“Shame about this guy,” Rizzo said, closing the paper and tossing it carefully onto the backseat. “He was only sixty-one. Paper says his best years were behind him, though.”
Priscilla shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But his new play, An Atlanta Landscape, they say it’s a shoo-in for the big awards.”
“Yeah, I read about that,” Rizzo said. “Bunch of bleedin’ heart bullshit. For sure it’ll get all the attention.”
“Yeah, well, not everything can be ‘Animal House Meets The Odd Couple,’ Joe,” Priscilla said. “Some works actually got somethin’ to say, Partner. Matter of fact, Karen and I saw that play about a month ago. It was terrific.”
Rizzo arched his brow. “Well, ain’t you the literary one. All those misspent years workin’ Manhattan got your head turned around.”
Priscilla shrugged. “No, not really. Actually,” she said in a neutral tones, “I do a little writing myself.”
Rizzo turned to her. “No kiddin’? Like what? Plays like this guy Mallard?”
“No, not exactly,” she said. “And for your info, nobody writes plays like this dude. He was the master, had a lifetime run of great works including this new one. No, me, I just write some short stories. And I’ve been foolin’ with a novel. Karen even talked me into taking a class at the Ninety-second Street Y. I go on Tuesday nights when we’re not working.”
Rizzo nodded. “Well, imagine that: a regular Josephine Wambaugh I’m workin’ with.”
“Not quite, brother, not quite,” she said, “but I’m tryin’.”
“Good for you, Cil. I wish you luck with it.”
She frowned, turning her attention fully back to driving.
“Between me and you,” she said, “this is some very private shit. I only told Mike about it a week ago. With you and Karen, that’s just three people who know. I wouldn’t want it getting around the precinct.”
“I’ll bet,” Rizzo said with a laugh. “Don’t worry. Far as I’m concerned, you can barely read, let alone write. Just like the rest of us dumb-ass cops. My lips are sealed.”
She nodded. “Good. I just told you in case it ever comes up. With Mike, maybe, or if you ever meet Karen. Wouldn’t want any awk-ward moments.”
“No, Cil. We wouldn’t want any awkward moments while I’m sippin’ sherry with you and your girlfriend. Heaven forbid.”
“Good,” Priscilla said. “Now, what was that address? This is Sixty-seventh Street.”
Rizzo glanced at his note pad. “Fourteen-forty.”
They scanned the addresses of the neat, attached row houses that lined the street, then Priscilla swung the Chevy to the curb and parked.
As they undid their shoulder harnesses, Rizzo glanced around.
“I knew this block sounded familiar,” he said. “My daughter Carol had a friend from Catholic school lived here somewhere. Years ago when she was in grammar school.”
Priscilla reached across to the glove compartment and removed her note pad. Then, sitting upright, she used the rearview mirror to smooth her hair.
“Yeah?” she said. Then, with a slight glance to Rizzo, she asked, “How’s that goin’, by the way? That situation with Carol and the cops? You talk to her yet?”
Rizzo nodded grimly. “Oh, I spoke to her, all right.”
Priscilla saw the tense creases at his eye.
“And?” she asked again, swinging her eyes away from him. “How’d it go?”
He told her of his Stony Brook meeting with his daughter. When he had finished, Priscilla shook her head, her lips twisted.
“Jesus, Joe,” she said. “You couldn’t have fucked that up any more if you were tryin’.” She shook her head once more.
Rizzo glanced over from the Impala’s passenger seat, his jaw working a piece of Nicorette. “You sound like my goddamned wife. I can use a little support here, for Christ sake.”
“Yeah, well, what you call support, I call a hand job,” Priscilla replied. “I’m telling you, you gotta fix this. And fix it fast.”
Rizzo shook his head. “Bullshit,” he said.
Priscilla answered with a snort. “No, Joe,” she said. “No bullshit.”
“You know what she told me once?” Rizzo began. “One of her criminology professors-can you imagine what this asshole is like?-tells the class that all across America, at different times over the years, cities started to get tired of their own existence. The buildings got grimy, the trains and buses started wearin’ out, the roads and bridges got beat up and were falling apart. And, of course, the crime got worse and worse. He told them how it happened in New York years ago, Los Angeles, Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia. And you know what he tells them saved those cities?”
“I got a feelin’ I can guess, Partner,” said Priscilla. “But go ahead, knock yourself out, tell me.”
“Cops,” Rizzo said, turning to face her. “Friggin’ cops turned it around. And you know how?”
Priscilla shook her head. “No. But let me ask you something. What’s the name of the course this guy teaches?”
Despite his lingering anger, Rizzo smiled. “Community Policing,” he said.
“Well, then,” Priscilla said, “I’m gonna guess the cops saved the world, one city at a time, by community policing.”
Now, despite himself, Rizzo laughed. “Bingo,” he said. “He used the old, ‘Stop the small stuff-the graffiti, the noise, the litter, the friggin’ jaywalkin’, and before you know it, all the major shit’s gone.’ ”
“Did the guy happen to mention the influx of mocha-sucking yuppies movin’ in that actually saved those cities?” she asked.
“No, I think he left that part out.”
“Figures,” Priscilla said.
“That’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about, what I’m tryin’ to make Carol understand.” Rizzo went on, frustration building in his tone. “All this make-believe bullshit that surrounds the job, the half-assed ideas everybody gets from television, movies, all that shit.”
“Take a breath, Joe,” Priscilla said calmly. “Step back from it a little bit, okay? It ain’t the end of the world if Carol comes on the job. Look, it’s been good for you, good for me, it can work out for her, too. And if it doesn’t, she quits. But you gotta let her find out for herself if-”
Rizzo shook his head angrily.
“No way,” he said. “No friggin’ way my daughter becomes a cop.”
Now anger stirred in Priscilla, her tone growing sharp. “For Christ sake, listen to yourself. You see me sittin’ right here next to you, and you’re ranting about your daughter comin’ on the job like she’s catchin’ the fuckin’ clap. What are you sayin’, Partner? Bein’ a cop is good enough for somebody like me, but not good enough for your freakin’ little princess?”
Rizzo glanced briefly at her, saw the hurt and anger in her eyes. He turned his gaze back to the street, shaking his head slowly, his voice softening.
“No, Cil, relax, please,” he said. “That’s not what I’m sayin’. Just with you and me, it was different. I grew up in a tough neighborhood in Bensonhurst, hanging out on street corners, getting into all sorts of shit. Hell, half my friends got themselves arrested, two of ’em shot to death. One guy I went to high school with is doin’ double life sentences in Attica. And you, you grew up in the South Bronx, no father, a fucked-up mother. By the time you were twelve, you knew the score better than Carol does now, and she’s almost twenty. It’s different with you, Cil. You’re street smart, tough. You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve, you don’t have unrealistic expectations about the average guy on the street. Carol’s just too soft, too trusting. And it’s probably my fault, me and Jen’s, maybe we pampered the girls too much, sheltered them. If she becomes a cop, she’ll pay the price for that, pay the price for my mistakes.” He sighed. “Come on,” he said gently. “You know the deal, you’ve seen it. These kids comin’ on the job from Long Island, upstate New York, wherever. They ain’t got a clue. The streets eat ’em alive. All that Sesame Street bullshit they grew up with, ‘Teach the World to Sing’ crap, they actually believed all that. They come on the job and that’s when they see the real deal, what human nature’s really like. Hell, you knock out the electricity, cut the food supply for one friggin’ day, all of a sudden it’s the third century. The fuckin’ Huns versus the Vikings, and everybody loses.”