Clear Blue Sky

by F. P. Lione

  He started singing, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore,” over the patrol car’s PA system. I shook my head and ignored him. He was always calling me, Joe, and Bruno dagos and greaseballs. Bruno takes offense at any kind of slur against Italians. He was born in Brooklyn, but his parents were off the boat and they speak Italian at home. He’s not too bright, and when he got the flag of Italy tattooed on his arm he got the colors backwards and wound up with Portugal or something.

  While Joe and I are loyal Italians, stuff like that doesn’t bother us. My fiancée, Michele, is only half Italian, and my grandmother says when I have kids I’ll dilute the Italian blood. The way I see it, if I dilute the blood my son won’t look like a goombah and my daughter won’t have hair on her upper lip.

  Bruno, Joe, and I all look Italian. Joe is a couple of inches taller than me, about six foot. He has dark wavy hair and brown eyes, but his skin is lighter. Bruno and I both have thick black hair and olive skin. Bruno has big brown eyes and a gullible look that reminds me of Baby Huey. My eyes are light, almost hazel, but I still look like I should be wearing six gold chains and looking for the hood ornament to my caddy.

  “Did Geri drop your change again?” I asked Bruno when he got back in the car and handed Joe and me our coffee.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I think she does it on purpose.”

  “Nothing gets past you, Bruno,” I said.

  Geri works midnights at the deli and is always sexually harassing the cops in one way or another. She drops our change so we have to bend over and get it and find her smiling when we stand back up. She has a couple of perverted T-shirts about calling 911 and says a lot of raunchy things about handcuffs and nightsticks. Joe and I pretty much ignore her, but her and Rooney hit it off, and I was sure he’d be in there for the next ten minutes joking back and forth with her.

  “Why is Vince always like that to the rookies?” Bruno asked as we drove up 8th Avenue.

  “That’s nothing,” I said. “You should have seen what he was like when I came on.”

  “It’s like he loves to humiliate us,” Bruno said.

  “Be glad that’s all he does,” I said. “Remember when the rookies were coming out of the Academy with 9mm’s and the old-timers still had the .38’s?”

  “I think that was before my time,” Bruno said.

  “I remember it,” Fiore threw in. “The old-timers had to qualify, and these guys were coming out of the Academy with them. I was working out in Queens then, and I remember a lot of the old-timers not wanting to use the Glock.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And Vince took a real dislike to one of the gung-ho rookies. The rookie was standing at attention in the front of the roll call with a couple of his Academy buddies, and Vince stood behind him. Vince had taken the bullets out of his .38 Smith & Wesson and started dry firing the gun next to the rookie’s ear—click, click, click—slowly and methodically.

  “The rookies were looking at each other, wondering if the old-timer was psycho enough to shoot them in the back. The sarge at the time was also an old-timer who was amused by the whole thing. He stopped and said, ‘Alright, cut it out now,’ but he laughed when he said it. The rookies looked at each other again, shocked that the sarge didn’t blast Vince. The sarge gave them a wicked smile, and I watched the color drain from their faces. When the sarge went back to the roll call, Vince started dry firing in rapid succession—click click, click—and by the time he hit the sixth round, one of the rookies fainted dead on the floor.”

  As I drove past 40th Street I saw the group of rookies, including Snout, walking together up 8th Avenue. Bruno waved to them, but they didn’t see him. They looked more promising now that they disobeyed a direct order from the boss. It’s the ones like Perez who do everything they’re told that you gotta watch.

  I pulled over at 44th and 8th to let Bruno out.

  “Pick me up for my meal?” he asked.

  “No problem, Bruno,” I said, thinking of Nick, who used to ask me the same thing every night.

  I started to pull away from the curb, when Central came over the radio with, “I got a job in the South. A female is being harassed by a group of people and a man on a horse at four-five and eight.”

  I gave Fiore a “What’s this?” look and saw Galotti on the sidewalk fumbling with his radio. “Robbery post 5. I’ll take that job,” he said.

  Snout came over the air with, “Uh, robbery 4 . . . robbery post 4. I’ll respond to that too.”

  Central came back with “Which job are you responding to, robbery post 4?” Central likes to mess with the rookies too.

  “Uh, the horse job.”

  Someone yelled, “Rookie!” and horse snorts and neighs started coming over the air.

  “Robbery post 4, that’s at four-five and eight.” I could hear the smile in Central’s voice. Then all the rookies chimed in.

  “Robbery 3 to Central.”

  “Go ahead, robbery 3.”

  “I’m gonna go to four-five and eight also.”

  Robbery 7 cut off robbery 3. “I’m going too.”

  Central cut in with, “Units, you’re cutting each other off.”

  “We better go over there to help them out,” Joe said.

  “This should be interesting,” I said. I love working midnights. People are always nuttier when the sun goes down.

  Joe waved Bruno over, and he got back in the car. I threw the lights on as I approached 45th Street. On the east side of 45th and 8th we saw a guy on a horse standing a little south of 45th Street near the curb.

  I pulled up next to the horse, just past the entrance to the Milford Plaza. I saw two guys, one with a camera, laughing while a Park Avenue–looking female talked on a cell phone while staring them down.

  The horse was big and brown, with a black mane and tail. It started doing a little nervous dance, I guess from the turret lights. The tail swished, the ears came up and back, and it jerked its head up and back every time the red light on the turret swung around.

  There was a hot dog cart on the corner where a vendor wearing a white sweatshirt with a blue apron over it was selling Sabretts to the theater crowd. It was late for him to be out, but the line was three deep as people stopped to get a hot dog and see what was going on. About ten feet down from the cart, a table was set up where a guy was selling framed prints of different spots around the city.

  We walked toward the small crowd that had gathered, and the cameraman walked over to the guy on the horse and pointed his camera lens down at the street. He pulled his headset off, and it hung around his neck.

  “Officer, I called you,” the female on the cell said. She had dark hair and blue eyes, was maybe in her midthirties, and wore a black dress and pearls. Looked like money.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I was coming from the theater,” she said, pointing up toward Schubert Alley, “and these men approached me and started asking me questions. When I wouldn’t answer their questions they started yelling and cursing at—”

  “Officer, we have a permit,” one of them cut her off with his British accent. “We’re documentary filmmakers.”

  I guess he was the mouthpiece, because he held up his hand to one of the other guys who started walking over. I didn’t like him already.

  “Excuse me, I was talking,” the woman said, staring at him. “As I was saying”—she looked at me—“when I told him not to curse at me, he pushed me.”

  “He pushed you? Give me the permit.” Joe glared at him. He took the permit and press card and as he was reading asked, “What’s with the horse?”

  “People see the horse, and they stop to talk and pet it. It gives us an opportunity to interview them, uh, question them.” The mouthpiece said it like Joe was too stupid to understand what interview meant. He was tall, over six foot, with blue eyes and dark hair. He was the best looking one out of the group, confident, and used to getting his way.

  “I did not stop to talk to you or pet your horse!” th
e female said, raising her voice.

  “What are you doing here?” Joe asked him.

  “We’re just interviewing people randomly,” he said, a smile pasted on his face.

  “About what?” Joe wasn’t smiling.

  “The city nightlife in Times Square.”

  “So why is she telling me you’re cursing at her?” I threw in.

  He hesitated. “We weren’t. We were just asking questions, and she got mad.”

  “What kind of questions?” I asked.

  “Do you feel safe walking the streets at night?” he said with a shrug.

  The female cut in. “I told him I wasn’t interested in answering his questions, and he asked if I worked in a peep show, what kind of sex I liked.” She added some other stuff that they said that was pretty gross. She wasn’t the type to approach from that angle. They were probably just mad that she blew them off, so they started mouthing off. I guess they didn’t expect her to call us.

  “Officer, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” the mouthpiece said, dismissing her.

  I looked over at her. She was upset enough to call us, and I didn’t think she was lying. I looked back at them. There were four of them: one with the camera, one on the horse, a female, and the guy talking to me. The female was holding a tripod and had what looked to be a camera bag slung over her shoulder. They were trying hard to look artsy, unshaved, and shabby in their designer clothes. Instead, they reminded me of the squatters down in Alphabet City, where they move into abandoned buildings acting like they own the place.

  I heard the jingling of cuffs and the clanging of nightsticks as the stampede of rookies came running up behind me.

  “You got a permit for that horse?” We all turned, speechless, to see Walsh, the muscle-head rookie, stomping toward the guy on the horse.

  “Whoa, hold on there, tiger,” I said, grabbing his arm. “You only need a permit for a horse and carriage, not a horse.”

  “Really?” Walsh asked, cementing the public’s theory in general that cops are stupid. I was glad he didn’t start scratching his head.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s the same thing as riding a bike. You just have to obey the traffic laws.”

  The rookies gathered around us, still out of breath from running up 8th Avenue.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I said. “Show us the tape when you were interviewing her.” I pointed to the female in the black dress. “If nobody was harassing her, you can go on with what you were doing.”

  “You’re not allowed to see this tape. It’s protected under the First Amendment. I know my rights,” the mouthpiece said as he shook his head at me like I was too stupid for him to talk to. I hear people talk about their rights all the time, but it’s much more annoying with a British accent.

  “You’re an American citizen?” Joe asked, a lot nicer than I would have.

  I smiled at his blank look, but he regrouped quickly enough and said, “I have a permit.”

  “I don’t know, Joe,” I said to Fiore. “You think documentary filmmakers get diplomatic immunity?”

  Joe smiled at him. “Maybe you can call over to the UN and see if they can help you out with that.”

  “Buddy, come here,” I called to the guy with the camera. “And you, John Wayne”—I pointed to the one on the horse—“off the horse.”

  They looked at each other.

  “Today,” I said.

  He got off the horse, still holding the reins as the cameraman walked over to me.

  “I know my rights,” the mouthpiece said, getting louder.

  “Listen,” I said. “We can straighten this all out and avoid going back to the precinct if you let us watch the tape.” I turned back to the cameraman. “Now show us the tape.”

  He lifted up the camera for me to look at, and the mouthpiece jumped in front of him. “I told you, you can’t see the tape. I have a permit. I know my rights.”

  “I know your rights too,” I said, half yelling. “And that camera is investigatory evidence, the only evidence we have of what happened.” The louder I got, the more he backed down.

  “Now, you have two choices,” I continued. “One”—I counted off on my fingers—“you can show me the tape, or two, Officer Galotti here is gonna lock you up and let a judge decide whether or not we can see it.”

  Galotti gave me a blank look and then nodded his head.

  “That’s right,” Galotti said, reaching for his cuffs. I saw the other rookies reach for theirs and move in closer, itching for a collar that didn’t involve force or gunshots.

  “You don’t have a permit to harass people,” I said. “Let us look at the tape. If you didn’t do anything wrong, you can leave.”

  The female in the black dress was looking pretty smug, so I knew there was something on the tape they didn’t want us to see.

  I heard Fiore get on the radio, “South David to Central.”

  “Go ahead, South David.”

  “Can you have the sergeant respond to four-five and eight, non-emergency.”

  “10-4.”

  “This camera is worth over a hundred thousand dollars!” the mouthpiece was yelling. “It’s not ours, it’s the production company’s. You can’t take it!”

  About three minutes later Sergeant Hanrahan pulled behind my RMP, and him and his driver, Noreen, got out of the car. Noreen put her hat on over her hair, which was falling out of the clip on top of her head.

  “What’s going on?” Hanrahan asked.

  Joe pulled him to the side. He turned his back to us while he filled in the sarge, talking low so as not to incite anyone. Hanrahan was nodding, and every once in a while he would look over at one of them and nod.

  The mouthpiece was still in my face. The cameraman was next to him, and the guy with the horse and the female stood by the street. The female was short, with a mop of curly brown hair. She started to pet the horse’s neck, talking quietly to it.

  “Okay, this is what we’re gonna do to clear this up,” Hanrahan said loudly, walking back toward us. “Either we see the film, or we lock you all up and take the camera.”

  “No!” the mouthpiece said, shaking his head. “I know my rights— you can’t take the camera.”

  “Wrong,” Hanrahan said and turned to us. “Joe, grab the camera.” He pointed to the cameraman and the mouthpiece. “Tony, Bruno, lock them up.” He spotted Snout with the other rookies and gave her a “Come here” signal. “Snout, grab the female.” Then he got on the radio and had Rooney and Connelly respond to take the complainant back to the precinct.

  The complainant smiled. “That’s fine with me.” She looked at her watch. “Will I be long?”

  “Shouldn’t be,” I said, shaking my head.

  She looked at the mouthpiece and said, “It’s worth it.”

  I said, “C’mon, get up against the car,” as Joe took the camera and placed it on the sidewalk.

  As I put the mouthpiece on the hood of the RMP, he said, “You can’t do this! I know my rights.”

  “Just show them the tape!” This was from the curly-haired female that Snout was cuffing. He gave her a look that told me we were gonna lock them up anyway once we saw it.

  “Bruno, you gotta lock him up too,” Joe said, nodding toward the guy with the horse.

  Once we got the four of them handcuffed and spread-eagle against the RMP, I said, “Now, this is New York City nightlife. You want me to get this on tape for your documentary? We’ll even pass the peep show on the way down to the precinct if you want.” I guess they didn’t think that was funny, and none of them said another word.

  “What do we do with the horse?” Bruno asked Hanrahan.

  “I’ll ride it,” Walsh jumped in.

  When you’re a rookie you always volunteer to do stuff like this. As time goes on you learn to shut your mouth and let the new schmuck take it.

  “You know how to ride a horse?” Hanrahan asked, skeptical.

  “Sure,” Walsh said with a shrug. “Ho
w hard could it be?”

  Hanrahan looked at Joe and me. “Either of you know how to ride a horse?”

  We both shook our heads no.

  “Boss, I got it,” Walsh said. “I’ve ridden before.”

  “I don’t think pony rides at the zoo count,” I said.

  Hanrahan smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Let him ride it.”

  Walsh got on the horse, putting his left foot in the stirrup and hopping off his right foot to propel himself over. As he grabbed the saddle, the horse started to turn in a circle.

  “I gotta see this,” Hanrahan said, shaking his head.

  As Walsh pulled the reins to the right, the horse started going the other way in a circle. Walsh tried to nudge it forward with his knee and actually said “Giddyap,” but the thing wouldn’t go forward. He gave it a small kick in the side, and the horse took off. He pulled back the reins and said “Whoa,” and the horse stopped and started to walk backwards.

  “Anybody else know how to ride a horse?” Hanrahan called over to the rookies and got a bunch of blank looks. He looked over at Walsh, who was now kicking the horse in both sides, sending it into a full gallop and almost flipping himself backwards. We heard the screech of tires as a cab entering the crosswalk at 45th Street almost picked off Walsh and the horse. The guy that’d been riding him started to move toward Walsh, but I grabbed him. “Nothing’s gonna happen,” I said.

  Once the light changed, Walsh made it across 8th Avenue okay, heading west on 45th Street.

  “We’ll follow him to make sure he doesn’t kill himself on the way back,” Joe said.

  Hanrahan nodded, his eyes still on Walsh.

  We put the horseman and the cameraman in our car and the female and the mouthpiece in the sergeant’s car with Snout. Bruno got in the car with us and radioed Central.

  “Robbery post 5 to Central.”

  “Go ahead, robbery post 5.”

  “I got four under and a horse at four-five and eight.”

  “That’s zero zero twenty hours, robbery post 5.”

  “10-4.”

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