Sons of the City (34 page)

“Maybe, I don’t know, Michelle. But I should have done something. At the very least, I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“How were you supposed to know he was going to start a riot?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know what I was supposed to do. But whatever it was, I didn’t do it.”

The radio was saying that city officials were worried the violence would spread to other areas of the city, and the mayor was calling in all off-duty police officers and firefighters. Meanwhile, the governor was activating the National Guard, and troops were expected to be on the streets by nightfall.

I had to find Nick, that was the first thing. I had to make sure he didn’t hurt anybody else. I decided to go straight to the 20th—maybe somebody there would know where he was.

Michelle wanted me to drop her at her father’s house. If he wasn’t there, she’d take his city car, a black Crown Victoria, and start looking for him.

“He’s probably in West Philadelphia,” I said. “That’s where everything’s happening.”

“Then that’s where I’ll go.”

“You forget Bravelli’s looking for you?”

“He’s not going to go anywhere near those riots. I’ll just stay out of Westmount.”

“Michelle …”

“Don’t bother arguing, Eddie. I’ll take responsibility for myself.”

The Commissioner’s Blazer was gone, but the Crown Vic was parked out front. It was peaceful on that street, as quiet as Lake Asayunk. Michelle gave me a long kiss, and then got out of the truck.

“Be careful,” she said, through the open passenger window.

“Sure,” I said. “Say hi to your father for me.”

I
t was a little after ten when I got into West Philadelphia. The Penn campus was deserted—the students must have all been evacuated. The only signs of life were the U. of P. cops standing in twos and threes in front of buildings, and cruising the perimeter in their patrol cars.

It wasn’t until I reached the 52nd Street shopping district that I saw the first signs of the riots. A whole row of stores on one side was blackened and gutted by fire, and flames were still eating into an old movie theater on the corner. Two engine companies and a ladder were pouring water onto the smoke and flames, and the street was clogged with thick canvas hoses and wet, burned debris. That shopping district meant a lot to the people of West Philadelphia; it was a shame to see so much of it destroyed.

I took a right on 56th toward Market. There was a group of about eight males on the corner of Chestnut, and when they saw me, they stepped into the street to block my path. Most of them had bats and metal pipes. I recognized one of them as Homicide—he seemed to be everywhere. Today he had on a T-shirt that said “The only good cop is a dead cop.”

I casually stopped the truck and climbed out. They were a little surprised I wasn’t frightened, but they started closing in for the kill.

A big guy standing next to Homicide yelled, “Let’s get this white motherfucker.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, holding up Junior Vicente’s gun, and then pointing it in their direction.

“He’s a fucking cop,” said Homicide.

“Lovely T-shirt,” I said to him. “Where can I get one?”

“Get ready,” he said. “We’re gonna make you a good cop.”

He raised the pipe, and motioned for the others to follow. It was amazing, they just assumed I wasn’t going to use the gun, like I’d be afraid of getting fired. This is what happens, I thought, when the criminals see that cops are always second-guessing themselves. Except that I’d much rather be out of work than dead. I fired a shot at Homicide’s feet, and the bullet kicked up pieces of asphalt that peppered his high-top black sneakers. He froze.

“I got sixteen more bullets,” I announced. “That’s two for each of you. OK, who’s first?”

Homicide just glared at me, but the rest of them all dropped their bats and pipes, and fell over themselves trying to get away.

“C’mon, Homicide,” one of his friends yelled. “Dig out.”

“Just you and me, pal,” I said. He slowly got back on the sidewalk, not taking his eyes off me. I climbed back in the truck, gave him a final Don’t-fuck-with-me look, and got going again.

I had planned to park my Blazer in the Yard at headquarters, but it was full of commanders’ unmarked cars and various huge blue-and-white command-post vehicles. A half dozen empty police buses were lined up along Market, ready to take cops to trouble spots and haul away the people who got arrested.

About twenty-five cops in riot gear were clustered in front of headquarters, and it struck me that they were actually guarding the building. I wondered if there had been some kind of attack the night before. This was not a good sign.

Across the street was another police lot, but that one was packed with more riot cops. They were drinking coffee and bullshitting, waiting to be sent to trouble spots. All the on-street parking was taken. I thought to myself, Here’s a question you won’t find in the Police Duty Manual: When you go to a riot, where do you park? I finally found a space three blocks from headquarters. I wondered what the chances were that my Blazer would be there when I got back, and as I walked away, I gave the truck a little goodbye pat on the hood.

Headquarters was in chaos. There were white shirts everywhere, inspectors, chief inspectors, and nobody looked like they knew what they were doing.

Except Sammy. He was at his desk in the operations room, working on papers spread out in front of him. He was keeping track of all the cops and police vehicles coming into the 20th, and he was working fast, efficiently. This was a brand-new Sammy—no TV shows today.

I went down into the basement locker room and changed into my uniform. My regular gun was on the locker’s top shelf, and I put it in my holster. Junior Vicente’s gun went into the locker. If I was going to have to shoot anybody today, it was going to be with an official police weapon.

As I came back upstairs, Nick walked up to me. He was wearing his uniform, smiling, betraying no sign that he was the guy responsible for the city burning down.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said.

“What the fuck have you been doing, Nick?”

He stepped back. “What do you mean?”

Some cops I didn’t know were standing nearby, and they looked up at us. I grabbed Nick’s arm and escorted him out the door. As soon as we were in the Yard, I wheeled on him.

“What the fuck do you think I mean?”

“Eddie, did Michelle find out what happened to Steve?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. Bravelli told her everything. By the way, did you cantaloupe Barney Stiller just for the fun of it?”

“Barney Stiller? That wasn’t me, Eddie, I swear to God.”

“How about those store owners on Fifty-second? Not you, either, right?”

“No, I swear to God. Did Michelle really find out?”

“No. I mean, yeah, she did.”

“Bravelli really told her everything?”

“Yeah, everything. Why?”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“About you smashing the heads of everybody in West Philadelphia?”

“No, about …” He had a very strange look—confusion, fear—and without a word turned away and quickly walked through the Yard toward the street.

“Nick,” I called after him. “Where the fuck you think you’re going?”

What was I going to have to do, chase him down and handcuff him right there? Sammy came out the door.

“Hey, Eddie, you need to be in the courtroom,” he said. “Commissioner’s gonna address the supervisors.”

“The Commissioner? When did he get here?”

“Just now.”

I didn’t need this. I didn’t need any of this.

“Nick,” I called again. He had reached the sidewalk and was getting into his red Camaro. I started jogging over, and he jumped into his car.

“Nick!” I yelled.

As he pulled away from the curb, he turned and looked out the open window at me, and for an instant our eyes met. It was like he was telling me something with those eyes, but I had no idea what it was.

T
he courtroom was filled with sergeants, lieutenants, and captains. A couple of inspectors were talking to each other next to the judge’s seat. Kirk came in and then the Commissioner—in full uniform—came in behind, putting on his police hat.

That motherfucker, I thought. He tries to kill me and then he just comes in here, like nothing ever happened. He thinks nobody can touch him, he can get away with anything, even killing another cop. I wanted to take out my gun and go up to him and say, OK, asshole, let’s try this again.

As he stood in front of the gathered cops he looked at me, but it was like he had never seen me before in his life. I came close to asking him loudly—in front of everyone—why he had tried to kill me. But I knew he’d deny it, he’d act like he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Today and tonight are make-or-break for us,” he said.

Great, I thought, he’s giving us a fucking pep talk.

“Either we stop the riots now, or they get out of hand. Either we control the situation, or it controls us. Things are quiet now, at least relatively so, and this means we have a second chance. I don’t think we’ll get another.”

The Commissioner announced that Kirk would be the new tactical commander, considering his knowledge of the district. I wondered whether that really was a good idea—after all, those weren’t Klingons out there.

But it turned out the Commissioner knew what he was doing. When Kirk began handing out assignments, he spoke with a presence I hadn’t seen before. He was taking command, which is what captains are supposed to do. Damn, I thought. First Sammy, now James T. We got to start having riots more often.

Kirk said the commanders had agreed to pull back most of the officers from 64th and Locust, the center of tension and the flashpoint of last night’s riot. Instead of a hundred riot police, they wanted only about six of us at the intersection, cops who knew the community and could try to keep things calm.

Kirk assigned me to lead the detail, and he told me to pick the people I wanted. We were supposed to keep an open dialogue with the merchants and residents and anyone else around. Plenty of help would be available if we needed it, he said.

“No riot gear, just your vests worn underneath the shirt,” said Kirk.

I almost asked him whether he’d beam us out if we got into trouble. But I was much more worried about the Commissioner than any rioters. He was ignoring me as hard as he could, and I wondered whether he was planning to cruise by 64th and take a potshot.

All the cops I wanted with me on the detail were on the street. I had Radio get their locations, and ordered a wagon to pick them up and take them to meet me at 64th and Locust.

I asked for Donna and Buster, of course, and Mutt. I also called in Marisol and Yvonne, I had seen them calm groups of people before, they were good at it.

I wondered where Michelle was. She had probably found out by now that her father was at 20th District headquarters, which meant that she would be on her way over.

A
s I headed to 64th Street in my patrol car, a voice came over Police Radio: “I’m sorry, Eddie.”

It was Nick.

“Unit coming in?” the dispatcher asked.

“I’m not a unit,” said Nick.

Fuck this, I thought, I’m going to lock Nick up right now. Sixty-fourth Street will have to wait.

I picked up the microphone on my car radio. “This is Eddie, where are you, Nick?” I asked.

“It’s dark in here, nice and dark.”

Dark? He’s at the crackhouse. I took a quick left at 54th and headed for Tyler Street.

Nick hadn’t said anything for a few minutes, and the dispatcher had resumed the normal run of calls.

Then Nick came on again.

“Pop, I’m sorry.”

A Radio Room supervisor got on the air.

“Anyone using Police Radio in an unauthorized manner is in violation of section five-point-eight of the Police Duty Manual …”

“Steve, I’m sorry.”

“… and is subject to immediate dismissal.”

I had a foreboding, a strange sense that something else was going on here. I couldn’t get a hold on it, though, it was like trying to remember a fading dream that just slips through your mind like sand.

I pulled up in front of the house, there was Nick’s Camaro. I grabbed my long metal flashlight, and got out and walked toward the house. The front windows were still covered with plywood, though they were now spray-painted with graffiti gibberish. When I got to the porch, I could see that the door was slightly ajar.

“Nick,” I called. “Nick, you in there?”

I flicked on the flashlight and used it to push the door open a few inches. I couldn’t see much, so I pushed the door harder, and as it swung open, Nick was there, pointing his gun at my head.

“Stay away from me, Eddie,” he said, his arm shaking. He looked like he was about to cry. There was something very weird about this.

“Let’s go, Nick,” I said.

“No, Eddie. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“You gonna shoot me, Nick?”

He glanced at the gun, but kept it pointed at me.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did, Eddie. I didn’t mean for anything to happen to Steve.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, Nick?”

“I had to do it, Eddie, I had to. Did Bravelli tell Michelle that, did he tell her that?”

And then I knew: this is how Steve died. He opened the door and there was Nick. Just like this.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

“I had to, Eddie, I told you. I’m sorry.” And he put the gun to the side of his head.

“Nick …”

He looked at me, but I don’t think he heard me, his eyes were locked onto mine but they were going dead. All I could think of was that he was my cousin, and I didn’t want him to die. Don’t do it, Nick, my eyes said to his eyes, don’t do it. In my mind we were on the porch of my parents’ house that Thanksgiving when I was the only person in the world that nine-year-old Nicky believed in. I could almost smell the turkey, about ready to be served, could almost hear the adults inside talking and laughing.

Nick’s eyes were still on mine, and I could see something stir in that vast deadness. It’s me, Nicky, it’s me. Hey, after dinner I’ll show you my
Playboys,
you can brag about it to Chris and Matt. Remember that time you asked me why sex was such a big deal? You couldn’t ask your brothers—you certainly couldn’t ask your parents—so you came to me. Hey, Eddie, can I ask you something? Don’t tell no one I asked. When the man … puts his … you know, and the woman … well, you know, why do they like it so much?