry Cassidy Novel

by Henry Hack

  ELECTION DAY

  A Harry Cassidy Novel

  HENRY HACK

  This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely those of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

  Election Day

  A Harry Cassidy Novel

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2016 Henry Hack

  V1.0

  Cover Photo © 2016 thinkstockphotos.com All rights reserved – used with permission.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-4787-7387-0

  “These are times that try men’s souls…”

  Thomas Paine

  Novels featuring Harry Cassidy and Danny Boyland are set some years in the future in and around the City of New York. The New York Metropolitan Police Department (NYMPD) was formed by the NYPD takeover of police services for the City of Yonkers and the County of Nassau. The re-numbered precincts, #91 - #99, are now assigned to Patrol Boro Nassau.

  Also by Henry Hack

  Harry Cassidy Novels

  Cassidy’s Corner

  The Last Crusade

  The Romen Society

  Danny Boyland Novels

  Danny Boy

  Cases Closed

  Mommy, Mommy

  Collection

  Portraits in Blue

  www.henryhack.com

  PART ONE

  THE COP AND THE REVOLUTIONARY

  Chapter One

  The seventeen year old football player shuffled his feet as he stood on the twenty yard line awaiting the kickoff. The opposing team, their nemesis and bitter divisional rival, Andrew Jackson High School, lined up facing him. He was not a punt returner, but Coach Lafferty was in desperation mode. The two designated runback specialists – a starting half back and a starting free safety – had both been knocked out of the game with injuries by the hard-hitting Jackson defenders.

  Before Sweeney and DiGregorio were injured, the Adams’ offense had scored two quick touchdowns giving them a fourteen to zero lead. But Jackson had answered back with a touchdown and a field goal narrowing the lead to four, and now had the momentum of the game swinging their way. It was then that Lafferty grabbed tight end Harry Cassidy and said, in his guttural Brooklyn voice, “Cassidy, you gotta return this kickoff.”

  “But Coach,” Harry protested, “I’m not that fast and I never…”

  “Listen to me, kid. I know you’re not fast and I know you’ve never run one back before, but you have good hands. Here’s what I want from you. Catch the ball. Tuck it in tight before you take a step up the field. Hold it tight and don’t drop it. Protect it and don’t fucking fumble. Got it?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “No buts. Hold it tight and run it straight up the middle. I don’t care how far you get it. Don’t try anything fancy. Up the middle. Don’t fumble. Now go do it.”

  End-over-end the football flew off the toe of the Jackson kicker – way up high. Then it froze for an instant at the top of its arc, framed in the clear blue November sky. End-over-end it floated down toward Harry Cassidy’s open arms. He moved a half step to his left and waited, his breath puffing out rapid clouds of mist into the frigid autumn air. Don’t fumble! He heard the pounding footsteps and raucous shouts of the on-rushing Jackson defenders. He inhaled one last deep breath as the pigskin settled softly in his outstretched hands.

  Remembering everything Coach Lafferty drummed into his head, Harry tucked the ball in, wrapped his arms around it, put his head down and ran straight up the middle. Don’t fumble! He looked neither right nor left as he plunged straight ahead and a couple of early would be tacklers bounced off his six foot, one hundred eighty pound body. His feet became churning, chugging locomotive wheels as he built up steam crossing the thirty, the forty, and the midfield lines. The Adams’ fans screamed, “Go! Go! Go, Cassidy!”

  And go he went with more tacklers hitting him and failing to bring him down. Harry, panting and running out of steam, was gang-tackled by four defenders bringing him down on the eighteen yard line. He held the ball tight as several pairs of hands tried to rip it from his grasp. Finally, the play was over. Harry Cassidy had run the ball back sixty-two yards on sheer determination – and he had not fumbled.

  He stumbled off the field gasping for breath as the Adams’ offense took the field without him for the first time as he recuperated on the sideline, gulping down the cold air and accepting thumps on his back from his teammates and coaches. He watched as two running plays went nowhere. It was third down and still ten to go when Lafferty called a time out. He gathered the offensive unit around him and motioned Harry to join them. “We gotta score now,” he said. “We can’t waste Harry’s effort on the return. If we score now we’ll break their spirit, get the momentum back and be on our way to the City Championship game. You got your breath back, Harry?”

  “Yeah, Coach.”

  “Okay, we’ll set up for a run up the middle as if we’re going for position for a field goal. But Harry, after you throw your block, move downfield for a catch on the ten.” Turning toward the quarterback he said, “Tommy, throw a dart right into Harry’s numbers. Then you take it in for the score, Cassidy.”

  “That’s all I gotta do, Coach? Ten freaking yards? Why not let me go into the end zone first?”

  “Because that is where all the fucking defensive backs are gonna be hanging out,” Lafferty said seeing his first shot at a City Championship slowly begin to fade away. “Jesus Cassidy, just do it like I fucking said to do it!”

  And Cassidy did it, but at a terrible cost – to the team, and to himself. Tommy got the ball to him right on target and, as Harry turned to run it in, he was hit immediately by a safety and cornerback who had smelled out the play. He shrugged the hits off and dragged both of them toward the end zone. At the five yard line a big linebacker pounded into him low, and he felt something snap in his right knee. Ignoring the pain, he churned forward and stretched out his arms barely getting the nose of the ball over the goal line. The crowd went wild, but calmed down in a hurry when they saw two big offensive linemen pick Harry up and carry him off the field.

  The ambulance took him to Jamaica Hospital where he underwent surgery. It was just as well that he couldn’t watch the end of the game. His touchdown, giving Adams the lead by eleven points would not be enough. Now with three starters out of the game, Jackson rolled up the points in the second half and cruised to a 44-21 victory. They went on to play in the City Championship game, but lost to Brooklyn Tech in overtime.

  Several Adams and Jackson players received full or partial scholarships to big name universities that year. Harry Cassidy was not one of them. He had a torn anterior cruciate ligament and a broken patella, and was on crutches for three months after his surgery. He would never play college football. He would never suit up for a game anywhere ever again.

  While he was recuperating, Harry’s father died of lung cancer eliminating any chance of him attending college away from home – the money just wasn’t there. He would go to work in a supermarket and attend Queens College at night. And then he would become a cop.

  Police Officer Harold T. Cassidy, Shield Number 619, New York Metropolitan Police Department walked a beat and drove a radio car on
the Queens/Nassau border for over ten years before a bizarre series of twists and turns, setbacks and promotions, bad luck and good luck, landed him in the chair of the highest position in the NYMPD – Police Commissioner.

  * * *

  Thirty-five years after Harry had his knee broken on that cold autumn afternoon, his public law enforcement career was over. Now employed at, and a minority shareholder in, one of the most prestigious private security firms in New York – Sheldrake Associates – he was on the way to work, riding the creaking subway from his upper Westside apartment to his downtown office. He was bored with the hum-drum, monotonous existence his working life had become and bored at that moment with the swaying ride of the train. Bored that is until his eyes focused on the blond in the short maroon coat. She gripped the stainless-steel pole tighter as the C train lurched out of the 72nd street station. Her hand had slipped a bit lower on the pole as she re-gripped it, causing skin-to-skin contact with Harry’s hand. Standing directly opposite her, and being slightly startled at her touch, Harry looked her directly in the eye. She smiled at him, but did not move her hand away.

  Harry smiled back and nodded his head slightly. She was certainly attractive, especially her big light-blue eyes. He guessed her to be in her late thirties and he, being fifty-two, wondered why she was flirting with him – if she indeed was flirting, and this was not just his ego tweaking him.

  She was staring at him rather steadily now and her closeness allowed the aroma of her perfume to drift into his nostrils. Nice scent, he thought. Something expensive, maybe Diamonds or Arpege. As the train approached the 59th street station, where a majority of the people on this C train would exit for the downtown A express, another lurch occurred and the woman stumbled right toward Harry causing him to move forward and grab her around the shoulder and bring her very close to him. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Thank you for catching me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said with a big smile while thinking, ah ha, so that’s your game!

  Harry had felt, ever so slightly, his wallet being removed from his rear pants pocket when his suit jacket rose up as a result of grabbing the woman. He spotted the dip out of the corner of his eye – posing as a well-dressed commuter – and he wondered if they would get off at the next stop as he normally did. The train ground to a halt, the doors squeaked open and a mass of humanity pushed out onto the platform. Harry got off, but kept an eye on the thieving duo that remained where they were. He then ducked back onto the train one car down.

  Taking up a position by the sliding door at the end of his car, Harry observed the dip and his pretty decoy make their way to a door, no doubt preparing to get off at the next stop, the little used 50th street local station. Evidently they had decided that no further marks were in sight at this time.

  He followed them off the train and, at an appropriate moment well before they reached the exit turnstiles, he suddenly shoved them roughly up against the tile station wall, withdrawing his licensed Glock pistol. “You chose the wrong guy this time,” he said. “You’re both under arrest. Now walk, vey slowly, to the exit.”

  “And if we don’t,” the man said turning to Harry, “what’re gonna do? Shoot us?”

  “I might,” Harry said observing the man’s cold gray eyes and two prominent facial scars accentuated by his day old stubble. “Are you willing to take that chance?”

  The couple now both looked defiantly at Harry. The white-tiled passageway, where Harry intended to steer them, made a bend about fifty feet up ahead, and the exit turnstiles were just out of sight beyond it. “You can’t shoot us for picking your pocket, old-timer,” the man said. “When we hear the next train coming in we are going to run for it, and you’re too old to catch us.”

  “Maybe I am a bit slow, but my bullets aren’t. Picking pockets is a felony, my friend, and I can shoot a fleeing felon, so I suggest you both walk to the exit nice and easy.”

  This was a lie. Cops could shoot a fleeing felon in the good old days, but not any more. The revised Penal Code changed that back in 1967. Harry hoped these two didn’t know that.

  The man eyed Harry’s Glock as if contemplating the chances of taking it from him, but he probably figured even though this guy was old he was big, and looked pretty strong. He nodded at his accomplice, and they both turned and resumed the walk toward the exit. Harry quietly let out his breath as he followed behind, gun at the ready.

  Fortunately, there was a transit cop at the ticket booth chatting with the agent. Harry prodded the two in the cop’s direction and when he got close enough, he said, “Retired member of the service, Officer. I’m armed and have two here for picking my pocket. I’m sure you’ll find my wallet and ID on them.”

  The young cop seemed uncertain of what to do. He eyed Harry’s gun nervously, so Harry said, “It’s okay, Officer. Call for backup. Then I’ll assist you in cuffing them.”

  All of a sudden the man lunged for the young cop’s gun and had it halfway out of its holster before Harry managed to get off a shot. The confines of the station amplified the boom of the Glock and it took several seconds for the echoes to diminish. The bullet caught the man in the upper right arm and he howled with pain and sunk to the dirty cement floor. His partner made a run for the exit, but her high heels slowed her down and Harry caught her on the first step of the exit stairwell. He dragged her back to where the officer was just finishing up cuffing the man. “Thanks,” the officer said, “that bastard almost got my gun. Who the hell would figure a lousy pickpocket would try something so stupid?”

  “Maybe he’s more than a dip. He obviously didn’t want to be collared. Call for that backup and an ambulance now. I have sweetheart here under control.”

  The cop complied and Harry put his gun back in the holster on his belt. The frisk revealed four additional wallets besides Harry’s – a nice haul so early in the day. Harry dug through his wallet and produced his official police ID and handed it to the officer. The young cop’s eyes opened wide when he read, “Harold T. Cassidy, Police Commissioner, Retired.”

  Just then two back-up officers arrived and the cop filled them in on the situation. The older of the two looked at Harry’s ID and said, “Good morning, Commissioner Cassidy. I remember you well, and if I may say so, I wish you were back.”

  “Thank you, Officer. Many times I wish I were back, too.”

  After the ambulance arrived and the male suspect was taken to the hospital with two additional backup officers, Harry accompanied the other officers and the female suspect to the stationhouse and signed the complaint. He looked around the building and a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The dim lighting, the smell of stale cigarettes and old floor wax, the stationhouse “broom” lazily sweeping the dirty floor, the cops processing their prisoners, the desk sergeant and an old-time detective arguing over the correct charge on a suspect, the phones ringing, the yelling, the swearing – God how he had loved it all. And how he now missed it all.

  * * *

  “Something troubling you, my dear?” Susan asked as she handed her husband a drink.

  Harry took a sip of the cold scotch and said, “No, my dear wife, just lost in some memories.”

  “Oh? Which ones?”

  “Police ones.”

  “I figured that,” she said, “but you have a lot of those. Which ones in particular?”

  “When I was young. When I was walking my beat in a blue uniform, swinging my nightstick…”

  “Completely in charge of your little corner of the world,” she interrupted. “I also remember that well. And what brought those ancient times to the forefront of your mind?”

  “Put on the TV and tune to the six o’clock news, which should just be coming on, and you will find out,” he said with a smile.

  The anchorman led off with the story of how our former police commissioner, Harold T. Cassidy, captured two pickpockets shooting one in the arm after he attempted to grab an officer’s weapon. He said, “The male suspect, now identified as Webster Bonner, h
as a long list of priors for robbery, burglary and assorted narcotics violations, and is currently wanted in Boston for attempted murder. Commissioner Charles Carson, Cassidy’s successor in the position, held a briefing and highly commended his predecessor saying, ‘Once a cop, always a cop. And Harry Cassidy was truly a cop’s cop.’ Bonner will be arraigned in the morning and will be turned over to the Boston authorities after his charges are disposed of here. We all salute you, Commissioner Cassidy, for your heroic actions.”

  Susan had watched the entire clip without saying a word. When it was over she took a sip of her martini and said, “Don’t you think you are a bit too old to still be playing cops and robbers?”

  “Gee, honey, I thought you might have congratulated me on a fine piece of police work.”

  “Not when there were gunshots involved. How many more times do you want to get shot?”

  “I didn’t get shot. I shot the bad guy, but I almost missed him. I was only five feet away and aimed for the middle of his back. Some reporters actually congratulated me for only winging him in the arm! If they only knew.”

  “Makes my point all the more. You are not a trained police officer any more. You’re rusty and over the hill. When are you ever going to wake up to the facts?”

  “Yeah, I know you are right. Those cops looked so young to me I had to force myself to believe that I was once like them, twenty-two, full of piss and vinegar, ready to lock up all the bad guys. But now I’m fifty-two and still do not want to admit my days as a cop are long over.”

  “May I remind you that you accomplished all that can be accomplished in police work? You were the PC, after all. And then a director in Homeland Security. And now you are a minority partner in the most prestigious private security firm on the East coast.”