"What? Say that again, Lou. I know I didn't hear you
ri... A sword? On Lexington
Avenue? Yeah..." Captain Ray Ciello rubbed his brow as he tried to take
the phone call over the clamor of the squad room. A crusty veteran of
the
"City's Finest," he kept watch over the concrete canyons of midtown
Manhattan from dusk until dawn. Tonight, his bluff manner was growing
more
petulant by the minute. It was Friday, but it was his first night back
from a
two-week vacation. He was already wondering why he ever returned.
He
pulled the receiver away from his head for a moment and vainly shouted,
"Keep it down, people! I'm talkin' here! Sheee!" His office door was
just out of reach. Ciello tried to kick it shut, when he spotted a
lanky, black
man passing by and signaled him to come inside.
You
wanted me, Cap'n?" asked Detective Sergeant Morrell Bowman, sticking
his
head in the doorway.
"Sit," said Ciello curtly, turning back to the phone. "Now Lou,
we can't tell the press that. Just keep a lid on it or The Post will fry us in the
headlines and the
Commissioner will have us for breakfast! O.K., O.K., I'll be down there
in less
than an hour." He slammed down the receiver.
"Swordplay," Capt. Ciello muttered to himself, almost forgetting
Bowman. "Who ever heard of swords on Lexington?"
"Don't blame me," quipped Bowman. "That's not my
neighborhood."
"Hmm?" asked Ciello, suddenly realizing that he'd been talking to
himself, rather than the sergeant. He turned to Bowman and continued
his
previous thought, "Twenty-four years, three months and nineteen days in
the Department, and I've seen everything from rumbles to riots--there
are punks
in Bedford-Stuyvesant with automatic assault rifles--but never, EVER
have I
heard of swords on Lexington Avenue! Across from the Waldorf, yet!
"Look at this!" said Ciello, as he tossed Bowman his notes.
"Some nut with a sword went after a mugger behind one of the ritziest
establishments in the city, half an hour ago. Do you know anything
about this,
Nat?" The sergeant started to raise objection to his boss's use of that nickname when the flying
memo pad
cut him short.
"Yes, sir," he replied. He tossed the pad back onto the desk without
looking at it. "That's the third report this week. We've been getting
calls like that since just after you left for Florida. Seems somebody,
or some
bodies, object to the criminal elements' chosen professions."
"Some bodies?"
asked Ciello. "Do you mean to tell me we've have more than one of these
nuts runnin' loose? Whad'dya think, vigilantes or somethin'?"
"Looks that way," answered Bowman. "The descriptions vary a
little, but the M.O. is always the same. A would-be mugger, attacker or
whatever is interrupted in his 'pursuit of happiness' by some big
character
brandishing a sword. The...uh...suspects are consistently described as
tall--six feet or better--powerfully built and wearing white, wool
topcoats,
under which, we presume they conceal their weapons. Whoever they are,
they're
really fast and seem to attack out of nowhere. Then they leave just as
quickly."
"And their victims, are they...?" asked Ciello.
"Dead?" responded the sergeant, finishing his captain's thought.
"Nope, just scared to death."
"I can't imagine why," said Ciello. Neither officer could resist
smiling slightly.
"Every one of the victims swears that they've been cut up. Weird thing
is
that they aren't. There's not a mark on them," said Bowman. "We found
one last night, whimpering under a footbridge in Central Park. The guy
was out
of his mind. We took him down to Bellevue."
Captain Ciello grabbed his coat, took a last sip from the cold cup of
coffee on
his desk, and said to Bowman as he ushered them both out of the door,
"Well, Nat. That's where we're goin' now."
"Aw, no!" Bowman whined. "I spent half the night there trying'
to get a coherent statement from that blabbering fool." He and
the
captain headed across the squad room, toward the stairwell.
"Did the guys down at County ever get him settled down?" asked
Ciello.
"That WAS after they got him settled down!" said Bowman. They both
chuckled as they headed down the stairs. Then Bowman added, "And stop
calling me, 'Nat!'"
Detective Sergeant Morrell Bowman was a tall, wiry man with an angular
face.
Truth be told, he did have a passing resemblance to the late musician,
Nat
Cole--a personal favorite of Captain Ciello--hence the unwanted
epithet. Of course,
Bowman's propensity toward wearing tweed jackets and string ties didn't
help
his case. He wouldn't mind so much if it weren't for the ribbing from
the rest
of the squad. Even some of the precinct's more regularly booked
"guests" had picked up on it. Being peppered with requests for
"Mona Lisa" from the holding tank was more than a little annoying.
*******
It
was almost 11:00 p.m. when Bowman and Ciello arrived at Bellevue
Medical Center
on First Avenue. They elbowed their way through the emergency room, a
beehive
of humanity, where the odors of blood and sweat mingled uneasily with
that of
antiseptic scrub. The Friday night melee had begun. While a few blocks
to the
north, the United Nations met in late-night session to discuss the
international
refugee problem, the municipal hospital was attempting to cope with a
domestic
refugee problem of it's own.
The
sergeant and his captain made their way to an evaluation room,
distinguishable
from the rest of the curtained-off exam areas only presence of two
uniformed
officers. Inside, a resident doctor and a staff psychiatrist were
attempting to
examine a patient who was writhing on the floor, swearing that he had
been
stabbed and was going to die. The problem was that he wasn't bleeding,
and as far
as they could determine, hadn't even been cut. Even the drug tests had
come
back negative...and considering the patient, that was mildly
surprising.
His
name was Morris Alvin Thurgood, better known as "Jack-Mon", one of
the cities lesser known attractions and frequent "guest" of Manhattan
precinct stations and the municipal courts. The South Bronx native was
a
dreadlocked hustler and would-be Rastafarian whose thick, Jamaican
accent was
strictly for the tourists. His alias was derived from his pat answer
when
pressed for his name on the street, "Jack, mon!" Thurgood styled
himself a businessman, running a virtual department store out of a
makeshift
cart on the corner of Broadway and 45th Street. He was an unlicensed
dealer of
incense, souvenirs, reggae cassettes of questionable origin, and when
no one
was looking, various controlled substances. This last line of
merchandise had
itself spawned a habit that occasionally required secondary income.
Thurgood
usually stuck to picking the pockets of well-heeled theatergoers and
wide-eyed
bumpkins along Broadway. Tonight's venture into mugging was a bit of a
departure.
"Thurgood!" Ciello bubbled cheerfully as he entered the room, and
then added, "Bowman, look who's here." As the sergeant responded with
obligatory "my-oh-my's", the captain roughly slapped his arm around
the suspect, hugging him like a long-lost army buddy. Meanwhile,
Thurgood only
sobbed. "I hear someone didn't like your new act," Ciello said,
oblivious to the suspect/victim's alleged condition. "The Waldorf's a
little off-Broadway for an actor like yourself, isn't it?" Thurgood
just
groaned. "So, how about singin' for us, huh? Tell us about the guy who
attacked you."
"He cut me, man! The dude sliced me up! Had a blade a yard long!"
Thurgood exclaimed. Then he doubled over and gasped, "Man, you can't go
cuttin' folks with no blades like that in New York! There's laws! I
want him
arrested!"
"Hey! We're on your side, this time," said Ciello, backing off a
little. "What'd he look like?"
Thurgood grimaced, "The man was big. All in white. Didn't say nothin'.
Just started in on me!" He doubled over again and began to cry, "Oh,
God! Please don't let me die. I wasn't gonna hurt the woman...I swear!
I just
needed the money. See? O, God! Please help me!"
A
nurse stuck her head through the curtain and interrupted, "The priest
is
here." She motioned the two staffers out of the room. Then she turned
to
the two detectives and said, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave,
now."
"Get out'ta here!" the captain responded in disbelief. That cinched it;
Thurgood had to be pulling a con to stay out of jail. "A priest?"
"Mr. Thurgood requested a priest,” the nurse said.
"Who'd you call?" said Ciello mocking, "One of your Rasta fruitcakes?"
"Father James
is from St. Patrick's, thank you very much," corrected the nurse
indignantly. A distinct brogue Ciello hadn't noticed before came
through. Irish
blood had been offended.
"I'm bleedin', man!" protested Thurgood.
"So
where's the blood?" chided Ciello. "A priest! Holy..." Ciello's
own Catholic conscience checked his tongue as the wizened padre entered
the
room. As skeptical as he was about the suspect's motives, he'd hate
being
assigned penance in public. Instead, the captain grudgingly nodded to
the
bespectacled man of God, and left, shaking his head and grumbling to
himself.
The
sergeant went for coffee, while the captain checked in with the
station. By the
time Bowman returned, Ciello was interviewing the arresting officers
who had
remained outside the evaluation room. The priest took an interminably
long
time. After a while, a nurse entered the room carrying some water and a
towel.
Good Catholic or not, Ciello was getting steamed. He had better things
to do
than to play religious games with some Broadway grifter. When Father
James
emerged from behind the curtain after some two hours, Ciello nearly
knocked him
over to get back to the suspect. The little, old saint just smiled
politely and
left without a word.
The
captain and sergeant rushed in to find Thurgood sitting upright,
smiling,
clear-eyed and in no apparent pain. He looked absolutely ragged and was
wringing wet with sweat. Otherwise, he was fine. The nurse was sponging
his forehead
with the towel. Thurgood greeted Ciello and Bowman like two old
friends. He
then apologized for having dragged them to Bellevue in the middle of
the night.
The
detectives and uniformed officers were dumbfounded. Ciello spluttered,
but
Bowman found the words first, "Hey! What'd you give him?"
"Nothing," the nurse replied.
*******
Sgt. Bowman was exhausted by the time he walked from the subway stop
toward his
home in Queens the next morning. It was already ten o'clock. The
night
shift seemed particularly long working a four-day week, but he did
enjoy the
extra day off. And at the moment, he wanted to sleep until Tuesday.
It
was Saturday, but his wife and two daughters were at church, St.
Bartholomew's
Episcopal at Park Avenue and 50th Street, back in Manhattan. It
was his
wife's home church. They had been married there. Their daughters had
been
practically raised there. It seemed to the sergeant that his family
spent
almost as much time away from home, doing something or other at the
church, as
he did on duty. His wife and daughters helped run the church's feeding
and
shelter program for the city's homeless. Sometimes, Bowman wondered if
half the
city of New York wouldn't starve if not for them.
"Out feeding' the five boroughs again," mumbled Bowman to himself. He
shook his head, pitying that his wife and children weren't there to
fuss over
him after he'd slaved all night keeping the streets safe. "Just ain't
right." He dug into the paper bag he was carrying for another doughnut.
The
sergeant passed the white, iron gate that led to his new apartment. It
was a
plain vanilla, second-story flat in Astoria, Queens--and it was his
pride and
joy. To him, Astoria was the garden spot of New York State. He'd spent
the
better part of twenty years trying to move his family out of Harlem.
When his
mother had broken her hip the year before, he'd managed to get her into
a
convalescent home on Manhattan's Upper West Side. She even had a great
view of
the Hudson River. Then this apartment became available. Bowman, his
wife and
two girls had been there less than a week.
The
apartment building itself was a long, three-story cinder block design,
recently
(and rapidly) erected on the site of a burned-out garage. Even though
the cause
of the fire was never officially determined, the scuttlebutt was
that it
had been set...especially when the landlords began advertising for
tenants
before the smell of smoke had cleared. But arson is hard to prove in
court, and
if you want a good apartment in New York, it doesn't pay to hesitate,
even if
you are a diligent NYPD veteran with reasonable doubts. That wasn't his
call.
Let the Fire Department, insurance companies and landlords hash it out.
Bowman
signed the lease the first day it was advertised. The building itself
had
exterior stairs and long, common balconies with decorative, wrought
iron
railings. It more resembled a suburban motel that a typical New York
City
apartment building, but it was new, out of Harlem...and his.
As
he climbed the stairs, he noticed a pile of empty packing boxed
beneath.
"All right!" he said to himself triumphantly. He grinned and
quickened his pace, taking two steps at a time. "The stove and
refrigerator got here. I sure was getting tired of fast food three
times a
day." As he approached his apartment, he reached in his pocket and
fumbled
for the key.
He
never saw the baseball bat that stuck him. Bowman fell backward,
careened
headlong over the railing and landed in the stack of packing boxes
below.
Dazed, but still conscious, he heard his assailants hurrying down the
stairs to
view their handiwork.
"Somebody should
‘a
tol' d' dude he ain't welcome in 'is distric'." shouted one.
"Hey, he ain't
welcome
anywhere!" said another.
"Yeah, like we got enough shade here."
"Hey, Spin! He don't hear too good. He's still here...just layin'
aroun'.
I think he needs more convincin'."
Dizzy and barely able to move, Bowman struggled to get up. Wiping the
blood
from his forehead, he could just make out the four, white-faced,
leather-clad
figures coming toward him. He reached for his service revolver, but
felt
someone suddenly pull him backward to the ground. The glint of steel
flashed
before him. Someone screamed. Bowman passed out.
********
"Hey! You all right, fella?" Bowman heard a voice over him. He opened
his eyes to a hulking figure, only partially eclipsing the sun. He
shaded his
eyes and squinted to get a better view. He also winced; the stranger
was
blotting his wound. When his eyes focused, the sergeant paled for a
moment, and
not for loss of blood. Bending over him was a hulking monster of a man,
well
over six-feet tall, gently cleaning the injured detectives forehead.
The white
topcoat was unmistakable. This was the swashbuckler that he and Captain
Ciello
had been hunting—one of the—Bowman couldn’t quite settle on what his
massive
benefactor was.
"Huh? Yeah. I'll be...I'll be...uh...fine," Sgt. Bowman tried to
reassure the top-coated giant, but as he rose up, the world, his head
and his
stomach all began to spin. The stranger placed something cool and damp
against
the Bowman's temple and cheek.
"Here, have a sip of this." The man in white put a soft drink bottle
to Bowman's lips. He began to come to again. An arrest was out of the
question.
"You took a nasty hit there, fella. Good thing those boxes were
there," the man continued.
"The...uh...punks...what...where did they...?" Bowman tried to ask.
The
stranger interrupted, "Them? Oh, they took off for their hole. Rats
don't
like sunlight, I guess."
"But the scream...I heard a..."
"I must have surprised them. Nervous typed. I don't think they were
counting on having a witness. They're O.K. Probably messed themselves,
though.
"Now you just lay back, an ambulance is on the way," the stranger
explained.
"Who are you? Where'd you come from" asked Bowman.
The
man replied, "Me? Oh, I just came up from Mulberry Street. Taking care
of
a little business in the neighborhood."
That's it, thought the officer, the guy's from Little Italy. The man in
white
bore a Mediterranean look. He sported a shock of wavy, jet-black hair,
and
olive complexion, and painfully bright smile. Even his broad-shouldered
greatcoat
would be a fashionable natural north of Canal Street. In fact, aside
from his
size, the man's only really distinguishing feature was his piercing
blue eyes.
Gauging from his alleged rescue, and notable absence of the four
youthful
malefactors, Bowman wondered whether his mysterious friend wasn't some
sort of
enforcer. But why help a cop, or a stranger? The sergeant's head began
to spin
again; he lay back, and for the time being, dismissed the questions. A
distant
ambulance siren drew closer.
Bowman couldn't let go completely. He tried to continue as the stranger
continued to mop his head. "Wh... What about that sword?"
"Sword?" the man chuckled. "Man, what would I be doing with a
sword in New York?"
"But I thought I saw...uh...heard..."
"Hey! Here's your ride!" The man was curtly elbowed aside by two
paramedics.
The
whirl of activity made Bowman grow more faint. As they shoved him into
the
ambulance, he struggled to ask the man in white, "Wh…What's your
name?"
"Angel," came the reply.
"Oh, yeah," retorted the officer. "I suppose you're going to
tell me that you're my guardian angel, or something."
"Ha!
Guardian Angel?" chuckled a voice with a thick, Brooklyn accent.
"Hey! I'm just you're driver. Me and Tony, here, will be chauffeuring
you
to the E.R. this evening. We don't wear no red berets, you know." The
self-styled band of "citizen's police" to which the voice referred
often elicited a curious mix of thankfulness and vague mistrust among
the
citizenry.
The
sergeant opened his eyes and found himself in the ambulance, trundling
up to
the hospital entrance. It was a couple of days before he remembered
anything
else.
********
The old police station resounded like a kettledrum amidst the sea of
humanity
crammed within its walls. It was just 6 p.m. and already the telephones
were
going off like fire alarms. A war zone would have been quieter, but it
was
music to Sergeant Bowman's ears after spending the past ten days in the
hospital. He'd been poked, prodded, stitched and wrapped ad
infinitum while
recovering. He rather prided
himself on not having been a good patient. (He particularly liked
buzzing the
nurse for a soda at two in the morning.) Best of all, he was still
alive. He
wasn't even irritated by the chorus of "Unforgettable" which greeted
him when he arrived in the squad room; although, he did protest for
appearance
sake. Even his broken down chair was a welcome friend.
"Nat!" shouted Captain Ciello from his office.
"What?...Ow!" yelled back Sergeant Bowman, suddenly wincing. His head
wasn't quite back to normal. He massaged the small, bandaged area on
his
forehead.
"Your white knight has been busy," said the captain. "At least
his friends have." He handed the sergeant a stack of police reports,
pointed to them and said, "There have been eight more
botched muggings
and two attempted sexual assaults interrupted." Ciello momentarily
lifted
the top file on the stack, "Two fellow officers investigating a
suspected
crack house on the Lower East Side were "detained" from a
booby-trapped squad car." He anticipated Bowman's question before it
could
form, "It's all in the report. They sent you a copy from downtown
because
of your 'unique familiarity with one of the suspects' as the
commissioner
said." Ciello posed a dyspeptic smile. Such attention from the Police
Commissioner was not welcome news.
"Commissioner?" asked Bowman, surprised. Then he added,
"Suspects? How many are there?"
"Just one commissioner," responded Ciello dryly. He took a bite of
his sandwich, and talked while he ate, "But suspects? We don't know.
Seems
to be a different one each time," replied Ciello. "Black, white,
Hispanic, Asian...whoever they are, they don't discriminate. Get this,
the two
cops from the file were "detained" by some white-donned, Middle
Eastern cabbie who'd lost control of his Checker and had the officers
pinned
inside an entry way. He was babbling apologies when their squad car
blew."
Both the captain and sergeant snickered at the though. Captain Ciello
continued, "Problem is that we don't know much more than we did
before...besides
their affinity for white topcoats, and the occasional sword."
"Yeah," remembered Bowman, "I never did get a good look at that.
What kind of swords are we dealing with? Are they military dress?
Broadswords? Sabers?
Maybe we have a bunch of 'Dragon's Lair' nuts?" He referred to a
fantasy
game popular among teens, where players assumed the identities of
medieval
knights and sundry magical beings in quest of some Valkyriean reward.
Its
devotees sometimes got carried away--literally.
"Glad you asked," said the captain. He pulled out a sketch from his
desk drawer. "This is the eyewitnesses' consensus of what the
weapons
look like. Ever seen one of these?"
Sergeant Bowman examined the sketch and shook his head, "Not outside
the
movies. Looks like one of those short, Roman jobs...like gladiators
used."
"Also, just as before," said Ciello, "these guys' 'victims' all
swear they've been cut up." He shrugged, "Not a mark on 'em. I hear
they're gettin' jailhouse religion, though. Bellevue can't help them,
but
they've been callin' for priests and ministers right and left. It's
kind of
spooky. You know what I mean?"
About 10:00 p.m., the captain was handed a note, he grabbed his coat
and Sgt.
Bowman, and then rushed them both out of the door. They were in the car
before
Bowman had enough composure to ask where they were headed.
"Central Park," was the reply.
"Well, that's just fine. Anywhere in particular in the park...or are we
just going' for a moonlight drive?" responded Bowman. He was slightly
miffed, having abandoned a half-eaten hamburger on his desk.
"The Observatory," Ciello said. "Got word of a gang war goin'
down tonight. Every precinct surrounding the park has been called out.
The guys
in riot gear are meeting us there, just in case." He shrugged, "Must
be the full moon."
The
Observatory, a transplanted castle in the heart of Central Park, was
used as a
weather-gathering station and public learning center. It's ancient
looking
stone walls and parapets formed an ironic backdrop to modern urban
violence.
"Say, what was your mother doin' at the hospital?" Ciello added.
"She must have stayed there the first couple o' days that you were
there.
You told me she couldn't get around much."
"She can't," said Bowman. "Reverend Wheeler from her church in
Harlem brought her."
"Harlem?" Ciello was surprised. "I thought you moved her out of
there to that home on the West Side."
"I did," answered Bowman, laughing to himself, "but you couldn't
blast her out of that church...hardly ever misses. Has someone take her
to and
from every service. I'm supposed to take her to prayer meeting
tomorrow. You
know, sometimes I think she's a little sorry she ever moved out of the
neighborhood."
"She'd make a good Catholic," said Ciello. He turned the car, and
they entered the park from Columbus Circle, and headed north.
Bowman was quick to agree, "Hey! My mama would make a good anything!" Then he mumbled to
himself,
"I just don't understand why she's so attached to that ghetto."
The
parkway was lined with squad cars and S.W.A.T. vans a full quarter-mile
away
from the Observatory. The police didn't want to spook a sizable bust.
Usually,
they would rather prevent gang clashes; this time, however, the police
were
counting on the enmity between rivals. A Haitian group, “The
Cross-Bonz”, was
moving to take the area crack trade from "The Raiders," a racially
mixed gang that had controlled distribution in the park for the last
three
years. Gone were the days of zip guns and switchblades. As likely as
not, these
boys might pull out Uzis and hand grenades. Even the Feds were
interested. Drug
Enforcement Agency and Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms personnel were
intermingled with NYPD regulars. Captain Ciello switched off his
headlights as
he approached the police cars and pulled to the side of the road. He
and the
sergeant were handed sets of body armor, and were briefed as they
outfitted
themselves. Then they set out for the Observatory on foot.
The
rival gangs were beginning to arrive as well, sauntering,
strutting—desperately
trying to out-cool each other. Each group wore its own panache.
The
Haitians were into heavy mental effect. Their strategically ripped
coats,
threadbare tees and ragged jeans only drove home the point of
their
ghoulish, neon make-up. They were the undead, zombies to be
feared...unquenchable and unstoppable. Opposite came "The Raiders",
pure New York. Except for the occasional spiked cockscomb, facial
tattoo and
nose ring, any one of the black leather-clad punks could have stepped
right out
of "West Side Story." They cursed, spat, gestured, taunted and
crowed, all the while positioning themselves for the eventual melee.
The officers could only watch as the curtain rose on the night's
drama.
It was a full moon indeed, as Ciello observed. The pavement was
wet,
freshly washed, and moonlight occasionally broke through the trees
to
reflect against it. The thick, cool night air captured the
streetlights
and filled the air with an eerie blue haze. The old stone walls of the
Observatory castle reflected ghostly white against the night sky. The
scene was
surreal, and the air fairly tingled with danger. It was all too easy to
picture
the castle under siege by some marauding horde, volleys of arrows
blackening
the skies, buzzing overhead like swarms of deadly hornets--finally, a
horseback
charge breaking through the enemy ranks, led by armored knights
brandishing
glittering...
Swords! Suddenly, from atop the walls of the spectral keep, four large
figures
in white pounced down upon the two converging bands, their greatcoats
looking
for all the world like fluttering capes. There was an unearthly scream
as the
glint of blue steel flashed in the moonlight. Metal-on-metal clashed.
The night
air echoed with singing steel.
The
police were paralyzed by surprise, helpless to move or intervene. The
two gangs
couldn't do much more. The mercurial white-clad were mesmerizing. The
would-be
factions had time to neither fight nor flee. In mere seconds, it was
over.
Automatic weapons lay on the ground, sliced in two. The parking lot was
littered with knives and martial arts paraphernalia, broken in pieces
like so
many toys. The gang members were scattered over the parking lot, as
well,
moaning, wailing and writhing in pain. Their cries awakened the
police.
The
swashbuckling intruders looked up as the police rushed in. Quickly and
silently, they turned and fled, scaling the castle walls like so human
flies.
Neither Errol Flynn, nor the most crack team of U.S. Army Rangers
could
have topped the walls so easily. The S.W.A.T. certainly couldn't. It
was all
they could do to keep the suspects in sight.
"Holy..." Ciello reflexively crossed himself, in astonished disbelief
at what he was seeing. "These nuts do think they're a bunch of
Galahads, or
somethin'," he said. Bowman just stared, slack-jawed.
The
police forced the doors of the Observatory open, and both Ciello and
Bowman
followed the S.W.A.T. team to the top of the castle, via a more
conventional
route. As they rushed up the narrow, winding staircase, they heard an
officer
shout, "NO!" Then nothing. When they reached the balcony, they found
three S.W.A.T. officers staring over the edge, down he cliff that
overlooked
the darkened amphitheater, below. It might as well have been a
bottomless
abyss. The officers just shook their heads. One of them told the
detectives,
"They jumped. The poor, dumb jerks just jumped."
Ciello
crossed himself again, and mournfully pronounced, "God have mercy on
'em."
Just then, another scream was heard from the blackness below. Metal
clashed,
and the police atop the castle watched as flashlights and headlights
converged.
After a few minutes, Ciello heard over his walkie-talkie, that the
men-in-white
were alive and well. It seemed "The Cross-Bonz" had troops in reserve
behind the castle, which had run afoul of the knights-errant, as well.
The
radio also reported that a patrolman had spotted one of the suspects
fleeing
into the subway entrance at Central Park West and 72nd Street. The
officer was
ordered to investigate.
The
captain and sergeant made their way back to the parking lot. A bemused
Bowman
picked up part of what had once been an UZI. He sighed in
frustration.
The paramedics were even more puzzled. Wails of anguish filled the
night air
surrounding the castle, coming from tens of writhing, wounded men...who
hadn't
a scratch on them.
********
Sergeant Bowman and Captain Ciello arrived back at the station house
around
midnight. Bowman sadly contemplated his cold, limp hamburger, then and
the
soaked-through paper bag on which his pitiful dinner sat. He emitted a
low moan
when he peeked underneath the bag to find a pile of now grease-stained,
onion-scented reports.
A
smart-mouthed rookie passed by and said, "You really eat that stuff?
Now
you know what your insides look like?"
Bowman angrily shot back, "How'd you like to be walking' a beat in
Flatbush?"
Captain Ciello barely sat down when his phone rang. He answered it,
impatiently. The content of the call did nothing to improve his
temperament. It
had been a tiring, frustrating night, and the shift was just half over.
The
last thing he needed was the report he was hearing.
"What do you mean he disappeared? How could a guy
just disappear at a subway stop? Did
he hop a train...he what?"
asked the captain. His voice grew more impetuous and his face only grew
redder
as he continued, "What? ... Are you dru? ... No, no, I heard you the
first
time. Whad'dya mean 'he delivered a baby?' Who? The cop or the
suspect? BOTH? GET
OUT’TA HERE!" Ciello suddenly
became
very
quiet. He paused to regain his composure, sighed, and in measured
resignation, repeated to Bowman what he had just heard, "The
suspect
disappeared when the ambulance arrived." He sighed, and in surrender,
daintily dropped the receiver six inches back onto its hook. He
plopped
back into his desk chair and added heavily, "Yeah."
Ciello began twiddling his fingers, Oliver Hardy fashion, futilely
attempting
to wash his hands of this ridiculous episode. "It's true," he said,
half to himself. "They all come out on a full moon."
********
Next Sunday,
just as he promised, Morrell Bowman found himself driving his mother
toward her
church in Harlem's west 120s. He did so against his better judgment. It
was
5:00 in the afternoon, and it would be dark before the service let out.
He
worried about her safety here, any time of day. But to think of his
mother by
herself in Harlem after dark nearly drove him crazy. She assured him
that Rev.
Wheeler would drive her home.
Bowman's mother, Mabel Lee, was a diminutive, slightly stooped lady of
about
seventy years. Since her accident, she relied on a can to get around,
but her
frail-looking frame was deceptively strong; she'd borne four boys,
Bowman the
youngest. Her penetrating voice belied her size, as well. Again, she'd
raised
four boys. Her late husband, the boys' father had been a career
Navy man.
He’d been a good provider, but largely absent, away at sea. Mabel
Lee was
a committed, saintly lady whose character was as strong as the Navy
destroyer
on which her husband had served. In fact, her one vanity was her age,
which her
auburn-dyed coiffed hair attempted to defer. She had the kind of faith
that not
only moved mountains, but move them to do the dishes and clean their
rooms
before they risked being cast into the sea.
"Were you in church this morning?" Mabel Lee asked knowingly. "I
don't want my grandbabies raised heathens!" The comment was directed
more
at him than his daughters.
As
Bowman was wont to point out, his mother almost never missed church. Neither,
in fact, did
his wife and two girls. Besides their volunteer work with St. Bart's
feeding
program, his wife sometimes served as housemother, when the church
would
sleep street people in the chapel during bad weather and the hottest
days of
the summer. (It was a church function that the State of New York did
not
appreciate. The prosperous midtown church was unlicensed for such
housing--the
city's streets and sewers were obviously much safer and saner places to
be.)
Bowman was the one who rarely attended services. Bowman had been raised
in the
church; his mother had seen to that. He'd been baptized, read the Bible
(whenever he thought about it), even prayed some...although it was
mostly for a
raise. But he was always busy. He worked the night shift, and
often pulled
duty on Sundays. When he didn't, he found himself just too tired to get
up and
go to Mass with his family. It was easy for him to reason that Sunday
was truly
his day of rest. So, in bed he would stay. It was for his sake that his
mother
had asked that question...again.
"No, Mama," Morrell tried to explain, "I..."
Mabel Lee would hear no excuses, "I should think that after those young
punks knocked
you in the head, and
that man was nice enough to rescue you like a Good Samaritan, and you spend all that
time in the
hospital instead of dead like you could be...!" She paused for a breath,
"Well, I'd think you'd want to thank the Lord for it, that's all."
"Yes, Mama," was all he could manage. He tried to add,"
I..."
The
sermon continued unabated, "You could find yourself explainin'
it to the Lord personally,
next time!"
"Yes, Mama."
"Now, Morrell," explained his mother. She emphasized her point by
softly clapping her white-gloved hands together, fingertips to palm. "I
know you think I'm just a foolish old woman, goin' to church all the
time and
all..."
This time, her son interrupted, in a frustrated whine, "But Harlem,
Mama.
Sometimes I think you're sorry I moved you out of there."
"Don't interrupt me," corrected his mother. "I appreciate your
helping me find a new home when I couldn't take those stairs any more,
and I
wouldn't give for my view of the river, but that's my family there!
I've known
some of my brothers and sisters in the Lord longer than I've known you.
I
couldn't leave my covenant family anymore than you could leave me on
the street
corner to starve.
"Now son," she continued, "You know I pray for you every
day..." Her son nodded silently. Then Mabel Lee added, "...but you're
a grown man now. It's time you took care of your own protection...and
your
family's."
"What do you mean?" Bowman protested. The suggestion that he couldn't
and didn't adequately protect himself and his family riled his
policeman's
pride.
"Do you think that man in the white coat found you by accident? An
angel, that's what he was...'sent to minister for those who will
inherit
salvation.' Like it says in Hebrews," proclaimed his mother.
"Oh, Mama!" said her son.
"Don't 'Mama' me," said his mother, glaring at him, "and stop
backtalkin'" Mabel Lee then very properly straightened herself in the
car
seat, adjusted her lipstick, hat and collar in the passenger visor
vanity
mirror, and composed herself as they rounded the corner that lead to
the Harlem
church.
The
street was lined with cars, in various states of running condition,
demolition
or decay. Then again, that could be said of many of the city's
overcrowded
streets, not just in the rougher neighborhoods uptown. Traffic
congestion was
such a fact of life that homeless were known to camp out in broken down
police
cars...overworked city staff being unable to wrench their own vehicles
out of
service as public rest stops and back onto the streets in their
intended form.
Bowman had to park over a block away from the church.
"Are you going' to be a gentleman and escort your mother in?" Mabel
Lee asked in a stern, expectant tone. Then she smiled broadly and said,
"I
want to show everyone what a good looking' son I have." She leaned over
and kissed Morrell on the cheek.
Harlem Gospel Assembly met in an old brownstone walkup. It sat in the
middle of
a block that could easily have been mistaken for a war zone. Almost as
far as
the eye could see, crowded tenements mixed uneasily with burned-out
buildings
and boarded-up storefronts. The dwindling number of grocers and
merchants who
remained were generally older neighborhood residents who were just too
stubborn
to leave or shut down. Most of the neighborhood's permanent residents
were
single mothers, their children and the elderly. The more nomadic young
men
tended to roam in packs. Old men still sat by the curbside playing
checkers,
and children played stickball in the street, using
derelict automobiles
for bases, but it was the type of place where a street shooting would
rate
little more than a comment, and a beating would probably go unnoticed.
It was
dangerous and strangely surrealistic, like a nightmarish, melting
deconstruction of Salvador Dali infused with the terminal chaos,
violence and
color of Jackson Pollock. Graffiti covered graffiti that covered the
graffiti
of generations lost. The street was a never-ending montage of gang
symbols,
vandalism and street art all vying for attention. Amidst this
confusion,
the old church stood as a beacon of peace and light. Its opaque green
stained
windows were cracked and patched. Once pristine, white double doors
were now
peeling and splintering around the edges. Yet, in all its apparent
disrepair,
hope shone above the door 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, in violet
neon
script: "Jesus Saves."
With cane
in hand and her son on her
arm, Mabel Lee strolled down the street with the confidence of a
conquering
general, smiling and greeting everyone she met. Her son was not so
easy. He
found himself stealing looks behind them, and into every doorway.
He
whispered cautions to his mother not to stop and talk to everyone on
the
street...and for goodness sake, to watch her purse.
After the second warning, Mabel Lee turned and reproved him, "I'm just
being friendly. Goodness! It's no wonder folks don't like you
policemen!
Keepin' a body from talkin' to another..." She continued on, mostly
talking to herself on her son's social shortcomings. Meanwhile, Morrell
just
rolled his eyes. His mother suddenly noticed he wasn't paying attention
and she
nudged him in the ribs.
"Oof!" he grunted as he was brought back into his mother's monologue.
"It's like I keep tellin' you," his mother said with the confidence
of a saint, "we've got angels watchin' out for us. Ain't nobody goin'
to
hurt us."
They stepped over a derelict sleeping at the foot of the church steps.
Mabel
Lee paused and said, "Wait a minute." She reached into her purse and
pulled out a five-dollar bill and carefully inserted it into the
sleeping man's
coat pocket. She whispered something softly over the filthy pile of
rags
snoring prodigiously, and then returned to her son, closing the episode
with a
satisfied benediction, "There."
"Mama!" Morrell was horrified and hissed his dissatisfaction in a
stage whisper, so as not to awaken the drunken recipient. "What do you
think you're doing?"
"Shush!" corrected his mother. "You'll wake the poor
gentleman...God bless him.
"Now, like I was sayin'," she continued, "nobody's goin' to fool
with us. We're covered in prayer. The Lord will take care of his
children. Like
my friend, Cistene Cobb's son, Jimmy (he's a policeman, too--down on
the East
Side), an angel saved him and his partner before their car blew up."
They
paused at the top of the steps and stood outside of the church doors.
"Mama, I know all about that," her son said condescendingly. "In
fact, I have that case on my desk. It was a cabbie, not an angel." He
patted her hand, lovingly.
Mabel
Lee recoiled and scolded him, "You think you're so smart! That
wasn't just any old drive-me-to-the-station cab driver! We'd been
prayin' for
him that very day...right in this church! The Lord sent him an angel!"
"Well, if he was an angel, the Lord should have taught him how to drive
first," Morrell said under his breath.
"What was that? Don't you blaspheme!" his mother said angrily. Just
then, the church door opened. Reverend Wheeler greeted the pair with a
smile
bright enough to shame the pearly gates. He was a small, wiry man, in
his late
sixties. He had close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, sharp, twinkling
eyes, an
infectious laugh...and a grip like a vise.
"Hi, Reverend!" sang Mabel Lee, her countenance changing instantly.
She joyfully shook her preacher's hand, and then nodded toward her son.
"Little Morrell!" exclaimed the reverend. "I haven't seen you
since I don't know when! Where've you been keeping' yourself? And how's
that
wife and those girls of yours? You need to bring them around
more."
The little preacher continued his greeting as ushered the two inside.
Other than a few more gray hairs, the good reverend hadn't changed in
years. He
had baptized Morrell Bowman as a boy of thirteen. He grasped Sergeant
Bowman's
hand a little too firmly, then almost forgot to let go as he talked
excitedly
to Mabel Lee. Bowman flexed his sore, right hand, remembering painful
handshakes of Sunday's past. "Yep," he reminisced. "He hasn't
changed a bit."
"Mabel Lee, did you hear about Juliana? Had a baby in the subway last
night!" the reverend said.
"No!" exclaimed the sergeant's mother. "Is she all right?"
"Oh yeah!" explained the minister. "A big man ran up to her and
helped deliver the child. Brought a policeman with him, too! We all
told her
she shouldn't have been workin', her bein' so far along and all, but
you know
how she is!"
"Uh-huh!" agreed Mabel Lee. "Good thing we kept her
covered."
"Wait a minute!" interjected Bowman. "Where was this?"
"Over on 72nd Street," said Reverend Wheeler. "Why? Did you hear
about it, too? Of course you did. I keep forgetting' you're on the
force."
"Who was the guy? Did she say?" asked Bowman.
"No," said the minister. "Juliana just said he was a great, big
guy. Had a long, white coat on, I think she said. He knew what he was
doing,
though. She thought he might have been a doctor, but he disappeared
right after
the paramedics got there.
"Do you know something about him," the reverend continued.
"She'd sure like to thank him."
"Yeah, we'd
like to thank
him, too," Bowman remarked sarcastically.
"Don't you be smart, young man," said his mother. "I'll bet he
was an angel, just like the one that saved you."
"Oh, Mama!" said Bowman in exasperation. Then he turned to Reverend
Wheeler and said, "Do you mind if I use the phone?" He thought he had
better phone Captain Ciello about the lead.
"Help yourself..." said the reverend, "second door on your
left."
Reverend Wheeler and Mabel Lee started into the Sunday School room
where most
of the prayer group had already gathered. He said to her as they went
in,
"You know, you could be right. We were all..." The conversation faded
into the noise of the assembly as the door shut behind them.
By
the time Bowman got off the phone, the prayer group had formally
started.
He hated to interrupt, but he wanted to tell his mother good-bye. The
reverend
would take her home, but he still felt uneasy leaving her here. He
slipped into
the room and kissed her. He started to leave, then paused, turned back
to his
mother, and as an afterthought asked, "What makes you so sure those
guys
were all angels?"
"I told you son," said his mother confidently, "We had you, and
Jimmy, and Juliana covered. We just prayed. The Lord took care of the
rest.
Shhh! Now, run along."
Bowman bowed quietly out of the classroom. As he shut the door, he
backed into
someone. "Oh, excuse me," he casually apologized. "I didn't mean
to..." Bowman turned around and stared in dumb amazement. There he
stood,
face-to-face with his smiling benefactor from Queens.
"See ya' to your car, buddy?" offered the grinning hulk in the white
overcoat. "It's a rough neighborhood, ya' know?"
"For though we walk in
the flesh,
we do not war according to the flesh.
For the weapons of our warfare are not carnal
but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds..."
(2 Corinthians 10:3& 4 NKJV)
The End
© Russ Brown,
1998, rev. 2003
