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The female rookie learns you just can't tell a book by its cover, fortunately! |
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Manny could pass for a lazy slob,
but he had lessons to teach her
By
GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
WE
WERE an unlikely couple. On first meeting, I knew he wasn't the
man of my dreams. Barely 5'4", his barrel chest and Popeye
forearms gave Manny the appearance of a diminutive prize fighter.
A substantial belly, usually dusted with ashes from his ever-present
cigar, sagged over his belt while his tie bore the remnants of
a week's worth of meals. With his broken nose and hard-knocks
demeanor, he might have been an extra in a gangster flick--not
exactly what I'd pictured as my perfect partner.
Manny was the first cop I ever worked with, the senior man in
charge of a brand new rookie. I was his eager student, ready
to learn from his years of experience. Together we looked like
Mutt and Jeff in blue serge.
He had stories to tell and lessons to teach me in a Copland 101
curriculum that began with each eight-hour duty tour. After the
street commando orientation of the Police Academy, rookie cops
are geared for action, preferably as soon as possible. I anticipated
a partner who was Hercules with handcuffs, an iron man with balls
of steel. Instead, I got a flatfoot with fallen arches, recurring
flatus and chili stains on his shirt.
Manny was low-key bordering on barely conscious. A cop's job
wasn't always about ass-kicking and taking names, he said. Subtlety
went a long way on the street. The race was not always to the
swift--or aggressive. It was a tortoise-and-hare approach I wasn't
expecting. The Academy training had prepared us for high-speed
chases and bloody shoot-outs. When you get street dances, fried
chicken and peach cobbler instead, it's definitely time to regroup.
It was a Saturday evening in August, not quite twilight as we
patrolled our beat. My partner had worked the inner city streets
for longer than I was alive. As we cruised along, he provided
a travelogue of the ghetto according to Manny. There was Elmo's
Tombstones, a business located directly across the street from
the fearsome highrise Robert Taylor housing projects. "Before
you go, call Elmo," proclaimed the marquee. "Tombstones
Made While You Wait."
Passing Sheba's Packaged Liquors, I watched two drunks duke it
out over the last swallow from a pint of gin. Instead of police
intervention and a battery arrest, Manny suppressed a burp and
cruised on.
We
approached Barbecue Kingdom, ("where the King goes for 'cue")
and, apparently, where the locals also loitered in front, selling
dimes of dope to passing cars. The perfect opportunity to leap
out and affect my first narcotics bust, I thought. I was wrong.
Instead of a grandstand sweep, Manny merely crept up from behind,
tapping the siren just enough for the dealers to scatter...and
probably soil their underwear.
AT THE NEXT stoplight, a lowrider rumbled with rap music. I saw
the occupants scramble --presumably to hide the drugs and guns
they were transporting--and anticipated a street stop that never
came. Busily sucking his teeth, Manny didn't pull over the car,
or even spare them a glance. Even the prostitutes strutting along
43rd Street in what looked like nothing more than sequins and
dental floss didn't capture his attention. No dice on a vice
arrest, and by that time, I was beginning to wonder. Was my partner
a real cop or a tour guide? Were we ever going to do anything
remotely like police work? When Manny pulled up at the block
party in progress on Prairie Avenue, I knew it was a lost cause.
Barbecue smoke from the makeshift steel drum grills beckoned
like a siren's song. Even over the blaring music, I could hear
my partner's stomach rumble. While some locals danced in the
street, others attended the tables--old doors supported by sawhorses,
now mounded with platters of food.
There was fried chicken, biscuits, salads of every description
and enough bakery goods to plunge half the city into a sugar
coma.
Manny pointed to the behemoth chef attending the grill.
"Leland makes the best damn barbecue in the city."
Stylish in do-rag and plaid shorts, the man's apron bore the
legend, "Kiss the Chef....or I'll cap yo' ass."
Hitching up his sagging pants, Manny hopped out of the squad.
"Consider this 'community relations,' kid. What real police
work is built on."
With more agility than I'd ever have guessed, he zigzagged through
the crowd of dancers and bellied up to the buffet.
Everyone knew him, and, by association, me. I was his new kid,
the green rookie. Hefty grandmothers pinched my check and called
me "Baby." The behemoth chef himself plied us with
plates of food, the local gossip, his views on world peace and
more efficient trash collection. I watched as giggling teen-aged
girls pulled Manny into the next dance. While everyone else did
the Electric Slide and the Bus Stop, Manny lumbered through his
own version of the Flatfoot Boogie. With his belly wobbling as
much as the gelatin molds, he sweated his way to a standing ovation.
AFTERWARD, he circulated. Armed with a slab of peach cobbler
and liter of soda, he moved through the crowd, a politician of
the street variety who kissed babies, chatted with kids, listened
to the older crowd. It was fascinating and frustrating. I wanted
action, some blood-pumping crime adventure that ended with bad
guys taking a long walk to a cold cell, thanks to super cop me.
Instead I watched my partner work the crowd and the food table,
humming to the music over his third helping of everything.
Which was why I didn't anticipate what happened next.
Sidling next to me, Manny burped up some coleslaw breath and
a peculiar order.
"Call for the wagon," he whispered, nodding to my radio.
"Tell 'em we need a transport for six arrests."
"Six arrests? Where?" Unless overeating was a crime,
I hadn't seen anything unusual go down.
"Just do it. In fact, tell the dispatcher we need a back-up
unit over here, too, ASAP."
It had to be a joke. One of those tricks the seasoned cops pull
on the new kids just to yank their chains.
"You're kiddin' me, right? Because -"
"DO IT!" he hissed, spraying me with pie crumbs. "Tell
'em to haul ass over here NOW."
Maybe the heat had affected his brain. Or maybe some rancid potato
salad that caused delusions, who could tell? Whatever it was,
I had to obey his order. He was the senior cop, I was just the
kid.
Within moments after I'd radioed for help, the first squad car
arrived on the scene, and then another, followed by the paddy
wagon. With six additional cops standing by, Manny was ready
for action. His Popeye arms clamped like vises around the two
young men who'd been lounging near a tree. After the wagon men
cuffed them, a quick pat-down revealed enough heroin--neatly
packaged for quick sale--to constitute an arrest of penitentiary
proportions.
The sweet-faced lady overseeing the dessert table was next. One
of the babies Manny had kissed was her daughter. He'd noticed
the fresh cigarette burns and old scars, and the peculiar way
the little girl's arm hung limp. Later, the hospital's ER staff
would pronounce her bones broken and her body's extensive scarring
indicative of horrific child abuse. For now, Mama was on her
way to jail.
The man in the lounge chair hadn't looked suspicious. Nodding
over a quart of beer, he sat with some other men watching the
dancers. According to Manny, he also directed paying customers
to the nearby van where his prostitute held court. Pimping, pandering
and prostitution--a total vice sweep for the rookie.
And that kid in the athletic shirt who was crooning along with
Marvin Gaye?
There were a string of warrants out for his arrest--armed robbery,
aggravated battery and auto theft, to name a few.
"All felony arrests, kid," Manny told me. His eyes
twinkled in a solemn face.
"Think that's enough excitement for one night?"
Excitement, and enough paperwork to keep us in the station for
a few hours of overtime.
ON THE WAY to our squad car, he trundled past the food tables
a final time. One of the beaming grandmothers handed him a foil-covered
plate. Something to keep his strength up, she told him. Police
work was tough.
"She has no idea," Manny belched. "We're in the
jaws of death every night."
As we headed back to the station, he loosened his belt. And while
he munched antacids, I thought about the flatfoot boogie, something
he'd surely teach me, now that we were partners in this dance.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo. The cartoon
is © 2001 by Jim
Hummel.
You
can contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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