A Life Not Lived
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
[Note from Steve: If you read my short story “The Case of the Carriageless Horse” in World Enough and Crime, or listened to the inimitable Donna Carrick read it in her podcast (see the link on my Home Page, you know that its subject is Detective Castilblanco’s first case. This is another early case, something like a sequel to that first story. Chen is around somewhere, just not yet Castilblanco’s partner.]
I went to greet Rob Jackson when he got out of prison. My old mentor at NYPD, Al Dempsey, had put him there twenty-six years earlier for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. I wasn’t partnered with Dempsey back then, but I thought he’d want me to express regrets to Rob. Our justice system not only moves slow; it can make some really bad mistakes. Good old DNA freed Rob and made the crime into a cold case.
Rob spit to the side of me after giving me the finger—couldn’t blame him for taking out on me his frustration—and said, “Dempsey was a bro, but the SOB always believed I did it. May he rot in hell!”
“He still would have been here, even if you don’t believe it. Can I drive you somewhere?”
“The Bronx.” He now managed to direct a smile my way. Maybe he figured I wasn’t responsible for his misery? “Thanks. Need to see the old ‘hood before moving on. I have a bus ticket, but you’ll get me there faster.”
“Where will you go after that?” I said, knowing ex-cons often received a raw deal from society, wherever they ended up. And, in this case, it was society that had really committed the crime!
“Got some family in North Carolina. They tell me our kind doesn’t get much respect down there, but they’re the only family I got.”
I nodded. That Mason-Dixon line still indicated about as far south as I liked to get. Hispanics weren’t popular down there, and, taking states’ rights to the limit, both Blacks and Hispanics had a harm time voting down there, so nothing much changed for the better—it had only become worse, in fact.
***
Rob became mute at the beginning of our journey, but opened up a bit later on as his justifiably sour attitude dissipated.
“You must know how it is, Castilblanco. You get two strikes ‘gainst you just for being born in the Bronx and being black, and that damn place gives you the third one real quick-like. I had my first knife fight at eight.”
“It’s tough,” I admitted. “Anyone who survives that deserves a combat medal.”
“You’re ex-military, right?” I nodded. “That’s one way to escape the damn place. Did combat seem as bad as here for minorities?”
“Different, because you’re fighting jerks who lump all Americans together as the enemy. In the Bronx, you’re white, black, Puerto Rican, whatever. Often seemed like warring tribes. It’s better now, Rob.”
“I read the rags and listen to the news. You could be right. Just want to see for myself.”
We then talked about a lot of things—family, religion, politics; most things a guy inside might want to hear about when he gets out. Prison life sucks.
I left him at an old friend’s place. Teddy was in a wheelchair, so Rob had to bend down to give him a big hug.
***
Two weeks later Rob was murdered. Teddy called me, but I already had the case. Felt kind of weird going through the preliminary motions when the victim was someone I’d just met…and liked. Old ME gave me the silent treatment for the most part, but got enough info out of him to know it was murder, another one for this new homicide detective, but a case I didn’t particularly want.
“Do you want to recuse yourself?” my lieutenant said.
“No, I’d like to bring Rob’s murderer to justice.”
“Then get outta here and do it, or do you need me to change your diaper first?”
Lieutenant was like that. Didn’t put much stock in my service record overseas or the few cases I had already solved. So I started to snoop around the Bronx. Knew it well enough. Hadn’t changed much, but I was seeing things through cops’ eyes now—a prodigal son who didn’t quite feel at home.
My first stop was Gretchen’s Grill. That grill is really a sleazy bar, and Gretchen was really Smiley, a big black fellow with a squished nose who probably never had the need for a bouncer. Nice guy, though, and Teddy had hung out there, recently taking Rob along with him. Teddy had suggested I talk to Smiley.
***
I had to look up at Smiley…literally. I’m not a small man, but he’s really big! With that gap in his upper teeth, he looked a bit like Strahan on steroids. Shook my hand, leaving it numb.
“Nice guy, that fellow Rob. Talk about bad luck. Never got to live his life.” He eyed me from up there in the clouds. “You put him away?”
“My old partner. He’d be regretting it now.”
“Lady Justice is blind, as they say.” He thought a moment. “I’d check with Mr. Grasso. He knows most everything bad that’s going or gone down in this city.”
Grasso was a local mobster. Hadn’t met him yet, and didn’t know if I wanted to.
“And he does nothing about it?”
“He’s responsible for some of it. Won’t tell you about that, I ‘spose. If he’s not involved, he might help you, though. To eliminate the competition, you know.”
What’s the adage? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? I went to see Grasso. Wasn’t in his usual hangout. I told his toadies I’d be back in the morning.
***
Morning meant eleven in mobster time. Gangsters tend to have late nights, doing crap never seen in movies. I get home late but not that late—different kind of crap—I watch the Channel 7 news. That’s a lot more legal than what Grasso probably did, although I do have a crush on one crime reporter I admire from afar. Maybe I’ll have a case where I’ll meet Pam Stuart someday?
So I easily kept more or less to Grasso’s schedule, showing up at the little cafe in Little Italy from where he ran his fiefdom. He was sitting on a bar stool snarfing down fried eggs and bacon and drinking black coffee. Thought he might need the sugar—he didn’t look sweet and lovable.
Read the rest of this entry »
