Into the groove, p.5
Into the Groove, page 5
The wall clock behind her pointed to 4:00 p.m. Apparently, I’d accomplished a supernatural feat on my first day. But on the inside, that gas-starved V-8 was still wheezing and sputtering. I wasn’t happy to see D. Wayne in cuffs. Even if his paramour did drop the rape charge, I’d still have to slam him on violation of parole. When I left the scene, Michael Mulligan, the cop who’d made the arrest, told me that D. Wayne was on his way to central booking. From there, he’d be arraigned and likely denied bail because of his imminently withdrawn parole status. If that happened, he’d be sent to Shawangunk Correctional, the North-American equivalent of the black hole of Calcutta. He’d be beaten, abused, and God only knows what else. Inmates would knock him down just to see if he could get back up—and all because he probably snatched his ol’ lady’s last bag of smack. I’m not dismissing her rape allegation out of hand but in the condition in which we’d found D. Wayne…I doubt he could raise a pup tent, let alone timber.
“So Houck’s happy?” I asked.
“You made him look good. That doesn’t happen a lot. He got a pat on the back from his boss.”
“Good time to ask for a raise?”
Straight deadpan. “What’s a raise?”
“We ought to celebrate.”
“How?”
“Cold ones after work?”
“You don’t waste any time, do you, Steady?”
“You told me to show initiative. It worked the first time.”
“All right, beers—but just beers. I don’t want to get a reputation.”
“Is that Stedman Groove I hear?” I heard Houck’s voice booming in the corridor, drawing closer. It was a left turn into the reception area—he came around the corner like he was on rails. “Rookie all-star,” he boomed and laid a hand on my shoulder heavy enough to cause joint dislocation. He must’ve gotten his sidewalls shaved during lunch. I could see where the razor had nicked him just above the ear. “Beers after work?” he asked.
Over his shoulder, I could see Sandy shrug. “Sure, Harry, that’d be great,” I said.
He flashed a keyboard’s worth of ivory. “Good. Sandy, you come too. The Bull’s Bollocks at six.” He gave me the finger gun and the cheek trigger sound before disappearing, but I could hear his voice carrying back, “Good day. A good, good day.”
“Sorry,” I began, “not exactly the celebration I had in mind.”
“Houck’s the best cock-blocker in the entire Department of Corrections. Look at it this way—at least the beers are on him.”
* * *
The Bull’s Bollocks looked to be a parole officer bar. I saw faces I’d seen around the office but hadn’t yet been introduced to, and officers of varying designations I was unfamiliar with. Houck was next to me. His appearances drew acknowledgments from his peers—glasses were raised, and thumbs elevated.” The boss made the rounds, shaking hands and introducing me to the guys before we settled into a booth.
“Sandy will be here in a few,” he said. “I asked her to fax some docs before she left. “You hit it out of the park on your first day, Groove, but before we get into shop talk…”
“Yes?”
“Are you planning to make a move on Sandy?”
“What?” The fucker had me dead to rights. “No. Why would you say?”
“Yes, you are. It’s all right. You can admit it.”
“Mr. Houck…Harry, I’m telling you—”
“You come within twenty feet of that pretty young thing, and I’ll cut your balls off.”
My jaw dropped.
“Ha! You should see your face—classic.”
“I’m sorry, boss…Harry, I’m having trouble reading you. Are you telling me to keep my hands off or to dive right in?”
“Look, she’s a nice, single girl, and the other mooks in the office are married. They shouldn’t be swinging their dicks in her general direction, but they do all the same, and I don’t like it. Most POs are sleazebags, and they wouldn’t think twice about screwing her. Are you a sleazebag, Groove?”
“No sleazier than most.”
“At least you’re honest. I heard you ask her out for beers, and I heard her accept on the spot. You’re consenting adults. I just figured I’d better lay out the ground rules.”
“And you don’t have a problem with me swinging my black dick around her?”
“You know what they say, Steady…we’re all the same in the dark. If it’s okay with her, it’s okay with me. Just keep it on the down-low. I don’t want any guff from the office horny toads. Last thing I need is Sandy getting embarrassed and quitting. She’s the best administrative assistant I’ve ever had. You hear me?”
“Heard.”
We fist-bumped just as Sandra approached the table. “What are you two so happy about?” she asked.
“Man talk,” Houck said.
“I hope you weren’t talking about me.”
“Not in a million years. Now have a seat, darling. Harry Houck needs a drink.”
The man liked his beer. He drank enough to fill the bladders of a dozen ordinary men without so much as making a move for the head. He wasn’t sloppy wasted either, just happy, a side of him I didn’t expect to see so soon in my new career.
“So, Steady,” he began, “Officer Do-Over said you handled yourself well.”
I guess he is drunk. “Officer Do-Over?”
“Yeah, Mulligan. Get it?”
“Don’t suppose I do, Harry.”
“I guess you don’t play golf.”
“Roller hockey’s the closest I ever come. That count?”
“Never mind. Anyway, great job today. Most rookies sit around all day until they’ve got spiderwebs growing on their keisters. You took the initiative to go out and track down your man. You walked into a dicey situation and kept your calm.” He drained his glass. “Can’t wait to see what you do tomorrow. I may ask you to track down Jesus Christ. I’m told he blew parole about two thousand years ago and hasn’t been seen since. We just got a tip that he was spotted around the East River…walking across the water.”
We laughed at his silliness more than at the joke.
“One last round,” he said and moved off toward the bar.
“That man is thirsty. How many have you had?” I asked.
“Three,” Sandy said. “You?”
“Same, or roughly one for every three the boss sucked down. You think he’ll get home all right?”
“I’ll walk him to the subway. He’s got about thirty stops to sleep it off.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sheepshead Bay.”
“That is one hellacious commute. He does that five days a week?”
“Six when he comes in on Saturday morning to clean up his desk.”
“If I were him, I’d asked to be reassigned.”
“Good thing he never has, or you might still be pounding the pavement instead of working here.”
“How about you? Where do you live, Bayonne?”
“Hell no. I’m a Brooklyn girl—went to Canarsie High School. I’m all of two subway stops.”
She was far from sloshed, but her eyes were a little glassy, her focus wandering here and there. “Fine woman like you. I’d hate to see you taken advantage of in the state you’re in. Maybe you ought to allow me to see you home.”
“Maybe you should, Steady. I know you’d never forgive yourself if I fell into harm’s way.”
I saw Houck navigating his way back to the table, hands empty.
“Changed my mind. I settled up,” he said. “I’m gonna hit the can, and then one of you sober bastards needs to put me on the F train.”
Chapter Nine
I got back to Auntie’s about seven in the morning, barely in time to shower and change my clothes. She was already up, pushing a Hoover in front of the couch. I hadn’t gotten a ton of sleep, and when I opened the door, it sounded like I had just entered the engine compartment of a 747 during takeoff.
She shut the vacuum, put her hands on her hips, and scolded me with a stare. “You dirty stay-out. Where the hell have you been, Steadman Groove?”
“Went out for beers after work. You know, like a college hazing because—”
Auntie squared her shoulders and gave me a soft hand across the face. “I asked where you were, Steady.”
“One of my coworkers lives nearby, I stayed with—”
Auntie knew how to handle her men. She hauled off and gave me another. “Now, Stedman Groove, unless you want more of this…”
Another? Yes, please. I was groggy anyway—needed a quick pick-me-up.
“Does your coworker have a name to go with that love bite on your neck?”
“Sandy.”
“Sandy as in Sandra? Not Sandy as in Sandy Koufax, I hope.”
“Auntie, when did I ever give you cause to think I bounced that way? Sandy as in Sandra Dee—that’s who she was named after.”
“And you actually do work with this woman?”
“Yes, Auntie—she’s the office administrator.”
“Lord have mercy, Steady Grove is back in town. Mothers better hide your daughters.” She threw her arms in the air and wheeled around. “I’ll put up a pot of coffee. Take a shower, Steady—you look like something the damn cat dragged in.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I was sitting at the table gulping steamin’ joe while Auntie buttered toast to go along with bacon and eggs she had whipped up. “I already know about your evening,” she said. “How’d your first day in the office go?” She placed the last slice of toast on my plate and slid it in front of me.
I put down the coffee. “That looks great, Auntie. Thanks.”
She tapped her toe impatiently like a movie star waiting on a proposal of marriage—had it down cold. “I’m waiting.”
“Good and bad, Auntie. You remember my old friend, Dennis Tyrone?”
“The little hooligan used to sell his grand pappy’s back pain medication?”
“So, you do remember.”
“I can’t prove it, but I’m certain that little thief took money out of my pocketbook once or twice. He was smart about it, though. He took a five here and ten there—made me wonder if I remembered what I had. I had to start locking my bag in the closet when you brought him over. There’s a transistor radio I ain’t seen in years either. Had to go get a new one, and it doesn’t play half as well as the one it replaced.”
“Well, the little thief now calls himself D. Wayne, and he’s got a record as long as Seabiscuit’s. Wouldn’t you know it? He’s the first parolee they assigned to me. Day one, right out of the damn gate, I went over to his place and found two policemen looking for the fool.”
“What’s that scrawny little shrimp done now?”
“He’s living with some low-class floozy. They were both stoned out of their minds on smack. She claims he raped her. Now he’s in jeopardy of having his parole revoked.”
“Doesn’t he have to stand trial before they can do that?”
“And he will unless this woman drops the charges. He was under the influence, and there are eight benchmarks a parolee has to meet to stay out of the joint. Number five is: avoid using, administering, or possessing any controlled substances. Thank God they didn’t find any drugs when they searched his place. They were so wasted, all the H must’ve already been in their veins.”
“How’d you end up responsible for a loser like Dennis Tyrone? Just lucky?”
“Guess I’m just star-crossed with the damn clown.”
“Why didn’t you just tell your supervisor and get Dennis reassigned to a different parole officer?”
“Now, how would that have looked? My status is probationary, and right off the bat, I admit to having a relationship with a former convicted felon. Maybe I ought to just fess up and tell the man the real reason I went off to Alaska was because D. Wayne did the time for a crime I was involved in.” No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than I realized how harshly Auntie would be stung by the truth.
“I thought you were a bystander in that thing? I didn’t know—”
“All depends on how you spin it, Auntie. Bottom line, I did three years at sea, and he did three years in the joint.”
“So that’s why you ran off in such a hurry. ‘The sea’s calling me,’ you said. That was just bullshit, Steady? You lied to me?”
“Had to do what I had to do. They had D. Wayne and he was going away anyways. What point was there in me going down with him?”
“Hmmm.” She shook her head and gave me a look of disappointment. I had a feeling about what was coming next.
She snatched that plate of food and dumped it in the trash. “You get one pass, Steady. Next time you lie to me, you go the way of your uncle, out the door on your motherfucking ass.” She snatched my coffee cup and showed me the back of her hand—this time, it wasn’t so soft. “Go to work, Steady. I can’t look at y’all right now.”
Chapter Ten
Auntie was fond of saying, “When one door closes, another opens.” Thank God Sandy opened her door to me because Auntie made it clear that I was persona non grata for the near term and that maybe (maybe as in pack your things) I should start looking for another place to stay. She’s already shown Uncle Barney the door—he’d gotten one night on the couch, then kicked to the curb. Can’t say I blame her—her brother was a living, breathing liability, an accident looking for a place to happen. Antonio used to visit her regularly after Barney blew town. I can’t imagine that was easy for her. I’d seen Antonio around the hood, and that man was a beast, a take no prisoners, rip-off-your-head beast. It was a credit to her that she had the wherewithal to handle a cold-blooded killer like him.
Sandy and I were careful not to be seen together at or near work. She was impersonal between the hours of nine and five. She never flirted in the office. There were no girlish giggles or longing stares—no secret caresses at the copy machine. She was all business, and I wisely followed suit. We’d leave at different times and meet up far away from the office before heading back to her apartment.
All that restraint she showed in the office broke down in one smoldering heap the moment we disappeared behind closed doors. The gal was bona fide man-eating machine—hungry, passionate, close to insatiable. Some of it was the woman she was, and some of it might’ve been me. I wasn’t kidding myself. She was feeling insecure and likely valued having a man in the house. The whole city was in a state of shock because of the eleven Puerto Rican women and children that had been gunned down in what the papers described as the biggest mass murder in the city’s history. It affected every man, woman, and child old enough to understand the brutality of the crime. We were one and all, rocked to our cores. The atrocity was the headline of every newspaper and the feature story on every evening news report.
Mayor Ed Irving and Police Commissioner Benjamin Canton held daily press conferences on the Palm Sunday Massacre and took lots of shit for their trouble. It was now several weeks, and no arrests had been made. Racial tension was high. Community spokespeople were saying the police were dragging their feet because the victims were ghetto Puerto Ricans that no one cared about.
We were all walking an emotional powerline. For Sandy and me, that meant intense hot, sweaty sex. Now, I’m not saying we didn’t have some mighty fine chemistry because we did, pools of it. But the mass murder thing…it took our game up to the next level and beyond. We were like the Knicks when they cleaned Bob Cousy’s clock by scoring six points in sixteen seconds to defeat Cousy, Oscar Robertson, and the Royals after the Knicks had taken seventeen games in a row. I was only a kid then, but I still think it was one of the greatest moments in professional sports, one I know I won’t ever forget.
In a sense, I wasn’t just Sandy’s lover. I was her security blanket, and she wrapped herself up in me head to toe, unwrapping me only when push came to shove, and she was forced to leave her apartment to earn a living, eight hours a day, Monday through Friday.
I made a habit of stopping for breakfast before heading on into work. Sandy hit the office just after eight, and I trailed by half an hour or so. She got in before Houck so that he could witness the separation in hour arrival times. Not that he cared because we already knew he didn’t, but it gave him ammunition to use in case someone made an allegation about Sandy and me shitting where we ate. Yeah, it was a thinly veiled sham, but it was holding up so far.
Houck was standing alongside her at the reception counter when I walked in, their heads snapping the moment I came off the elevator.
“About time, Sleeping Beauty,” Houck said. “Turn around and head right over to the Seven-five.”
“What’s going on?”
“Dennis Tyrone’s arresting officer phoned ten minutes ago,” Sandy said.
“Officer Do Over?”
“You catch on fast,” Houck said. Tyrone’s live-in made a surprise appearance at the precinct this morning. Mulligan is holding her until you arrive.” He flashed white eyes. “What, still here? Make haste, rookie. When duty calls…you know?”
Sandy smirked, and that was okay. It didn’t hint at our relationship. I wheeled around and got back into the elevator.
Five minutes and a layer of shoe leather later, I arrived at the 75th Precinct. I’d been reading the newspapers since returning to Brooklyn, and the 75th Precinct was written about often. The precinct covered East New York, which had become a crack war nightmare with gangs hunting gangs, civilians, and police getting gunned down in the street. There were allegations of crooked cops taking big scores of money from drug dealers and doing pay-for-hire murders for crack bosses. Some were calling East New York the murder capital of the world. It was a goddamn dangerous place to live—carrying a sidearm sure didn’t bother me none.
Mulligan was waiting for me with Detective Second Grade Cal Detti. Detti was in an expensive suit and had one of those hundred-dollar Jerry Lewis razor haircuts. It smelled as if he bathed in some kind of cloying cologne. Had a spit shine on his shoes polished glossy enough to blind a brother. I didn’t realize detectives earned so much money.
