Rizzo’s Fire Read online

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, digging spurs of determination into his consciousness even as he frantically fought to recall the words of his mea sured, rehearsed argument.

  “Do you want your fire extinguished?” he asked helplessly. “Do you think lockin’ up a few skells will make it all worthwhile?”

  Carol’s smile faded, her own determination taking hold again.

  “Dad,” she said. “You’re just not being honest with yourself. Don’t forget I grew up watching you. I saw, I heard. I remember when you’d be working a case, dozens of times, important, meaningful cases. I remember seeing you all psyched up and full of energy, tearing into your work. That seemed like fire to me. Real fire.”

  Rizzo looked into her eyes and saw the inevitability of her determination. Even as a strange, almost disjointed pride welled within him, his anger, more insistent, more pugnacious, rushed back into his head. He stood suddenly, pulling his arm out from under her still present hand. He looked down at his daughter as visions of childhood transgressions, less than perfect report cards, and sibling squabbles flashed before his eyes, all of them dwarfed and dropped on the trash heap of insignificance by this sudden adult situation.

  “Forget the goddamned cops, Carol,” he said harshly. “You’re not takin’ that test and you’re not taking the job. End of story.”

  She shook her head. “I refuse to discuss this anymore,” she said with near equal toughness. “How dare you issue fiats! If we’re going to continue to argue about this, I’ll just not come home. I’ll stay at the dorm through the holidays.”

  Rizzo nodded, turning to move away. “Yeah,” he said. “You do that. Sleep in an empty dorm room for the holidays. It’ll be good practice for you—for sleeping in a radio car at three a.m. on Christmas morning, next to some fat, smelly old cop, or sleeping on the floor of central booking waitin’ for some idiot A.D.A. to show up and process your complaint. Sleepin’ in some stinkin’, piss-stained precinct holding cell ’cause of some round-the-clock emergency, or outside some shit hole tenement where somebody just found a dead junkie after two months. Sleeping with cigarette filters stuck up your nose to dull the stench, markin’ the hours till some third-world medical examiner shows up and announces, yeah, the guy is officially dead.” Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, Carol, I did every one of those things, more times than I can remember.”

  He dug his car keys from his pants pocket, his face flushed. “Then I’d come home and tell you and your sisters a ‘Ben the Bear’ story. Some of the guys just went to the precinct bar, got drunk, and wound up screwing some bimbo who was out trollin’ for cops.”

  He turned and began to walk away, his eyes searching for the exit.

  “We’ll see what works for you,” he said over his shoulder, picking up his pace and leaving her sitting there alone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  November

  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 awkward 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.”