Jack Murphy_Prequel_Day One

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  Contents

  1 ------------------------ 76th Precinct, Union Street, Brooklyn - 8 a.m.

  2 ------------------------ Lunchtime

  3 ------------------------ Up on the Roof

  4 ------------------------ Nightime

  1 ------------------------ 76th Precinct, Union Street, Brooklyn - 8 a.m.

  Jack Murphy shut his locker and tried to act as though what he had just done – stow his clothes and get out his handgun – was something he had done a hundred times before.

  Instead of this being the first time.

  “New blood – get your asses in gear. Eight a.m. means eight fucking a.m.!”

  Two other just-graduated cops had come to this precinct in the Red Hook area of Brooklyn. This was not the Brooklyn that Jack knew. Not the leafy streets of Bay Ridge, close to the Atlantic, where he’d grown up.

  Jack didn’t know much about Red Hook, and what he had heard about it made it seem like a forgotten place. Somehow it had missed the train to gentrification.

  He hurried into the morning room, where the cops on the beat got that day’s assignments. There were still a few chairs free, but the cops sitting next to the empty seats seemed to let their arms and legs sprawl into them as if daring any newbie to take a seat.

  Go on – just try to sit here.

  So Jack stood with the two other new cops to the side.

  First roll call.

  Starts here, Jack thought.

  One of the new cops, a lean black kid who didn’t look more than eighteen, had already been assigned a partner. That was the way it would go down for all of them. You get teamed up with an old timer.

  Someone to show you the ropes.

  Or not.

  Story was that this ‘mentoring’ could be the equivalent of hazing.

  They like to weed the candy-asses out early.

  That was the story back at the academy.

  Jack didn’t doubt it.

  He looked around the room to see who he might get as a partner. Like picking ducks at the carnival.

  Which one was a prize, which one wasn’t?

  “Okay, Murphy – you’ll be with Schiller.”

  The sergeant’s announcement produced a laugh in the room. Some muttering.

  The last pair-up announcement hadn’t done that.

  A freaking laugh?

  Why did I get the laugh? Is it that bad?

  Then he saw a guy, this Schiller, turn and look back at him.

  Big white face. Almost no hair, his shirt’s buttons struggling to stay buttoned.

  No spring chicken, and he didn’t look in shape.

  My mentor, Jack thought.

  No prize-winning duck this time.

  Schiller made a pistol out of his hand and gave Jack a shot and a wink.

  Jack smiled back.

  Which only made his partner roll his eyes and look away.

  “Okay, boys and girls. Time to hit the streets. Hot town, summer in the city. Let’s make those streets of Brooklyn safe.”

  And the cops got up out of their chairs, talking, the slow blue beast coming to life. No eagerness, no joy.

  Jack and the other two newbies waited, like lampreys for a shark, until their partner rolled by.

  Schiller took his hat off. Dressed in the summer uniform of a short-sleeved blue shirt, Jack saw beefy arms. Could be he was strong, or could be all blubber. His belly suggested the latter.

  “So you’re a mick? When I joined the department, it was still fucking mick city around here. Now—well, you see. You got mutts like me. Everything and anything.”

  For a moment, Jack felt like he had landed in Serpico.

  Are we about to do our run to pick up money from our drops, from the bag men or whatever the guys doling out bribes were called?

  That was one thing that was made clear at the academy.

  That – and those days – were over.

  No bullshit.

  It would be nearly impossible to be a cop on the take these days.

  Salary wasn’t bad. You could still retire after twenty years. Benefits were good. And you always had the brotherhood of blue.

  It didn’t sound bad to Jack.

  Especially when there didn’t seem to be any other options. The world had shut the option shop down.

  When he got a shot at a slot in the academy, he took it.

  “Fuck, it is going to hot today, Murphy. Fucking hot. And the AC in this piece of shit is fucking iffy. They keep saying they’re going to fix it. Overnight. But the car goes out every night…so guess what?”

  “No one ever fixes it?”

  “Bingo, Einstein.”

  Schiller opened the door and got in, signaling Jack to do the same.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky today. Maybe not.”

  Schiller was already dripping. Dark blue splotches blooming under his armpits.

  For the sake of breathable air, Jack hoped the air conditioning worked.

  Schiller started the patrol car. The car’s AC wheezed, then seemed to pump out – something.

  Jack’s partner put a meaty hand against a vent.

  “There we go. Good. Cocksuckers will never really fix it. But today—” a big grin – “looks like we’ll be cool.”

  And Schiller pulled away from the station house.

  While they drove around the neighborhood, Schiller reviewed the game plan.

  It would be a standard patrol. Driving, checking out some abandoned buildings and warehouses, a nice, quiet day, waiting for any radio alerts that would make them divert from their patrol loop.

  “I always go down here, down Dwight Street, first thing. Always good to show the shop owners we’re out here. Their tax dollars at work. And show any bums hanging out. Then—” Schiller pointed ahead – “a quick turn up ahead, down Creamer Street. Some name, huh? Creamer! Good to run through the neighbs. Lots of empty houses there. Place has been hard hit, man. Foreclosures all over the fucking place.”

  “Get squatters?”

  Schiller laughed.

  “Squatters? Yeah. But I don’t go looking for them unless they’re making trouble. Too much booze, too much sucking on the pipe, then things happen, y’know? Then you gotta clear out a place, round up whoever’s inside.”

  Schiller took a breath. “If a place is abandoned, why the hell should we care?”

  He looked away from the windshield.

  “And man—do they smell. You better not get downwind of them. Wouldn’t want to be the team who has to load them into the wagon.”

  Schiller nodded. Maybe he had done that job, loading the stoned, homeless maniacs into a police wagon.

  “Could make you puke your guts out.”

  Jack looked ahead. The streets already looked sizzling, the heat waves radiating off the pavement, a ribbony wall.

  Is it always this hot?

  But he knew the answer to that. Everyone did.

  The answer was – quite simply – yes.

  Jack had told his father before he died, after the baptism for Simon, what he was going to do. Christie’s teaching brought in most of the money…now that Jack’s construction work s
eemed to shrink weekly.

  They wanted – needed a house. Not the two bedroom apartment they had. It was a good time to buy.

  They looked at the Verrazano Bridge, the gateway to the suburban world of Staten Island.

  His father was already dying. Months, the VA’s cancer docs said.

  But what did they know?

  Turned out to be weeks.

  “Dad – I applied to the academy.”

  His father had nodded, as if expecting that this was what Jack would do.

  “Yeah?”

  Never much for conversation.

  “Two kids now. Christie has to take a leave. We got some savings. Should hold us until I’m out.”

  “You sure you’ll get in?”

  Jack took a slug of beer. He had trouble getting his regular brand, a little pale ale from Maine. Seemed like all the beer choices had suddenly narrowed.

  Strange.

  “See that’s it. Was hoping you’d put a word in. To some of your friends. Pull some strings.”

  Jack smiled

  His father didn’t.

  If there was one thing about his dad, it was that he was by the book.

  And ‘pulling strings’ wasn’t in that book.

  His father had taken a swig of his beer.

  Jack felt that his father couldn’t look at him and not think of his other son, the one lost, killed a world away by a stupid homemade bomb.

  Then: “I want to be a cop, dad. A good cop.”

  “No other kind,” his father said, repeating a litany held close.

  But they had talked. They both knew otherwise. Maybe not corrupt cops. But lazy ones. Careless ones. Dumb ones. The cops marking time, counting the days.

  Then: “What do you think, dad?”

  His father nodded. And then – a bit of a smile, perhaps happy at last by the decision that his son had made for his life.

  “I’ll get the word out,” his father said. A bigger smile. “Pull those strings.”

  Jack grinned back.

  “Then – I best go tell Christie.”

  And Jack walked out to their small kitchen to where Christie sat with their new baby, such a perfect, beautiful boy, and Jack thinking…this conversation, this decision…. was all about her, their daughter Kate – so smart – and this new baby who was all eyes and drool.

  “Whoa. What’s that?”

  Schiller slowed the patrol car. A couple screaming at each other on a corner.

  Jack watched the man – lanky, white, with the crazy beard of a mountain man, push the woman hard. She was as black and as wide as the man was long.

  She teetered backwards and then took a swing at the man.

  With amazing aim, she caught the guy on his chin and he spun around, cartoon-like, before returning the favor.

  Schiller hit the brakes.

  “Gotta stop this shit.”

  The two people seemed to take no notice of the car’s arrival, or the fact that Jack and his partner got out.

  For a moment, Jack debated whether he should take his hat.

  Department protocol was…always be in uniform.

  But with the rock-em, sock-em act going on there, maybe it was more urgent that they hustle and break up the battle.

  Schiller had already gotten to them and Jack realized that though his mentor was a stubby guy who looked totally out of shape, he moved fast.

  Move fast.

  Something they drilled into you at the Academy. Every few seconds mattered. The difference between a gun being aimed and a trigger pulled, the difference between surprising someone or getting surprised yourself.

  Jack ran nearly every day. Should prove useful, he thought.

  “Okay, okay,” Schaller said, “You two—let’s stop this right now.”

  A crowd had formed, young kids, a few nearby shop owners, people pausing on their way to the bus.

  It was showtime.

  The man responded by trying to slam the woman with a fist full to the face.

  But the woman – good for her – bobbed in a way that would make Ali proud.

  Then, the fatal move, she kicked her right knee up into the man’s groin.

  The mountain man immediately doubled over like a marionette with his strings cut, coughing, puking.

  The woman was about to administer another kick when Schiller put a hand on her shoulder.

  Jack became painfully aware that he had done absolutely nothing…but watch the scene.

  The woman turned to Schiller, same height, nearly eyeball to eyeball.

  And the eyes…wide, wild.

  What was it? Meth, crack, some oxy? She was flying.

  “Keep an eye on the guy,” Schiller said quickly to Jack.

  He turned to the bearded man who was in the process of recovering from having his testicles dented.

  A glance back: the woman looked as though she was going to do the same to Schiller.

  “Hang on. What’s the problem here?” Schiller said.

  The woman’s eyes stayed on fire but at least she didn’t kick the veteran cop.

  “He’s botherin’ me. That’s what’s wrong”

  The man – Jack’s eyes on him, his body positioned between the man and his sparring partner – had finally stood erect.

  “She’s hiding the food. Hiding it—and goddamned eating it.”

  The woman spun away from Schiller, loudly performing for her audience. “That’s crazy. What food? What the hell is he talking about?”

  Funny, Jack thought. The man –who also looked like he was soaring on some concoction – was so thin and lanky, and the woman…. so much larger. If they really lived together, it would seem, on observation, that he might have a case.

  “Okay, okay,” Schiller said. “I don’t know anything about that. But you two…” He paused, maybe hoping they’d flash on the fact they were now involved with the police “You two can calm down. Move this, um, dispute, off the street. Or we can run you down to the precinct. Spend the day and night until we get someone who can talk to you and sort all this out.”

  Another pause.

  “What’s it gonna be?”

  The man and the woman looked at each other. Seemed doubtful that their fury had vanished, but now – Jack guessed – they clearly understood that they might soon be some place with no access to whatever drug was fueling their fun.

  The man nodded, capitulating first, “Okay. We’re done. Yeah – ain’t that right?”

  The woman eyeballed him as if he was on a menu.

  Then: “Yeah. We got carried away, is all. Carried away. We’re okay now.”

  Eyes still on each other. Silently screaming…this isn’t over.

  Then Schiller turned to the crowd.

  “Okay, folks, today’s match is over. Everyone move along.”

  The man and woman somehow melted into the crowd. Jack moved close to his partner.

  They stood there like statues, waiting for the people to vanish.

  Then Schiller turned to Jack.

  “Welcome to the NYPD.” He laughed. “Doing God’s work here, hm?”

  Still laughing, he started back to the patrol car. But Jack, still walking beside him, asked a question.

  “Get much of that? Drugs, fights? In the daytime?”

  Schiller stopped. His face sweaty. The wet blue patches under his arms massive. The summer days so hot. Every day nearly a record.

  Schiller hesitated as if thinking over the question.

  No quick response.

  Something there, Jack thought.

  “Like that? Lately…yeah. And you know what—strangest fucking thing, Jack. Or maybe not so strange. So many of the fights…all about food.”

  Schiller opened the door and got into the car, and Jack followed.

  2 ------------------------ Lunchtime

  For a while, they drove the neighborhood without saying anything.

  Then Schiller said, “Best call in the incident to the desk sergeant. In case something happens later.” Anoth
er laugh from him. More of a grunt. “Good practice for you. Why, I’ll even let you do the paperwork on it.”

  Jack realized that whatever his first impression might have been, he liked Schiller. After all, he’d been bouncing around these streets for maybe fifteen years.

  And he seemed okay. He seemed like a cop.

  But then, another thought: is that me fifteen years from now?

  After he called in the incident as ‘disorderly conduct’ – Schiller’s suggestion, as opposed to domestic violence since it was hard to say who was thumping on whom – Jack asked his partner about what he had said.

  “You said food? You’re seeing a lot of incidents over food?”

  “Hell, yeah. Robberies. Shit like we just saw. Fights in the goddamn stores.”

  “I know there have been shortages…”

  Schiller shook his head. “Yeah, ‘kay, if that’s what you call it. Shortages. Had any juicy burgers this summer?”

  “No. I mean, the price of beef…”

  “So, what you call a ‘shortage’ is a crisis here, Jack. And you know who gets to deal with the shit? We do. All I’m saying…is that they better start getting more stuff on the shelves, at prices the goddamned schlubs here can afford. Otherwise, it’s gonna be an even longer, hotter summer.”

  Jack thought about what Schiller said.

  Sure, they had seen shortages in their new neighborhood on Staten Island. The glistening supermarket…with its shelves not looking so super. The corn desiccated, dried up things. Whole sections of meat gone.

  And the price of cereal!

  Jack wasn’t one for watching the news.

  But yeah – something was going on.

  He guessed it would all be temporary.

  Those shelves would fill up in a few months time.

  Had to be.

  Then – for the first time – a completely different thought. What if…that didn’t happen?

  What if, in fact, it got worse?

  “So—” Schiller said. “Speaking of food, I know a place where we can get a couple of dogs at not too extravagant prices. Celebrate your ‘day one’.” He grinned. “My treat.”

  “I can pay for—“

  “Sure you can. Precinct tradition though, Jack. One of the freaking perks of being your mentor,” he said, then laughed as he turned down a corner, heading to where the brackish waters of the Hudson raced to meet the Atlantic Ocean.