Soul Patch (12 page)

I was a cop come to bust their balls.

I was an old, washed-up white guy come to tell war stories about how I had played against Lew Alcindor, Connie “The Hawk” Hawkins, and Preacher “The Creature” Simmons when I was younger.

I was some recruiter or street agent come to spot and exploit young talent.

I just sat down on one of the benches and watched. If there was information to be had, my announcing my interest in it was not the way to go. Curiosity would eventually take hold, and then I might have a shot at learning something.

The games were typical Brooklyn street fare—a lot of tough, one-on-one defense and hardass rebounding. Shit, even the guys I grew up playing with believed in the
No Autopsy, No Foul
rules of the street. But there was a whole lot of trash talk, too. Way too much dribbling, very few picks, not enough distribution or movement without the ball. Almost every trip down court featured a hesitation move, a crossover dribble, a drive to the rack, and a dish. Now and then there’d be a steal in the backcourt and someone would fly down the other end for a showy jam.

There was a big range in talent level and size, but the best player on either court was a fifteen-year-old kid with a close-cropped do on a too-big head atop a stumpy body. Everyone called him Nugget—for the size of his head, I guess. Nugget didn’t have the body, but he had game. He saw the whole court, could handle the ball, had range on his shot, fast hands, and was deceptively quick to the hole. His defensive footwork left a lot to be desired, but a good coach and an ounce of desire could fix that. Nugget had the gift. What Nugget didn’t have was the best squad. He sat down next to me after his team got their asses handed to them.

“Whatchu want, grandpa?” Nugget asked, slapping the bench in frustration.
Good, he was curious
. “You ain’t no coach. I seen every white high school, AAU, and church coach in the five boroughs.”

“Maybe I’m not from the five boroughs.”

“Nah, man, you all Brooklyn. I seen how you carry yourself, how you come in here. You police?”

“A long time ago.”

“So, whatchu think a my game?”

I told him. He was less than thrilled with my assessment of his defensive liabilities.

“Man, you seen how many balls I steal? Shit! You ain’t no coach is right.”

“Keep playing defense with your hands and not your feet, you’ll never get a full scholarship at a big-time school. You’ll score a million points at some NAIA school and never get drafted. You’ll wind up like the rest of these guys, playing ball when you should be out earning some money. You want that for yourself?”

“Das bullshit, old man. You don’t know the game.”

“Nugget,” I said, looking at him fiercely so that it made him uncomfortable, “I know a whole shitload about this game that you may never know. On the other hand, I never had one quarter your skills. You have what can’t be taught, but you don’t have what can be.”

He waved at me dismissively, “Later for dis!” And walked away.

I’d blown it. Whoever said the truth shall set you free didn’t gather information for a living. If I had kissed up to Nugget a bit, stroked his ego just a little, I might have gotten somewhere. But once I alienated him, I’d alienated the park. I was dead in the water. No one was going to talk to me now, but I had a way to remedy that. Maybe I’d be seeing Nugget sometime soon.

When I got back to my car, Carmella Melendez was sitting on the hood. She was in her off-duty duds: tight jeans and a silky black halter covered by a loose denim jacket with exaggerated shoulders and silver studs. Her hair was pulled back tightly and corralled into a pony tail with a red band. Expensive sunglasses with opaque lenses covered her eyes. She wore running shoes, but it didn’t kill the effect. Even if she were wearing my dad’s brown vinyl slippers, it wouldn’t have detracted from her raw beauty.

“Detective Melendez.” I nodded. “You working undercover?”

“I’m not working.”

“Maybe not officially, but you’re working.”

“So you gonna tell me what you were doing at the precinct the other day, or what?”

“Or what. Maybe it’s like you said, I was stalking you.”

“You didn’t even know I existed.”

“You’re wrong about that. I knew. I just didn’t know what you looked like.”

“You know, Mr. Prager, you talk in riddles a lot,” she said, sliding down off the hood. “That’s not polite.”

“I thought you were good at reading between the lines, Detective.”

“I said I was good at it. I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”

“If you’re really not working, then let’s call each other by our first names, okay? Mine’s Moe.”

“Carmella,” she said, offering me her hand.

It was all I could do not to bow and kiss it. My heart was actually racing as I grasped her hand, but I managed to shake it, not too firmly, and give it back.

“Come on, Carmella, you like walking on the boardwalk?”

“Sounds good.”

We walked east along the boardwalk toward Nathan’s. Maybe she was finally learning her lesson about the effectiveness of silence. I’d learned it a long time ago, but I spoke first.

“Where you from?”

“I grew up in Flatbush on Lennox Avenue till I was about eight. Then my mother took me back to Puerto Rico to live with my grandmother. When I turned eighteen, I came back with my
abuela
and we lived with my pops. You?”

“From right around here. Ocean Parkway.”

We stopped and stared out at the Atlantic, much like I had with Larry the last time we were together.

“So why become a cop?” I asked.

“Always wanted to be a cop and do good.”

“Is that what you’re doing, good? I thought you were just following me around because you were bored.”

“Look, Moe,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and catching my eyes. “I had a case, a big fat, juicy fucking case and then it disappeared. Everyone, I think, is too happy about that.”

“Everyone except you.”

“Except me, that’s right.”

“Is that why you went and talked to Melvin’s mom on your own?”

If I thought I was going to get her off balance with that, I was wrong. “You blame me?”

“Not really, but I don’t know what detectives should or shouldn’t do. I don’t even play one on TV.”

“That’s almost funny. You mentioned something about making detective in the car. What really happened?”

“It’s not worth talking about anymore. That’s all in my past.”

“Suit yourself,” she said. “So how’s it you even know about Melvin?”

“The same way I knew about you.”

“Riddles again. Come on, Moe. We’re gonna need each other before this is done.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that, but I don’t see why.”

“All right, be like that.” Her sunglasses went back on and she turned to go.

“First Melvin gets whacked. Then Chief McDonald does himself in and everyone seems more relieved than sad. Makes you wonder,” I said. That stopped her in her tracks. “And you don’t like it, do you?”

“Hell no, I don’t.”

“Come on, walk me back to my car.”

As I started back across the street to where my car was parked, Melendez lagged behind to retie her sneaker. Suddenly, I was conscious of screeching tires, but I was distracted, turning back to see after Carmella. Instinct and engine noise made me stop and look to my right. A blur was coming at me and I froze. A split second is enough time to think of a thousand things. All I could picture were my knees being crushed beneath the weight of the car. All the long forgotten pain came rushing back in like an insistent sea.

Bang!
My head snapped back and my body tumbled forward, arms flailing. I tucked them in time and hit the pavement with a shoulder roll. Something fell on top of me.
Melendez!
I came up with my wits and reached around my back for my .38. Detective Melendez had already assumed firing position and had her off-duty piece aimed at the rear end of the fishtailing Camaro. I slapped her arms down as the car sped away.

“
Conjo!
What was that for?” she growled.

“Ricochet. It’s not worth the risk. Did you get the plate number?”

“No rear plate.”

“Fuck!” I slipped my .38 into its holster. “You saved my life, Carmella.”

“I couldn’t afford to let you get killed. Not yet.”

“That’s a real comfort.”

“You seem to be the only fucking person who gives a shit about what’s going on, but maybe now you’ll share with me a little.”

“If I was a cynical bastard, I’d say you staged this. I mean that untied lace was pretty convenient.”

“Fuck you, Moe! Just go fuck yourself!”

“Did I say I was a cynical bastard?”

“Are you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t believe for a second you had anything to do with that.”

“Then why say it?” she asked, dabbing blood off her scraped knees with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Because you make me a little nervous.”

“I make you nervous. Why?”

“I may be invisible to you, Carmella, but you’re not to me.”

“Am I supposed to understand that?”

“Yeah, you are.”

She just shook her head. “So we’re just gonna forget about this little incident, right?”

“Why bring any more attention to what we seem to be doing than we have to?” I said.

“Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

“You okay?”

“It’s a scraped knee,” she said. “I’ll live. Watch your back.”

By the time I was fully across the street and to my car, she had moved to the boardwalk side of the street. When I looked again, she was gone. I was none the worse for wear, not even a ripped jacket or pant leg. Maybe a little dusty, but basically intact.

Why then, I wondered, did my hands shake so when I clamped them around the steering wheel? This time the answer was as easy as the question. Someone had just tried to kill me. That’s why.

Only once before had anyone tried to kill me, and that was six years ago in Miami Beach. After the night of the shooting I’d barely given it a second thought. And now it seemed so unreal to me that I found myself questioning whether it had actually happened. It had, of
course. Those bullets slamming into the body of the dead man I’d taken cover behind were meant for me. The shooter told me so. But this was different. It had happened on my home turf. It was more personal somehow.

THE FUNERAL WAS a muted affair, a coward’s burial. No one said it or even implied it, but to claim otherwise was to lie. Lawrence McDonald was afforded all the honors, pomp, and circumstance—the flag-draped coffin, the Emerald Society pipes and drums, the white-gloved pallbearers, the dignitaries, the strained faces and tears—that came with the death of a man in his position. All, that is, but respect and a church burial.

Without a suicide note to explain his actions, the church had no way to make the case for special dispensation. And it’s not like Larry was a beloved figure within the department. No one at City Hall or One Police Plaza was putting in the call to Cardinal O’Connor. Oddly, when a regular cop does himself in because his wife’s divorced his cheating ass and moved the family to Ohio or because he mistakenly shot an innocent bystander, the department will do what it can to intercede on his behalf. But when a man like Larry, a man with looks and style and power—things all men want—kills himself, he earns only disrespect.

An Army vet, Larry Mac was buried in the military graveyard out on Long Island along Cemetery Row in Pine Lawn. Strangely, most of the dignitaries, it seemed, had lost their way on the trip out to exit 49 for this part of the day’s proceedings. Funny how that happened. If he had died a hero, the brass and every politician from the Tri-State area would have made sure to show up and shove their way into any photo opportunity. No one elbows the crowd to be associated with a coward.

It wasn’t a lonely burial. The bugler’s “Taps” fell on many ears, most of them civilian. Margaret was there, of course. She received the flag from his coffin, stained it with her tears. Wit had come. Detective
Gloria too. Pete Parson had flown up and sat with his son. John Heaton, Moira’s father, was there. Drunk so that he was barely able to stand, his face a garden of gin blossoms. The only two guys from the old Six-O in attendance were Caveman Kenny Burton and Rico—the storm trooper and the felon. Nice tribute, that. I was happy to see them nonetheless. Melendez was there, flitting around the fringes of the ceremonies, hanging back. It was bizarre, but I felt vaguely ill at ease with her presence. I didn’t like the idea of her watching me hold Katy.

When things broke up, Katy went over to be with Margaret. Wit nodded to me and pointed to a row of low stone crosses about fifty feet east of Larry’s gravesite. I made my way over, shaking a hand here and there as I went.

“Hey, Wit.”

“Moses.”

We hugged, not something he was usually comfortable with. Stepping back, he held onto my arms. I was being inspected.

“What’s wrong, Moe?”

“What’s wrong? That’s Larry McDonald back there in that box. He allegedly killed himself, remember?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. You seemed awfully distracted during the burial.”

“There’s a detective here that is a little too interested in my business.”

“The dark-haired beauty?” he asked.

“How’d you—”

“Moe, please, give me my due. I have been reporting on crime for longer than you wore a badge. I can smell a cop from the adjoining county.”

“Yeah, her. Name’s Melendez.”

“I can see why she would be a distraction to any man. Do you think she would appreciate the charms of a former society hack?”

“And Pulitzer Prize winner.”

“Yes, there is that.”

“I wouldn’t know, why don’t you ask her yourself, Wit?”