Hanging Time

3

Span of control, unity of command, delegation of authority, positive discipline, negative discipline, lost time management.

Detective April Woo, Detective Squad, 20th Precinct, New York City Police Department, gathered up the pile of index cards she had made of the management aspect of being a Sergeant. She zipped them into a pocket of the looseleaf notebook she had created over the last three months as a study guide for her police Sergeant promotion test, which was coming up in less than two weeks. The notebook contained hundreds of notes on job tasks associated with being a sergeant, as well as procedures and investigation techniques, department rules and regulations. The notebook was open to the section on leadership styles. Theory X and Theory Y management behavior, autocratic leaders, free-rein leaders (laissez faire). April didn’t know any leaders in the last category. She closed the book.

The clock beside her bed read 6:01 and already the sunlight streaked halfway across the room. She could tell summer was on the wane by the fact that only a few weeks earlier the patch of brilliance had been in the same place nearly an hour earlier. In a month or so the light wouldn’t be waking her up early enough to study before work at all, but by then it wouldn’t matter. She will have taken the test, and her fate would be decided. On the sergeant’s score anyway.

April knew she’d have to have an overall score of 95 or 96 to get it. One of her professors at John Jay had told her she had to want it bad. She knew that already. The same professor had also quoted an old Chinese proverb. “Learning is like rowing upstream; not to advance is to drop back.” She already knew that, too. Also, that she would not have another chance at promotion for five years. That was a scary thought. She was determined to be Sergeant Woo. And maybe even Lieutenant Woo someday. She shook herself a little to get going, and didn’t get anywhere.

Downstairs, April could hear her mother and father already squabbling in Chinese in their half of the two-family house they shared. They had financed the house with their combined incomes for different reasons. Woo parents said they wanted house so they could live Chinese-American style, together-apart in great happiness someday soon when April came to senses, left the police, married a Chinese doctor with a good practice, and had many babies.

April knew they said they’d be happy only if every one of their ten thousand most-wanted blessings were granted, but in fact their most important dreams had already been fulfilled. April had helped them buy the house so they could live well, period. Never mind who she married. Or even if she married, which most days she was pretty sure she wouldn’t.

The beam of sunlight inched over, pressuring her to get moving. She slid out of bed and padded into the bathroom. It had green ceramic tiles and a white curtain blowing in the open window. She was glad no one ever had to see the bathroom shelves loaded with cosmetics, moisturizers, bath oils, and small, shiny objects of decoration.

In fact, her own home was the only place she didn’t have to convince herself she was glad to be single. She liked not having to fight over who got the sink, or who was going to break down and wash it out afterward. As she began her exercises, she thought it would be terrible for someone to see her doing her hundred and fifty sit-ups, her squats and leg lifts, the work on her upper body with the free weights, and the grip exercises she did to keep her .38 as light as chopsticks in her hand.

She began to sweat after the thirty-fourth crunch. She was five foot five, which was not as bad genetically as it could have been, but slender as a reed, like her father, a cook in one of the better Chinese restaurants, who ate all the time and never gained an ounce of flesh. She took a break for three minutes to wash her face and assess herself critically in the mirror. It was hard to tell an Asian’s age, she knew.

At nearly thirty, April looked ten years younger. She had a perfect oval face, and a well-defined but not too pointed chin, small mouth, long, delicate neck, and a short layered haircut that had been singed pretty badly in the explosion but was nearly grown out now. In the mirror her eyes looked calm and determined, protected by their mongolian folds and years of training. As a cop she was supposed to feel normal no matter what terrible things she saw, or happened to her. But it was no secret that the police had a very high suicide rate, a lot of alcoholics, and multiple marriages with bitter endings.

April didn’t feel normal yet. She was still thinking about the case every day. She could still feel the scorching blast that knocked her and Sanchez, the Sergeant supervising her, through a door and sent them crashing down a flight of stairs into the garage below. If they’d hit the wall of the upstairs room instead, they would not have survived the fire. Sanchez lost his mustache, his eyebrows, some of his hair, and had burns on his ears, neck, and forehead. He had shoved April behind him at the last second even though she had her gun drawn and could have shot him. So there were no scars on her face, only on her hands and ankles. She owed him.

In her first days of being a detective, when April didn’t have to wear the blue uniform anymore, she had tried dressing in skirts, like a woman. In the summer she wore short sleeves on the street. After a few experiences of scrambling around garbage cans, trying to catch a mugger, her legs all scratched and hanging out, and getting a favorite skirt caught in the barbed wire somebody had put on his back window in Chinatown to discourage intruders, she knew better. Now she wore long-sleeved blouses, jackets, and man-tailored trousers all year around.

Sometimes when she looked down at the scars on her hands that might never match the brown of her skin, she thought the blouse, the jacket, and the pants had spared the rest of her. But deep inside she knew it was really Sanchez’s macho reflex—to protect the women at all costs—that saved her. She often wondered if he would have made the same move if she had been a male detective, or a Sergeant like himself.

Today Sanchez would be back from a week’s vacation in Mexico. He’d probably be unbearably Spanish for quite a while. April swallowed some hot water with lemon in it, old Chinese remedy for she didn’t even know what, and started her leg lifts. She wasn’t sure exactly when flesh had gotten to be such a point of interest to her. Sometime in the year since she was transferred from the 5th Precinct in Chinatown to the Two-O on the Upper West Side she started working out more.

She still missed Chinatown. She was born there, lived there most of her life, was posted to the 5th after eighteen months on street patrol in Brooklyn. She was promoted to Detective 3rd grade after only two years in Chinatown, then Detective 2nd grade, which earned her Sergeant’s pay but not the supervisory rank. She had expected to remain, a social worker with a gun, in Chinatown forever. The move to the Upper West Side made no sense. In a police force of over thirty thousand, with only a few hundred of that number Asian, it seemed absurd to be assigned to a precinct that was overwhelmingly white, African American, and Hispanic. Of course, if she hadn’t been transferred, she would never have met Sanchez, and who knows, might even have married Jimmy Wong and been unhappy the rest of her life, not to mention just a Detective 2nd Grade with not so many ambitions for a higher rank and a college degree.

April finished her exercises, showered, dressed quickly, and set off from Astoria, Queens, hoping to get into Manhattan before Sanchez did.

The traffic on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge was a thick clot as usual but light on Eighty-fifth Street, crosstown through Central Park. She made it to the Two-O by 7:50 and parked her white Chrysler Le Baron in the police lot next to the precinct. Mike’s red Camaro was already there.

Upstairs in the squad room, Sanchez was working the phone, feet up on an open drawer, wearing his usual combination of gray shirt and darker gray tie, light gray trousers. He liked to mix his grays. A gray linen jacket hung over the back of his chair. His black hair and bristly mustache were as lush as ever, and he was, as April had predicted, very dark from the Mexican sun.

For a week the squad room had smelled like old steel furniture. Now a familiar odor charged the air again. Sanchez was back. In the early morning his aftershave was strongest, powerful enough to sweeten a garbage dump.

“Hi.” April breathed in and whistled. “Wow.”

He grinned and put his hand over the receiver.

“Miss me?”

She shook her head.

“Aw, and I thought you were mi querida.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered.

“Close enough.” He took his hand off the receiver. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. What day did you say you saw Elonzo with the car in question?”

April slung her bag down on her desk and went through the motions of getting the files of her current cases together. Sure she missed Sanchez, and he knew it. But she would never say so. It would give him even more ideas than he already had. Although she’d heard there was a lot of Chinese-Mexican mixing in California, the combination would never work for her. Not with her hopes for the future, and the kind of family she had.

Anyway, no matter what their private feelings, Sanchez was a detective-sergeant on the way up. He’d fixed it so that she worked under his “close supervision” a whole lot of the time. Nobody in the precinct had any doubts about what that meant. Sanchez had monkey business on his mind, and he was in a position to hold her back or push her ahead. She had to be careful about a lot of things, and falling in love with him was absolutely out of the question.

“Yeah, but Thursday of what month?” he asked. He made a note on the paper in front of him.

“Oh, now it’s this month. Can you give me a date on that? A date. Like Thursday the fourth. Or Thursday the twenty-second.”

At ten o’clock April Woo and Sergeant Sanchez were the first detectives to see Maggie Wheeler.