The first piece I'll offer stems from my early life but is, indeed, a fiction.
Echoes and Transgressions A Story by Gary Villani
Elliot Norton Park was one part of Boston that never made it to the Freedom Trail map. Tucked between a rent-control apartment building that catered to eligible seniors and a lesser-used subway station on the Orange Line, the narrow strip of land offered nothing as grandiose as the swan boats of the nearby Public Gardens. A scattering of benches and a single set of swings were the only signs of the Commonwealth’s concern.
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Walking the park was the only activity that insulated Dan Moore from the smell of cabbage, loneliness and the specter of death. He hated his security guard job, the poorly tailored rent-a-cop uniform and the weight of the gun on his hip. Dropping out of U-Mass seemed like a great idea, back when the daily barrages of tenured professor’s socialistic pabulum felt like an endless and personal assault on his sanity. A year later, he felt like a loser with few options.
Should’ve let them mold me into a commie, he thought. Glancing at his cheap Timex for the third time in an hour, he opted for another walk around the back side of the building.
The alternative was sitting in the lobby with the old farts, listening to them bitch about their aches and pains, and all their wonderful children who never visited. Mike should be around here somewhere. It’s almost coffee time.
Dan Moore spent as much time wandering around the Back Bay with his friend, Boston Police Patrolman, Michael Carinelli, as the walking beat officer allowed. Dan suspected Mike secretly hated his job, too. Years before he was assigned to walk the beat, Carinelli was a promising ‘fast tracker’ in the BPD. As a member of the Tactical Patrol, an early version of S.W.A.T., Mike’s career was rocketing along nicely until a riot during the final stages of the Jamaica Plains crisis of ’85 sent it back to earth in flames. After hitting what turned out to be a pregnant teenage girl with his nightstick in full view of a news camera, he was nearly fired. Only his departmental status as a third generation ‘wop cop’ saved his job. In the decades since, Mike’s duty assignments included years of tedious traffic duty, construction site postings, and a litany of what he termed, ‘deployments-in-exile’.
Dan knew some of the guys who stopped to chat with Carinelli as they cruised through in their squad cars gave him crap for having a "security guard sidekick". Whenever Mike had 'real' cops for company, Dan would mutter a quick, “Later, dude,” before marching back to his boring-ass post. He felt foolish that Mike’s failure to suggest he hang out awhile longer never failed to hurt his feelings. Holding his breath against the stinking rot, Dan stepped past the overflowing dumpsters in the rear alley, and watched for rats.
He remembered the first time he saw one of the enormous creatures. It happened the very first night he ventured out from the claustrophobia-inducing lobby, months ago. Nearly screaming at the sudden sight of it atop an open garbage can, Dan drew his tear gas canister and opened fire. The dog-sized rodent looked at him with beady eyes, its whiskers dripping acrid poison, and ignored him as it continued to forage. Mike informed him later that rats do not have tear ducts.
“I thought that was a myth,” Dan had replied.
“Live and learn, my son,” Mike said, in a not-quite-condescending voice. “Live and learn. You wouldn’t believe some of the monsters lurking in the shadows of these mean streets.” Mike Carinelli said a lot of weird stuff like that, which was one of the things his sidekick liked most about him.
As Dan reached the side of the alley mostly free of garbage, he remembered something else Mike taught him. One night as they made the rounds, the older man pointed to the back wall of the Milner Hotel bordering the alley. “You see this place?” As usual, Mike spoke from the side of his mouth.
“What about it?” Dan unconsciously mimicked the weathered veteran’s speech patterns and slouching gait. Mike’s right hand fell to the butt of his 9mm Glock. Dan’s left immediately did the same, lightly gripping his Smith and Wesson .38 Special.
“Some of the rats you might run into back here walk on two legs. This is the place the 9-11 highjackers stayed, before their appointment at Logan.”
“No shit?”
“Zero defecation, Danny Boy. I swear it on my dear ol’ Aunt Sadie’s grave.” As he had that night months ago, Dan unsnapped the holster strap securing his revolver. Each time he walked this route, he fought the urge to walk fast.
“Always saunter like it’s all yours, Danny Boy,” Carinelli had often said, “Make ‘em prove it ain’t.”
Dan stepped carefully over several shards of broken glass. A lot of the winos who stayed in the Milner liked to throw their empties out the window. His right foot came down squarely on a used condom streaked with gore. “Well, that’s enough sight seeing for one night,” Dan muttered to himself. I’ve been out gallivanting long enough, anyway. One of the old codgers might complain again.
A harsh coughing sound shook him just as he was approaching the bright lights of Stuart Street. Dan's fingers clenched the rubber grip of his revolver, and his bladder felt suddenly full. Another cough. It sounded wet and labored.
“Danny Boy?” a weak voice called out. “Tell me that’s you, son.”
“Mike? Jesus Christ! Where are you?” Acoustics were tricky between tall brick buildings. He heard the warbling sound of a siren fade out, just before the flashing lights of an ambulance passed by on Milk Street.
“Here. Shit, I dunno. In a friggin’ doorway I think. Watch your ass. Son of a bitch cut me.”
Dan pulled his gun and swallowed. His tongue felt dry and tasted like the alley smelled. “Say something, Mike.”
Another cough was the only reply, but it was enough. Most of the fire exits of the Milner stayed propped open no matter how many times the half-assed superintendent closed them. Dan found Carinelli sprawled at the foot of the last stairwell on the east side of the building. His face was gray, and his uniform shirt was soaked with blood.
“Call it in, Danny Boy. Channel 2.” Mike’s breathing was shallow. Holstering his gun, Dan reached into the cop’s pocket for his ever-present handkerchief, and pressed it against the gaping neck wound. With one hand applying pressure, Dan fumbled with the handset clipped to Mike’s shoulder. He had watched his friend use the radio countless times, but the simple task of calling for help seemed impossible. “Just flip the toggle to ‘2’ and press the fuckin’ button!” Mike's voice rasped but sounded wet.
“Shut up, dammit! Just breathe, okay? I got it.” Dan depressed the rubber pad marked ‘transmit’. Before he spoke a word, an inhuman wail came from directly behind him. Since he first heard Mike call out, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Now he felt paralyzed.
“Danny!” Mike’s cry of warning came too late.
“Two! Gonna cut me two pigs in one night!” The guttural voice was maniacal. Dan didn’t feel any pain as the blade pierced the flesh of his back, but the sound of tearing fabric and the feel of hot urine running down his leg propelled him. Instead of turning, which could have been fatal, Dan forced himself to fall forward onto Mike. He rolled to the left and got his first look at his attacker. He blinked in disbelief, even as he realized the way he was now positioned prevented pulling out his gun.
The drag queen was poorly disguised, despite the gold dress and auburn wig. He/she was black, well over six feet tall, and wore a bristling mustache. There was nothing funny about the butterfly knife clenched in the manicured hand. Dan twisted toward the stairwell wall just as the blade arced downward. This time the pain was intense and immediate. He shrieked and kicked up with his feet, making solid contact. The man’s abdomen felt like iron, and he hardly reacted.Dan’s left hand was still pinned beneath him. With his right he frantically groped for Mike’s Glock. The holster was empty. Carinelli’s face was pressed to his. Despite the intensity of the moment, it registered in Dan’s mind that the older man’s skin was cold.
“It’s in my hand, Dan.” The old man’s voice rattled in his ear. “Take it. Shoot…” Dan had a sudden image of the two of them lying cheek-to-cheek in the filthy stairwell. We’re gonna look like a pair of dead perverts in the CSI pictures. The sound of dark laughter echoed at him through the gathering haze. The fingers of his right hand felt the barrel of Mike’s weapon as the madman’s knife again found him. He kicked, this time with less power, but to greater effect. The crazed attacker released the knife, grunted feebly and fell backwards.
Guess she hasn’t had the operation yet. Raising the 9mm awkwardly, he said aloud, “If the safety’s still on, Mike, we’re both dead.” He fired and the explosion deafened him. The first round knocked the wig from the man’s head; the next one shattered his skull. Dan’s throat burned with the force of his screams as he emptied the clip. Darkness threatened to swallow him as the sound of police sirens ebbed and flowed. It’s probably nowhere close. Probably halfway to Kenmore Square…. I probably should’ve stayed in school.
As his vision narrowed to a tight pinprick of light, Dan thought he smelled his father’s after shave, and felt his whiskers on his cheek. He heard himself mumble, “Tell me a story, Daddy. I’m having a nightscare.”
“Move your elbow, dammit. You’re crushing my balls.”
The voice roused him. “Mike?” Dan struggled to sit up and agonizing waves of pain washed up from the wounds in his legs. He hissed and tasted blood.
“Yeah, it’s me. Who the hell did you think you was layin’ on? Sophia Loren? I knew I felt a friggin’ hard on.” Tires screeched, doors slammed, and the alley between the hellish hotel and the old folk’s home filled with angry cops and a small army of emergency medics. In the flurry of activity that followed, Dan lost sight of Mike. Through the mist of encroaching shock, he heard a paramedic say, “Shot that freak about a hundred times, from the looks of him. Fuckin’ dress is ruined.”
Sleep would no longer be denied, but as he was being packaged into an ambulance, Dan again heard Mike’s voice pierce the fog. “You done real good, Danny Boy.” A no-nonsense paramedic’s voice boomed, “You need to stop yelling, Officer, if you want us to stop the bleeding. Okay?”
“You’re a hell of a cop, Dan Moore. You hear me?” Dan surrendered to the shadows, a final echo repeating as he descended into the vortex. I hear you, old man. I hear you.
A Story by Gary Villani
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