New York City - PDF document

Untitled New York City July, 2012 3 A.M. Gargano grimaced through the pain of a legendary hangover . The hulking former NYPD detective stumbled around in the darkness, groaning with each step. He was dehydrated, and New York’s summer humidity made the 95 degree air feel more like 102. The oppressive summer heat was even worse because he was living in an illegal basement apartment. “Apartment” was a very optimistic way to think about where Garg ano lived. Most people would call it a windowless cellar, with stone floors, grotesquely large water beetles, and one light bulb, hanging just barely from exposed wires. The ceiling was progressively lower toward the back of the apartment, where the boiler was located. Gargano hunched down, shuffling his feet and grunting as he approached the old, rattling boiler. Ella Fitzgerald’s Lullabies of Birdland album was playing through a cheap radio. Gargano loved jazz. So much so that he had chosen to unscrew the one light bulb in the basement to use his light socket - to - outlet adapter, a device that allow s a person to draw regular alternating current electricity from a light socket. This meant sitting in total darkness in the basement, but Gargano could have his music, and that was all that mattered to him. That and finding the metal bucket which he had left somewhere near the boiler. He pawed around in the darkness, his ha nd finally finding the sharp , rusty edge of the bucket. A trickle of blood began to leak from his palm. The melodic vocal jazz played through the tinny speakers of the radio as he pulled down his trousers and defecated in the metal bucket. Gargano was profusely sweating as he voided his bowels into the bucket. His stomach pained him terribly as he struggled to stay balanced. If the light had been on, Gargano might have seen that his stools were as black as tar, and with the same consistency. Instead , he cleaned himself crudely with a rag that he kept nearby for this purpos e. Gargano pulled his pants up over the snub - nosed .38 caliber revolver on his right ankle and wiped some sweat from his Cro - Magnon brow. He took a large mouthful of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey from the flask he kept in his front pocket, lumbered over to his bare mattress and p assed out . The music was still playing, although hard to hear o ver Gargano’ s loud snoring. The sleep was short - lived. Gargano awoke to pounding on the cellar door. Groggy and still hung over, Gargano took a pull of the whiskey. The pounding continued. In the pitch darkness of the basement, it was impossible to m ake out what time it was. I t was often hard to make out what day it was through the thick haze of Gargano’s alcoholic benders . What wasn’t hard to make out was the voice, now yelling through the door. The heavy Greek accent boomed, “Gargano! You Italian motherfucker! It is the fifth of the fucking month! You have still not paid the rent!” Gargano’s liver hurt. Or at least he thought it hurt. “ Is the liver on the righ t side or the left side, anyway,” Gargano wondered. Gargano rubbed some of the dri ed blood from his hand off of his face, groaning a little. He could hear the key in the lock and the Greek threw open the basement door, letting the harsh light from the dilapidated hallway stream in. Gargano shielded his eyes and took his newly illuminated bucket of shit up t he stairs to meet the landlord. “You think you are too good to pay Spiro Demokritou? You’re drunk now, at 9 in the morning! And y ou shit in a bucket!” “You talk a lot for a guy wearing clean clothes,” Gargano rasped, motioning with the bucket. The veins in Demokritou’s forehead pulsed with anger. Gargano again faked towards him with the bucket. The angry Greek stepped back against the hallway wall as Gargano walked out the front door of the building into the bright morning sunlight. Gargano left his apartment door open; nobody would steal anything he kept down there anyway. Most people wouldn’t go in there in first place because of the pitch darkness and terrible smell. Compared to those two conditions, the horren dous insect infestation was just an added bonus in terms of deterring intruders. As the massive ex - cop reached the bottom of the steps, the Greek tore into him again, yelling, “You dirty Italian motherfucker! What about the money you owe?” Gargano turned around and threw the bucket of excrement all over the front steps of the building, leaving the bucket by the cast iron railing that abutted the limestone stoop. The Greek was furious, brooding in the glinting morning sun. Gargano began to whistle an uni ntelligible tune as he stepped out into the chaos of rush hour in the big city. He reached in his pocket for his pack of Lucky Strike unfiltered cigarettes. Gargano looked into the empty cigarette pack with disbelief. “Do you have any idea what it is li ke to wake up on Sunday morning with no money and no cigarettes,” he muttered, not realizing that he didn’t know what it was like either: it was Tuesday . Gargano crushed the cigarette pack in his ham - like fist and discarded it onto the sidewalk. At least he still had some whiskey. Gargano took a deep swill from his flask as he walked up the bustling Ma nhattan str eet. Nobody seemed to notice . Gargano took another strong pull of the intoxicating liquor, the last drops burning his parched throat. He smelled strongly of booze and body odor, from sweating all night in the heat of the basement. Gargano leaned against the exterior wall of the liquor store, waiting for 10 A.M., when he knew it would open. His stomach ached from the whiskey. Gargano’s muscular frame belied that he rarely ate, consuming most of his calories each day from hard liquor with the occasional side of cheap beer to spice things up. The former detective’s hands shook a little as the clerk arrived and began to open the heavy duty rolled metal gates that protected the liquor store from break - ins at night. The store opened after what seemed like an eternity. Gargano, dripping sweat, re ached his hairy hand into his pants. He handed the clerk a crumpled $10 bill. “ One pint of Jack Daniels, ” his voice scratched. The clerk gave him the change, taken aback by the incredible size of Gargano’s hand in comparison to his own. Gargano had alre ady planned out the rest of his day by the time he left the liquor s tore: h e would hop the train downtown to linger in the shithole bars in South Brooklyn. He liked the ones that smelled like sawdust and vomit, with a bit of Barkeeper’s Friend sprinkled in as potpourri . Gargano adjusted his pants so that his ankle holster would not print , police report lingo for show, put the liquor in his pocket and got on the subway. Shithole Bar Brooklyn 11 A.M. Gargano walked through the open door of the #6 Tavern. #6 was a pretty nasty place, but it was cheap. The tavern was also un - air - conditioned, and the temperature inside fluctuated somewhere between hot - as - hell and surface - of - the - sun depending on the amou nt of people inside. Gargano cozied up to the bar in his usual spot, sitting on one of the few unbroken bar stools in the joint. At the drink rail was O’Malley, a 50 - something firefighter moonlighting as a barkeep. O’Malley always smelled like burnt woo d and hose water . T he #6 smelled far more strongly , of yesterday’s spilled beers. Few people noticed or cared what anybody smelled like in the decrepit old tavern anyway. O’Malley came over to Gargano and poured out a shot of well whiskey alongside a som ewhat cold Budweiser from the cooler. Gargano and O’Malley exchanged disinterested looks. Gargano stayed at the #6 all day, watching the Mets doubleheader through the static of the bar’s television. The Mets lost both games. T he #6 was becoming increasingly packed with disaffected drunks. Gargano ordered another shot and a beer, his 10 th . The thoughts rattled around in Gargano’s drunken mind. He gripped the bar surface with his right hand, thumb on the bar top and index fin ger pressed below. Gargano moved his thumb left and right on the lacquered surface, feeling the worn down portion of the bar top from the countless times he had held on to it in the past. He released his powerful grip, staggering back from the bar and pu shed past the patrons , leaving out of the rear door . The rear exit of the #6 Tavern lead into a short, crooked alleyway leading back to the side street. Gargano sat on an empty keg and removed his .38 Smith & Wesson revolver from his ankle holster. The revolver was blued steel, and hammerless so it would not catch on his clothes when drawing in a hurry. Gargano wasn’t in a hurry. He released the cylinder lock and dropped the 6 rounds into his meaty palm. Gargano inserted 1 round back into the revolve r . He dropped the other 5 on the filthy concrete of the alleyway. He spun the cylinder, and then slammed it back into place. T he grizzled ex - cop put the pistol to his right temple . His heart raced. Gargano gritted his teeth. He smoothly pulled the trigger, hearing the firing pin click against the empty chamber. “Life’s a bitch,” Gargano mumbled aloud before passing out. Gargano woke up in the alleyway after what must have been only a short while, since he still had his wallet and his gun with him. Maybe it had been much longer and no body wanted to wake up a highly intoxicated man clutching a pistol in a dark alley. Gargano didn’t know or care. His body felt like the bathrooms at Shea Stadium looked after the Mets lose. And today they lost twice. Gargano sipped the whiskey from the pint bottle in his pocket, thinking about how he got here in the first place. He holstered his weapon and w alk ed back to the subway . NYPD Brooklyn South Narcotics Division - BSND Brooklyn 2009 Detective Gargano strolled into the Brooklyn South Narcotics Division squad room carrying a small cardboard box of his things. He only made it a few steps before he was greeted by Lieutenant Sullivan. Sullivan’s crisply pressed white uniform shirt contr asted sharply with his dark pants. He was lanky and moved with a bouncing stride, almost like Gumby, if Gumby were a cop anyhow. Gargano set down his detective badge and his box of belongings on his desk as Lieutenant Sullivan directed him, and went into the Lieutenant’s office. The office was sparsely decorated, with old department - issue chairs, a cluttered desk and a computer that looked to be a relic of another era. The Lieutenant sat first and Gargano remained standing at attention. “Shut the door D etective Gargano.” Gargano gingerly shut the door. “Now have a seat. As you probably figured out already since you are a de - tec - tive , this is the Brooklyn South Narcotics Division or B - S - N - D for short. I don’t know what things were like at your previous command and frankly, I don’t give a damn. We don’t go for any funny business around here. You report for your tours 30 minutes early. Overtime is available at my discretion only. You fuck up and I’ll give you midnight to 8am for the rest of yo ur time here. Do a good job, and you’ll get promoted. Fuck this up and you can go do foot patrol in Staten Island. Understand?” Gargano nodded his head. “You’re partnered with Alvarez. He’ll show you the paperwork side of this thing. If your handwri ting is the same kind of fuckin’ chicken - scratch as the rest of the guys around here, typewrite your reports. If not, handwrite. Don’t fuck me over Gargano. Obey the chain of command. Do things by the book. We make an incredible volume of good arrests here. If you fuck up the paperwork or get a case dismissed because of your procedural errors, that’s 2 days docked from your vacation.” Gargano kept nodding while the Lieutenant droned on and on with his bullshit. Gargano had finally made detective. H e couldn’t wait to meet Alvarez and hit the motor pool to make some big arrests. This was going to be nothing like foot patrol. This was Gargano’s big chance to make it in the Department. The pay wasn’t bad either, $97,500 per year, retirement after he reached his 20 at half - pay. He’d already put in 5 years ma king D etective 3 rd Grade, the base rank to be considered a detective under the Department system . He had o nly 15 years left and plenty of room for pro motion to Detective 2 nd Grade or higher. That would come with even bigger investigations and a higher pay grade. “You got all that?” “Yes, Lieutenant. Got it.” “Now get the fuck out of my office.” Gargano walked backed to his desk to unpack his stuff. He moved his phone to the right side of t he desk, set up a picture of him and his wife on the left. Gargano looked at the picture. It was from their honeymoon. He smiled for a second and then went back to unpacking. Police memo book on the desk, DD - 5 forms in the drawer. Gargano was finally a real detective. He’d wanted to be one since he was a kid. Gargano looked at his badge, sitting on the desk. Then he picked it up . The badge was intensely hot. Gargano screamed and threw the detective badge to the floor. The sm ell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. He clenched his teeth and limply held his left palm open to look at the burn. His hand was shaking but Gargano could still plainly make out his badge number in the quickly forming blisters on his palm. 8045. Th at’s what was branded onto his palm. Detective 3 rd Grade Joseph Gargano, badge 8045. Gargano winced again from the pain. The entire squad room erupted in laughter. The “spicy badge” was a tradition for new guys around the BSND. While Gargano had been listening to the interminable speech by the Lieutenant, someone in the squad had taken his badge and put it under the broiler in the chow room. For at least fifteen minutes, Gargano deduced , based on how his hand felt. His hand was pulsing now. 8045. 80 45. 8045. So this was being a detective. “Lefty, huh?” Gargano’s suffering was interrupted. “What?” “Your left hand.” “No, just lucky I guess,” Gargano’s said, clearly pained. “Alvarez. Your new partner. Damn glad to meet you.” Detective Alvarez slowly turned over his left hand. Gargano saw the upraised scar. 7812. The squad room finally quieted down. Gargano turned his attention from his hand to his new partner. Alvarez was 6 foot, strongly built and had a slick smile. Women probably thought Alvarez was quite good looking, but Gargano was too focused on his bur nt hand to worry about what women thought. “There’s burn cream in the medical kit.” “Yeah. Great. Thanks.” As Gargano applied the burn cream, he wondered if it was Alvarez who did it or just someone else in the squad. Whether the Lieutenant was giv ing such a long winded speech because he was a blowhard asshole or because he was in on it. He probably was. Gargano’s desk faced Alvarez’s . Gargano meticulously wrapped Ace bandage around his burned hand, looking Alvarez over. Alvarez had dark feature s and dark hair. He leaned back in his chair, almost far enough to fall over. “Forgot all that shit they told you at the last precinct. This is narcotics. Grab an extra pair of cuffs and let’s go. No law enforcement happens si tting at a desk,” the His panic d etective said authoritatively. “The car’s outside.”