Love or Honor (5 page)

“Yes, I know that desk,” Chris said. “That's Teddy Roosevelt's desk.”

“Oh, so you know about it,” the chief said. “Good. This is the desk every police commissioner has used since before the turn of the century. Now you sit there.”

A little hesitantly, Chris walked around the big desk and sat in the leather swivel chair.

“Put your feet up,” the chief said. Chris wondered briefly if he should take off his shoes. “Put your feet up,” Devine repeated.

Chris pushed back the chair a little and stretched his feet up on the desk. He leaned back in the chair. He grinned.

“Okay, that's enough,” the chief said. On the way out, he put his arm around Chris. “You'll never be police commissioner,” he informed him. “But now, when you're talking to somebody, you can truthfully say, ‘Well, when I was sitting at the commissioner's desk …'”

At the Operations counter, separated from the foyer by a glass partition, Chris showed his ID and was given a visitor's pass. Not even seasoned veterans were allowed to roam freely at the Intelligence Division, with its sensitive offices and sometimes explosive files. He was directed upstairs, to a conference room where the inspector and three other men were sitting at a long, rectangular table.

“Sit down, Chris,” the inspector said casually, waving him to the chair opposite him, at the other end of the table. Chris gave a kind of semisalute, to take in all the men, and sat.

“I hear you speak Greek,” the inspector said.

Chris was startled. “Uh, yeah. Yes, sir. I speak Greek. I mean, I'm Greek.”

The inspector smiled. He folded his hands in front of him on the table. “Tell us about yourself, Chris,” he said.

Chris was so taken aback he didn't know where to begin. You already know all about me, he felt like saying. He was sure the file folders on the table, in front of each man, were his reports, his entire dossier. One man, in fact, was reading something from the file, not even looking at Chris.

“Well, I started in Rockaway,” Chris began. He sketched over his time there, and was talking in a rambling way about cases at the 4-oh when the man who was reading from the folder looked up.

“Do you consider yourself a hero?” he asked, not smiling.

Oh Jesus, Chris thought; he's seen that clip. He was stammering for a reply when the chief—Chris knew he was a chief from the stars on his jacket—spoke again. “We don't want a hero,” he said sternly. “We don't need a superstar. We just need a good man.”

“We need
you
, Chris,” the inspector said. “And here's why.” He listened intently, with growing amazement, as the inspector explained. They had reason to believe that crime within the Greek community, centered in Queens, was linked with the traditionally Italian-dominated crime network. The mob. The Mafia.

“We want you to go undercover and find out how the Greek network is structured and what they're doing with the Italians,” the inspector said. “If anything.”

“What would I be doing?” Chris asked.

“Your job would be to gather intelligence,” the inspector said. “The DA wants to know all there is to know about what's going on among the Greeks, how they're organizing, what they're up to. You would go in and find out.”

“Well, but—I'm really happy where I am,” Chris said. “I have a good partner and, well, I just think I'd rather stay put.”

The inspector smiled. He was a marine captain in the reserves, Chris knew, but he didn't look tough. He had a round chubby face and a friendly smile.

“You'll have carte blanche,” the inspector continued, as though he hadn't even heard what Chris had said. “You'll have money to finance the operation, as much as you need. We'll leave that up to you, because you'll be working alone.”

“It's not that,” Chris said. “I wouldn't mind working alone. But I'm really happy where I am. I'm a street cop, and I really don't want to do something else. But thank you, sir. Thanks anyway.” Nobody spoke. “Thank you,” Chris said again.

“Chris, we have interviewed twenty men for this job,” the inspector said. His voice was quiet. “And we don't want any of those men. We want you.”

“I'd really rather stay in the Bronx, Inspector,” Chris said, a bit desperately. “I like what I'm doing there, and I think I'm doing a good job. But thank you, anyway.” For God's sake, stop saying thanks, he told himself.

Nobody spoke. One man drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. Chris felt he had to say something more. “I do undercover narcotics and street crimes,” he said, feeling idiotic for telling them what he knew they already knew. “I like my work, and I like my partner, and I think we're doing good work, I really do.” He stopped talking, not knowing what else in the world he could possibly say.

“Chris, we don't just
want
you for this job,” the inspector said. “I'm saying we
need
you.”

Chris took a long, deep breath. “I just don't think I want to do it, sir,” he said. “I mean, I really don't. I—I'd have to think about it.”

The inspector stopped smiling. “All right then, Chris,” he said abruptly, in an irritated voice. “You think about it, and get back to me.”

“Yes sir, thank you, Inspector,” Chris said, getting up quickly. He nodded at the stern-faced men around the table, who just looked at him. He left the room as hastily as he could. He hurried out the front door, not speaking to anyone, and up the block to the subway. He was halfway back to Forest Hills when he realized they hadn't offered him coffee.

Back home, he called the station to say he was taking some lost time—time that was coming to him—and he'd be in on Monday. He changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and made a pot of coffee. His mind was made up. He knew he didn't want the job. But he thought he ought to wait a couple of hours before he called the inspector.

No
way
did he want the job. He'd told the truth when he said he was happy where he was, and he didn't want to rock that boat. He liked his work, and he liked the camaraderie of the 4-oh. He wasn't thinking now of the times he'd felt like an outcast; all he could think of now were the good times there. When a cop who had worked there, then had been transferred, had a family tragedy, the guys at the 4-oh had still cared. Jeff's house had caught fire one night, when he was at work. His ten-year-old son had died in the blaze, and his wife and two other children were badly burned. Chris and some guys had been sitting around, talking about what they could do to help, when somebody thought of a benefit. Several cops at the 4-oh had boxing experience, some with Golden Gloves. Chris had boxed with the Police Athletic League, as a kid.

They set up a gym in the 4-oh basement and half a dozen guys, including Chris, went in for some serious training. He sparred two, three hours a day for six weeks and got himself in top shape. At 160 pounds, he was matched with a cop named Ralph, same weight. Flyers went out to other precincts; as the word spread, tickets were snapped up, and the match had to be relocated from the 4-oh basement to the auditorium of the Methodist Church at 141st Street and Willis Avenue.

Four days before the event, Ralph broke his wrist. Nobody seemed available to take his place. Then a guy named Nolan said, “I'll box you, Chris.”

Chris stared at him. Nolan was a very big person. He had a farm upstate where he spent his days off, pitching hay.

“Nolan, you've got to be kidding,” Chris said mildly. “You outweigh me by fifty pounds.”

“What's the matter?” Nolan demanded. “You afraid to fight me?”

“Nolan, you're fifty pounds heavier,” Chris repeated.

Then the other guys chimed in. “C'mon, Chris, it's for Jeff's kids.”

Even though the auditorium held six hundred people, the crowd was SRO. The commissioner came, the mayor, newspaper reporters, TV crews, the works. A regulation ring was set up, all very professional. Emergency Service stood by with oxygen. Cops sold beer and peanuts among the noisy throng as a doctor checked out the boxers.

Chris and Nolan had the first bout, three two-minute rounds. Each fighter was introduced, to deafening cheers. Chris clenched his hands above his head, in the big, black gloves, and tried to wave. Mac was the timekeeper. He banged the bell. Chris and Nolan came out swinging.

Hey, I'm a boxer! Chris thought with delight. He threw a quick jab, another quick jab. Nolan was swinging wide. Chris was right-handed, but he could box southpaw, and he hit Nolan with such a counterpunch that the crowd went wild. The bell rang. “You boxed his ears off!” Mac hissed to Chris.

But as he sat sweating in his corner, a towel draped around his shoulders, Chris felt he was in trouble. When he and Nolan faced off for the second round, he knew he was. “It was like I'd waved a red flag in front of a bull,” Chris remembered. “I'd embarrassed him, and he was going to get even. We were both cops, but that night we were just two boxers. He came at me like a tank—charging, charging.”

The third round was even worse. Nolan hit Chris so hard that he dislocated his shoulder. “Mac, Mac, hit the bell, hit the damn bell!” Chris yelled. “It's not two minutes yet!” Mac yelled back. So Chris spent the rest of the round just trying, basically, to keep out of Nolan's way.

Melba Tolliver, a television reporter, approached Chris afterward. “What makes a man like you get in that ring and take such punishment?” she asked. Chris clutched his right shoulder with his left hand and tried to smile for the camera. “The police department takes care of its own,” he said stoutly, as a guy waved a can of beer back and forth in front of the camera. “Hey, what are you interviewing
him
for? He lost!” The following Sunday, the photograph in
The News
showed Chris bent over, grimacing in pain, obviously trying to dodge Nolan, who was just as obviously beating the hell out of him.

Still, it was a wonderful night, Chris always said—mentally, spiritually and morale-wise. A night that had made him glad to belong to the 4-oh. A night that, as he remembered it, made him absolutely sure he didn't want to leave.

The inspector's secretary said he wasn't available at the moment. Was there a message? Feeling relieved that he didn't have to speak to the inspector, and a bit ashamed at feeling so relieved, Chris said yes, there was a message. “Please tell him thanks, I really appreciate it, but I have to say no.”

He was glad when that was over. Still, he felt restless as he roamed around the apartment, not knowing quite what to do with the rest of the day. He put an opera record on the stereo—Maria Callas, one of his favorites.

He wished he had his drums, which were packed away in a closet at his mother's house, because you couldn't play drums in an apartment building. When he was still in uniform, his drums had been a good backup. When he'd waded into a crowd on a street corner at the 4-oh, suspecting trouble, he found a bunch of young guys setting up a combo, with conga drums, bass, and guitar. “Hey, man, you're not going to break this up, are you?” one of them asked.

Chris looked around at the faces surrounding him, in the sudden silence. “Hey, no, I like music,” he said cheerfully. “Let me sit in.” He didn't know the conga, but what the heck, percussion is percussion, he thought. He took off his hat, sat on a garbage can lid and hit the drums. The crowd was clapping and stomping, making such a racket that Chris didn't notice the radio car pulling up. By the time he saw the gleam of gold on the cap of the cop headed his way, there was nothing he could do but sit there.

“What's going on here?” the sergeant demanded.

Chris thought fast. “Well, this is good public relations,” he answered. “Kind of like—like community work with the people, you know?”

The sergeant snorted. “What an answer,” he said. “How could I write you up? But don't let it happen again!”

Chris felt relieved that he'd escaped a reprimand, and he felt even better when, as he walked away, he heard someone say to the drummer, “Hey, man, you better burn your hands—the cop is better than you are!”

He wished he could talk to Phil. They talked on the phone at least once a week. But with the hour time difference, Phil would still be at his desk in St. Louis, and Chris didn't want to interrupt him there. He felt he could tell Phil anything, even something he wasn't supposed to talk about, but if there were people around, Phil wouldn't be able to talk freely.

Phil had made the FBI, as Chris had known he would. Early one Sunday morning, Chris had driven him to Penn Station, where Phil was catching a train to Quantico for training. They laughed and talked and reminisced over coffee at the station restaurant, then had walked to Track 25. At the very last minute, Phil threw his arms around Chris and said, “So long, Partner.” Chris thought it must have looked like a scene from some B movie: two macho cops standing there, trying to look tough, tears running down their cheeks. After training, Phil was assigned to St. Louis. He and his wife, Judy, had adopted a baby boy and named him after Chris.

He wished Liz would call, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't. She got as wrapped up in her work as he did in his. It probably wouldn't even occur to her to call. Although their second anniversary was coming soon, Chris still felt a little like a newlywed, partly because he had waited so long to marry, partly because even after they were married, their careers often separated them, and whenever they got together, it seemed new.

Chris had always liked women and felt comfortable around them. He thought that, in general, women were smarter than men. But somehow the notion of marriage had eluded him all through his twenties; he'd been a late bloomer. He had his first date when he was seventeen, with a nice girl, Beth, who was in his civics class. Chris remembered those days, the late 1950s, as “Archie and Veronica time,” sweet, nostalgic days when boys wore chinos, girls wore angora sweaters and pleated skirts, and everybody wore saddle shoes.