Rizzo's Fire

CHAPTER SIX

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 3, DAWNED cold and dreary, a misty rain moving through Brooklyn on a light westerly wind. The front pages of the tabloids screamed bold, black headlines. The New York Times, normally crime free on page one, featured the story prominently.

Avery Mallard, native New Yorker and Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright, had been found murdered in his Manhattan home, his body sprawled before a showcase filled with Tony awards, New York Drama Critics Circle awards, two Emmys, the Pulitzer itself, and more than a dozen lesser prizes.

Joe Rizzo sat in the front passenger seat of the Impala reading the Daily News’s version of the murder. Priscilla Jackson wove the car through the now familiar streets of the Sixty-second Precinct, her right hand lightly on the wheel, her left resting on her thigh.

“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.”

Priscilla remained silent. Rizzo turned to face her. “Civilization is just a facade. You know it. I know it. Every cop knows it. But Carol, she don’t know it. She was never on the streets. She may as well have grown up in fuckin’ Mayberry with Aunt Bea bakin’ her pies.”

“Okay, Joe,” she conceded, “I see where you’re coming from. But consider this: you only know Carol as her father, and see her only from that limited viewpoint. She may be tougher and a little more realistic than you figure. If this is something she really wants to do, you got to figure she’s thought it through. Carol’s lookin’ for your support. She needs your support. But, believe me, if she don’t get it, she’ll adjust. She wants to be a cop, she’ll be one.” Priscilla sighed. “I know what it’s like not having a parent’s support.” She paused before continuing. “And I’ve seen the other side, too. With Karen. Her parents were always there for her. No matter what. With the gay thing, with the ‘I wanna be a lawyer’ thing.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Hell, even with the big thing-the black cop girlfriend thing.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to like it, Joe. You don’t have to encourage it or pretend to be happy about it. And you can still make your case against it, clear and calm, without beatin’ on what’s probably your big old hairy Italian chest. You can discuss it with her. You know, like two adults. Then you gotta let her decide. And when she does, you smile at her, you wish her luck, and you back her up the whole way.” Priscilla’s expression turned sad, and the twinkle drained from her eyes.

“That’s what a father does, Joe,” she said. “From what I’ve been told.”

Rizzo looked at her with a sad smile.

“Yeah, that’s what I hear, too.”

They sat in silence. After a few moments, Rizzo spoke again.

“I was just gonna tell her what it’s like. Tell her about the dead kid on the highway, about the I.A.D. jam-up I got myself into, about the shit me and Mike got tangled up with, about the political flunky bosses.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his eye twitching nervously.

“I was gonna tell her all about it,” he repeated. “Instead, I completely lost it. Went right into a tirade, just like my grandfather used to do when he came home from the job too full of bourbon.” Rizzo shook his head. “If I know Carol, even if she changes her mind and decides she’d rather become a friggin’ nun, she’ll still go on the cops. Just to show me I can’t push her around.”

Priscilla hesitated a moment, then laughed, slapping backhandedly at Rizzo’s left arm.

“There you go, Partner,” she said. “You’re startin’ to look on the bright side of this thing already.”

Rizzo turned to her, a puzzled look in his eyes.

“Hell,” she said. “At least she didn’t say she wants to become a nun. Now that would call for a fuckin’ tirade.”

Rizzo laughed grudgingly. “Yeah,” he said, “really.”

She turned to face him fully.

“You know, Joe, it ain’t the end of the world if she goes on the job. There’s worse shit parents got to deal with.”

“Yeah. I’m aware of that,” Rizzo said. “But we’re talkin’ about my daughter, my little girl. Not some hypothetical kid somewhere. My little girl.”

Priscilla sighed. “I know, I know.”

Rizzo’s face animated, his cheeks flushing slightly. “No,” he said firmly. “You don’t know. You don’t have kids.” A pensive look came to his eyes.

“When my girls were little,” he said, “I’d tell them stories. Bedtime stories. When I was home to do it, that is. Carol was always the toughest. See, I’d make up the stories. I’d give them a choice: Ben the bear, Flipper the dolphin, or Lassie. Marie usually went for Lassie. Jessica bounced from one to the other. But Carol, she was tough. She’d pick combos-Ben and Lassie, Flipper and Ben-like that.” He raised his eyes back to Priscilla’s, pulling himself back into the car from those faraway nights. He smiled sadly. “You got any friggin’ idea how hard it is to make up a story with a goddamned fish combination? A fish and a bear? Or a collie?

“I’d have ’em all go waterskiing. On a river. Flipper pulling the other guys.” He laughed. “One time Carol asked me, ‘Where’d they get the skis, Daddy?’ ”

Amused, Priscilla asked, “I’m a little curious myself. Where did they get the skis?”

“Where else?” Rizzo asked. “Santa Claus.”

That brought a laugh from her. “Of course.”

He shook his head at the memory. “What I always wondered was, how’d they make the arrangements? To meet, I mean. What’d they do, e-mail each other?”

Priscilla opened the driver’s door and swung a long leg out of the car.

As he opened his door, Rizzo turned to her again.

“She can’t do this, Cil,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not right for her. It’ll hurt her.” Again his head shook. “She’s still my little girl.”

Priscilla pressed her lips, uncomfortable with Rizzo’s obvious pain.

“Yeah,” she said kindly. “She’ll always be your little girl, I guess.” Now her own mood turned sad, and she made a conscious effort to push it away. “I wish I had been somebody’s little girl. Damn, I wish I had. Wish I was. But, you know what? I handled it. I still handle it. Because I’m an adult now, Joe. Not a little girl. A woman.”

Priscilla climbed from the car, leaning back in to address him one more time.

“And so is Carol. What ever happens, however this plays out, she’ll handle it. Like a full-grown woman.”

Rizzo remained silent.

“Now,” Priscilla said, her voice businesslike, “let’s go do our job. Let’s go get real.” Then she added one last thing. “And by the way, Joe. Just in case it should ever come up. A dolphin is a mammal, not a fuckin’ fish.”

THE TWO detectives sat in high-backed upholstered chairs in the neat, sparsely decorated living room. Across from them on a plain black sofa, three civilians sat facing them.

“I have a question,” Rizzo said. “About the names.”

Twenty-nine-year-old Cornelia Hom nodded.

“I’m sure you do, Sergeant,” she said.

Rizzo continued. “I have your grandmother’s name as Hom Bik and your grandfather’s as Hom Feng. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cornelia answered. “Hom is the surname. Chinese names are the reverse of English-surname first, given name second.”

Priscilla said, “So it’s Mr. and Mrs. Hom. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Cornelia said. “And, as I told you, they both understand English and speak some. They’re just more comfortable with me here, which is why I took off from work today.”

“Where is that, Ms. Hom?” Rizzo asked.

“Morgan Chase,” she replied. “On Broad and Wall Streets.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, jotting it down. “Before we leave, I’d like all your numbers-home, business, cell. In case we need to contact you.”

Cornelia nodded. “Of course,” she said.

Rizzo looked at the elderly couple to Cornelia’s right. “You folks were robbed four nights ago,” he said. “I apologize for the delay in getting here. The case was originally assigned to the day tour the morning following the crime. The detectives who caught it have been in court since then, testifying on other cases, or were on regular days off. This morning, my boss reassigned the case to us. I checked the file. The first detectives assigned had done some preliminaries. This is the third mugging in the precinct in the last month. All elderly victims, always at night.”

Rizzo turned his attention back to Cornelia Hom.

“That’s unusual for this particular neighborhood. We don’t have a lot of street robberies in this sector of the precinct. The assigned detectives were looking at the other two cases, looking for a link. So, our visit here today isn’t the first police action taken. But, again, I apologize for the delay in getting out here.”

Cornelia Hom nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“The other two victims were Italian-American, so the common links were age, method, and time of assault,” Rizzo said. “So if they are linked, we’re not looking at a bias crime.”

“And the muggers?” Cornelia asked.

“Mugger,” he corrected. “Looks to be a lone operator.” Now Rizzo turned back to the elderly couple. “And just as you reported in your case, the perpetrator in the other two cases is also described as being Caucasian.”

Cornelia Hom nodded again. Both elderly victims smiled at Rizzo, then Priscilla, but remained silent.

“All right then, Sergeant,” Cornelia said. “Would you like to question my grandparents?”

Rizzo picked up his pen. “Yes,” he said. “If there’s a problem with language, I assume you can help out?”

She smiled. “I speak fluent Chinese in four dialects. I also speak Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, and some Thai. At Morgan Chase, I’m the Eastern accounts liaison officer.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, then turned to the victims.

“I was glad to hear you weren’t seriously injured,” he said. “Just pushed around a bit and, of course, badly frightened. You were seen at the emergency room and released, correct?”

“Yes,” Hom Feng said with a short nod of his head.

“Good,” Rizzo replied, smiling into the dark, friendly eyes, wide set in the old man’s weathered face.

“So,” he continued, “according to the Aided Report the uniformed officers filed, the incident took place on the corner of Seventy-first Street and Fifteenth Avenue, correct?”

Hom Fen frowned. “No,” he said with the same short nod. “Seventy-second.”

Rizzo rubbed at his eye, looking again to his notes.

“The cops who responded said Seventy-first in the report,” he said. “Is that wrong?”

Cornelia Hom leaned forward. “Is it of some importance, Sergeant?” she asked.

Rizzo nodded. “It could be. This happened at about nine-thirty at night, correct?”

Cornelia glanced to her grandfather.

“Yes,” he said.

“But Seventy-second Street, not Seventy-first?” Rizzo asked.

“Yes,” Hom Feng repeated.

Rizzo glanced to Cornelia, a question in his eyes.

She smiled at him. “Yes, Sergeant. They are old. But they are both sharper than I am. I may not know what corner I’m on, but I assure you, they do.” She turned slightly in her seat, facing her grandparents.

“May I?” she asked with a glance to Rizzo.

He sat back in his seat. “I wish you would.”

She spoke in rapid and precise lyrical Cantonese, eliciting a smile of pride on both elderly faces. It was her grandmother, Hom Bik, who responded. Her voice was strong and clear, also lyrical in her native tongue.

Cornelia turned to Rizzo. “They are certain, Sergeant. The attack took place on Seventy-second and Fifteenth, the northeast corner to be exact. Afterward, they walked over to the next street, Seventy-first, because there was a store open there, a late-night grocery. That’s where the police were called from. Neither of them has a cell phone.”

“Yeah. I figured. My mother is seventy-eight and she just agreed to get cable TV,” Rizzo said.

Cornelia smiled. “Generational traits transcend cultures, I guess.”

“Seems like it.” Rizzo cleared his throat, turning again to Hom Feng and his wife. “So,” he said, “you were attacked right on the corner, right in front of the schoolyard? The P.S. one-twelve school-yard on the corner?”

“Yes,” said Hom Feng. “Schoolyard.”

Rizzo turned to Priscilla. “You may be my lucky charm, Detective Jackson,” he said with a wink. “Why don’t you ask the rest of the questions? I’ll take some notes.”

He turned back to the Homs. “This might take awhile,” he said.

“Time well spent, I think. Time well spent,” Rizzo added.

LATER, SITTING in the Impala in front of the Hom residence, Priscilla recorded and expanded her notes while the minute details of the interview were still fresh in her mind.

Rizzo turned to her.

“Like I told them,” he said, “muggings around here are rare. Only time we see one is when some asshole junkie gets so strung out, he forgets to be afraid and grabs some old lady’s purse.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?” she asked, without looking up from her pad.

“Afraid of Louie Quattropa. Remember your first day in the precinct? We drove around and I pointed out the Starlight Lounge? That’s Quattropa’s base of operations. He’s the Brooklyn mob boss, commands the old Columbo gang. Louie takes a hard line with local street crime, especially since it don’t put any money in his pocket. He thinks he’s building goodwill in the neighborhood by enforcing the laws he deems worthy of enforcin’.”

She looked up from her writing. “Enforcing how?” she asked.

“Oh, kinda like Genghis fuckin’ Khan enforced the law. With a heavy hand.” Rizzo dug out a piece of Nicorette. “If you’re gonna work the precinct, you oughta know its history,” he said. “You know, like when you were assigned the Upper East Side and you knew where all the ‘Jackie-O slept here’ signs were located. Like that.”

“Okay, Joe. Educate me.”

“Well, years ago some asshole decided to rob the famous jeweled crown that was on display in the local parish, Regina Pacis. Quattropa wasn’t the boss of all bosses then, just the Bay Ridge-Bensonhurst capo. About a month later, the crown comes back to the church by parcel post. Then the cops in the Seven-Six find a local b and e man with his hands chopped off, two slugs in the back of his skull, and a crucifix nailed to his forehead. Theory is, the guy’s the one who stole the crown, and he had pissed off Quattropa.”

Priscilla turned back to her notes. “Oh,” she said. “So it went like that.”

“Yeah. It went like that. It always goes like that when you mix righteous indignation with a murderous, megalomaniacal personality.”

“Megalo-fuckin’-maniacal?” Priscilla said. “You takin’ vocabulary lessons?”

“Maybe it’s me should be the friggin’ writer,” he said.

Shaking her head and smiling, she agreed.

He resumed his tale. “Last time we figure Quattropa stepped in was ’bout four, five years ago. When this crazy kid from Sixty-fifth Street wound up frozen solid, a kid all the cops knew, Perry Pino. Took two days to thaw him out.”

Priscilla looked up, her eyes wide. “Now that story you gotta tell me, Joe.”

“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, “all the boys and girls like that one. See, down one of these blocks, I forget which one, there’s a free-standin’ ice pavilion. About twenty-five feet long, ten feet high, with steps leadin’ up to a platform in front of it. You put your money in the slot, and the thing dispenses giant bags of ice. Ten, twenty pounds, what ever you want. Lotsa local businesses use it-restaurants, fish markets, like that. So, one day, this old lady from the neighborhood, she goes to the pavilion to get some ice. She’s throwing a birthday party for her grandson and she’s making home-made ice cream, havin’ a backyard cookout, real Norman Rockwell shit, Brooklyn style. Well, seems like our boy, Perry, was in need of a few bucks. Gas money, maybe, for his shiny hot-rod Camaro. So he decides to mug the old gal. Trouble was, somebody saw him do it, somebody close to Quattropa.”

“Sounds like trouble in River City,” said Priscilla.

Rizzo nodded. “Big time. So, about a week later, the owner of the pavilion comes to restock his ice machine. He goes around back, finds the door broken into. And when he opens the freezer, guess what? There lies Perry, duct-taped hand and foot, gagged, beat up a little. And frozen solid. They fuckin’ put him in there alive.” He shook his head. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t even watch my grandfather cook live crabs. He’d throw the poor bastards into the boilin’ water, then talk to them in Italian and whack them off the rim of the pot with a wooden spoon when they tried to climb out.”

With another head shake, he added, “But Quattropa and the boys, they got no problem tossin’ some dumb-ass teenager into the deep freeze.”

After a moment, Priscilla spoke up. “Now I can see why the Six-Two street crime stays manageable.”

He laughed. “Yeah, and there are other examples. ’Course, none a those incidents could ever be traced back to Louie. But everybody knew. Cops, citizens, skells, everybody.”

Priscilla finished up her notes and started the car.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “that was fun. What now, boss?”

Rizzo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “Drop yourself off. Then I’ll take the car and head downtown. I have to be in court this afternoon on one of me and Mike’s old cases.”

Priscilla pulled the Impala out into the street, heading for the precinct. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll catch us up on paperwork and work the phones on some of our cases.”

Rizzo nodded. “Good idea. Talk to Vince, too. Get him to switch us to four-to-midnight tomorrow.”

“Why?” she asked. “We’re scheduled eight-to-four tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, remember inside the Hom house I said you were my lucky charm?”

“Yeah. What’s up with that?”

“Well, we just might be catchin’ a break on this mugging. But we need to do the leg work at night. I’ll explain it all tomorrow. Just get Swede to switch our tours.”

“That’s a problem for me, Joe,” she said.

He looked at her. “Oh? Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. I got my writing class at the Y. Six-thirty to nine. I was expecting a day tour, not a night tour.”

Rizzo raised his brows. “Well, excuse me,” he said. “I forgot about that. Okay, then, Wednesday. Have Swede switch us on Wednesday.”

“Okay, I appreciate it, Joe.”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do,” he said. “After all, who else can I find to write my memoirs?”

He lowered the passenger window and spit his chewed-up Nicorette into the street.

“I sure as hell couldn’t do it myself,” he said.