As I rush up the stairs out of the subway station, I collide with a scruffy homeless man who reeks of piss and gin. The unsteady fellow loses his balance. I break his fall before he cracks his head open on the pavement. He shrugs off my kindness and shuffles away, cursing under his breath. There, but for the grace of Mama Libby and Papa Frank, go I.
The hissing brakes of a city bus at the curb aggravates the pounding in my head from too much whiskey last night. I need caffeine, but I am running late for the third morning in a row, so I don’t have time to stop at the breakfast cart on the corner.
A headline at the newsstand I pass catches my eye. Forensic searches through the rubble transported from the Twin Towers to the Fresh Kills dumpsite on Staten Island following last September’s terrorist attacks will cease operation in three weeks. I, along with half the police force, worked twelve-hour days for months sifting through the debris. Forensics only identified a handful of the many remains we recovered, which was disheartening, to say the least.
My new Nokia cellular phone rings, startling me. I’m still getting used to carrying the clunky but convenient device.
“Where are you?” my partner, Ahn Tran, whispers. “Roll call is about to start.”
“Almost there.”
“Stop hitting the snooze button.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I have two kids already, Nowak. I don’t need a third.”
Tran hangs up. I jog down the sidewalk and slip inside the precinct. Sarge is shouting at a cringing rookie I don’t recognize. Better him than me.
Hustling downstairs into the locker room, I change into my ballistic vest and uniform, wipe the scuffs off my boots using spit and a tissue, and buckle on my duty belt. My flashlight needs batteries. I’ll buy a pack while I’m on patrol. I strap on my Glock, which I cleaned after my trip to the firing range last weekend.
By the time I slip into the rear of the squad room, twenty pounds heavier in all my gear, Sarge has completed inspection and is briefing the team on a streak of robberies on Orchard Street. My cellular phone rings. Sarge glares at me. I silence the device. He shares descriptions of several suspects we should be on the lookout for and dismisses the team.
“Nowak,” Sarge says. “My office. Now!”
I glance at Tran. She shakes her head. I follow Sarge into his office. He sinks into his desk chair and sighs. “What am I going to do with you, Nowak?”
I hope he doesn’t expect an answer, because I’m out of excuses.
“I need your reports on my desk by the end of the day. And be sure they’re legible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The captain wants to see you.”
My heart skips a beat. After patrolling the streets of the Lower East Side for five years, I applied for an open detective position on the domestic abuse task force. I’ve earned this promotion. I sprint toward the elevator. It’s out of order again. I bolt upstairs, leaping two steps with every single bound. By the time I reach the sixth floor, I’m wheezing like I have emphysema, and I’ve never smoked a day in my life. That’s what happens when I skip the gym.
“Come in, Nowak,” the captain says.
I straighten my tie and step through the door. The captain rises. He stands eye to eye with me, and I’m six feet, two inches tall. Paperwork clutters his desk. He removes a box of case files from the only other chair in the room and waits until I take a seat before sitting himself.
“Impressive test scores, Nowak.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I studied my ass off for the detective exam. Even ditched the whiskey for a week.
“Your arrest record is exemplary.”
“Highest in the precinct.”
“But you have an alarming number of misconduct complaints.”
“I have a short fuse for jerks who abuse women and children.”
“We all do,” the captain says. “But there’s a right and a wrong way to put the scumbags behind bars.” He sets my file aside. “I can’t recommend you for detective, Nowak.”
Story of my life. No matter how hard I try, I always get the shaft, and this time I’m certain I know why.
“The guys said you’d never promote a fag.”
“Are you accusing me of discrimination, Nowak?”
“It’s just—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck where you stick your dick. So long as it’s consensual. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Be discreet, though. Especially when you’re wearing that uniform. Not everybody is as open-minded.”
“Understood, sir.”
“You’re dismissed.”
As I rush downstairs, tears blur my vision. I dry my eyes on my sleeve. The last thing I need is for another officer to see me crying. I’d never live down the shame.
The voice mail light on my cellular phone blinks. I press the play button.
Cal, it’s me. Annie.
Annie and I dated in high school—before I came out. She’s the kindest soul on the planet. One time, she stepped on a spider she feared might’ve been a mother like the spider in that children’s book about a runt pig and cried so hard she hyperventilated. We searched for hours but never found any baby spiders. I haven’t seen Annie since Papa Frank’s funeral. Hard to believe that was seven years ago. She called me after the terrorist attacks last September, but we only spoke for a few seconds before I had to rush back into the chaos.
I don’t mean to alarm you, but Mama Libby broke her wrist. Call me the first chance you get.
Mama Libby must be seventy by now. She and Papa Frank fostered my younger sister, Mary Catherine, and me after we lost our mother.
My radio crackles. “Ten fifty-two in progress, Nowak,” Tran says. “Corner of Essex and Delancey Streets.”
Eager to redeem myself, I sprint seven blocks to the intersection in question and spot Tran calming an emaciated young woman with a black eye and a bloody nose. Tran orders the gawking crowd of onlookers to step back. They do so without hesitation. My partner might be slight of stature, but she intimidates men twice her size. Me included.
“Everything that bitch says is a lie,” a male voice shouts. I peer upward. A skinny white guy wearing a wife beater leans out a fourth-floor window. Neo-Nazi symbols sleeve his scrawny arms.
I rush through the open door of the apartment building and charge upstairs.
“Hold on, Nowak!” Tran shouts. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Weapon drawn, I march up and down the fourth-floor hallway, banging on doors and shouting, “Police!”
“You’re going to wish you’d kept your trap shut bitch,” Wife Beater shouts, betraying his location. Finding his door unlocked, I burst inside. The smell of burnt plastic makes me suspect drugs may be involved, but I don’t see any paraphernalia lying around. No weapons, either. Keeping an eye on the guy, I check the corners of the room and kick open the closet door.
“Clear!”
“You can’t burst in here without a warrant.”
“Shows what you know.” I holster my Glock. “I’m collaring a suspect.” I twist his arm behind his back. “That would be you.” I wrench his elbow up between his shoulder blades and snarl in his ear. “Women aren’t punching bags, asshole.”
Wife Beater bites me. I fly into a rage. Next thing I know, Tran is hauling me off our suspect and shouting in my face, “Enough, Nowak!” Wife Beater lies curled up at my feet, sniveling that I’m crazy. I step back and throw up my hands.
“This is your lucky day, asshole.”
Tran identifies and cuffs Wife Beater, tosses the prick for weapons and contraband, and reads him his rights as she marches his ass out the door. I follow my partner downstairs. Paramedics slide the battered young woman into the box of their ambulance on a stretcher and speed away.
Tran shoves our suspect into the rear of our squad car and hops behind the wheel. It’s my week to drive, but I don’t argue the point.
“I’m taking our suspect to the hospital,” Tran says.
“Should’ve let me finish the job.”
“This bullshit needs to stop.”
“You saw what he did to that poor girl.”
“Our job is to arrest the suspect,” Tran says. “After that, his fate is in the court’s hands.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re not the judge and jury, Nowak.”
Tran and I file our reports at the end of the day, change into our civvies, and walk five blocks to McDougall’s Tavern. Founded in 1856 by Irish immigrants, the Lower East Side watering hole is one of the oldest bars in New York City. Says so right on the door.
Inside the tavern, photographs of politicians, sports stars, and entertainers collected over decades clutter the walls, and sawdust coats the floor—a nostalgic holdover from the days when men chewed tobacco. We belly up to the mahogany bar, nicked and scratched from a century and a half of abuse, but polished so glossy I can see my reflection in its surface.
“Your usual?” Mack asks. The Irish bartender with his waxed handlebar mustache appreciates cops, which is why we gather here. That, and the drinks are cheap.
“Make mine a double,” I say.
Mack holds a rocks glass up to the light and wipes the rim. “Rough day?”
“I’ve had better.”
Mack pours a pint of Harp lager for Tran and a double shot of Jameson Irish whiskey with a pint of Guinness stout for me. I raise my glass. “Bottoms up.”
Tran grins. “Your favorite position.”
“I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that one.” I knock back my whiskey and chase the sweet burn with a gulp of beer.
“I can’t keep covering for you, Nowak.”
“Nice to know my partner has my back.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Whatever.”
Tran catches my eye in the mirror behind the bar and raises one brow.
“I hear you,” I say. “Loud and clear.” I crack open a peanut from a bowl on the bar, toss the nuts into my mouth, and dump the shells into the bucket beside the bowl. “I’m a lousy partner.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I don’t need this crap right now.”
Fleeing to the back of the bar, I step inside an old wooden phone booth and pull out my cellular phone. I find and dial Annie’s number. She answers on the first ring.
“Cal, thanks for calling me back.”
“How are you, Annie?”
“Fine.”
She doesn’t sound fine.
“Kit had better be treating you right.”
“I’m fine. Kit’s fine,” Annie says with a little too much enthusiasm. “We’re fine.”
Annie’s husband, Kit, has resented me since high school, when she chose to date me rather than him. As soon as I came out, he swooped in. He and I haven’t spoken a civil word since our senior year, when we lost the state championship. I threw a pass in the last seconds of the fourth quarter that should’ve won us the game, but he fumbled the ball. Of course, he blamed my arm. He and his fellow bullies Oakley Reeves and Howie Clark jumped me after the game. By the time Coach pulled me off, Howie had a busted lip, Oakley had two black eyes, and Kit lay cringing on the ground, his arms raised in surrender, his handsome face a bruised and bloodied mess.
“And you?” Annie asks.
“Can’t complain,” I say, keeping my disappointment over not having made detective to myself. “How’s Mama Libby?”
“Driving her nurses nuts.”
“How did she break her wrist?”
“Tripped over that darn dog of hers. She’s lucky she didn’t break her neck. After she gets released, she’ll be in a cast for weeks and will need help.”
“Can she get a home healthcare aide?”
“Her doctor suggested that. More like insisted. But she refuses to let a stranger into her home.”
“She and Papa Frank took in dozens of foster children over the years.”
“She claims this is different. I was hoping you might talk some sense into her.”
“Give me the phone number for the hospital and her room number.”
I scrawl the information on a cocktail napkin. We say our goodbyes, and I return to my bar stool.
“Everything okay?” Tran asks.
“Yep.”
Tran swigs her last swallow of beer and tosses six singles onto the bar. “I have to pick up Liam and Cara from the YMCA and figure out what we’re having for dinner.”
Soon after we became partners, Tran kicked her deadbeat husband to the curb.
“Look, Nowak. I know you’re disappointed—”
“Spare me the lecture.”
“Be that way.”
Tran leaves. I order another round.
Officer Fagan plops down on the bar stool Tran vacated. With his saggy jowls and permanent snarl, he resembles an overweight Rottweiler. He even slobbers when he gets angry, which is often the case.
“Told you they’d never promote a fag.” Officer Fagan cracks open a peanut and tosses the shells onto the floor.
“Mack puts that bucket on the bar for a reason,” I say.
Officer Fagan picks up the bucket and dumps the shells inside onto the floor.
“Pig.”
Officer Fagan rises. “What’d you call me?” The brawny brute has been spoiling for a fight since our days at the academy.
“You heard me, Fagan.” We square off. I’m taller and leaner. Although I won’t be much longer if I don’t get my ass to the gym. I stick out my chin. “Take your best shot.”
Officer Fagan backs me against the bar. I shove the prick off and raise my fists. He steps back and throws up his hands.
“What’s the matter, Fagan? Afraid you’ll get your ass kicked by a faggot?”
“Internal Affairs is already crawling up my butt over a trumped-up sexual harassment charge. If they hear I kicked the shit out of a cock—”
“You know the rules, boys,” Mack says, stepping between us. “Take your beef outside.”
“That’s okay, Mack.”
I toss thirty dollars onto the bar and chug my last swallow of beer.
“Sit,” Mack says. “Have another round on me.”
“Rain check, Mack. Your clientele tonight stinks.”
“Screw you, Nowak,” Officer Fagan says.
“In your wet dreams.” I blow Officer Fagan a kiss. He clenches his fists. I duck out the door and hop on the crosstown bus to my favorite dive gay bar in the West Village, hoping to get drunk and laid.
