Apaches

  Pins Ryan stood crouched above the black bowling ball cupped in his hands. His feet were planted firm and balanced. He took three steps forward, arched the ball behind him, and brought it down in one smooth motion. His front foot curved as the ball slammed against the hardwood and buzzed toward the pins, scattering eight of them, leaving behind only the three and four. Pins walked slowly back to the scoring table, took a swig from a bottle of Amstel, and then stood still, enjoying the quiet darkness of his alley.

  He had bought a share of the place three months after his shooting, going in as full partner with two retired firemen from Ozone Park. The income from the alley, coupled with his disability pension, made Pins more than comfortable and afforded him the stable environment he had always sought. Besides, he could bowl seven days and nights a week without digging into his pocket.

  He had neither a wife nor a family, but since so much of his life had been spent in solitary circumstances, this lack of intimate ties no longer seemed important. He had plenty of friends, most of them bowling buddies. And unlike many of the other disabled cops Pins came across from time to time, he didn’t miss the job. On certain occasions, when a special call came in, Pins still laid down some plants for the department, pleased to note his wounds hadn’t cost him his skills.

  He removed the ball from its base, took his position, and blew out the two standing pins to record a spare. After penciling in his score for the opening frame, he took in a deep breath, relishing the stale smells of the old alley, looking around at the rows of shiny balls glistening in the light off the Bud sign. Behind him, racks of old bowling shoes, each colored uglier than the next, hung in straight rows of twelve across, based on size and use. He loved being in the alley, especially when it was dark and empty, a dozen lanes all to himself.

  Pins had left the dinner with Boomer having no answer framed in his mind. Boomer’s plan had the ring of a no-win mission. Jail time or death were the only likelihoods. But there had been a feeling to the group, a warmth and spirit emanating from each cop that forced Pins to hold his tongue. He missed that camaraderie in the years since he was shot off the job, that sense of belonging to a special group, of being kidded and teased by others who shared the same passion and dedication.

  The alley was his home, a place for him to get away, roll as many games as it took for him to erase from his mind the places he’d been and the faces he wanted to forget.

  But being a cop was where he was most needed.

  If Pins could no longer fill that large void as a member of the department, he could easily do so as one of the Apaches. He could be their safety net, planting bugs in hidden places. A piece of his life’s puzzle that had been missing for years could now be fitted back into its proper place.

  Three games, one beer, and two cups of coffee later, Pins had decided to join up with Boomer’s team of crippled cops. He would lay down the taps and wires to help the Apaches reel in Lucia Carney. He would ignore his fear of the gun and hide behind the shield of the electronic bug.

  Those three games were the best Pins had bowled since before he took the bullets meant for the body and transgressions of another man.

  • • •

  BOOMER SAT ACROSS from a gray metal desk stacked high with books, files, and newspapers, hands jammed inside his jacket pockets, gnawing on a thick wad of Spearmint gum. He watched as Dr. Carolyn Bartlett reached down into her briefcase and pulled out a worn manila folder with Jennifer Santori’s name written across the front in black felt tip. She placed it on top of a six-deep pile of similar-looking folders, opened it, gave the cover sheet a quick read, then sat back in her tattered black swivel chair. She looked over at Boomer through tired eyes, her face shrouded by tension.

  “I appreciate your stopping by,” she said, her voice echoing the exhaustion in her eyes.

  “I was already in the neighborhood,” Boomer said casually, resisting the temptation to blow a bubble with his gum. “I’m going to meet Jenny’s folks over by the courthouse. Watch that bastard get arraigned.”

  “I know,” Dr. Bartlett said. “They told me.”

  “When did you talk to them?” Boomer sat up in his chair, his police radar kicking into alert.

  “I called them late last night,” she said, pointing a manicured finger toward the brown couch and coffee table next to Boomer. “I don’t usually drink, Mr. Frontieri. But I needed one just to be able to make that phone call.”

  “Call me Boomer.” He pulled his hands from his jacket pockets and looked over at the two empty coffee containers, wine glass, and half-empty bottle of warm Chardonnay scattered around the end table. The couch cushions were crumpled and there was a thin brown blanket rolled up in one corner. “It must have been a tough call. Looks like you spent the night here too.”

  “I need your help with this,” Carolyn said. “If you go against me, it will only make it rougher for everyone.”

  “I don’t know what this is, but I’m not going to like it, am I?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, her eyes meeting his. “You’re going to hate what’s being done and you’re going to hate me for doing it. But I’m willing to risk all that if I come out of it having saved a little girl’s life.”

  “You need a drink before you tell me too?” Boomer asked.

  “I’ve asked that the district attorney’s office drop all charges against Malcolm Juniper,” she said in as firm a voice as she could muster.

  “Your reason?” Boomer said, staying tight, keeping control of his temper.

  “In order to convict, they’ll need to put Jennifer on the witness stand,” Carolyn said. “I can’t allow that to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “As it is, it’s going to take years of therapy to get Jennifer to the point where what happened will fade to a distance she can live with. If I let her take the stand, let his lawyers have a shot at her, force her to relive every minor detail, I can almost guarantee you she’ll be nothing more than a vegetable for the rest of her life. I can’t live with that. And I’m hoping you can’t either.”

  Boomer stayed outwardly calm but his hands bunched into fists and his eyes betrayed the anger burning inside. “What about Malcolm? Without Jenny taking the stand, he’ll go out on the streets and do the same thing all over again. To some other girl. You ready to live with that, Doc?”

  “I’ve lived with it every day I’ve been in this damn job,” Carolyn said, her frustration rising to the surface. “I’ve had to help piece back together too many Jennys. And I’ve had to sit and watch as too many Malcolms walked out of court free men.”

  “What is it you want from me?” Boomer asked her.

  “Talk to the family,” Carolyn said. “Convince them it’s the right thing to do for their child. If they want me to continue to help her, then this has to be the way.”

  Boomer took a deep breath and ran a hand across his face. The image of Jennifer hanging from a pipe, seconds from death, her body a beaten and bloody mess, raced through his mind.

  “In all my years on the job, I was pretty lucky,” Boomer said quietly. “I usually got to see only the bad guys. And I went after them like no one ever has because I always knew that behind the face of a bad guy there was one of an innocent victim. So when I brought that bad guy in, it was my own way of helping out the victim.”

  “You’re still helping out the victim,” Carolyn said with sympathy. “More than you will ever know.”

  “We’re helping out Malcolm too,” Boomer said. “More than you’ll ever know.”

  “Would you rather I put Jenny on the stand?” Carolyn asked him. “Would you rather torture her more, all for the sake of a conviction?”

  Boomer lowered his head and his voice, staring down at thin, frayed strands of industrial carpet. “No,” he said in a near whisper. “I don’t want that kid to be hurt any more.”

  “Then talk to her parents,” Carolyn said. “You can say things to them in a way that I can’t.”

  “Jenny’s father
came to me because he knew something I didn’t,” Boomer said.

  “What?”

  “He knew that I’d bring in Malcolm and save his kid.”

  “And you did bring him in,” Carolyn said. “You and your partner did save her life. Don’t let that get lost in all of this.”

  “Maybe so,” Boomer said, standing up and zippering his jacket. “But we did make one mistake. One very big mistake.”

  “Which was?” Carolyn also stood. She reached out her hand and placed it in his.

  “We brought him in alive,” Boomer said.

  He shook Carolyn Bartlett’s hand, turned, and walked slowly out of her office.

  • • •

  DEAD-EYE BANKED A shot against the backboard, took a step back, and watched as the ball fell through the net. He let his son, Eddie, race for the bouncing ball, grab it with both hands, and toss it back to him.

  “Your shot,” Dead-Eye told him. Both of them were smiling. “Make it count.”

  Eddie, one month past his third birthday, bounced the ball twice against the concrete court, then stumbled, scraping his hands and falling down to his knees.

  “What happened to you?” Dead-Eye asked, lifting him to his feet and dusting off his hands.

  “I fell,” Eddie said, brushing off the fall with a sad face and a shrug.

  “Game’s over anyway,” Dead-Eye said, reaching down to give his son a quick hug. “I guess you know what that means?”

  “Winner buys ice cream.” The smile rushed back to Eddie’s face.

  “I don’t remember who won,” Dead-Eye said. “Do you?”

  “I didn’t score, Daddy,” Eddie giggled. “You did.”

  “Looks like it’s me buyin’ again.” Dead-Eye feigned a sigh, lifting his son in the cradle of one arm, bouncing the basketball with his free hand and walking out of the fenced-in playground and toward the ice cream truck parked at the next corner.

  They sat with their backs against the black wall of a handball court, their legs stretched out, faces up to the sun, each working over a double-swirl vanilla ice cream cone. Eddie was getting as much on his chin and cheeks as he was in his mouth, occasionally dabbing at his face with a wadded-up ball of napkins. The grounds around them were quiet and empty except for two winos sleeping the night off on a set of park benches to their right.

  “Is Mama mad?” Eddie asked, his gaze focused on the melting ice cream in his hands.

  “Yes,” Dead-Eye said. “She’s very mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “She doesn’t want me to do something,” Dead-Eye said.

  “Why?”

  Dead-Eye looked down at his son, washed in ice cream, his innocent face crammed with a natural sweetness, his eyes blazing with curiosity. He reached over, picked him up, and wiped the ice cream from his face. He then sat Eddie between his legs, resting the boy’s head against his chest.

  “What kind of work does Daddy do?” Dead-Eye asked him, leaning down and kissing the top of his son’s head.

  “You let people into buildings,” Eddie said, looking up at him. “Right?”

  “I’m a doorman,” Dead-Eye said. “That’s right.”

  “Before that you were a policeman. Mama said you were famous.”

  “I wasn’t famous,” Dead-Eye said. “I was good. There’s a difference.”

  “Mama says you don’t like opening doors.” Then Eddie asked, “That why she’s mad at you?”

  “Being a doorman is a good job,” Dead-Eye said, looking out over the park, past the swings and slides, the backed-up traffic moving into Manhattan. “It’s just not the right job for me.”

  “Mama says you wanna be a policeman again.”

  “And that’s why she’s mad,” Dead-Eye said. “She’s afraid I’ll get shot up all over again.”

  Eddie jumped from his father’s lap and turned to face him.

  “I don’t want you to die, Daddy.” There was a lilt of fear in his voice.

  Dead-Eye laid his two hands on the sides of his son’s face and stared at him for several moments, willing the fear from the boy’s body.

  “I want you to be proud of me,” Dead-Eye said. “Same way that I’m so proud of you. When you grow up, I want you to go out and do what’s in your heart to do. What you feel you have to do more than anything else. You’ll find what that is, maybe early, maybe late, but you’ll find it. Same way I found what I had to do. Then I got shot and I lost it.”

  “Mama said you and Uncle Boomer are both crazy,” Eddie said.

  “She’s right about that,” Dead-Eye said, smiling at his son. “We are crazy. But it’s a good crazy, Eddie. The kind you need to have around every once in a while.”

  “Are the bad people crazy?”

  “Bad people are always crazy,” Dead-Eye said. “That’s why they do what they do. And sometimes it takes crazy guys like me and Uncle Boomer to go out there and stop them.”

  “Are you going to be a policeman again?” Eddie asked.

  “I never really stopped,” Dead-Eye said, resting his son back against his chest. “But I won’t do this until I know you’re okay with it. Until I know you’re backing me up. All good cops need a backup. So that’s what I’m asking you to be.”

  “Do I get a badge?” Eddie asked, lifting his head.

  “Even better,” Dead-Eye said, reaching a hand inside the front pocket of his windbreaker and coming out with a replica of a detective’s gold shield closed inside a leather flap. “I made you a copy of my badge. That makes you my partner.”

  “Uncle Boomer’s your partner,” Eddie said, taking the badge from his father, his eyes opened wide in amazement.

  “Uncle Boomer’s my friend,” Dead-Eye said. “And you don’t have as many bad habits. So what’s it gonna be? Are you with me? You gonna cover my back?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Eddie said, wrapping both arms around his father’s neck, holding him tight, the shield dangling loose from his right hand.

  Dead-Eye hugged his son close, his face nestled into the boy’s shoulder.

  They sat there still and quiet in the chilly winter morning, their backs against a spray-painted wall, surrounded by barren trees, still swings, sleeping drunks, and congested traffic.

  Father and son linked in trust and love.

  • • •

  THE COURTROOM WAS drab and silent. Court officers stood, arms folded, their backs to the few spectators in attendance. Judge Geraldine Waldstein, a thin woman with thick dark hair and sharp features, glared down at the defendant. Malcolm Juniper sat on a wooden chair wearing his only suit, a gray sharkskin, with a white button-down shirt and a thin black tie. Malcolm’s lawyer, Jerry Spieglman, sat next to him, eyes gazing at an open folder.

  Boomer sat in the third row, directly behind Jennifer’s parents, Carlo and Anne. Dead-Eye had decided to wait outside. Like most cops, he felt uncomfortable in a courtroom. It was one of the few traits those inside the law shared with those outside. Boomer kept his eyes on the back of Malcolm’s head, but his mind was in another place. He saw himself in uniform again, a rookie walking a Harlem beat with his mentor, Iron Mike Tragatti. Day after day, Tragatti, using his nightstick as a pointer, would hammer home the one lesson he insisted young Boomer learn.

  “You see these people?” Iron Mike would say, pointing out the Harlem merchants opening their stores, preparing to serve their customers. “They are the ones we’re here to protect. They are the good. The bad are the ones who take from them. And they are the ones we put away. The courts call it justice. The people here call it safety. You and me call it our job. It’s as simple as that.”

  For two decades, Boomer Frontieri believed every one of those words. Believed them because they used to be true. But they weren’t true anymore. Not on a day when he had to sit in a barren courtroom and stare helplessly at a mother and father, holding hands and crying as they listened to a new set of words, this time spoken by a judge with two children of her own.

  Words that would set their daught
er’s tormentor free.

  Judge Waldstein kept it simple and direct. Her shouts and frustration had been vented behind closed doors.

  “You’ve got nothing else?” she had asked Kevin Gilbert, the assistant district attorney assigned to the case.

  “Not without the girl, your honor,” Gilbert admitted. “Erase her and I’ve got a room with two retired cops who shouldn’t have been there in the first place, staring at one dead man and one naked one.”

  “You have Dr. Bartlett’s testimony,” Waldstein said. “And you have photos of the crime scene.”

  “It’s all too cold and clinical,” Gilbert said. “I need the jury to see Jennifer. It’s the only way I can get a guilty.”

  “Then we’re wasting our breath,” Jerry Spieglman said. “It’s time to set the innocent free.”

  “I’ll decide when it’s time, Counselor,” Judge Waldstein hissed.

  In the courtroom, Judge Waldstein kept her anger masked behind a calm veneer. Her eyes were moist and strained as she uttered the phrase that shattered everyone else’s serenity.

  “Case dismissed,” Judge Waldstein said sadly.

  Malcolm Juniper slammed an open hand on the scarred wooden table and clapped. Jerry Spieglman closed the folder and shoved it inside a soiled backpack.

  Anne Santori bowed her head and sobbed quietly into the palms of her hands.

  Carlo Santori turned and looked at Boomer Frontieri. It was the look of a defeated man.

  Boomer took a deep breath, stood, and turned his back on the scales of justice, vowing never to enter a courtroom again.

  • • •

  MALCOLM JUNIPER, A bounce to his gait, took the cracked concrete steps coming out of the Manhattan Criminal Court Building two at a time. He stopped short as soon as he spotted Boomer and Dead-Eye waiting for him on the sidewalk below, their backs warmed by a winter sun.

  Malcolm’s smile widened and he began to take the steps at a slower pace. He pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket, turned his back to Boomer, Dead-Eye, and the wind, and lit up, using a cheap plastic lighter. He crunched the cigarette between his teeth, smoke leaking out one corner of his mouth, and barely disguised his glee from the ex-cops who had gone to such lengths to have him arrested.