Apaches

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  He had not gone near a device since that day. His retirement papers were put through for him while he was still in a hospital bed, about to endure the sixth of what eventually would grow to fourteen surgical procedures, all fruitless attempts to piece together abdominal muscles and lower intestinal tracts. The daily physical therapy he endured was as constant as the pain he forced himself to ignore. The pills he was prescribed sat in rows on three shelves of a medicine cabinet in a one-bedroom apartment in Ozone Park. Geronimo was surviving on antacids and willpower.

  He worked for Unger Electronics on the Lower East Side, reporting to an overweight man with a bad back named Carl Ungerwood. It was a family-owned operation that survived mainly because of the popularity of its computer repair department, which was where Geronimo toiled. That was as close to a set of wires as he was willing to get since the blast. He still kept a cache of dynamite in a closet off the main hall of his apartment, more for the memory of who he used to be than for use.

  Carl Ungerwood had a thirty-second temper that was mostly set off by problems with an ex-wife who was suing him for a piece of the business. He often directed his tirades at Geronimo, hurling insults and venom at a man the city had often decorated as a hero. Geronimo sat in silence during those moments, his eyes dark and distant. He saw the abuse as further punishment for what he had lost to the man with the grenade. That the pay from Unger Electronics was steady didn’t matter as much to Geronimo as the fact that the work was as far removed from the New York Police Department as he could hope to get.

  Unlike Boomer, Geronimo didn’t miss being a cop. But he did miss the thrill of taking down a device. He would set time limits for himself when he worked on the computers, doing mental countdowns as he repaired burned-out modems and replaced weak transmission wires. But it just wasn’t the same. There was no sense of mystery to a computer, not like with a device, where someone as good as Geronimo could will it, control it, thrive on its energy, or die in the clutches of its power. Alone with a device, Geronimo’s life and his possible death took on spiritual weight. It was better than the slow death he was living through now, hunched on a stool in the back room of a dusty electronics store.

  Geronimo couldn’t speak for the others, but he sensed that their decision about whether or not they would join Boomer in his battle with Lucia was a matter of choice. Not so for him. For a warrior like Geronimo, it was a matter of destiny.

  • • •

  “IT’S GETTING LATE,” Boomer said, taking a quick glance at his watch, “and it’s been a long night, so I’ll keep the rest of this short. All I ask is for you to think about what I’m going to say. Think on it hard. And then let me know. Either way, I’ll walk away with no problem about your decision.”

  “How soon do you need our answers?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “It doesn’t have to be an overnight deal,” Boomer said. “Come to it when you’re ready. But come to it soon.”

  Mrs. Columbo nodded and smiled. She had known Boomer since he was in uniform and had worked with him on several cases. She knew him well enough to realize that alone or with the group, he was going after Lucia. She saw it on his face, from the way he moved and chose his words. He’d always been an obsessed cop, the one guy with a badge criminals hated to have on their trail. He never gave up, never backed down. He thirsted for the rush of the bust.

  The same as Mrs. Columbo.

  She missed working homicide. Missed it desperately. At best, she was indifferent to her new job—selling insurance from a bland cubicle in a downtown office building. When she was a cop, she always used to pick up a phone after the first ring, waiting for the voice on the other end to tell her that a body had been found and a killer needed to be caught. Now she often let it ring four or five times, knowing it would only be someone asking about the new rates on their car insurance or looking for a two-week extension on a payment. She had stopped reading mysteries and watching them on television. She no longer followed the crime stories in the papers and on the news. Mrs. Columbo was afraid to do anything that would remind her of how much she loved the puzzle of a case.

  She knew she should have been a happy woman. There was a husband at home who loved her and cared about her and a son to watch grow. There were PTA meetings to attend and Little League games to monitor. School plays needed to be put on and cake sale funds had to be raised. And while Mrs. Columbo packaged all these activities into parts of her day, she did it without any emotion. It was the same way she approached her physical therapy sessions, handling the difficult exercises with a cold efficiency, hoping that the feeling would soon return to her lower back and ease the sharp pains running down her legs.

  Every Sunday, on a rotating basis, Mrs. Columbo and her family had dinner with relatives. The packed dining rooms all looked and sounded the same to her, whether at her sister-in-law’s Mineola ranch in Nassau County or her brother-in-law’s Bergen County Tudor. The talk always revolved around family, bills, old squabbles, sports, and retirement. The language of middle-class life. She listened and participated, but her words were empty. Maybe it was because none of the talk was ever about an unidentified male found floating by the edge of the river late into the night. No one at any of the tables cared about what to look for at a crime scene, or how to read a suspect’s walk and tell who was the one with the killer’s heart.

  Mrs. Columbo hated not being a cop. Every pained breath she took reminded her of that. Now Boomer was sitting across from her and offering a chance to be one again. She sipped her coffee and wondered if maybe the wounds she suffered had done more than just scar her body. She worried that they had also stripped away her skill.

  • • •

  “YOU STILL HAVEN’T told us what you want us to do,” Pins said, washing down his fifth beer of the long night.

  “I want us to go after Lucia,” Boomer said. “The people at this table up against whatever she’s got.”

  “Six disabled cops and a waiter making a move against an army of drug smackers who like killing cops a lot more than they like selling junk.” Rev. Jim leaned across the table, a hand on Boomer’s forearm. “I’m not one to give advice, but maybe you should give your idea a little more thought.”

  Rev. Jim sat back and kept his gaze on Boomer. He still couldn’t understand why he was chosen to be at this meeting. Sure, he had once been a great decoy cop and loved working with different disguises and accents, but that was long before the fire burned the skin from his body. He wanted so much to be a part of what Boomer was putting together, but Rev. Jim knew he had nothing left but a smart mouth and an old gun, and that wasn’t going to get anybody at the table very far. And it wasn’t just the burns, it was the weakened muscles, the charred lungs, the left eye that constantly teared. These other cops didn’t know what he needed to do just to get through one day. He gauze-wrapped his body in winter to keep the cold air from touching the raw skin, otherwise it would feel like dry ice on flesh. He wore long-sleeved shirts in the summer to keep away the rays of the sun and the cutting pain that they would bring. Boomer was asking him to be a cop again when there were some mornings he wasn’t sure if he could even be a man.

  Rev. Jim still needed three more skin-graft operations and many months of physical therapy. Even then there would be no promise of relief. On some nights, long past final call, lying in an empty bed, inside a cold apartment, Rev. Jim would stare up at the ceiling and wonder why he was even alive at all. It would be so easy on those nights to open his desk drawer, take out his .38, and swallow a bullet. Instead, he would reach for the cardboard box he kept under the bed. He would open its flaps and empty its contents on the sweat-stained sheets: his graduation photo from the Police Academy; a replica of his shield; a handful of colored ribbons; three folded citations for bravery; and the knife he had used to kill the dealer who murdered his mother. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep him alive.

  Rev. Jim kept his eyes on Boomer. He realized why the call had been made. Boomer knew he still wanted to be a c
op. Still wanted to be a man. Scars and all.

  • • •

  “WE’RE NOT WALKING into this blind,” Boomer said.

  “That’s the one thing we’re missing,” Pins said. “A blind guy.”

  “We’ve all got the connections,” Boomer said. “Federal and local are covered solid. We can pull files, run taps, have computer access. And on the other end Nunzio will hook us into the old wise guys. They hand us what the feds can’t. Everything we need is a phone call away.”

  “Why is everybody going to be so eager to help us?” Mrs. Columbo asked.

  “They want Lucia to go down as bad as we do,” Boomer said. “But they have to go by the book. Our book was taken away. In their own way, the real cops are just as disabled as we are. Maybe more.”

  “What if we don’t get killed?” Dead-Eye asked. “What if we just get caught?”

  “Jail time ain’t a sweet time for a cop,” Rev. Jim said, taking a match from his mouth and putting it back in his shirt pocket.

  “We keep a book,” Boomer said. “Fill it with the names of everyone who helps us—from a cop who drops a dime on a guy to an A.D.A. making a few copies of a confidential file.”

  “We get pinched, we show the district attorney the book,” Dead-Eye said.

  “We show him a copy of the book,” Boomer said. “Tell him there are at least six others floating around. That should give him something to worry about.”

  “It’s like Allstate,” Nunzio said. “An insurance policy.”

  Everyone either laughed or smiled at Nunzio’s crack.

  Except for Pins.

  He held his worried look. Pins didn’t think he belonged there, just like he didn’t belong in many of the places he’d been in his life. He knew why he was asked. That end was easy to figure. The group would need somebody good with a wire, and it wouldn’t have taken Boomer long, after asking around, to end up looking his way. But this was a hard group, used to heavy action, not afraid to empty a clip inside a crowded room. And that just wasn’t a road Pins traveled down.

  The only thing he shared with the cops who sat around the table was a damaged body. He might not have been in as much pain as some of the others, but the confident man who had walked into the wrong apartment less than two years before was long gone. In his place was someone with several vital organs that had been shredded by three bullets. That someone had mended slowly, working his lung capacity to the point where he could once again take deep breaths with only minimal amounts of pain. His right arm was numb from the elbow down, and he suffered from constant migraines, popping as many as five Butalbital tablets a day to ease the pressure. Pins collected his disability pension, paid off the mortgage on his Staten Island home, and invested in a bowling alley. Three afternoons a week, he let the neighborhood kids in free to bowl as many games as they wanted. All he asked in return was for them to clean up after they were done and to put the balls and shoes back in place. Pins enjoyed having the kids around. It gave him a sense of family, which he craved. He wanted so much to fit in, to be part of a group. It was what he had on the job. It was what he had with the kids on the lanes. And he realized it was what Boomer was offering him from across the table.

  For a man like Pins, belonging was all that mattered. Mixed with that desire, however, was a deeply hidden fear, one Pins thought he would never have to face again. It was the fear of the gun.

  Like the other members of the group, Pins never worried about dying. But he didn’t want to have to survive another wounding, didn’t think he could walk through that pain and come out of it one more time. He also didn’t know if he could complete the one act that seemed second nature to the other cops in the room—Pins didn’t know if he could kill a man. His risk was always in laying down the plant, his action was in the wire, his trigger was turning on the tape. That was where he excelled. With this group, it was a talent that just might not be enough.

  • • •

  “WHEN DO WE go?” Geronimo asked, scanning the faces of the others, trying to detect their levels of interest.

  “I start Monday morning,” Boomer said. “I’ll be working out of Nunzio’s basement. We’ll keep everything we need down there. Anybody else who shows up that day starts with me.”

  “This crew of ours,” Rev. Jim said. “You gonna give it a name?”

  “The Crips would be good,” Pins tossed in. “But that L.A. gang beat us to the punch.”

  “I haven’t thought of one,” Boomer said. “Is it important?”

  “Eventually, Lucia’s gonna wanna know who we are,” Rev. Jim said. “Who it is fucking up her business. Be nice if we could tell her. Let her know who she’s at war with.”

  “Apaches,” Geronimo said in somber tones. “We should call ourselves the Apaches.”

  “Just because you’ve got a little Indian blood in you?” Dead-Eye asked. “I’ve got African blood all through me. Don’t hear me layin’ any of that Roots shit on the rest of you.”

  “In this case, we all have Indian blood,” Geronimo said, turning from one face to the other. “In Apache tradition, when a warrior was wounded in battle, he was left behind by the tribe. Left to fend and care for himself. He had become too much of a burden to the tribe. That’s us, Dead-Eye. That’s all of us.”

  “Do we get shirts and hats to go with the name?” Rev. Jim asked. “You know, with our logo?”

  “What about Nunzio?” Pins asked. “What do we make him?”

  “A scout,” Mrs. Columbo said, leaning her head against Nunzio’s shoulder.

  “Okay, we’ve got a name,” Boomer said, standing, reaching behind him for his jacket. “And by Monday afternoon, based on who’s here with me, I’ll know if we’ve got a team.”

  They all stood, picked up their coats and hats, shook hands, and headed for the door, moving quietly, minds already drifting toward a decision.

  Geronimo and Boomer waited for Nunzio, watching as he closed up the restaurant.

  “That on the level?” Boomer said.

  “What?” Geronimo asked.

  “About the Apaches. And leaving their wounded behind.”

  “How the hell should I know?” Geronimo said, smiling for the first time all night.

  Boomer smiled back as he put on his jacket. “Well, as of tonight it’s a fact.”

  “Sure it is,” Geronimo said, following Boomer and Nunzio out the door. “First Custer, then Wounded Knee, and now the Apaches.”

  • • •

  FLIGHT 518, THE 9:08 A.M. Phoenix to New York direct, was full. Each seat was taken, overhead compartments were stuffed with carry-on luggage, stowaway space was crammed with handbags, briefcases, coats, hats, and sweaters. Signs of a long plane ride were already apparent: tanned passengers in flowered shirts; flustered parents trying to calm anxious children; earnest young businessmen poring over computer printouts; Manhattan-bound tourists underlining passages in their color brochures; flight attendants preparing coffee and drinks and setting out cold turkey sandwiches.

  The mule was in seat 14C, on the aisle, her legs crossed, the baby boy cradled firmly in her arms, his eyes closed, a soft blue blanket wrapped around zippered Snoopy pajamas. The mule was in her late thirties, rich brown hair combed in a swirl, unlined face barely touched by makeup.

  As she turned to peer down the aisle, she noticed the overweight man next to her rest his paperback on his knees and smile down at the baby.

  “I always like flying with babies,” the man said. “Makes me think the flight has a better chance of making it.”

  The mule smiled back and stayed silent.

  “Got yourself a beautiful one there,” the man said. “He can sleep through this racket, then maybe he’ll sleep through the flight.”

  “He’s good that way,” the mule said. “Never gives me much trouble.”

  “That comes when they’re older,” the man said. “Trust me. Got three of my own. I’d give anything to have them back to when they were as small as your kid.”

  The
mule nodded and turned her head away, watching a young flight attendant chant the procedures to follow in the event of a crash.

  “Got family in New York?” the man asked her.

  “No,” she said, turning back to face him.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “Not very long,” the mule said, looking down at the baby, making sure the blanket concealed a portion of his face.

  “New York’s a great place for short visits,” the man said. “It’s living there full-time that’s hard. What hotel are you staying at?”

  “We’ll be with friends,” the mule said, bracing herself for takeoff, once again turning away from the man, resting her head on the back of her seat.

  “There’s a lot there to see,” the man said, picking up his paperback and folding it in half. “Lots of great things.”

  “We won’t have much time for any of that,” the mule said. “We’re only in town for a day. It’s a quick business trip.”

  “That is quick,” the man said, shifting his body up higher in the seat. “What sort of business are you involved in?”

  The mule leaned closer to the man and smiled, her eyes locking on to his. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” she said in a whispered voice.

  “I promise,” the man said, lowering his head.

  “Jason and I are drug dealers,” the mule said, lifting her eyebrows, a smile wrapped around her face.

  “Who’s Jason?” the man asked.

  “The baby,” the mule said, throwing a look at the boy wrapped in the blanket.

  The man had a quizzical look on his face and held it for several moments. Then he heard her start to laugh.

  “Yeah, right,” the man said, laughing along with the mule. “And me? I’m a hit man. But you’ve got to keep that one to yourself too.”