High Desert High Read online

  The lead protester pulls out his cell phone and dials 911.

  “Yes. I’d like to report and assault and destruction of my personal property.”

  “Ha! I like that! Assault with … salt!” Paul said, throwing some salt over his left shoulder. “Funny! He hates cops, but who does he call when his little snowflake ego is hurt, he calls … wait for it … the cops!”

  The entire group of protesters is now surrounding Paul and Brielle’s table.

  “Keep your distance please. And whatever you do, do not touch us. Capisce?”

  The crowd is emboldened and bordering on out of control, directing all their anger at Paul.

  Sirens are heard and four cops burst through the front doors of the restaurant, shouting.

  “All right, everybody out! Everybody out! Now!” the lead cop, a sergeant, yells as the three others start steering people out the front door. The sergeant approaches Paul’s table.

  “This man tore up my sign, assaulted me, and threatened me,” the lead protester told the officer.

  “Oh, Christ almighty,” the sergeant groaned when he saw who the alleged perp was. “Portillo! Take the complainant outside and make a report. Paulie, what the hell is going on here? Assault? Destruction of property? Threats?”

  “Wait! Stop everything! Here’s my food! Finally!” The waitress places the plates on the table along with the bill.

  “I’m off shift in ten minutes. Can you pay me now so I can get my tip?”

  “Certainly, my dear. Somebody else might think that’s being rude, asking for the tip like that. Not me. That’s called honesty. I like honesty. I like being honest,” Paul said as he gave her a wad of bills and began eating his eggs. “So Mickey, you’re gonna take me in, right?”

  The red haired, freckle-faced fiftyish sergeant pulled cuffs off his belt, “I’m gonna have to cuff you, too. Just for looks.”

  “See? Honesty! Good. But I have to finish eating. Okay?”

  “Jesus, Okay, Paulie. Hurry it up, would ya?”

  “If I get indigestion, I’m not paying off on the Mets-Yankees bet. Capisce?’

  “Just hurry,” Mickey said, obviously exasperated as if he’s done this before.

  “Brielle, here’s my keys. The car’s in the usual spot outside the precinct. Just meet me there in about, how long, Mickey?”

  “An hour.”

  “An hour.”

  Paul hands the keys to Brielle. She stands up and shakes her head with her hands on her hips. “I thought being friends with a New York cop would be interesting, but I reckon you are downright mind-boggling!”

  “Mickey, only a girl from Dixville Notch, New Hampshire would use reckon and downright in a sentence, right? See you in an hour. My eggs are cold. Let’s go.”

  Paul puts his hands behind his back and gets cuffed by Sergeant O’Connor. The crowd is chanting outside, “Stand with us! Or you’re against us!” awaiting the perp walk of Paul into the idling patrol car. Phones are flashing and videos are being taken as if Jay-Z and Beyoncé were heading for a limo. Once in the car, O’Connor undoes the cuffs.

  “You know the Captain is on. He was working late, doing paperwork,” O’Connor said from the front passenger seat as they drove down quiet East Village streets.

  “Good. I welcome the opportunity to speak my mind with him in person.”

  “Paulie, please. Just say you’re sorry, it’ll never happen again, and everybody can just go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Mickey. Come on. Do I have to explain after 40 years of knowing each other?”

  “Paulie, I’m just saying. Once in a while you could just make it a little easier on everyone involved if you would….”

  “Twist the truth, don’t make waves, lie, cheat, what else?”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Yes, I do. And you know what I’m saying.”

  “Fine.”

  Paul walked into the ancient Ninth Precinct on East Fifth Street. The building itself is almost a hundred years old, and looks and smells twice that. Its nickname is “The Fighting Ninth,” which some say has more to do with what goes on inside the building than out on the streets. As soon as the desk sergeant sees Paul, he gives him a sympathetic head nod towards the captain’s door.

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Captain Fernando Vasquez is the second youngest captain currently in the NYPD. At thirty-five his rise has been viewed by some as the personification of the new policy typical of the new mayor; out with the old and in with the new. Or else. And it’s not just the NYPD. Fire, Sanitation, Transit, even school teachers with a bit of gray hair poking through are feeling the heat from newly appointed chiefs, superintendents, supervisors, principals, and managers. Although it’s quite evident to the grizzled veterans, it’s more about the gray matter between one’s ears than the gray just above them.

  The Captain is more than ten years Paul’s junior, but it seems like he’s two generations behind him. Paul can name all the original members of The Kinks, Earth Wind and Fire, and The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Paul doubts the Captain even heard of those bands.

  “Have a seat, lieutenant.” Vasquez said in a strange accent. Strange because, it’s not a Puerto Rican accent, or a Bronx accent, it’s not even a New York accent. It’s like a generic anywhere U.S.A. accent.

  “Yes, sir!” Paul said sarcastically.

  “Have you been drinking, Santo?”

  “I have. I’ve been off duty for eight hours.”

  “You could be in big trouble right now Santo, so I’d suggest you simmer down, so we can discuss this professionally. Is it true you tore up a protester’s sign and threw salt at him?”

  “Yes. A sign that was shoved in my face while I was trying to eat my breakfast with a friend, minding my own business, with a crowd of spoiled-brat NYU and Columbia trust-funders yelling in my face that the police are racist, terrorists, and should be fried like bacon. Yes I did.”

  “And what about the salt?”

  “If I said yes, would I just be throwing salt in the wound?”

  “I said simmer down. This is no joke! I’m sick and tired of off-duty guys getting into hot water! It’s a disgrace!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re right,” Paul said trying to calm the moment.

  “All right. Let’s get real here,” the Captain said with urgency. “The complainant says he won’t press charges if you pay for his sign. He supplied a receipt from a printing shop for 75 dollars. He says it was color, not black and white, hence the extra expense. He’ll forget about the assault. No jokes, Santo!”

  “Sir, with all due respect, there’s cops being ambushed and executed by the week because of the rabble-rousing of these fools. And nobody is doing anything about it. In fact the freakin’ mayor came out on their side! Telling the press he had to tell his kid to be careful around white police officers. That’s pathetic.”

  “His son in bi-racial.”

  “So am I! So what?”

  “That’s it! You’re suspended. For one day. No pay.”

  “Really?” Paul rose from his chair and pulled a revolver out of the holster in the small of his back. He placed it on the Captain’s desk, along with his badge and ID cards. “Well, I think one day isn’t enough. I’m out of here. I’m going downtown to the pension office in the morning. I’m through for good. This is bullshit. Consider me retired. You win. Are you happy now?”

  “Santo, I suggest you think this over when you calm down.”

  “I’m calm. I’m done.”

  “Could you delay it? I’ve got so many guys on vacation, we’re short.”

  “You could have Ramos or Liu or what’s her name? Oh yeah, mother of three, Officer Familia fill in for me. Oh wait. They can’t. They were ambushed and executed while sitting in police cars as payback. For what? For what? Never mind. You and the mayor and the press and those downtown defense lawyers and race baiters, you’re all to blame. I’m not. I risked my neck for blacks, Jews, Poles, Puer
to Ricans, Irish, Romanian, rich, poor, homeless, people in mansions. And I’m the bad guy. No. I’m done. And here’s a hundred bucks for the kid’s ‘let’s kill racist cops’ sign. Glad I could help,” Paul said as he exited the room and softly closed the door.

  Paul was worn out. He didn’t wave or say goodbye to the guys milling around the desk. He just walked out without looking back. He felt naked as he walked down the street without his gun or badge. It was the first time he had done so since he graduated the academy. He felt vulnerable. Not because he was without the protection of his gun and badge. Because he just left behind the only life he had known as an adult. And that scared him. He saw Brielle sitting in his 1985 Lincoln Continental. He got in the back seat. Brielle started the car.

  “Where are we going?” She asked trying to study what was on his mind. “Are you all right?”

  “Drop me off at home. Take the car home with you. And pick me up on the way to work tomorrow. I’ll tell you all about it. Wake me when I’m home.”

  This was nothing new for Brielle. She had done this routine with Paul countless times. It got her a safe ride home for free, kept Paul out of trouble, and prevented him from getting a D.U.I. Up the F.D.R., across the 138th Street bridge onto the Major Deegan Expressway in the Bronx, past Yankee Stadium, and exit at Van Cortlandt Park South, about a mile before Yonkers, where she lived. This being a familiar game plan, she knew that before she dropped him off at his home it would save her a few minutes if she first stopped in front of his neighborhood hangout, The Buckeye, at W. 238th Street right under the Broadway elevated line. The steel wheels of the No. 1 train squealed to a stop above them, waking up Paul. Brielle watched him come to.

  “You know you snore?”

  “Very few women in my life actually know that about me,” Paul said, as he shook out the cobwebs and pushed his afro back into position.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. But you do know me better than most. Like dropping me off at The Buckeye, even though it looks closed.”

  “Yeah, most things are at four in the morning. What goes on there anyway?”

  “Oh, if you only knew! Beautiful women, Chinese millionaires playing high-stakes pai gow, Johnny Depp and Keith Richards sharing a spliff while playing pool.”

  “You kill me. What time do you want me to pick you up tomorrow? I have to be at work at six, but whatever works for you.”

  “You know what? I’m going downtown on the train in the morning. So just take the car to work. Park it in my spot. And I’ll pick it up later in the day.”

  “What are you doing downtown?”

  “Gotta talk to some paper-pushers so I can get paid without working until I’m fish food off Rockaway Beach.”

  “Okay, I have no idea what that means, but I’ll see you tomorrow night at the bar?”

  “Yes, thank you, Dixville Notch!”

  Brielle laughed as she pulled away and headed home. Paul walked over to the window with a GUINNESS sign in it that was switched off and he knocked four times. A curtain opened slightly and a few seconds later the door could be heard unlocking. Paul is greeted by Sergeant Mickey O’Connor, now wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt adorned with the album art of the Rolling Stones’ Sticky Fingers. Van Morrison is singing “Brown Eyed Girl” on the jukebox.

  “Paulie, have you flipped your wig? Is it true? You’re retiring?” Mickey said to Paul, handing him a pint of Guinness.

  “Ah, breakfast!” Paul said before taking a swig. “Mickey, I’m done. This is it. And you know what? I feel good about it. It’s time to step aside and let the younger generation take over. Let them deal with these assholes. If you had half a brain, you’d be coming with me tomorrow to sign the papers.”

  “I got two kids still in college, are you kidding? I’m not the carefree, swinging bachelor.”

  “Watchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?”

  “Yeah, well you know what I mean.”

  “Hey Paulie! Come over here! I want to fekking talk business with you!” A raspy Irish brogue shouts from within a cloud of cigar smoke at the end of the bar.

  “O’Toole you old fool! I’ll be right there,” Paul shouted, then put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “With all this bullshit going on now with this new mayor, and insane cop hatred, it’s not the same. At least back in the day, we knew who the hell the bad guys were. Now, we’re sitting ducks.”

  Mickey reluctantly nods his head. “I know. I just can’t do it right now. Three more years and I’m out.”

  “O’Toole, three hundred and sixty four days a year you can break my balls, but not today, alright?” Paul said entering the cloud of smoke. “And why are you still smoking those goddamed ginney dumbwaiter ropes? Here, have a Cuban.”

  “Really? A Cuban? For me?”

  “Sure why not? Castro and Obama said it’s okay, so it must be okay, right? What race is this?” Paul said referring to the horse race about to get under way on the television.

  The bartender, a small man who looks like he could easily double as a leprechaun in a St. Patrick’s Day parade says, “It’s Hong Kong.”

  “Is Bobby Three Shirts here?”

  “He’s taking a leak.”

  “Did someone call my name?” An overweight man in his fifties grumbles exiting the men’s room. He’s got pads, papers and pens in every pocket of his safari vest over three shirts, which couldn’t close if he lost a hundred pounds.

  “Let’s see, it’s almost the end of the month,” Paul said, thinking aloud.

  John Lennon’s “Imagine” started playing on the jukebox.

  “John Lennon’s playing, September’s the 9th month, the Beatles, number 9, number 9, put twenty on the number 9 to win.”

  Bobby Three Shirts goes through some pockets and makes a mark in a small notebook. Mickey took a barstool next to Paul at the smoky end of the bar. They watched in silence as the bell went off at the Hong Kong track, and the British-accented announcer called the race. Once the horses made the first turn, Paul began a slow-building crescendo, “Number nine! Number nine! Number nine! Number nine! Come on number nine! Holy crap, I didn’t realize he’s a hundred to one!”

  Bobby Three Shirts jerked his head towards Paul in a panic. “Very funny asshole, he’s three to one.”

  Paul resumed his chant until it was obvious number nine didn’t have a chance at win, place, show, or even appearing like it was in the same race, it was so far behind the pack. “Can you add that to my tab Bobby, or do you want the twenty now?”

  “I’ll just add it. You want to know your total so far this month?” Bobby said smiling broadly.

  “Judging by that smile on your face, no!”

  Mickey and Paul have been friends for almost forty years. When Paul moved into the neighborhood when he was ten, he didn’t look like most of the kids hanging out on the block. At that time, the neighborhood was mostly Irish, with some Italian, German and Polish thrown in. It wasn’t easy being the new kid on the block even if you looked like everybody else. But Paul looked different. Maybe if Paul sucked at basketball, baseball, football, stickball, curb ball, and any other ball you could throw at him, he wouldn’t have fit in so quickly. But everybody wanted Paul on their team, once Mickey started choosing him first.

  “You really are going downtown to sign the papers tomorrow?” Mickey said sadly. “You’re gonna leave me with all those peach-fuzzed kids from the ‘burbs who became cops because they think it’s like being in an episode of Law and Order?”

  Paul took a sip of stout. “It’s over. From the top down, we are screwed. It’s just like the French Revolution.”

  “The French Revolution? Being a cop is like the French Revolution?”

  “This country. This society. It starts out with quote, the people, unquote, demanding power. Overthrowing the status quo. Revolution….”

  “Isn’t that how we got our own country? Through revolution against the Brits?”

  “You’ve
been to Fraunces Tavern?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well that’s where George Washington, after winning the revolution, said good-bye to his troops, and for the first time in history, the military victor ceded power to the elected civilian leaders of a government. He went back to his farm. But in the French Revolution the people overthrew the government and didn’t replace it with law and order. No. They went after everybody! Heads were rolling in the streets! You know that. The revolution eats its own! Didn’t you learn history in Cardinal Hayes?”

  “Apparently not as thoroughly as in Bishop Dubois.”

  “We’re being executed. Our heads are rolling. And it ain’t gonna stop with just the cops.”

  “Come on, Paulie. You’re being paranoid.”

  “That’s what they told Marie Antoinette. Next thing you know her curly locks were in the basket. Nah. I’m done. When I think of how we took that rat-and drug-infested shit hole, Alphabet City, and risked our lives every day, pushing those scumbags out of there, making the streets and buildings livable again. Look at it now. It’s one of the best neighborhoods in the city. Freakin’ A-listers live there. You know. You were there!”

  “I was there sometimes. Not like you were.”

  “You know. You know. I’m did my time. I’m getting out while I can.”

  Mickey holds his pint out, they clink their glasses. “I’m with you, brother. You know that. And I’m right behind you. As soon as I send that last check to Mercy College, I’m on the next Metro line to sign my papers, too. You want a lift home?”

  “Sure.”

  Mickey drives Paul the few blocks to his apartment on the ground floor of a private home on a tree-lined street of modest houses built in the boom of the 1920s just after the No. 1 elevated line was completed in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx.

  “If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know,” Paul said, closing the front door of Mickey’s Jeep Cherokee.