Codes of Betrayal (2 page)

Nick was eight years old when his father died in a construction accident. His mother died of a heart attack just six months later. He had been adopted by his uncle, Frank O’Hara, a New York City Police Department lieutenant. He had known, without ever asking for reasons, that the O’Haras and the Venturas had nothing to do with each other. Routinely, he had spent time with his grandfather on birthdays, some holidays, anniversaries. Both sides of his family loved him; neither side talked about the other. After two years in the army, Nick took and passed the police exam. His uncle, Frank, then a captain, was very pleased. When he spoke to his grandfather, Papa Ventura listened quietly and asked only if this was his idea, or had the O’Haras influenced him? It was the only time he ever asked such a thing. Assured that Nick had made his own decisions, his grandfather nodded, kissed his cheek, then looked directly into his eyes.

“Whatever you do in your life, Nicholas, do it honorably. It is all a man has at the very center of himself. His
honor.”

Through his fifteen years on the job, the question arose many times in Nick’s experience: What, exactly, is an honorable man?

Two hours before the relief team would arrive, both partners spotted the van at exactly the same instant. It was large, light tan, driven slowly by a young black guy. Another black guy walked stealthily behind a well-dressed woman, carrying a Bonwit’s shopping bag, a pocketbook dangling from her right arm. The van practically crept down the street, pacing the mugger. The woman was in a world of her own, totally oblivious of her dangerous situation. And she was in danger: Nick and Ed both recognized the van, knew who was inside. This team had not only robbed, but beaten, more than eight or nine women on the Upper East Side in the last month. And were suspected of ten or more similar hits in midtown earlier and in Queens before that.

The detectives couldn’t leap out to scare off these mutts; someone from the brownstone might spot them. There was no way they could just sit and watch what was about to happen. Nick grabbed the car phone, hesitated a split second. He couldn’t hit nine-one-one; that would send a couple of squad cars racing, sirens blasting. Nick squinted at the brass plate outside the brownstone: The Whalen Institute. He punched out the phone number engraved on the plaque.

A woman’s soft voice answered. “Whalen Institute. Linda speaking.”

In a hoarse distortion of his own voice, Nick said, “I’m a neighbor. There are two guys right outside your place—gettin’ ready to mug a woman. Black guy, right behind her, another in a van following. I don’t wanna call the police any more than you do.” He hung up; let them wonder later who the hell called.

The message must have been relayed instantaneously. Both of the Institute doors burst open and two very large men in gray maintenance uniforms barreled down the steps, each carrying a baseball bat.

The intended victim turned, startled; before she could make a sound the bat-men had turned her toward the corner, told her to
Get the hell outta here.
She didn’t stop to ask questions.

The stalker froze for a moment, then tried to react—but was stopped mid-motion by a blow to the back of his skull so loud that both Nick and Ed gasped and sunk deeper into their seats. They heard the sound of glass breaking; watched as the bat wielders not only broke every window on the van but smashed the headlights, taillights, and, for good measure, took a few swings at the van’s body.

The passenger’s side of the van was yanked open and the stalker was shoved in next to the driver, who was wiping a bloody eye with smashed fingertips. Apparently acting on instructions, he put the van in gear and raced down the street, swerving as he went.

The two gray-clad maintenance men, having preserved the peaceful condition of their community, stood, hands on hips. They glanced around at the two-and three-story brownstones, as though expecting applause or at least a nod of thanks. New Yorkers, being by nature very private and discreet citizens, did not appear at any window. Both lit cigarettes, took quick drags, then regretfully stamped them underfoot.

Apparently, no smoking was permitted within the walls of the Whalen Institute. Obviously: It was a health facility.

Neither Nick nor Ed would mention the incident in their notes or reports. What for? A few more limos dropped off somewhat stealthy, though expensively dressed, “health seekers.” Finally, they received the phone call they had hoped for, earlier than expected. Relief was on its way. Nick kicked the motor on just as a gray-blue Toyota pulled alongside. The driver, grinning and nodding, ecstatic at his good luck—how about that? he’d been anticipating an hour’s search—backed up so Nick could pull out. Nick pulled down his window and shook his head.

“Sorry, partner,” he called out politely. Rolled up the window so he didn’t have to hear the wails of indignation, disappointment, and despair. Hey, he had to save the spot for the next team.

Which arrived about two minutes later. Nick pulled out, the new team pulled in. When Nick reached the corner, the guy with the Toyota, double-parked, was standing outside his car, looking around wildly, when he spotted Nick.

“You bastard,” he screamed. “You bastard! You selfish rotten bastard!”

Eddie looked at Nick. “Friend of yours? He seems to know you.”

Nick shrugged and pulled away without acknowledging the hysterical man. “He must think I’m someone else. Happens all the time.”

They dropped the car in the police garage, prepared the necessary forms. They were both tall men and cramped by the hours of inactivity. In the squad room, Nick checked his mailbox, pulled out a sheaf of papers. A report had been returned.

He glanced at the notes, written in red ink. “Oh shit! The lieutenant wants more information on the Sobelman killing. Jesus, looka this. He’s correcting our grammar, for God’s sake. Hell with it—it’ll keep until next week.”

Detective Johnson, a huge man with a florid complexion and a very small voice, looked at them and shook his head. “Well, looka the Bobbsey twins. How come you guys aren’t in court bookin’ all the bad guys? Ya fallin’ down on the job or what?”

Eddie waved the report at him. “We been doing some research. You know, for our
book.
Very hush-hush, don’t ask, okay?”

For three years, Johnson had claimed to be working on the next “big cop book,” and the best way to needle him was to say you were working on
your
book. He believed everyone.

The team of Hoffman and Smith came into the squad office, dragging a frightened, bone-skinny woman by the arm.

“Tried to pick my damn pocket, can you beat it? I’m on the subway; just as I get off, there’s this hand reaching …” He held up the thin hand. The lightweight sleeve of a torn coat slid down the woman’s arm, revealing needle tracks. “Sit here,” he instructed her. He leaned to Nick. “She’s in a helluva bad way. Four months’ pregnant. Gonna try to get her into detox.”

Hoffman only looked like a monstrous uncaring bastard. He was really softhearted under certain circumstances. It was known that he had a drug addict son doing time in a rehab somewhere in Minnesota. He had taken it very hard; hadn’t been able to follow the edicts of the “tough love” group his wife insisted they join. Against all advice, he had hugged his kid and told him that he loved him and would love him forever. He didn’t let anyone know that he would take the kid back over and over again, no matter what.

Hoffman poured a mug of hot coffee from a sticky pot and thrust it at the woman, who jumped. Not realizing how loud and threatening his voice sounded, he bellowed at her, “I’m gonna give ya this cuppa, now promise not to boff on me, okay?”

Nick told him, “Hoff, she don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Look at her—you’re scaring the hell outta her.”

Hoffman shrugged and backed off, then remembered something. “Hey, Nicholas, my man. You goin’ to that big seventy-fifth birthday party for your grandfather, right? Waddya gotta do, kiss the ring before you kiss his cheek?”

“You’ll never know, Hoff.”

A new member of the squad, a skinny Puerto Rican named Silvio but called Slick, listened in. He didn’t know if he resented the nickname or not. He walked over to Nick.

“Hey, no kiddin’, O’Hara—your grandfather is that guy Ventura, the big mob guy?”

Only certain guys are permitted to joke about someone’s family. Slick was not one of them.

Nick stiffened and looked down at the smaller man. “Something you want to discuss with me about my family, Slick? ’Cause if there is, there’s a coupla things I wanna talk to you about your mother.”

Eddie grabbed Nick by the arm and tugged him to the door, waving Slick off. He whispered to Nick, “Christ, Nickie, c’mon, don’t be mean. You know how those PRs are about their mothers.”

As they walked down the stairs, Nick said loudly, “Sure, because they don’t know who their fathers are!”

A furious voice called after them, “I heard that. I heard that.”

There was laughter coming from the ready room, as the eight-to-four guys were being relieved by the four-to-one
A.M.
men.

“C’mon, that’s Del White in there,” Nick said. They entered the room, anticipating. He was the squad’s storyteller.

“Nick, my man, lemme tell y’all about what happened to me on my watch through the night. You notice I’m still here at what? Four
P.M
. Had to collar a guy, damned if I didn’t, just as I went off last night.”

Detective Second Grade Delaware White’s skin glistened ebony pure. He was handsome, meticulous, a regular GQ dandy.

“So I stop off at Healy’s for a quick one and walk into the middle of a real ongoing brawl—fists and beer flying.”

He had a magnetic voice, and he seemed to disappear into the scene he was depicting. Guys paused in their paperwork—those on the telephone only paid half attention to the voices coming from the receiver.

“So I tried to keep out of it—hell, I’d done my job of work, but wouldn’t you know it? Right in front of my face, this stupid-looking little Irishman, I mean a right off of the boat donkey,” he glanced at the Irish guys who waited him out, “no offense, honest, but this man, he even had those little pointy ears your Irish fairies have.”

McFyphe looked up from his typing. “We Irish don’t
have
fairies, so be careful what you say, Mr. White.”

Nick called out, “Leprechauns.”

“Ah, that’s it, that’s what he looked like, one of those. Those little guys you haul out for the St. Patrick’s Parade. Anyway, this dumb dude holds off and slams Magee the barkeep right in the chops, and Magee grabs onto me and yells, ‘Arrest this bastard before I kill him.’ So I had to take the man into custody. By now, we’ve got a coupla off-duty guys trying to straighten things out, but my little friend lands one on
me.
So I cuffed the culprit and begin to read him his rights.”

White covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head.

“I check with my little card, to make sure I say everything in the right order. Then I look at the guy and he has a really nutty look on his face, so I go, “What? What’s up? Do you understand what I’m tellin’ you? And he looks at me and says, ‘Jesus, I thought you was supposed to read that to
you people.
Why you readin’ this shit to me?’”

McFyphe, without looking up from his report, asked, “Well, isn’t it just for
you people?”

White ignored him. “So I ask him, nice, y’know. And just
which
people are you referring to, m’man? I can see this little … guy … is working hard now. He gotta be careful, so he says, ‘the Negro people?’ I glare at him. He tries again—’the black people.’ I tell him to try again. ‘Okay, I mean the
Afro-American … African Americans …
Jesus Christ, you people keep changing who you are every other day, how the hell are we supposed to know what to call ya?’”

The detective had a contagious laugh, and in the pause, McFyphe asked, “So now come, Del-a-ware, you people call each other ‘nigger’—hell, I hear it all the time on the street and in that rap music and all—so how come
we
can’t? Use the word, I mean?”

White smiled, put his heavy hand on McFyphe’s shoulder, and said softly, “Just don’t try, brother, just don’t try. I tell you this as a friend.”

He turned back to his audience. He hadn’t finished. “So I book the guy and I tell him: listen, my man, I want you to know something. You have just been arrested by the best goddamn cop in New York City, and I want you to remember my name, okay? The guy nods. So I straighten up, look him right into his beady, shifty little eyes, and I tell him:
I am White!
Talk about a confused Irishman!”

A
S HE TURNED OFF
the parkway and headed up the winding road that lead to his home, Nick regretted that he hadn’t touched base with Kathy. He hadn’t been home in two days. He and Ed had to work around the clock chasing down an elusive informant, whom they hadn’t found until the very early hours of the morning. By then it was too late to head for home, or even call. What was the point of waking his wife up at four in the morning to tell her what she already knew: that he was stuck? Three hours later she’d just be getting up again, to head out for her teaching job at the high school.

And he hadn’t called today because, well, he’d see her soon.

That of course was rationalization. He hadn’t touched base with her in more than forty hours because he didn’t want to hear the sound of her voice. The pained
Okay; I understand; sure.

There had been a time when she did understand. And when he did call, no matter what the time, day or night. When they were young and newly married, she worked for her teaching degree at Queens College and he worked round the clock in uniform. They were happy in the small two-room apartment in an old building in Forest Hills; they couldn’t wait to see, talk, touch each other. She’d come wide awake at the sound of his key in the door. They’d make love even if he was tired and bored from a long uneventful eight hours on patrol, or overly excited by the unexpected, wildly implausible events every cop encounters.

She’d tell him about her student teaching classes: how much she liked the kids, how guilty she felt when she really couldn’t warm up to a particular student. He’d tell her about his amazement when he watched a group of women in their mid-thirties being booked for prostitution. All housewives from a community in Long Island, working the motels for some extra cash, for mortgage payments, clothes, an extra car. One even was sending her kid to a private school to protect her from the riffraff in the public school.