Most of the police officers were just as frustrated as the neighborhood’s inhabitants. If they couldn’t get out on sick leave or transfer to another precinct, then they took bribes from drug dealers and squeezed store owners for protection money.
Marvin Finnegan had been a police officer in one of New York’s most miserable neighborhoods for sixteen years. He was born and raised here, and had only left the South Bronx to serve in the army and later attend the police academy. He was a tough but fair cop, and his name had long ago become a legend because he was incorruptible, determined to protect honest people from criminals.
“Hey, Marvin!” Patrick Peters, the lieutenant on duty, stuck his head inside the recreation room. “A woman from an apartment at the corner of Flatbush and Sound View Avenue just called. That gang showed up again. I sent over Hank and Freddie.”
Finnegan put down his hand with a hint of regret. He had a full house, but that was tough luck.
Tom Ganelli, who had been Finnegan’s partner for three years, grinned in excitement.
“Pat,” Finnegan said, slipping into his jacket, “try to reach Valentine and Burns. I want them to come, but without the siren. We’ll end the game these bastards are playing.”
The patrol car stopped on a side street close to the apartment building just ten minutes later. The building was on one of those half-empty, dilapidated blocks, where working-class families lived alongside junkie squatters. Finnegan and Ganelli could hear screams and the sound of shattering glass from a distance as they approached. They scurried to the rear of the building in the shadow of the crumbling walls, while taking care not to stumble over rubble and garbage. They passed a burned-out car. Finnegan pulled out his gun. The past few weeks had seen an unusual accumulation of these nightly raids on dilapidated apartment buildings. Two buildings had been set on fire and burned to the ground because the fire hydrants in the vicinity had been intentionally blocked.
It was quite obvious to the men of the Forty-First Precinct that there was a coordinated effort underway to empty these buildings. After the tenants gave up and moved out due to the constant terror and fear, heavy machinery with wrecking balls moved in and razed the building to the ground. Property was scarce in New York City. New developments with expensive condos or offices would be built here eventually. This neighborhood would be cleaned up someday, and unscrupulous real-estate speculators, who bought these properties cheap, would make a killing. The poor people would be pushed to more run-down areas. The police officers coordinated their actions by radio and surrounded the building in a circle.
“How many, and where are they?” Finnegan wanted to know.
“They’re inside the building,” his colleague replied from the other side. “I think five or six.”
They slowly approached the building.
“It smells like gasoline here,” Ganelli said quietly. “They want to burn this shack down.”
The glow of a fire lit up the night just at that moment. Windows were flung open, and people screamed in desperation.
“Call the fire department,” Finnegan said, turning his radio on. “Everybody else move!”
Just as they approached the building, the arsonists tried to escape through the busted front door.
“Police!” Finnegan roared, charging ahead with his weapon pulled. “Freeze!”
Ganelli flared up a bright spotlight and aimed it at the men. The thugs were blinded for a second and stopped; then one of them pulled a gun.
“Get down!” Finnegan screamed, ducking. Not a second too late, because someone started firing in all directions. Finnegan aimed his .357 Magnum and pulled the trigger. A moment’s remorse or the slightest hesitation could be deadly in this situation. He heard a stifled cry behind him, and then the spotlight went out. The other officers charged the five thugs, who now stood there like well-behaved choir boys.
“Tommy?” Finnegan leaned over his partner in concern. “Hey, Tommy!”
“I think I got hit,” the young man whispered and moaned.
“Shit!” Finnegan raised himself up. “We need an ambulance! Tommy’s been hit!”
Two police officers rushed over. In the light of Mendoza’s flashlight, Finnegan saw that Ganelli had caught a bullet in his stomach. He’d forgotten to put on his bulletproof vest in the rush to the scene.
“God damn it,” he cursed, patting his partner’s face in desperation. “Hang in there, Tommy! You better hang in there! We’re taking you to the hospital, kid. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Ganelli smiled slightly. The sirens of the fire trucks were already approaching in the distance. Curious bystanders appeared. Biting smoke came through the broken windows of the building’s basement. The officers forced the five men against a building covered with graffiti, their legs spread. They searched them for weapons before handcuffing them. Jimmy Soames leaned over the man who Finnegan had shot.
“This one doesn’t need an ambulance anymore,” he remarked, putting his weapon back into his holster. “He’s stone dead.”
Finnegan squatted on the ground next to his injured partner in the drizzling rain that soaked his uniform. Blood was tricking out of the corner of Ganelli’s mouth, and his eyes became increasingly glassy. He suspected that the twenty-eight-year-old man would die.
When they returned to the precinct, the news that a policeman had been shot was already making the rounds. There was an unusual frenzy of activity in the police station for this time of night. Hordes of reporters flocked like moths to light when they heard some guys were arrested in the South Bronx during an operation to forcibly evict tenants. An officer, Lieutenant O’Malley, stepped into Finnegan’s path.
“You won’t believe it,” he said, “but one of those thugs is the son of Vitali, that real-estate tycoon from Manhattan.”
“Oh really?” Finnegan grinned coldly. “That’s the icing on the cake.”
He pushed impatiently through the waiting press crowd without addressing any of their questions. In the basement near the holding cells, he ran into Patrick Peters.
“What happened to Tommy is terrible,” he said to Finnegan compassionately. “They took him to Fordham.”
“At least one of those bastards bit the dust.”
“Yes,” Peters nodded, “I heard. Shot to the head.”
“But it was too late. He’d already shot Tommy.”
Peters gave Finnegan a sympathetic look and then patted him on the shoulder.
“I think it would be better if you call it a day now, Marv.”
“No, I’m not leaving until I see what happens with Tommy,” Finnegan objected. “I’m all right, Pat.”
Peters nodded. “It seems that you caught a big fish. We might actually be able to get to one of the guys pulling the strings.”
“I already heard. Vitali’s son,” Finnegan replied.
“You should inform the mayor. That’ll interest him.”
“I believe that’s Captain Tremell’s decision,” Peters said. “He’s on his way here.”
Finnegan put his jacket on the coat rack and walked over to the holding cells where the five arrested men were locked up. Lieutenant Peters walked upstairs to the police station to report the details to Captain Tremell, the commanding officer of the Forty-First Precinct.