CHAPTER ONE
THE ROOKIE
DAY ONE
As far back as I can remember I had always wanted to be an FBI agent. I had never met an agent or a criminal, or even anyone who was victimized by a serious crime. But, like so many other things in my life that I could not explain, I just wanted to fight for truth, justice and the American way. This was Superman's creed from the opening of his TV show. It was such a silly combination of words that I was embarrassed to repeat them, but that was how I felt.
The FBI rejected me at the first interview. The two agents wore blue suits and had the same short haircut. They asked me questions like how much did I love my country and did I know people who were un-American? I answered as best I could. One of them referred me to a small agency that I had never heard of, the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He said, "Their standards are very different." And after two short interviews they hired me. The two agents at the Federal Bureau of Narcotics were strange. One was wearing a T-shirt and the other was overweight. Talking to them was like meeting someone at a bar, friendly, saying whatever comes into your mind.
Only two months earlier I had moved from Ohio. I knew nothing about New York City. At about 5:00 on that drizzly morning in August 1964, I left my wife Daisy and my one-year-old son Mark sleeping and started walking to Manhattan to join the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. I was wearing a new gray suit, new spit-polished wing-tipped shoes, and was carrying a heavy briefcase filled with law books and manuals on self-defense. It never occurred to me that such a long walk might be a bad idea. The streets were wet and the buildings looked like abandoned sets from a black-and-white movie.
About six blocks from the Williamsburg Bridge, my right heel began to blister, and I started to limp. Suddenly I saw headlights charging directly toward me. A black Cadillac convertible was trying to run me down, swerving a few feet before it would have flattened me. I couldn't see the driver but I knew he did it on purpose. The car splashed through a large puddle, throwing muddy water on me from my chest to my ankles. I looked at my reflection in a store window. The suit looked wet but undamaged so I continued, limping from my blistered foot a little more with each step.
I tried to forget about the incident and was swinging my briefcase in cadence with my limp when the plastic handle snapped; it went sliding into the muddy street. It was too wide to carry with one hand, so I held it against my chest. Now limping badly and hugging my briefcase, I walked across the bridge with the hot, early morning traffic into Manhattan.
It was about 8:30 when I finally arrived at 90 Church Street. The Federal Bureau of Narcotics was on the top floor of an old post office, not far from Wall Street. Exhausted and sweating, I stopped at a coffee shop and sat at the counter. The waitress waved at her nose. "Gee, honey, I think you stepped in something."
In the men's room I looked in the mirror. My face and hands were dirty, and there was a black streak from my shoulder to my waist from carrying the muddy briefcase. My new suit looked like wrinkled pajamas. Blood from my blistered heel seeped through my sock, soaking the back of my shoe. Worst of all, now I remembered seeing a small mound in the puddle just before the Cadillac splashed me, which is why I smelled like dog shit. I washed my hands and face, tried to clean my shirt, but it didn't make much difference, everything just smeared. I looked like a dirty homeless bum and there was nothing I could do about it.
I was fifteen minutes late. Orientation had already begun. The receptionist ushered me into the office of George Blanker, Agent in Charge. He looked like the FBI agents who had rejected me, except his eyes were bloodshot, like my uncle who everyone said drank too much. There were two other new agents already sitting on the office couch. I squeezed in between them. In a condescending voice, Blanker was explaining what a dangerous job it was to be a federal narcotics agent, "We are soldiers on the front line in a war, out-manned and out-gunned. We are the only hope for saving America from a fate worse than any disease." The blue spider-web veins in his face glowed like a road map as he talked. "Drugs are the greatest threat to mankind, in the history of mankind, and it is up to us to save our country, us - just a handful of agents! Just fink of it!" His face swelled red with anger as he slurred, "Fink of it! Just fink of it! Only us to save America." He sprayed tiny balls of saliva as he pointed to the American flag. "Fink of it!" The three of us sat in a row, nodding, enduring the "Finking" spit shower. He retreated behind his desk, exhausted.
Then with new enthusiasm he flipped the switch of a tape recorder. From the sound of a dial tone we knew it was from a wiretap. At first the voices spoke in Italian, then, "We're in America now, we should speak English. It's good practice." There was a soft chuckle. Blanker told us that it was a major Mafia leader. "Come to New York. I know we've talked about this before, but it's great here. The whores, the numbers, the rackets, the unions, it's wide open, it's America. In New York we don't fight, we work together. You have nothing to fear here, nothing to worry about. The police, they'll steal a hot stove, don't worry about them; just give them a little something. The FBI, the FBI are kids. They go home at five o'clock. They have nice suits, but they don't know what they're doing. You only have one thing to worry about: 90 Church. They are evil. They will fuck your wife. They will steal your mistress. They will take your money. They will lie in court. You never know who they are, but worse, you never know who they've got. If they get you, they will turn you into a rat. If they want you dead, they won't kill you; they'll make your best friend do it. They have no soul. Their slaves are everywhere, fucking and ratting on people. The agents of 90 Church are the most dangerous, evil people on the face of the earth."
Blanker turned the recorder off and smiled with pride.
"I am proud of our guys. I am proud of this office. This is how we are feared by the dopers and the Mafia. You are joining a brave band of Americans and I wish you luck." Blanker waved us out. No one said a word.
We sat in the lobby for about a half hour, waiting to be told what to do next. I discovered a new problem; the hem of my right pant leg had unraveled and draped over my foot, completely covering my shoe. As I wondered how I was going to fix it, a senior agent greeted us and said that our first phase of training would be the pistol range. After pulling on his nose he said to me, "We will issue you a gun, which should be carried on your belt. You're not wearing a belt. Why don't you go and buy yourself one?"
I had only ten minutes to get to the firing range in the basement. I left the office, found a men's shop, grabbed a belt off the rack and paid for it. I limped back carrying it in one hand and holding my pant leg up with the other. Again I was late.
By the time I had convinced the security guard to clear me into the range, the other agents had received a revolver. The Range Master gave me a gray snub-nosed revolver in a holster. While everyone watched, I tried to put the belt on; it was too small. I pulled it across my waist to the first hole. It squeezed me like the end of a sausage. The holster and gun stuck out in front of my stomach. I could hardly breathe. I tried to hold my pant leg up, but the torn hem still covered my shoe and I kept stepping on it. I smelled like dog shit and was hobbling and sweating like a dirty, horribly wounded animal. I looked at my instructors, my fellow agents, and saw the disgust in their eyes. I hated myself.
That afternoon I was assigned to Group Two with two other new agents, Del Ridley and Jerry Ramirez. Our group had ten agents and the group leader was Agent Pike, a huge, fat, smiling German with big hands and crooked yellow teeth. Del and Jerry were each assigned a senior partner and given a desk, but Agent Pike said there were no senior partners available for me. He led me to a small table with a straight chair in the corner, away from everyone. I saw him go back into his office and talk to his secretary. He waved his hand in front of his nose as he talked to her.
Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, Blanker's secretary brought in a large basket of fruit wrapped in red cellophane with a big sign, Happy First Day. "This has to be for you," she said. Then she placed it on the table in front of me and walked out shaking her head. My wife, Daisy, meant well. I looked over the red shiny wrapping, hoping somehow that no one had noticed this spectacle, but of course everyone had. They smirked at each other. Finally, Group Leader Pike came over to my table and told me to go home. I took the awful red basket and threw it in a trash barrel. The subway home took less than a half hour. Even strangers avoided me, preferring to stand rather than sit next to me.
Daisy was outside with my son Mark and saw me limping down the street, holding my pant leg up. "My God, what happened to you?"
I could not begin to explain. Daisy and I had only been married for two years, but had been together all through high school and college. We acted together in school plays and toured with a theatre group during the summer. She was my best friend, but now she couldn't do or say anything to help me. My greatest ambition in life - to fight for truth, justice and the American way - was over before it had even begun.
GROUP LEADER PIKE
The next morning I was on time. Pike and his secretary were the only ones there. Occasionally agents would come in briefly but ignored me. For hours I sat alone then finally Agent Pike came over to me. "At one o'clock let's you and I sit down with Agent George Blanker." I knew I was going to be fired. "Gee, um, did they issue you a gun yesterday?"
"Yes" I replied, trying to hide my disappointment.
He waved his big hand. "Well, can I have it? We just have to be sure it's registered, you know." I took my belt off and gave him the gun and holster. "Let's meet with George at one o'clock. Why don't you go to lunch now?"
The agents had come in and left with their partners. Everyone ignored me. I sat at my desk alone until finally at 1:00 Pike said, "Okay let's go have our little talk with George." I followed him through the halls to Blanker's office, like a bad student going to see the principal.
We waited outside Blanker's office, but I could see through the open door. Blanker was behind his desk, trying to calm two agitated men in wrinkled suits. Blanker called out to his secretary, "Is Agent Pike here yet?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Send him in."
I knew what was coming, but instead Blanker looked at me then said to Pike, "Who's this?" as if he had never seen me before. Before I could speak, he smiled, and said, "Would you please wait outside?" I returned to my seat outside his office.
I could still hear Blanker continue with the two angry men. "This is Agent Pike. He drives a government vehicle, a black Cadillac convertible." He read off a string of numbers. There was silence. Then one of the men said, "Were you at One Hundred Forty-Fifth Street and Lenox at about four-thirty a.m. Monday morning?"
Pike answered, "Yeah, I guess I was. We were working an after-hours joint, you know; we were there all night."
One of the wrinkled suits said, "There was a witness to a killing and an assault. A lady in a basement apartment got your license-plate number. Since the plate is confidential, it took us a while to track it. Were you there when someone was shot, then run over by your car?"
I heard Pike answer, "A drunk nigger tried to boost me off. He had a gun. I had to shoot him; he got in the way when I left. So what?"
One of the policemen said, "Well, okay, but why didn't you report this? Do you know the man is dead?"
"Well," Pike said, "it was me or him, the car wasn't damaged. I was going to write it up probably today, this afternoon. It happened very late. I was on my way home. I drove across the Williamsburg Bridge. It was after five in the morning."
One of the cops exploded, "You shoot a man on the streets of New York City, you run him over, you don't feel the need to call it in? Is this what you're saying? You fucking kill someone then drive away because your black Cadillac wasn't damaged? Jesus Christ! Is this your story? And you're a fucking supervisor?"
"Well, I should have gotten to it sooner," Pike apologized. "I'll write something up."
I heard Blanker say, "I'm sorry. I'll take care of this right away. Agent Pike is a Group Leader, he should know better. We're sorry about this and he'll do a report today."
The other cop was not satisfied. "This is bullshit. You can't treat us like this. This is not good for the Bureau either. Don't push yourself, George. Your guys have been crazy for a long time, but not this bad."
The two cops walked past me, shaking their heads as they left. Through the open door I saw Blanker turn to Pike. "Ted, this is not good. I can't believe this. I want a report on my desk in an hour. These guys are really pissed. If this happens again, you're back in Chicago. Now get the fuck out."
Pike walked out, ignoring me, and went back to Group Two.
I just sat there staring at the odd assortment of pictures and awards that covered the wall. Besides the usual diplomas there were about ten strange plaques; each had a gun and a picture mounted on polished wood. There were different types of guns and next to each was a photograph of its owner, a smiling agent. A brass plate gave the agent's name followed by "killed while protecting his country in the line of duty" and a date. After about thirty minutes Blanker's secretary said, "Why are you here?"
I tried to smile. "I don't know."
She laughed. "Well, you're honest, that means you won't last in this office. Since you don't know why you're here, why don't you go back to where you think you belong?"
On the way back to Group Two I passed a large file room. Inside, seated around a table were a group of file clerks, fat girls with pimply faces and strange-looking guys so shy they wouldn't look at me. At the head of the table was what looked like a well-dressed teenager. He was making them laugh, but stopped when he saw me. He gave me a big smile and waved hello. This was the only friendly thing that had happened to me since walking in the door of 90 Church, and I was too stunned to wave back. For the rest of the day I sat at my little table, remembering what the cops had said about the black Cadillac convertible and Pike telling them how he "drove across the Williamsburg Bridge at about five in the morning". Incredibly, against all odds, it was Pike who had splashed dog shit on me and now by another weird twist of fate I had just escaped being fired.
That night I told Daisy what had happened. She laughed and pulled back her long brown hair. "Whatever will be, will be, we will face it together." She had said these same words before when she told me she was pregnant with Mark. We weren't married and she didn't care what other people thought. We would face it together.
DEWEY
The next day, the agents in Group Two were surprised to see me. I resumed my lone vigilance at my little table. Then the boy from the file room came in to see me. He was wearing a tailored sport jacket and bright tie. All the other agents were tall and serious, but he was much smaller and seemed to laugh at everything. His red hair was a mess, with a long strand covering one eye. With freckles and sparkling blue eyes, he looked like a kid ready to pull off all types of mischief. He was not carrying a gun, and I doubted that he was an agent. He introduced himself. "Hey, I'm Dewey Paris. I thought they fired you. Do you like sports? I'm giving two to one on the Yankees this weekend."
"No. I don't gamble," I said. "Yes, I'm still here." I hoped he felt sorry for me, but he didn't. He just walked out.
For the next three days I sat alone at my small table in the corner, even though there were two unused desks in the group. One desk was covered with notes and little piles of cash that agents would drop off or pick up. Everyone, including the two new agents, Del Ridley and Jerry Ramirez, continued to ignore me. Only Dewey remained friendly and waved at me every time I passed the file room.
Each night Daisy would watch for me to walk down the street and meet me at the door with a smile. "Well, what happened today?" She would convince me that I was better than they were. She even predicted that someone, a veteran agent, would see my potential and make friends with me. "It always happens that way," she said. "Never, never, never give up."
She promised to send a big fruit basket to the office every day to move things along. This made both of us laugh.
After four days of the silent treatment I had had enough. I walked into Pike's office, "I want to make drug cases like the others, it's the reason I was hired. I'm as good as they are, I want a chance."
Pike rocked back in his chair and patted his huge belly. "You're an asshole, you don't belong here, you still smell like dog shit."
I gritted my teeth and stared back, waiting for him to fire me.
"Okay, we'll see, there's a case going down this afternoon. We'll see if you're as good as they are."
That afternoon Pike, Del Ridley, Jerry Ramirez, and a veteran agent named Ed Silkey met to discuss my first case. Pike told everyone that he had an informant named Buddy who had lined up a buy for ten thousand dollars for six ounces of heroin. It would take place this afternoon - and I was going to be the undercover agent. The plan was simple; I would take ten thousand dollars to a meeting in Harlem and buy the heroin. Del Ridley, Jerry Ramirez, Ed Silkey, and Pike would be on surveillance.
I could see the expressions on everyone's faces. No one believed that I was actually going to buy heroin. I had no training and was afraid and humiliated. I had no idea what six ounces of heroin looked like and was probably going to get myself killed, but I was never, never, never going to quit.
Pike smiled. "You can have your pick of anyone here to be close to you in case things go bad. You know what I mean." He waved to the three agents.
Agent Silkey shook his head. "Not me, I'm out of here. This is wrong, this is bullshit. I want no part of this. I'm on another case." He walked out.
Before I could say anything Dewey Paris came in. "Pick me, pick me," he begged, dancing around the room and raising his hand, "Pick me, pick me, pick me."
Pike exploded, "Get the fuck out of here, you little faggot."
Dewey Paris ignored him and stared at me. "I'm your friend, aren't I?"
I knew Pike was setting me up, so why not? My choices were two new agents or a file clerk. "I pick him," I said defiantly and pointed to the silly prancing teenager.
Pike turned red. "Okay, okay, here we go to Harlem with the asshole and the faggot. Come to think of it, it's the right combination."
On the way to Harlem, Pike and I picked up Buddy at a bar in Midtown. The informant was black, wearing a powder-blue suit with black trim. Buddy explained, "I met Harrison two nights ago at Small's. He got junkies in Brooklyn, near Coney Island. His connection's fucking him over real good. He needs to move more shit or lose the deal. He'll sell to anybody, believe me, you got dough, you got dope." The deal was simple: I would show Harrison the money and Harrison would show me the heroin then we would do the exchange on the street out in the open. Once the buy was made, Ramirez and Ridley would try to follow Harrison, but there would be no arrest. This was the first buy, and we needed to find the drug source.
We parked a block away from the meet. Buddy and I began walking down the street to the corner. I could see Pike, Ramirez, and Ridley following, but now more than a block away, trying to blend into the black neighborhood. Dewey remained in the government car, smiling and waving. Buddy and I waited on the street corner for about a half hour, leaning against the building and staring at people as they walked by. After a while I could no longer see any of the other agents. A black sedan drove past us and made a U-turn, parking about half a block away.
Buddy grinned; I knew that it was Harrison. A large black man with a red wide-brim hat got out of the car and began walking toward us, smiling. He shook Buddy's hand. Buddy introduced me as his friend who needed a new drug source. Harrison took a quick glance at me. "I don't have time for fucking bullshit. Do you have the money? I want to see it."
I pulled out bundles of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and tried to show it to him without being too obvious. Harrison stared at the bundles, then took off his hat and waved it. "Looks good to me."
As Harrison was talking I saw a short man get out of Harrison's car. He carried his coat over his arm and walked toward us. I started to get nervous. "I've got the money. Where's the junk?"
Harrison laughed then handed me his hat. "Put the money in the hat." From inside his coat he pulled a chrome-plated revolver. Buddy backed away into the doorway of a barber shop. Then the short man flashed a sawn-off pump shotgun from under his coat. I looked desperately for the other agents, but they weren't there.
"Give me the fucking money, motherfucker," Harrison said as he cocked the hammer of the chrome revolver. My hand was shaking as I tried to hand him the money. I didn't know what else to do.
Harrison said, "If you're a motherfucking cop you're going to die."
Suddenly everything exploded in gunfire. Harrison was hit twice, dead center. I couldn't tell where the shots were coming from. His chest exploded - and his revolver went crashing to the sidewalk. The other man raised the shotgun directly to my face, and was cut down by three more rounds of fire: one to the neck, chest and chin. He grabbed at his face, which was covered with blood spurting everywhere. I tried to scream but I couldn't. I tried to run but I was frozen with fear. A third man, further down the street, began running toward me with a pistol in his hand, but suddenly he aimed away from me, across the street. He began shooting at Dewey Paris, who was running parallel, drawing fire to save my life. Dewey's left arm was raised straight in the air as he fired with his right hand straight across his chest and through the moving traffic. His target managed to get two shots off before Dewey, still running, brought him down. The black sedan, tires screaming, pulled away from the curb, charging Dewey, who was now standing in the street. In one quick motion Dewey reloaded his .45 and fired shot after shot into the windshield until it veered off and crashed - into a parked car, one car length in front of me. Dewey waved and gave me one of his big smiles, then jogged down the street, disappearing into a subway entrance.
Pike, Ridley and Ramirez surrounded me. The front of my pants were wet and warm. They pretended not to notice. Blood and bodies and car wreckage littered the street and sidewalk. People were running back and forth. I could hear the sirens, but my mind was frozen by the sight of Agent Dewey Paris's shooting rampage. The man I thought was a teenage file clerk had just shot the hell out of everything - and saved my life.
* * *
It's hard to tell your wife that after three days on the job you pissed your pants while a file clerk, who looked like a teenage kid, killed four people to save your life. My pants had dried before I got home so Daisy thought I was joking when I said I had pissed my pants. She waited for me to tell her more. When I didn't, the subject was postponed. After dinner I sat in the living-room chair and everything that had happened suddenly came back to me. I couldn't talk. I began shaking. Daisy could see something was wrong. She retreated into the bedroom and got Mark, who was sleeping. She gently rocked him in her arms until he awoke. She said to him, "Wake up, wake up, time to get to work." Daisy passed my son into my arms and went into the kitchen to clean up. My wife was beautiful and smart. She knew something terrible had happened, something so bad that talking about it would have to wait. I held my son in my arms until he fell asleep. The horrible reality of what had happened was now less important than my family.
THE REPORT
The next morning Blanker, Pike, Del Ridley, Jerry Ramirez and I met in a conference room. Pike pounded the table as he said to Blanker, "I want him brought up on charges. I want him fired. We had a good case going and he killed everyone. Four people dead, all of them shot multiple times. I can't even find him. You can't just kill people in the street and not report it. We're federal agents. He's a psychotic killer. This has happened before. The Bureau can no longer tolerate him." Blanker nodded in agreement and looked down the table at all of us. "Write your reports up and I'll have him charged tomorrow."
I was tempted to remind Pike he had killed people in the street and failed to report it less than a week ago, but I didn't say anything.
After lunch Pike, Ridley, Ramirez, and Buddy the informant signed an incident report that said that Dewey Paris had panicked recklessly and caused the death of four dope dealers during an undercover operation in Harlem. The report named me as the undercover agent who agreed with the other agents. There was no mention of Harrison pulling a gun and threatening to kill me, or a man with a shotgun, or the charging car, or Dewey making himself a target to save me, or his spectacular display of marksmanship that I would never forget.
Pike put the report in front of me. "We were all there. We saw it. Sign it."
Last night I had cried in Daisy's arms when I finally told her what had happened. She had held me tight and said, "Fight for truth, justice and the American way."
Pike's face switched from a fake smile to a menacing glare. "This was your first buy. You were afraid. You didn't see things the way they were. We all saw it. You were in no danger. You don't have to sign the report ... but if you don't, you should look for another job. Why don't you think it over? We can't let agents like Dewey Paris lose control and begin killing people, can we? He's done this very same thing before."
For the rest of the afternoon I sat at my desk, alone, staring at the report, which had an element of truth to it, but was grossly misleading and unfair. Even though it had everyone else's signature, I could not sign it. Daisy's words kept coming back to me. No one had seen or spoken to Dewey, but Pike's secretary said he would be in tomorrow for sure to pay off the winners of the baseball pool.
I went home at five o'clock. Lying on a report seemed to bother me more than seeing Dewey kill four people. Daisy understood it, too. "Once you begin lying, the whole structure will begin to crumble. If you lose your job over telling the truth you never had a real job in the first place." To distract me from all of this turmoil she put on sexy short baby-doll pajamas then smeared her lips with too much lipstick and painted her cheeks with rouge so she looked like an over-the-top street whore. I didn't feel like having sex anyway. It did make us laugh.
MICHAEL GIOVANNI
The next morning Dewey came in laughing and joking as usual. He laid out a stack of money envelopes on his desk; then left, announcing that he had an early lunch and was going to a basketball game in the afternoon. Pike waited for me to sign the report so they could fire Dewey. As I sat at my table a stranger walked through the door; he was unshaven, dressed in a black shiny suit and a floppy hat. His face was sunken and his eyes dark and beady like a snake. He wasn't very big, and he looked angry. He went directly into Pike's office. "Knock this shit off. It's over."
Pike slumped down in his chair and said, "What do you mean it's over?"
The man, raising his voice so everyone in the group could hear, replied, "Knock this shit off with Dewey. I just talked to Blanker. Change the fucking reports. You don't touch Dewey. Do you all hear? You know what Dewey does, everyone knows what he does. Do you understand? Change the reports and change them now." He walked past me then turned around and said, "Are you the agent that won't sign the report?"
Before I could nod yes, he said, "So you're the only agent here who stands up for the truth." He began to laugh. "So you won't lie on a government report." He laughed even harder and walked out.
Later I signed a new investigation report that said four drug dealers were gunned down in an attempted robbery and that the shootings by "various agents were justified."
I had confronted Pike and won with the help of a veteran agent just like Daisy said would happen. I had told the truth and gained the respect of my fellow agents. Gradually other agents introduced themselves. Besides Dewey Paris, there was Cleophus Brown, a black agent with a gold front tooth; Louie Gomez (Louie the G), a dapper Puerto Rican who carried an antique two-barreled Derringer; and Ed Silkey, who had refused to help Pike set me up.
Agent Johnny Greenway was the last to introduce himself. He was tall and wore cowboy boots with silver tips and a gray Western-style suit with a string tie. Strapped to his waist, cross-draw, was a chrome-plated six-shooter with a long nine-inch barrel. Of course he spoke with a Western drawl with plenty of how-dees and you alls.
My name now appeared on the roster as Michael Giovanni's partner. People would look at me and shake their heads. "You're Michael's partner? Do you even know who Michael is?" I had no idea, but assumed he was the stranger who had saved Dewey from false charges. Apparently everyone was afraid of him, including Pike.
For the next two weeks, I arrived in the morning and waited for Michael, who, if he came in at all, never arrived before 2:00 p.m. and then completely ignored me.
I had a lot of time to think. I kept remembering how strange my job interview was ... especially in the last meeting with two agents, Colder and Wagner, more than two months ago. They started by telling me how hung over they were. Colder said, "God, I'm so hung over I can hardly see. Last night I met this girl, took her to her place and we fucked all night. I woke up this morning and didn't even know her name."
Agent Wagner laughed and told his story. "I got this broad on the side, goes for everything; you wouldn't believe the shit she does to me."
Both agents laughed together, then Agent Colder said to me, "You get the picture, don't you, what it's like on the street? Are you going to fit in? When was the last time you got laid? Tell us."
I was shocked that he would ask a question like that during a job interview. I wanted to answer. Daisy was the only sex I had known and she never took it seriously. When we made love she was always cracking jokes and laughing. But I couldn't tell them that so I said, "I'd rather not talk about my sex life if it's okay."
Both of the agents looked at me with disgust and changed the subject, but strangely one week later I got a letter informing me I was hired as a federal agent.
Jerry Ramirez and Del Ridley - the agents who started with me - were scheduled for training in Washington; I still expected to be fired any day since no one told me that I would be going with them. Also I had been given a lightweight aluminum gun. As Dewey Paris explained, it was for agents who didn't really need one - like IRS agents. This reinforced my fears. I began to think that maybe, if no one noticed me, they would again forget to fire me and that sitting alone in the office day after day, pretending to be Michael Giovanni's partner, would somehow make me a real agent.
DARK SECRET
Eventually Michael did ask me to go to lunch. His idea for lunch was a hotdog from a vendor in the street. As we ate, he told me that this was the wrong job for me. "You're a smart kid, find something that will work for you; can't you see what's going on around you? Do you think Group Leader Pike can teach you to become a good agent?"
The question surprised me and I wasn't sure how to answer. "No. I don't think he can teach me anything," I answered. "I don't care, I want to be an agent and I'm not giving up. Maybe you or someone else can teach me. I see what goes on in the office." I told him the story about Pike and the two policemen. It made him laugh. For some strange reason, killing a man in the street, then running him over with your car, and forgetting to write it up seemed funny to me too. Michael returned to the subject of my career. "Give it up. Can't you see you're not cut out for this life?"
"Yes, I am. You don't know me. I want this job." There was a moment of silence between us. Then I asked, "Why did Wagner and Colder ask about my sex life during the job interview?"
Michael smiled. "It was a set-up question, standard for us. They try to get you to talk about your love life. If you're dumb enough to tell people who you're fucking in a job interview you're out, common sense."
I was surprised by the answer. "Why did they hire me, a nobody from Ohio?"
"Because you are impressionable, we can mold you into anything we want. Also you were an actor in high school and college. That's good for this job."
"What did you mean the other day when you said you know what Dewey does. What does Dewey do?"
"In case you haven't noticed, our job is to go into Harlem or wherever there are drug dealers and buy dope. Just like when Pike sent you uptown to get killed. What happened to you happens all the time. Dewey's a killer; he protects undercover agents, like he protected you. We need guys like Dewey to stay alive. The government doesn't care if you get killed or not. We're in a war."
Then Michael walked a few yards to the corner and pointed down the street toward the Hudson River and the New Jersey shore and said, "I've never been to Ohio. That's it over there, isn't it, across the river?" While still pointing at New Jersey he looked at me. "There are many terrible forms of addiction, all of them just waiting for you. If you become an agent you'll wish to God that you never left Ohio. You'll see. In the end you will become addicted to something just to stay alive and you will kill everything you love."
A week later, as I was leaving, Agent Michael Giovanni came into Group Two and asked, "Where are you going?"
"Home."
Without any expression he said, "You're my partner, you're going to work now."
Being Michael Giovanni's partner was more pointless than being alone in the office. He had me follow people for no reason. I followed a man until 3:00 in the morning, only to learn that he had nothing to do with anything. I think he made me do this for practice, but maybe just to wear me down. Once he said he was investigating a mob guy who I learned from the files had been dead for ten years. Yet every humiliation made me more determined not to give up, not to let Michael crush me. Week after week, I rode with him only to do his errands, get his lunch, park the car, get some coffee, call the office, get the car washed. I didn't even know when work began, or was over, nor could I name a single case we were working on.
My name was still not on the roster of the new agents scheduled to go to Washington for training, so my fear of being fired grew. The more despondent I became the more I wanted to give my life meaning and purpose.
While I waited for Michael's nonsensical orders, I roamed the streets of Manhattan every night with my cheap, lightweight gun and pretended to be hunting for drug dealers. To cure my frustration I drank. Every morning I smelled like liquor. I avoided talking about 90 Church with Daisy. My hung-over mornings at home depressed me and worried her. She would ask, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" or "Why can't you talk to me?" I was slipping away into another world and didn't know how to stop it.
After about three weeks I had had enough. It was midnight and I was alone in the car outside a small restaurant in the Bronx, waiting for Michael, and as usual, I had no idea what was going on. The restaurant was closed and dark, except for a light in the back, which I assumed was the kitchen. Michael had told me to stay in the car: "Under no circumstance, come into the restaurant. This guy is very dangerous."
I sat there, thinking about the other times, being the butt of his jokes. I was never sure who to follow or watch on stake-outs. I stared at the small light in the back; all of a sudden I didn't care about what I was supposed to do. I left the car, walked down a small alley, and quietly opened the side door. There I saw a man wearing a waiter's jacket standing against the back wall, his pants down around his knees. He held a gun to Michael's head, which was buried in the man's naked crotch. In a panic to save Michael I drew my gray revolver and shot the man in the chest. The gun exploding in my hand made everything seem unreal. The man fell sideways, dropping his gun.
Michael jumped up, leaped forward, blotting the blood on the man's chest. "My God, my God! What have you done?" He wiped his mouth and looked at me, picked up the gun from the floor, and put it in his holster. He stared wildly around the room, then said, "Go to the car. Open up the trunk and bring my briefcase. Hurry!"
I stood there shaking and grunting. Eventually, in a trance-like state, I stumbled to the car and got the black attaché case from the trunk. When I got back, the man's pants were pulled up. Michael opened the briefcase, found a revolver in a plastic bag, and put it in the dead man's hand, squeezing the fingers several times on the trigger and barrel to be sure there would be fingerprints. He stood up. "You will do and say as I tell you. If you tell anyone what you saw, if you tell anyone, ever, what he was forcing me to do, that he had a gun to my head, you'll be dead. Do you understand? I must live with this, not you. If you tell anyone I will kill you."
When the police arrived, Michael was cold as ice. He explained that the dead man was a suspect in a big drug case, and that I, Michael's partner, had shot in self-defense. The cop found a gun and bag of heroin on the dead man.
In the car, Michael said, "I'm going to write this up and you're going to swear to it. You shot a drug dealer and saved my life, that's all." His eyes were red and teary. "Do you understand?"
The horror of it all put me into a trance. I didn't really know what he was saying. I had already seen four people killed in front of me, but this was different. Before it was like a bad movie. I was part of this, I was the one pulling the trigger. Michael drove to one of his bars and got out. "Take the car home; I'll see you tomorrow."
I managed to drive across the Williamsburg Bridge toward home, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Once across the bridge I pulled over and got out. Trembling, I leaned against the side of the car and threw up. Each time I wretched my guts I would look up at the cold blue night sky and it would make me do it again.
At home, Daisy woke up as I got into bed. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
I had vomit all over my shirt and knew she could smell it. I tried to lie but I could feel her silence and her eyes staring at me through the darkness. I started to cry in short little squirts and puffs. "I killed someone," I gasped through the tears and snot running down my face. She didn't touch me; there was a long silence. Then I said again, "I shot him, I had to."
"What are you going to do?"
"It's all right," I answered. "Everyone will say I did the right thing. I'll be accepted now. I know now I'll be accepted."
"The right thing? Killing someone is the right thing to do to get accepted? I've tried to understand. You smell of booze every night and you say you don't fit in. You hate those people and yet you go to work every day to be part of them. None of it makes any sense. Now you kill someone to be accepted ... I guess now you've got what you wanted. Tonight, finally, you've joined the Federal Bureau of Narcotics."
There was something else that she couldn't know. It was the terrible logic of 90 Church. I was beginning to like what I was doing. For now, it was something I had to hide so I could go on living.
* * *
The next morning my hand hurt from a cut that I didn't notice the night before. It was from shooting my cheap lightweight gun. The gun that Dewey had said wasn't any good for killing people. At the office, as usual, I sat at my little table, waiting for Michael. George Blanker came in to the group and put his hand on my shoulder. "Thank you, son. I understand you killed a dangerous drug dealer and saved Michael's life last night. Good for you. I know Michael will thank you, too."
In the afternoon I saw the report; it said that Michael and I were both interrogating the suspect. He had a criminal record. When Michael turned around, the man drew a gun from his pocket, and I outdrew him and fired in self-defense to save Michael's life. There was a picture of the dead drug dealer. He looked younger than me. This time, without hesitation, I signed the report even though I knew it was a total lie. Michael asked me what had happened to my hand. I told him it was from my gun. He didn't seem to care.
The next day there was a small box on my table. It was gift-wrapped like a box of candy, but when I picked it up, it was heavy. There was no note. Not even sure it was for me, I opened it. It looked like a .45 automatic; but much smaller. It was bright blue chrome, with white pearl grips. I took it down to the shooting range in the basement. The Range Master said it was a Walther PPK, expensive, reliable, and accurate. I shot about twenty rounds with it even though my hand still hurt. When I returned to my desk Michael was there and I said, "Thank you." He nodded once. Now everyone called me by my name and said hello and good-bye. Finally I was accepted, but it was an empty feeling.
Alone at home that night, I sighted down the shiny blue barrel and pretended I was shooting at drug dealers. The fact that I had killed someone and lied on my second federal investigation report was already a distant memory. I tried not to think about Michael or how much liquor it would take to erase the memory of that forced, perverted act from his already tortured mind. I was an agent now and that seemed more important than Michael's misery.
I tried to tell Daisy the same lie that was in the official incident report, how I saved Michael's life and became a hero. I know she tried hard to believe it. She wanted it to be true. Everyone lies about something; even my father lied to my mother about his secret love affair. I loved Daisy and we had never lied to each other. But this was something very different. Now things were changing. Daisy could never understand. I was an agent fighting crime. I was being trained by the best agent in the Bureau. I told myself that someday she would be proud of me and that would be enough to heal things. It wouldn't be fair for her to worry about the evil of my job. I had to lie to her. I had saved Michael's life and was keeping a dark secret; what difference did it make that I had lied on a report? Michael would always owe his life to me and protect me. I knew that someday that would be very important.
PEPPER
Now I was truly Michael's partner but even though I had been on the job for two months I did not understand any of his cases. One day as we drove through Greenwich Village, he told me to pull over. A Puerto Rican dressed in bright clothes, with lots of jewelry and a stingy-brim hat, came over to lean on the car. His name was Pepper. Michael told him to get into the back seat. "Pepper, I want you to meet somebody. Do you see this guy here in the front seat?"
Without looking at me, Pepper said, "How could I miss the fucking stiff?"
Michael chuckled. "This stiff is going to be your roommate. He's going to live with you for a while."
Michael reached over into my pocket and pulled out my credentials. "You won't need these. Go with Pepper. You want to be an agent, you want to understand drugs, go with Pepper. Live with him."
Before I could protest I was standing on the sidewalk with this stranger, watching Michael drive off. Pepper took me to his apartment in the East Village. The whole neighborhood was old, crumbling brownstones with people sitting on the front steps with nothing to do but throw things in the street. Pepper's apartment was in the middle of the block and very different. It was luxurious, with a remote-control lock on the street-level front door and expensive comfortable furniture. After he made me a drink he said, "If you want to learn, do as I tell you. First of all, take off your coat. You look ridiculous." He gave me one of his bright colored jackets. "You want to meet addicts? You want to learn about drugs? Do as I say. Otherwise, neither one of us is going to stay alive."
I would go home late at night and return every day to Pepper's apartment by noon. I met his customers. I saw how addicts lived and how they fed their habits. On an average, they stole two hundred dollars a day just to pay for their drugs. I watched them shoot heroin into their arms and their legs and thighs until their eyes rolled back. I saw girls, teenagers, whoring in the streets just to get a five-dollar bag of heroin. I saw one addict whose leg was so damaged that the skin fell around his ankle like a cheap sock, exposing meat and bone. I saw people covered with red and black sores shaking all the time, eating sugar out of the bag, stuffing it down their throats. I saw them lie and cheat each other, and steal from their families. I saw all of this because they came to Pepper with their pitiful stories, lies, and schemes. They came to us because they had to, because Pepper sold them heroin. He was good at it - no money, no dope, no excuses, no exceptions. If you were Pepper's customer your life was over, but you kept on living. Any decency you ever had just melted away, replaced by an obsession for drugs. Your only hope was to die as soon as possible to save your family and the people you loved. Decency and honesty became an ongoing con used to trick people. I could feel the sense of power Pepper had over their lives. It didn't disgust me like it should have.
Every day I watched the parade of dirty junkies coming and going to Pepper's fancy apartment as they spiraled down into hell.
On the afternoon of the fourth day, as Pepper was counting his money and arranging his bags of heroin, the buzzer sounded from downstairs. He walked over to the wall intercom. It said, "Open, it's Mars." Pepper backed away and stared at me, then rushed over to his desk drawer and pulled out a revolver and pointed it at my chest and in obvious panic said, "Put your gun on the table or I'll blow your fucking head off."
That all too familiar feeling of cold fear gripped me, I laid my gun on the desk and stammered, "Pepper, what's happening here?"
He put my gun in the desk drawer and walked back toward the intercom, pushing the button to open the door two levels down.
He wiped sweat off his forehead. "Mars, Mars La Pont, my connection. If they see a gun on you they'll kill us both. If you make one weird move then I'm going to kill you. Just be cool and we both may live through this. Do you understand?" He put his gun in his pocket and we both stared at the door.
There was a gentle knock. Two smiling black men entered and immediately looked me over. Both were well-dressed in leather and silk with expensive boots. One was huge, an obvious body builder. The other, smaller, covered with gold jewelry said, "Hey Pepper, who's the mope?" He was pointing to me.
"He's a runner, a little muscle, he's okay, I swear he's okay, Mars."
Mars stared at me and chuckled, then turned to Pepper while pointing to his huge muscular companion. "This here is Starbuck; that's what you call muscle. Pepper, if this mope of yours ain't okay you're going to be in the street down there without the benefit of the elevator." He looked at me then at Pepper. "I've got something for you and you'd better have something for me."
Mars reached down to his boot and pulled out a long white rubber tube and laid it on the desk. "Best shit in months, cut only once. Me and Starbuck can't keep it. Everybody wants some. Now where's my twenty grand?"
Pepper scrambled to his desk and began to stack money in piles, counting out loud while Mars looked on smiling. Then Mars pulled out a small leather pouch and poured white powder on the glass coffee table. With quick taps of a razor blade he scraped out four lines of cocaine. Then he rolled up a dollar bill. Starbuck was first; he sucked it up with a big gasp and rolled his eyes like a child eating ice cream. Then he pulled out a huge chrome revolver and pointed to me. I knew what this was all about. This was a test. If I didn't do this I would be dead in seconds. The sweat poured down my back as I sucked a line of cool burning cocaine into my brain. Starbuck put his gun away and gathered up the piles of bundled cash and put them in a black leather pouch he carried on his shoulder like a woman's purse. As the sweat continued to roll down my back the buzzer sounded again. Everyone turned and stared at it. Starbuck again pulled his chrome revolver ready to shoot it off the wall.
Pepper flipped the intercom button. "Who is it?"
"Maureen."
"Not now, Maureen, I'm very busy."
"Yes, now, Pepper, I was here earlier, there was no one home. Now, Pepper."
"Not now, Maureen. I said come back later."
"Somebody's coming out, I'm in."
Pepper flipped the switch over and over, "Not now, not now." But the intercom was silent. He raised his hand to his head, "Jesus Christ, this is like Grand Central Station. She's on her way up."
After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Starbuck holstered his gun and we waited for Pepper to open the door.
A beautiful white middle-aged woman dressed in a tailored expensive skirt and jacket stood in the doorway, a striking image of sophistication. She gave all of us a small nervous smile. "Oh, I didn't know you had company."
Pepper tried his best. "It's alright, they're friends, they're just leaving."
Mars grinned and ran his tongue over his lips. "My, my, my, look at them threads, designer for sure. Sweet mama."
Maureen tried to ignore him and said to Pepper, "I'm in a hurry, do you have what I want?" She fumbled for money in her designer purse.
Pepper sorted through the bags of heroin on the desk. "Sure, I've got it here for you. Here it is, let's settle up later, okay?"
Mars got closer, into her personal space. "I ain't seen such a pretty creature like you in such a long time."
She backed away. "Please, I came here to score. I don't want any trouble." She pulled out a wad of cash.
Mars laughed. "Trouble? No trouble. Pretty lady wants to score, big wad of money, my, my, my, got you a sweet little customer here, Pepper. Put your money away, today the dope is not for sale, no ma'am, not for sale. Not today."
Maureen stepped back. "Please, no, please."
Mars grabbed her purse and tossed it up in the air. Pepper caught it. "Not for sale. Not today. Tell you what, Starbuck and I want to play. We want to play with you."
As Starbuck smiled, her whole body began to shake. Pepper pleaded, "Please Mars, let her go, don't do this."
Mars's eyes grew wild. "Shut the fuck up. Here's the deal, white Scarsdale lady. Starbuck here and I are gonna go in the bedroom and party with you. Afterwards you can have all this dope free. Your money is no good today. What was your name?"
She was terrified, but managed, "Maureen."
"Maureen, I like that. Come on, Maureen, let's get it on."
Her whole body was sweating and trembling. She pleaded, "Please no, I just want to score ... I have children, a husband, please, oh, please, no, oh please."
Mars smiled. "It's up to you, hot mama, if you want your dope."
The two black men went into the bedroom. Maureen was trembling out of control and began to cry as she walked slowly into the bedroom. Starbuck closed the door.
Pepper pulled his revolver from his pocket and pointed it at me. He whispered, "You say one word about this or try to help, I'll blow your fucking head off." He reached in the drawer and put my gun in his pocket, then motioned to the door, "We're getting out of this right now."
As we walked out, beyond the bedroom door we heard Mars say, "Leave those pretty shoes on. Starbuck's gonna give you a hot shot right in your pussy. You'll love it. That's it, hold still. Soon you'll be on your hands and knees barking, barking like a dog."
As Pepper and I walked down the hall toward the elevator, he handed me my gun. Then there was a loud, human cry; it was a sound that I had never heard before. I couldn't wait for the elevator, I ran down the stairs and out into the street to a cold but sunny day. There was a white Cadillac with gold trim parked in front of the apartment - a car I would never forget.
The streets of New York are always busy, millions of people with both joy and misery in their lives. No one could possibly begin to understand how I felt. Being afraid was the least of my feeling; the rape, the junkie's horror, the extreme hatred and desire to kill Mars La Pont, all swirled inside me like a toxic stew. As if this wasn't enough, my ticket to hell just got punched with a line of cocaine. I was scared, really scared.
After walking the cold streets of Manhattan for hours I checked into a cheap hotel and went to sleep, hoping it was all a bad dream.
The next morning I went back to the office, looking and smelling worse than my first day. Michael smiled. "Why don't you go home? You're going to work tomorrow. You've had enough vacation."
As I was leaving, I saw the list of agents scheduled to go to Washington for training the next week taped to the wall. My name was handwritten on the bottom of the list. I had made it.
I had spent the night without calling Daisy, so on my way home I bought her a black Yankees baseball cap. She had collected hats for years and wore a different one every day. It was late afternoon when I walked in and I surprised her. She was holding Mark. She looked at me holding her stupid little gift. Her face twisted to shock and tears as she backed up, and slumped into the corner, holding our son in one hand and waving me away from her with the other. I tried to explain where I was and why I didn't call, but she wouldn't listen. Eventually her anger lessened and I promised to call her the next time, no matter what.
That night again, I pushed all my feelings deep inside. I dreamed I was back in Ohio on our farm, driving a green tractor. I was pulling a large red mechanical rake that gathers up straw. Brownie, my Collie dog, was following, barking and running back and forth. He got too close to the rotating rake blades. As it pulled him in I heard the dog scream. It was her scream, too. I knew it very well and would never forget it.
Copyright © 2013 by Dean Unkefer