Part 20 (1/2)
”What boy?”
Russo pauses long enough to make his annoyance clear. ”That there car belongs to Mr. Clarence Spott.”
”Who?”
”Spott's picture is hangin' in the muster room. He's one of the bad guys.” Dante's mouth expands into a humorless smile. ”Whatta ya say we bust his b.a.l.l.s a little?”
”Fine by me.”
When Russo momentarily lights up the roof rack and the BMW pulls to the curb, both cops immediately leave their car. They are on Metropolitan Avenue, a main commercial street in the northside section of Greenpoint. The small retail stores lining both sides of the avenue are long closed, their gates down and padlocked, but several men stand in front of an after-hours club across the street. David Lodge stares at the men till they turn away, then he joins Russo who stands a few feet from the BMW's open window. Lodge knows he should approach the vehicle from the pa.s.senger side, that his job here is to cover his partner on the driver's side. But David Lodge has never been a by-the-book officer, far from it, and knowing his partner won't object, he settles down to enjoy the show.
”Why you stoppin' me, man?” Clarence Spott's full mouth is twisted into a pained grimace. ”I ain't done nothin'.”
”Step outa the car,” Russo orders. ”And that's officer officer, not man.” man.”
”I ain't goin' no place till I find out why you stopped me. This here is racial profilin'. It's unconst.i.tutional.”
Russo slaps his nightstick against the palm of his hand. ”Clarence, you don't come out, and I mean right this f.u.c.kin' minute, I'm gonna crack your winds.h.i.+eld.”
The door opens and Spott emerges. A short, heavily muscled black man, his expression-eyes wide, brows raised, big mouth already moving-reeks of outrage. Lodge can smell the stink from where he stands. And it's not as if Spott, who keeps his hands in view at all times, isn't familiar with the rules of the game. There's just something in him that doesn't know when to shut up.
”Ah'm still axin' the same question. Why you pull me over when I'm drivin' down a public street, mindin' my own d.a.m.n business?”
Russo ignores the inquiry. ”I want you to put your hands on top of the vehicle and spread your legs. I want you to do it right now.”
Spott finally crosses the line, as Lodge knew he would, by adding the word pig pig to his next sentence. Lodge slaps him in the face, a mild reprimand from Lodge's point of view, but Spott sees it differently. His eyes close for a moment as he draws a long breath through his nose. Then he uncoils, quick as a snake, and drives his fist into the left side of David Lodge's face. to his next sentence. Lodge slaps him in the face, a mild reprimand from Lodge's point of view, but Spott sees it differently. His eyes close for a moment as he draws a long breath through his nose. Then he uncoils, quick as a snake, and drives his fist into the left side of David Lodge's face.
Taken by surprise, Lodge staggers backward, leaving Spott to Dante Russo, who a.s.sumes a two-handed grip on his nightstick before cracking it into Spott's unprotected s.h.i.+ns. When Spott drops to his knees on the pavement, Russo slides the nightstick beneath his throat and pulls back, choking off a howl of pain.
”How you wanna do this, Clarence? Easy or hard?”
As Spott cannot speak, he indicates compliance by going limp and crossing his hands behind his back.
Russo eases up slightly, then pushes Spott forward onto his chest. ”You all right?” he asks his partner.
”Never better.”
David Lodge brings his hand to the blood running from a deep cut along his cheekbone. Suddenly, he feels sharp, even purposeful. As he watches his partner cuff and search the prisoner before loading him into the backseat, he thinks, Okay, this is where it gets good. Okay, this is where it gets good. His hand goes almost of itself to the soda bottle stuffed beneath the seat when he enters the vehicle. He barely tastes the vodka as it slides down his throat. His hand goes almost of itself to the soda bottle stuffed beneath the seat when he enters the vehicle. He barely tastes the vodka as it slides down his throat.
”You got any particular place in mind?” his partner asks as he s.h.i.+fts the patrol car into gear.
”Not as long as it's private. One thing I hate, it's bein' interrupted when I'm on a roll.”
Lieutenant Justin Whitlock sets the precinct log aside when David Lodge and Dante Russo lead Clarence Spott into the nine-four. Both sides of Spott's face are bruised and he leans to the left with his arm pressed to his ribs. His right eye, already crusting, is swollen shut.
Whitlock is seated at a desk behind a wooden railing that runs across the nine-four's reception area. He glances from the prisoner to Russo, then notices the blood on David Lodge's face and Lodge's blood-soaked collar.
”That your blood, Lodge?”
”Yeah. The mutt caught me a good one and we hadda subdue him.”
Whitlock nods twice. The injury is something he can work with.
”I want you to go over to the emergency room at Wyckoff Heights and have that wound sewn up. Count the st.i.tches and make sure you obtain a copy of the medical report. Better yet, insist that a micro-surgeon do the job. Tell 'em you don't wanna spoil your good looks.”
”What about the paperwork on the arrest, loo? Shouldn't I get started?”
”No, secure the prisoner, then get your a.s.s over to Wyckoff. Your partner will handle the paperwork.” Whitlock's expression softens as he turns to Russo. ”How 'bout you, Dante? You hurt?”
Russo flicks out a left jab. ”Not me, loo, I'm too quick.”
Whitlock glances at the prisoner. ”I see.” When Russo fails to respond, he continues. ”Did the mutt use a weapon?”
”Yeah, loo, that ring. That's what cut Dave's cheek.” Russo lifts Spott's right hand to display a pinkie ring with a single large diamond at its center. ”You know what woulda happened if Dave had gotten hit in the eye?”
”He'd be out on the street with a cane.” Whitlock's smile broadens. He and Russo are on the same track. ”Charge the hump with aggravated a.s.sault on a police officer. That should keep the a.s.shole busy. And make sure you take that ring. That ring is evidence.”
Spott finally speaks up. ”I wanna call my lawyer,” he mumbles through swollen lips.
”What'd he say?” Whitlock asks.
”I think he said something about your mother, lieutenant,” Russo declares. ”And it wasn't complimentary.”
Russo leads Spott through a gate in the railing, then shoves him toward the cells at the rear of the building. ”Hi ho, hi ho,” he sings, ”it's off to jail we go.”
Smiling at his partner's cop humor, David Lodge trails behind.
Five minutes later, Dante Russo emerges to announce, ”The prisoner is secure and Officer Lodge is off to the hospital.”
”You think he's sober enough to find his way?”
Russo starts to defend his partner, then suddenly changes tack with a shrug of his shoulders. ”Dave's out of control,” he admits. ”If I wasn't there tonight, who knows what would've happened. I mean, I been tryin' to straighten the guy out, but he just won't listen.”
”I coulda told you that when you took him on as your partner.”
”What was I supposed to do? When I was told that n.o.body wanted to work with him? I'm the PBA delegate, remember? Helping cops in trouble is part of my job.”
From David Lodge, the conversation drifts for a bit, finally settling on the precinct commander, Captain Joe Hagerty. Crime is up in the precinct for the second straight year and Hagerty is on the way out. Though his replacement has yet to be named, the veterans fear a wholesale shake-up. Dante Russo, of course, at age twenty-five, is far from a veteran. But he's definitely a rising star within the cop union, the Patrolman's Benevolent a.s.sociation, a rising star with serious connections. Dante's uncle is the trustee for Brooklyn North and sits on the PBA's Board of Directors.
They are still at it thirty minutes later when Officers Daryl Johnson and Hector Arias waltz an adolescent prisoner into the building. Dwarfed by the two cops, the boy is weeping.
”He done the crime,” Arias observes, ”but he don't wanna do the time.”
”Found him comin' out a window of the Sung Ri ware-house on Gratton Street,” Daryl Johnson adds. ”He had this TV in his arms, the thing was bigger than he was.” Johnson gives his prisoner an affectionate cuff on the back of the head. ”What were ya gonna do, jerk, carry it all the way back to the projects?”
”Put him in a cell,” Whitlock says, ”and notify the detectives. They'll wanna talk to him in the morning.”