Revolver (4 page)

The police commissioner takes the podium.

“It doesn't matter how long ago the murders took place,” he says. “When a member of our family loses his life in the performance of duty, we never, ever forget. Not only don't we forget them, we don't forget their family as well.”

These two plaques are the fifty-seventh and fifty-eighth in the program, which was founded by the Fraternal Order of Police. Their goal: honor all 258 Philadelphia police officers killed in the line of duty with plaques. Stan's and George's turns came on the fiftieth anniversary of their deaths.

Cary knocks the flask against her knuckles again.

Audrey stares dead ahead as her fingers blindly screw open the top of the flask. As the commissioner finishes his speech, she leans forward, as if stretching her back, hair tumbling over her face. She takes a gulp. The bourbon is a sweet burn past her tongue, down her throat. She sits up. Screws the top back on. Nudges the flask against the back of Cary's hand. He takes it, notes the weight, looks at Audrey, eyebrows raised. Chug much?

Audrey shrugs. It's a Walczak gathering. Aren't we supposed to get wasted?

The commissioner introduces a woman named Sonya Kaminski, daughter of longtime political fixer “Sonny Jim” Kaminski, who is notably absent. Audrey's father and Sonya are longtime friends; Audrey can only assume they were fucking at some point. For all she knows they still are—though Sonya here looks like she pursues a higher pedigree of cock.

“It's a unique pleasure to welcome the Walczak and Wildey families,” says Sonya Kaminski. “This is now hallowed ground. This will be never be disturbed, defaced, or displaced.”

Yeah, Audrey thinks, until someone vomits pepperoni all over the corner late one night.

And then it comes time for Audrey's father to speak. She sits up in her chair once she realizes she's been slouching. Captain Jim takes the podium, sunglasses still on his face. She hasn't heard her father's voice in close to three years.

“Good morning,” he says. “My name is James Walczak. Officer Stanisław Walczak was my father. As I stand here today, I'm humbled. I've never been more proud to be a member of the Philadelphia Police Department. I'd like to thank Commissioner…”

From there, Captain Jim goes off on a litany of thanks, from the commissioner up to the mayor and back down again, hitting pretty much everybody who needs to be name-checked. It doesn't sound like her father at all. Even when he's in total asshole mode, there's still a weird, dark humor to him. His speech isn't him. It could have been delivered by a robot.

Captain Jim sits back down.

Lieutenant Ben Wildey's speech is much more animated. He's George Wildey's grandson—and surprise surprise, another cop.

“I never met my grandpop George,” he says, “but I've heard a lot about him over the years. And from what I understand, I think he'd be upset that we weren't spinning some soul tunes up in this j—corner.”

Murmurs of polite laughter. Audrey giggles. She could have sworn he was about to say “…
jawn
.” Good on you, Lieutenant Ben.

And then it's finally time to unveil the plaques. A lone bugler plays “Nearer My God to Thee” as the roses are removed, and finally the flag, revealing the two bronze memorials set into the concrete.

It would be super-classy, if not for the red, green and white sign tacked directly above:

Order inside,
Audrey thinks,
and pray you make it out alive
. She's tipsy, but grateful that she's not so drunk she's saying this shit out loud.

The commissioner hands the Captain a pillow. Audrey wonders if he'll press it down over his own face just to get out of this memorial service.

The head of the police union takes the podium.

“To the relatives of Stan and George, please know that you will always be a member of the Philadelphia police family. This plaque joins the memories, recollections, written history, and the Walczak and Wildey families as further evidence that heroes protecting the citizens of Philadelphia were killed here in the line of duty. May God bless you.”

The bugle plays taps.

Bagpipes crank out some “Amazing Grace.”

Audrey's with Lieutenant Ben: she'd much prefer some soul tunes up in this jawn.

The oldies DJ—who presumably could arrange such a thing—takes the mike to close things out.

“See you next time,” he says.

Audrey runs her fingers along the countertop, which is slightly greasy, even though the place has just opened for the day. Outside, the chairs are being folded up and put on a truck. The crowd is dispersing.

She's inside the pizza joint because she had to pee. But on the way back she stopped to look at the place. Tried to imagine it as it was fifty years ago, when it was a bar. She takes a step back and looks at the dimensions of the room, and then back down at the counter, and how long it is, and realizes, with a shock:

They just covered up the actual bar. It's
still under there
.

Probably riddled with bullet holes.

The Memorial Fund springs for a small buffet at a restaurant a few blocks away, on the corner of Twenty-First and Green. Cash bar, though, which is disappointing. She doesn't think she has enough cash on hand for a Bloody.

There are assigned seats, but once Audrey sees the other names on the cards (Bitchanne, Jean, brood) she opts for a stool at the bar in the next room, orders a Yuengling. When's her plane out of here?

The room, then, is segregated by design, just like the seating arrangement out on Fairmount Avenue. Philadelphia, don't ever change.

Everyone scarfs down roast beef sandwiches, ziti, and coleslaw. Most of the kids run around like maniacs, knocking over chairs and screaming so piercingly that it cuts through Audrey's fine, strong buzz.

Audrey doesn't know what to do with herself, so she gravitates to Grandma Rose, who sits with some of her cousins. Audrey can remember none of their names; she prays they don't talk to her.

“Hey, Grandma.”

Rose's eyes take a second or two to focus on Audrey. Every sensory organ seems to be failing her these days. But soon she zeroes in.

“Oh, Audrey. You got fat.”

Audrey wonders if any court of law would convict her for punching her grandmother in the side of the head right now.

“Are you coming back home now?” Grandma Rose asks. “I don't know why you had to move to Texas in the first place.”

“It's a good school,” Audrey lies, not wanting to speak truth:
Because I had to get away from all you people.

“Aren't there good schools here?”

In a family of cops it's not difficult to feel like the local criminal. Audrey is the youngest sibling by a good stretch of years—and the only adopted child. They refer to her as Hot Mess Express. Don't think she doesn't hear them.

It was a mistake to mix among the civilians, Audrey thinks. Truth is, she'd feel more comfortable mixing with the Wildeys. Though they'd probably look at her and gently suggest she return to her own crazy-ass family.

Nowhere else to go, Audrey walks up to the portraits of the fallen cops, which are printed on cardboard and mounted on two easels positioned next to each other, as if they're having an eternal gab session in the afterlife.

The photos are their police identification photos, stark black-and-white, blown up to poster size.

Grandpop Stan was a wide-jawed Polish-American guy with deep-set eyes. There's a lot of hurt in those eyes. He's a WWII vet, orphan, cop. He's seen some shit.

His partner Wildey, meanwhile, is a round-cheeked African-American with the faintest glimmer of a smile on his face, as if the camera clicked just as he heard a very funny joke and he was about to explode into a laugh.

“Freaky, huh?” a voice says.

Audrey glances over at the black cop standing next to her, looking at the portraits, too. Ah—it's funny Lieutenant Ben from the ceremony. Mr. Jawn up in here. Turns out he's a dead ringer (excuse the expression) for his grandfather.

“You look just like him,” Audrey says.

“I keep hearing that,” the cop says. “Not sure I see it, aside from the uniform and skin color. I've got a lot of my mama in me.”

“Why did you say this was weird, then?”

Ben Wildey smiles.

“The two of us here, you know. Couple of grandkids who never met their grandfathers. I know I look like an old man, but my grandpop George was already gone sixteen years before I showed up. Just weird, all this to-do”—Ben waves his hand around—“for guys we never met.”

He extends a hand, introduces himself. “You're the baby daughter, right? I hear you're on the job, too.”

“No, I'm not police. I'm still in school.”

“But forensics, right?”

“Yeah. Hopefully.”

“Cool.”

They stand there, looking at their dead grandfathers.

“Well,” Ben says, “maybe when you get your degree, you can come back home and finally solve this thing.”

Audrey turns to look at Ben Wildey.

“Wait…what?”

The whole thing started because a car at Twenty-Second and Columbia refused to move.

Husband is standing outside the car, pleading with his wife to pull the damn car over already. But wife is behind the wheel and she is not budging. Gunning the accelerator and the brake at the same time.
Come on,
the husband yells. Wife says
Uh-uh, you go and fuck yourself
. They've both had more than a few.

Soon drivers are lined up behind them pounding fists into horns.
BLAAAAARP
.

It's a hot summer Friday night in late August and folks just want to go home. Even if it's just to a sweltering hot box of a home, drinking beer and watching
Make That Spare
. Would sure beat sitting here on Columbia Avenue behind a car that won't fuckin' move.

Eventually, somebody calls the cops.

Word gets to the Twenty-Second. Two patrolmen show up—a salt-and-pepper set. You see a lot of black-and-white duos around the Jungle these days. The idea is that the civilians, no matter their skin color, will have someone to relate to at all times.

But the truth is, blacks trust white cops more. And conventional wisdom around the department is that you never send two black cops out in a squad car—because it would be like sending out no car at all.

White cop tries to talk to the couple. The couple ignore him, keep on fighting. The wife has her feet locked on those damn pedals. No way is she moving. Uh-uh.

Cars honk. The sound echoes off the two- and three-story buildings like in a canyon.

Come on!

Black cop finally says, hell with this. He reaches in and pulls the woman out from behind the wheel. It's a hot summer evening; people need to get home.

But this is the Jungle, and it is the summer of 1964, and the fury has been simmering all summer. It's gonna reach full boil at some point—everybody can feel it.

White cop hops in, steers the car off the road so people can finally pass. He steps out of the car, slams the door shut, prepares to haul the couple in so that
he
can go home and drink beer and put on some TV when—

WHAM.

A black guy comes bounding out of the crowd and socks the white cop in the jaw, snapping his head around, popping the helmet off his head.

The assailant runs off before the white cop can recover from that sucker punch or his black partner can catch him. And the assailant is quick.

Black cop calls in an “assist officer.”

A block away, the same assailant proceeds to spread the word around town. Yo, some white cop just snuffed a black lady! She was all pregnant, too! No, man, for real, I saw it happen, right at Twenty-Second and Columbia!

Lots of bodies in the streets now, moving down Columbia Avenue.

A dozen cops arrive in response to that “assist officer.”

Even more bodies in the streets now, milling around, wondering what's going to happen next. These pigs gonna kill another pregnant black woman? Maybe even a kid?

A red squad car turns onto Columbia from Twentieth Street and—

BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM

—a barrage of rocks pelt the windshield and hood.

Later, they'll say this was a setup, and salt-and-pepper team here drew the unlucky straw that struck flint and WHOOOSH, up goes the whole Jungle.

Right around the time the Columbia Avenue Riots kick into high gear, Patrolman Stan Walczak is passed out cold on his recliner, having downed a six-pack of Schmidt's while reading the
Bulletin
. He has the night off. In fact, he has the whole weekend off. Just the way he likes it.

Somewhere, a phone rings.

He prays it's a dream. Or a neighbor's phone. Or a dream about his neighbor's phone.

But no—there's another goddamned ring. Stan forces his eyes open. It is just past 11 p.m., and this has been a long week. All Stan wants to do is go back to sleep. Who the hell's calling him at this hour?

All at once he realizes there's only one person who could be calling this late at night, and dammit, Rosie had better not answer the phone.

As Stan rises from his recliner the noise in his house blends together in an uneasy background rumble. Rosie has soft opera on the radio in the kitchen. Jimmy is upstairs with his record player, listening to either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or some other loud whining group. Which is all the boy listens to these days—on his record player, on the radio, humming out loud. Every song sounds like the same song, too.
Because I told you before, oh you can't do that.

Yeah, well, I know what you
can
do, Stan thinks. Turn off the goddamned record player.

He turns around and sees that Rosie has beaten him to the phone.

“No, Rosie, wait—”

“It's for you,” she says, holding the receiver out, a worried look in her eyes.

The feeling has gone out of his feet. It hurts to walk. Finally he makes it to the phone, takes the phone from Rosie.

“Yeah?”

“Yo, Stoshie, I need you to pick me up.” It's his partner, Billy Taney.

“What do you mean pick you up?”

“Don't you have the TV on? Fucking Democrats have set the Jungle on fire!”

No, Stan doesn't have the TV on. He spent the evening reading the
Bulletin
and talking to Rosie, who's worried about her sister-in-law, who's having trouble with her husband. And then he drank a lot of beer and fell asleep.

“Fire? Where?”

“They're setting everything on fire up in the Gold Coast, and they say it's getting real ugly. So come pick me up already.”

“Okay, okay.”

Stan hangs up the phone. His undershirt is finally almost dry from the sweat of the day's shift, but now he'll have to put himself back together and head back to the streets.

Rosie is already in the kitchen, fixing him food for the road. She doesn't allow Stan to leave the house without food—maybe a liverwurst and onion on white, cold meatballs on an Italian roll—packed in a brown paper bag. His wife's secret fear is that Stan will eat a meal that wasn't prepared in their home and it'll be the end of the world.

“I'll be right back down,” Stan says.

Up in the bathroom he washes his hands and face with hot water, towels himself dry. Jimmy's room is right next door and now Stan can hear that folk singer, Bob Dylan. That's the other one the boy listens to all the time. One sings “Like a Rolling Stone.” Then you have the other ones that
call
themselves the Rolling Stones. None of it makes any sense. But Jimmy saves up and buys the albums himself, at a shop on Torresdale Avenue, so Stan can't say anything. Maybe he'll grow out of it. Or maybe Stan will buy him a set of headphones for his birthday.

As if beckoned, Jimmy appears in the doorway. “You going back in, Pop?”

“Yeah, they called us.”

“You're going to the riot, aren't you?”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “How did you hear about that?”

“The radio. They said people are starting fires, smashing windows. Why are they doing that? What's going on?”

“I don't know, Jimmy. Guess I'm going to go find out.”

Stan goes to his bedroom to find a clean shirt. Jimmy follows him.

“Sounds pretty bad out there.”

“I'll be fine. We just gotta calm everyone down.”

Jimmy considers this for a moment. “The radio said it all started around Twenty-Second and Columbia,” he says. “That's near the stadium, isn't it?”

“Ballpark's up on Lehigh. Blocks and blocks away.”

“I looked at a map. It's not that far.”

Stan looks at his boy, knows what he's getting at. “Don't worry, they're not gonna cancel the Phillies over this.”

They're supposed to be headed to the game next Tuesday night. Stan bought tickets back when the Phillies were still on a losing streak. But now they're heating up, and everybody in the city is getting excited, talking about the World Series, and those tickets were the smartest buy he ever made. Jimmy is out of his mind with excitement.

“I hope not,” Jimmy says.

“Off to the scene of the crime,” Stan says, then tousles Jimmy's hair. Jimmy pretends to hate it but smiles.

On their way in Stan sees a skinny
murzyn
kid hurl a Molotov cocktail at a red patrol car, shattering the back window. Three uniformed officers scramble out of the back door, brushing the glass from their shirts, looking for the kid, but he's long gone, having zipped down a dark alley.

You'd think the three would chase the little bastard down the alley, but they don't even try. They just stand there, looking around at each other.

Once they reach the staging area at Thirteenth and Berks, near Temple University, Stan learns why. They're handing out white domed riot helmets. They're handing out street assignments. And they're handing out strict orders from up on high:

What, Stan wonders, are they supposed to use? Mean looks? Guess the scuttlebutt around the department is true. The commissioner isn't a real street cop; he's a goddamned egghead.

“Your main instrument of control,” he tells his deputies,” is making an arrest.”

Stan is within earshot of the deputy commissioner—Frank Rizzo.

“That gutless son of a bitch,” Rizzo says. “He doesn't know a goddamned thing.”

Much as he might agree with Rizzo, Stan doesn't like the deputy commissioner very much and the feeling is mutual. They worked together back ten years ago, policing the club district for a while, back when Stan felt like a real cop, invested in the job. That is, until things went very wrong and Stan found himself in exile in Whitetown.

Anyway, Rizzo's idea of a conversation with a suspect was a slap across the forehead, no further questions, Your Honor. To Stan's mind he was worse than a thug. He was a thug with ambition.

So of course this
no-rough-stuff
decree from the commissioner has Rizzo fuming, practically jumping out of his skin, wishing his cock were a nightstick that he could use to club all of North Philly into submission.

Stan walks out of earshot. Somebody hands him a helmet. He tries to put it on, but it won't fit. He hands it over to Taney.

“Fucking Democrats,” Taney says, plopping the dome on his head. “I knew this was coming. All summer long I've been tellin' ya, this is coming. Haven't I?”

Democrats: Taney's new favorite word for blacks. He insists he's not racist. Instead, he says, it's political. Because all Democrats are nigger-lovers.

“Yeah, you been telling me,” Stan says.

“The way they challenge ya. Daring ya to do something.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Guess they're gonna find out what happens when you dare a cop.”

Billy Taney is an okay guy and a decent cop but a blowhard, especially when he's been drinking. The more he drinks, the angrier he gets, the more his eyes disappear. Clearly he's been drinking a lot tonight.

“They let us crack some skulls,” Taney says, “this would be over in an hour.”

It's past midnight now and Stan can see the glow of the fires from a dozen blocks away. This whole thing is nuts. He should be home asleep instead of here in the Jungle.

Lieutenants continue handing out helmets and assignments. They are also handing out rookies. Three-man teams, two veterans and a rook, sent out to keep the peace. Weird, but orders are orders. Like everything else, it's done alphabetically.

“Wildey!”

“Uh, that's
Will-dee,
Lieutenant,” says a voice.

“Don't give a shit. You're with Walczak and Taney. Walczak, where are you?”

Stan reluctantly raises a hand in the air, trying to find the face that matches the voice.
Will-dee
. The crowd of cops parts to reveal Wildey. He's a
murzyn
. Should have figured. Wildey can't find him, so Stan raises his hand again, shouts,

“Over here, Wildey.”

Wildey finally locks eyes with him—but only for a second. Wildey doesn't smile. Stan takes a wild guess about Wildey's spot assessment: big blond Polish boy. Head too big for a helmet. Yeah, well, Stan's not too happy to see him, either.

“How's it going?” Wildey says.

Stan nods. This neighborhood is tearing itself apart. How does he think it's going?

“I'm Walczak, and that's Taney.”

Taney grunts and fiddles with the straps on his riot helmet.

“Looks like we're in for a long fucking night,” Wildey says.

“Yeah. Looks like it, rook.”

Wildey recoils as if he's been slapped. “Rook? I ain't no rook.”

“Then why are you with us?” Taney asks.

“You heard the lieutenant, same as I did. Thought maybe one of you guys was new.”

Stan looks at the dozens and dozens of uniforms out here. Maybe if they just hang back they can stay out of the worst of it. Some dumb bastard comes running out of the riot zone, then they can lock him up. Maybe there's even a bar around here. They could hole up, have a few. Keep the internal peace.

“Well,” Wildey says, “shall we get in there?”

Stan and Taney look at each other, then sigh. This guy,
Will-dee,
seems to be one of those overeager types.

They used to call this part of Columbia Avenue the Gold Coast. Back in the 1930s, when Stan was just a kid, the gangsters would stash their molls up here, in apartments from Broad all the way to Eighteenth Street. There were so many store awnings you could walk from Broad to the park during a rainstorm without getting a single drop of water on your head. Now it's all Jewish-owned stores desperately hanging on in a
murzyn
neighborhood. And tonight the
murzyns
are trying to burn it all down.