by F. P. Lione
He was drinking out of a paper bag, probably Thunderbird, the drink of choice for skells. I guess at three bucks a pint you can’t go wrong.
We got out of the car and walked up on him. He was busy yapping at a woman who told him where to go in a West Indian accent. I guess he had a line for everyone, because he said, “You must be Jamaican, ’cause Jamaican me crazy,” and cracked up again.
He didn’t see Joe and me until we were about five feet away. When he caught us out of the corner of his eye, he sat down by the fence and hid the bottle behind his leg and tried to pretend he didn’t see us.
“Hey, buddy, what are you doing?” Joe asked him.
He acted like he just noticed us. “Hey, hayadoon, officers,” he slurred.
“What are you doing here, buddy?” Joe asked again.
“Nothin’,” he said with a shrug. “Just hanging out, not bothering nobody.” He knocked the bottle over, and I heard the clank when it hit the sidewalk.
“What’s that?” I pointed to the bottle. “Are you drinking here?”
“Noooooo, I don’t drink. No way. I don’t know whose that is.” He was shaking his head no.
“Listen, you can’t stay here,” Joe said.
“Ah, c’mon. I’m not botherin’ nobody.”
“We’re getting calls, buddy, you’re bothering everybody,” I said.
“I’m not bothering them, they’re bothering me!”
“Listen,” Joe said. “Why don’t you pick up your bag and let’s call it a night over here. Go up the block toward 9th Avenue. This way no one can bother you there.”
He waved us away, but he picked up his stuff and walked down toward 9th Avenue.
Joe and I patrolled our sector, driving east to west and back then north to south. It was quiet, probably because it was a Monday night and all the summer tourists were gone. We parked on 37th Street and read the paper and looked at the Empire State Building.
I was reading an article about the Gowanus Canal. A couple of years ago a propeller was put in to force fresh water through the tunnel connecting the Buttermilk Channel and the Gowanus Canal. The Gowanus Canal was disgusting, full of raw sewage and probably the filthiest water in the city. The water was stagnant and had been that way for thirty years. The article said that since they put the propeller in, there were blue crabs, jellyfish, and schools of fish there.
I went on to read about the Ronaldo Paulino All Stars from the South Bronx, who lost the U.S. final in the Little League World Series a couple a weeks ago. It turns out their star pitcher, a kid from the Dominican Republic, was really fourteen years old and not qualified to play. Supposedly, the kid and nobody else knew how old he actually was, which was a lie. How could you say nobody knew how old the kid was?
“How many bridges do you think there are in the city?” Joe asked.
I mentally counted off the GWB, the Queensboro, the Triboro, the Willis Avenue, the Third Avenue, the Brooklyn, and the Manhattan bridges.
“Seven?”
“No, in the whole five boroughs.”
“I have no idea,” I said.
“Fifty-seven,” Joe said.
“Really? I guess I could see that. Staten Island alone has four bridges, and it’s the smallest borough.”
“South David,” Central came over the air.
“South David,” Fiore responded.
“We have an aided case, person not breathing at 250 West 37th Street.”
“10-4.”
We drove over to 250, where a well-dressed male Korean, maybe five foot ten or five foot eleven, who looked to be in his thirties waved us down in front of a ten-story building. There were a lot of sweatshops in the area, this building being one of them.
Joe radioed Central to tell them we were 84, on the scene.
“Is the person breathing?” Joe asked as we got out of the car.
“No.”
“How long is he not breathing?”
“Not long, maybe five minutes.”
I’m thinking five minutes is a long time. We followed him through the door and across to a flight of stairs next to the elevator.
“You live here?” Joe asked.
“No, our business is here.” He named a clothing manufacturer. “My mother is downstairs with the super, he’s unconscious.”
Down the hallway to the right there was a middle-aged Korean woman standing outside a doorway. When we walked into what looked like a break room with two couches and a TV, we saw a white male, about fifty years old, lying faceup on the floor next to the couch. He had that ashy death pallor that they get from no oxygen, and he stunk of booze. He was wearing work greens with “250 West 37th Street” embroidered on his breast pocket. His pants and shirt were unbuttoned, and his work boots were unlaced.
Joe radioed Central and told them to put a rush on the bus.
“Two minutes out,” Central said.
The woman was crying, saying something to the son in Korean that sounded like, “Mar hoge mar seo!”
Whenever people are speaking Korean around me I always think of that Seinfeld episode where Elaine brings George’s father to the nail salon with her because she thinks the manicurists are talking about her in Korean.
The son shooed her away, and she said it again while Joe knelt down and felt for a pulse and shook his head no at me.
He started doing chest compressions to keep the blood moving and gave me a look.
“No way,” I said. There was no way I was doing mouth-to-mouth. This guy stunk and could have AIDS for all I knew. If I had an airbag I would have used it, but I didn’t.
The mother and son were going back and forth in Korean. The woman looked over at the son and said, “Fa rasio?”
“I don’t know,” the son said.
“What?” I asked.
“She asked if he’s dead.”
“It’s not looking too good,” I said. “How do you know him?”
The dead guy was wearing a wedding ring, and I was guessing he was the super of the building.
“Are they married?”
“Uh, no,” the son said with a funny look. “He’s the super.”
The son went back upstairs to wait for EMS, when all of a sudden I heard a gurgling sound and saw yellow fluid coming out of the guy’s mouth. I flipped him on his side to let the fluid out while holding my head away ’cause it smelled nasty and I didn’t want to get any of it on my uniform.
We couldn’t do compressions with him on his side, and we didn’t want him choking on his own vomit, so we just crouched there waiting for EMS.
The mother was still standing outside in the hallway, taking a peek in every couple of seconds and crying all over again, putting her face in her hands. Something was going on here. Nobody gets this upset when the super dies.
We heard footsteps and the jingle of equipment as two paramedics came down the hall and into the room.
Joe and I stepped back and let them take over. One started doing chest compressions, and the other put his finger in the guy’s mouth to see if he was choking on something before putting on an airbag.
“We did chest compressions,” Joe said.
“Any mouth-to-mouth?” He must’ve known from our expressions that we didn’t.
I walked out into the hallway to talk to the son, who came back down with EMS.
“How’d your mother know he was down here?” I asked him.
He walked me away from her, and she yelled something in Korean, and he yelled back.
“Listen,” he said, talking low. “They were down here having sex, and he had a heart attack.”
“Is he married?”
“Yeah, he’s married.”
I nodded. That explains why the clothes were half off.
“Can chen io?” the mother yelled.
“Do you think he’ll be okay?” the son asked.
“I have no idea,” I said, thinking he was probably gone already. Then I realized what I was thinking and started praying for the guy. I didn’t want him
meeting God in the middle of committing adultery.
I took the son’s info for the aided card, writing down his name, address, and home and cell phone numbers. I got a brief statement, leaving out the sex part, and walked back into the room.
EMS was rushing to pack up their stuff.
“They got a pulse,” Joe said, excited.
“Is that from us, with the chest compressions?”
“They shot him up with something,” Joe said.
“Are you coming with him?” they asked the mother.
“My mother will go,” the son said. “I’ll follow in the car. Where are you taking him?”
“Bellevue.”
I thought it was pretty messed up that this guy was married and his wife was home, oblivious, thinking he was working, and meanwhile he had a heart attack while having sex with a woman who owned a sweatshop in his building.
We had no jobs other than an alarm at 48 West 39th Street, which we gave back 90 U, unable to gain entrance. We couldn’t get in to check, but the ground level was secure.
We went back in for our meal at 4:30 and slept for an hour down in the lounge.
After our meal, we stopped for coffee on the corner of 9th and 35th and went up to Dyer to make the right at 36th Street to go across town.
Some nut job was standing on the cement island outside the Lincoln Tunnel where the hot dog vendor usually sits in the afternoon, flashing the cars coming out of the tunnel.
“It’s that drunk from last night,” I said as we got closer.
He would wave at the cars and then drop his pants, cracking up at people’s faces when he flashed them. People were screaming out their car windows at him, and the driver of a silver Suburban rolled down his window to throw something at him but changed his mind when he saw us. He pointed at the guy, giving us a “Go get him” look instead.
I pulled over on 36th Street and saw the drunk’s uh-oh face when he saw us and scrambled to pull up his pants.
“Hey, didn’t I tell you to behave?” Joe said as we crossed the street to him.
“I went to 9th Avenue, it’s right there,” he pointed toward 9th.
“Listen,” Joe said. “We don’t got time for this.”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, trying to look remorseful.
“Where’s your belt?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug.
“Listen,” I said. “This is what I want you to do. Go over to the precinct on 35th.” I pointed toward the precinct. “Tell them at the desk you want to turn yourself in, and they’ll give you a belt.”
He held his pants with one hand and saluted us with the other. “Okay, Sarge.”
He started walking up 36th toward 9th Avenue when I called after him, “And if anyone gives you a problem, tell them Officer Rooney sent you.”
He threw us another salute.
Our election duty started at 6 a.m., we went to Norman Thomas High School on East 33rd between Park and Lexington. This would be my first time there. Usually I wind up in the 13th precinct. I parked across from the school, outside a deli. I looked up at the sign that read, “High class deli, we accept food stamps and WIC checks.”
The election detail is boring to begin with, and the morning’s pretty slow. A few people come in before work to vote, but most go on their way home. Plus, this was the primary and there wouldn’t be as big a turnout.
Joe and I were basically there to make sure the “No Parking,” “No Campaigning Beyond This Point,” “Vote Here,” and “Vote Aqui” signs were up. One of us would be outside; the other would be inside with the retirees from the League of Women Voters and other volunteers who work the elections making sure no one tries to interrupt the voting or influence anybody.
A group of people jabbering away in Spanish walked in together, and I saw a Pakistani-looking woman shaking her head at them as she came out of the school. I didn’t know why she was looking at them like that, and I almost busted out laughing when she said, “These foreigners can’t even speak English.” I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just nodded and tried not to laugh.
The day tour relieved us at around 8:30, and we talked to Carl Beers for a couple of minutes before we left.
Joe’s cell phone rang as we walked to the RMP. “Hey, babe,” he said and listened for a second. “I grabbed an hour OT. Tony’s driving out anyway, so he’ll drop me off. Sure, I’ll pick it up. Love you too.” He closed the phone. “Gotta stop for milk.”
“No problem, buddy.”
“I’m hungry,” Joe said. “You hungry? Forget it, you’re always hungry.”
“Let’s get a good bagel,” I said. “We’ll stop on three-one and five.”
“Yeah, I love their bagels,” Joe said.
I drove up 33rd Street and made a left onto 5th. I drove two blocks south and parked outside the bagel store, smelling the bagels before we got in the door.
“Are the everythings hot?” I asked the guy behind the counter.
“They just came out ten minutes ago.”
“Great,” I said. “Give me an everything with butter and a regular coffee.”
Joe was getting an egg sandwich, so I went outside to have a cigarette with my coffee. I put the coffee and bagel on the trunk of the RMP, lit my cigarette, and pulled back the plastic tab on the Styrofoam cup to blow on the coffee. Something caught the corner of my eye, and I looked straight down 5th Avenue and saw smoke coming from one of the towers of the World Trade Center.
I stood there looking at it when I heard over the radio that a plane just crashed into the Twin Towers.
I put the coffee down and switched over to the citywide channel on my radio and heard, “Large explosion . . .”
“Plane hit the Trade Center . . .”
“We got debris everywhere . . .”
“North Tower approximately 85th floor . . .”
“The building’s on fire . . .”
Joe ran out of the deli with the guy from behind the counter and looked down 5th Avenue. “Was it a big plane or a small plane?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, watching the plume of smoke rise from the building.
“What difference does it make?” the guy asked.
The difference is a small plane could mean that an inexperienced pilot veered off into the no-fly zone and lost control of the plane. A large passenger jet wouldn’t hit the building by accident.
The radio got wild now with 10-13s, with officers needing assistance being called all over the place. I heard a lieutenant call Central and say there was a big explosion at the World Trade Center and to call for a level four mobilization.
“Lieutenant, you don’t have the authority to call a level four mobilization,” Central said.
Then reports started coming in that it was a commercial aircraft. We kept our radios on the citywide channel as we jumped in the car and headed back to the precinct.
I heard Central say, “Lieutenant, can you confirm if it was a big plane or a small plane?”
“It was a big plane, Central.”
“I’m going down there,” I said.
Joe paused for a second, then nodded. “I’m going too.”
People were coming outside and looking down the avenues as we made our way back to the precinct. The precinct was busier than usual for the day tour, and we saw Hanrahan on the phone at the desk when we came in. He was supposed to be working OT, scratching our memo books at the election detail.
“Hey, boss, we got a detail going downtown?”
“Yeah, they’re mobilizing us.”
“Joe and I are going,” I said.
“Alright, get your helmets and meet me up here. We’re taking van 4553.”
Joe and I were the last two cops to get in the van. We had two sergeants, Hanrahan and Charlie Bishop. Bishop pulled a few of his angels off their foot posts—John Bertram and Ernie Jones, who we call Bert and Ernie, and Paddy Fitzgerald, who was six foot six and skinny, with glasses, and might
as well have been Big Bird.
From the midnights there was me, Joe, Walsh, Rooney, who finished up his collar and wanted to come with us, and Noreen, Hanrahan’s driver.
We stacked our helmets behind the back bench. That way if we needed them later all we had to do was open the back door so we wouldn’t be climbing over the seats to get them.
Noreen took 34th Street to the West Side Highway and headed downtown. We were quiet on the way down. We all had our radios on the citywide channel and listened to the fractured transmissions over the air.
“Mobile command center to Manhattan mobile command center, stand by . . .”
“Be advised the FEMA equipment from the Brooklyn Navy Yard will be unloaded on Chambers and West . . .”
“Smoke too heavy . . .”
“Citywide . . . on the air . . .”
“Staten Island Ferry . . .”
“New citywide mobilization point for all citywide task force is . . .”
“26 Federal Plaza evacuated . . .”
“Bomb threat . . .”
“We’re trying to ascertain right now, gonna get a head count . . .”
“In building, can’t be moved . . .”
“Be advised Brooklyn Bridge is open from Manhattan into Brooklyn . . .”
“Pier 40. . . . spare millennium gas masks . . .”
I heard a loud rumble when we were at about Houston Street and leaned my head down to look through the windshield.
Hanrahan yelled, pointing, “There’s another plane,” and for a split second we saw the commercial jet before it slammed into the south side of the South Tower, sending up a fireball that swallowed up the top of the building.
People that were standing along the West Side Highway started screaming, their faces frozen in horror as they watched the smoke pour out of the South Tower.
“We’re being attacked,” Joe said.
My first thought was that someone was doing this on purpose, something I never thought I’d see. It felt surreal, like this couldn’t be happening, but it was happening.
