Now, as he sped along the Gowanus Expressway, he reflected on how, more and more, he found himself on the other end of this cynical, yet pragmatic, arrangement, rendering the payback, as was now the case. As retirements, transfers, and other attritions chipped at those in the department who owed him, and changing demographics altered the Six-Two, the pool of those Rizzo was indebted to seemed to grow proportionately.
It was not, he realized, a healthy state of affairs.
Just one more reason to retire, he thought. The more payback he rendered, and the less he received, the better the likelihood that someday it would all blow up in his face. Yet it remained an unavoidable function of the job, a one-hand-washing-the-other way of life for him. It was a minefield becoming more difficult and dangerous to navigate.
Rizzo swung the Impala off the expressway and onto Atlantic Avenue. He made a mental note to discuss this morning’s mission in more detail with Priscilla later in the day. Though he was almost certain she understood the nature of the game, he couldn’t make assumptions. This morning’s job was the perfect example. The last thing Rizzo wanted was to lend assistance of a murky legal nature to a Hell’s Angel. Yet he was bound by the agreement he had entered into with Papa Man some months before. It was not, as Papa had misstated, a matter of honor. Not at all. It was simply a function of police business. Had he reneged, he would never again be able to reach out to the Angels should the need arise.
And if he reneged often enough on his promises, word would eventually permeate the subculture of the streets, and Rizzo would no longer be trusted, no longer be able to gather the scraps of information, cooperation, and accommodations necessary to the successful plying of his trade.
That’s what he needed to impress upon Priscilla. As a detective, she should never enter into an agreement she was not fully prepared to follow through on, regardless of how distasteful or questionable in nature. The time for high-minded scruples was before the deal was struck, not afterward.
As he drove slowly along State Street, searching for a place to park in the area reserved for police and court officers, correction and probation personnel, he mulled it over.
Yes, he would explain it to Priscilla, in case she hadn’t mastered it all during her ten years in uniform. She needed to know, and it was his responsibility to make sure she did.
But what about Carol? Would he someday have to explain it all to her? Would that responsibility fall to him as well, or to some other cop, someone unknown to him. The street education of his youngest child entrusted to a stranger?
Rizzo parked the car and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.
No way, he thought. No way would he let that happen.
He turned and crossed State Street, heading for the secured police entrance at the rear of the Brooklyn Criminal Court house. He shook his mind clear of thoughts of Carol and turned once more to the task at hand.
Officer Freddy Clarton was a twenty-four-year veteran, currently assigned to the Ninety-fourth Precinct patrol unit, covering the old blue-collar Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint. In three months’ time, he would retire to the small North Carolina town where his grandparents and their parents had been born. Contained within the inner plastic sleeve of his uniform cap, he carried a small single sheet calendar. As each tour ended, he carefully placed a neat, red X over the date.
“Eighty-one more days,” he said, as he sat sipping coffee with Rizzo on a small bench outside the holding pen area of Central Booking, located in the basement of the court house.
“That’s great, Freddy,” Rizzo said. “I got about a year to go myself.”
Clarton shook his head. “Too goddamned long, Sarge, too god-damned long.”
“It’s the hand I got dealt,” Rizzo answered with a shrug.
Clarton sipped his coffee, his eyes peering over the cup’s edge to Rizzo.
“So, Sarge,” he said. “You wanna get down to business?”
Rizzo had been glad to find that the arresting officer was an old vet and not some nervous rookie afraid of his own shadow. Now his appreciation for the black cop’s seniority turned to an even more comforting respect for Clarton’s street smarts and directness.
“Yeah, Freddy, I do,” he said. “And just call me Joe.”
The cop laughed. “Oh, Lord, this must be a good one, we gettin’ all buddy-buddy here. What you need, Joe?”
Rizzo leaned closer to the man. “I read the arrest report and the rap sheet, Freddy. I know this guy Zumba is an asshole. And he ain’t a friend of mine.”
“Okay,” the cop said with a nod.
“So,” Rizzo continued. “This is the story. I owe a favor to the boss of the Angels. Over in Manhattan. The guy helped me with a runaway kid case, and it worked out good. This is his payback.”
“What is?” Clarton asked, his eyes narrowing.
Rizzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, you got this guy on a DWI, possession, assault-two, and resisting. I need you to shit-can the assault charge. It’s a D-felony. Drop it to obstructing governmental administration, an A-misdemeanor.”
The cop frowned. “This shit is a pain in my ass. Only reason I’m even here is ’cause they got me workin’ with some kid thinks he’s gonna clean up Dodge City. This whole collar was his doin’, then he tells me he can’t book the guy ’cause he’s gotta baptize his sister’s kid this morning. Imagine that? When we first saw Zumba weavin’ his bike and pulled him over, I told the kid to ignore it, let the guy go, but no, the kid is all righteous, can’t let a drunk go with just a warning. See, the skell was only ’bout five blocks from his apartment. Shit, worst coulda happened was he wrecked and broke his own sorry neck. Damn fool out ridin’ a motorcycle on a cold night in November, served him right if he went down. But no, my partner wants us to lock the guy up.”
Rizzo smiled. “Kids,” he said simply.
Clarton nodded. “Yeah. Younger every day, seems like. Anyway, so then the Angel mouths off a little, next thing I know, the kid slaps him and the guy goes ape-shit, so we got to tune his ass up. Then we toss ’im and find the dope. Now you come askin’ me to drop the assault count. That really hangs me out if the guy starts bitchin’ ’bout the lump I put on his head. I need that assault charge to cover my own ass, Joe.”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, well, I understand. But I’ll talk to the man in Manhattan. There won’t be any bitchin’ about you smackin’ this shit-head around. The resisting charge still stands, and with an added obstruction, that more than covers your use of force.”
Clarton considered it. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s not like we broke his fuckin’ head or anything.”
“Exactly,” said Rizzo. “What weight did the CPCS come in at?”
Clarton shrugged. “Haven’t heard yet,” he said. “It was just a taste, a little coke. What he had left over from his party-hardy night.”
“Probably his wake up,” Rizzo said.
Clarton ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I hate to get into this kinda shit so late in the game. I don’t wanna be spendin’ my last few months with some I.A.D. or Civilian Review prick breakin’ my balls.”
“No way,” Rizzo said emphatically. “You drop that assault-two, you’ll never hear nothin’ from this guy again. He tries to fuck this deal up, I go to his boss. Zumba gets thrown in the fuckin’ river. Believe me, it won’t be a problem. Let him pay his fines for the dope and DWI and take an A.C.D. or time-served on the two misdemeanors. Everybody’ll be happy.”