In those balmy South Bronx days, the Soundview Avenue area stretched from Bruckner Boulevard and the Bruckner Expressway to Westchester Avenue, all the way across to Bronx River Avenue and 174 th Street. It was an expansive territory for anyone to patrol, one made up of multiple private and/or two-and-three family dwellings, some low- to middle-income apartment complexes, and, of course, those ubiquitous public housing projects.
Much to his disappointment, Officer Jackson Emile Brown had found himself pounding the night shift, usually anytime from around the 6:00 p.m. to the 6:00 a.m. hour. Brown tended to be off duty on the weekends, but on this occasion, the police officer had been covering for a mutual friend whose hours were a tad more congenial. The switch to an 8:00 a.m. shift to about the 7:00 p.m. or 8:00 p.m. time slot suited Officer Brown's biological and temperamental needs perfectly.
After a short time, the beat became permanent. This was the Captain in charge's idea, more to keep his men sharp and on their toes as well as accustomed to the precinct's shifting priorities as the need arose. The idea, of course, was to familiarize officers with the locals so as to get everyone used to their comings and goings. That way, whatever crimes that were committed during their tours of duty would, in theory, follow specific patterns of behavior or somewhat predetermined outcomes.
Conditioning was paramount, in the Captain in charge's view. Police officers were expected to know their districts backwards and forwards, to make themselves known to the inhabitants thereof, and, just as important, to look for relationships that tended to deviate from the norm.
"Man, that's a tall order," thought Officer Brown of the daily routine. But he would not challenge the accepted wisdom. Not when he was getting used to working regular hours. Those who did go against "the grain" were ostracized by their superiors. Invariably and with extreme prejudice.
Papi was determined to rain down all ten plagues onto super Benny's head. After the incident with Sonny and the angry dog Bullet, Papi had no choice but to report the matter to the local police station. He did not know Officer Jackson Emile Brown, but the street kids surely did. Which is why they nicknamed him "Midnight." And Brown made sure he was their worst nightmare.
"You kids go home!" Officer Brown ordered, "or I'm gonna report your butts to your parents." Brown's tone as he issued his warning was of a firmness that could not be denied. Officer "Midnight" had spoken. It was the closest thing to God's wrath. That was more than sufficient for mischief makers to be on their way. Or, at worse, to take their business elsewhere.
Papi walked into the 43 rd Precinct's busy station house at 900 Fteley Avenue, near Croes and Soundview Avenues. He always had trouble pronouncing the name of the street: invariably, he called it "Fet-lee," which Sonny had to keep correcting. Papi had been there once before when his nephew, Lucas, got into an altercation at school and police were called in to separate the two combatants. Papi was not at all pleased about having to pick up his pugnacious nephew (Lucas had been held at the police station for "observation"). That was Uncle Daví's business, not his. But Uncle Daví had issues of his own, in particular tax issues. The last place Papi's brother-in-law needed to visit was a police station - not that police officers had anything to do with or care about anyone not paying their fair share of taxes. Notwithstanding Papi's arguments about misrepresentation and such, Daví refused to tempt fate by showing his face to a bunch of cops. So Papi was recruited as a surrogate father, reluctantly if not by default.
This time, though, Papi had no such qualms. In fact, he was eager to make his presence known. That snake-in-the-grass superintendent Benny Cardona was going to get his, but good. Papi was willing to teach that fellow a lesson, a very hard lesson if he could help it. You can't get away with not having a license for your pet, especially a wild, untamed beast such as Bullet that, but for Mami's presence, had nearly devoured his precious child. Clearly, exaggeration was built into Papi's DNA from birth.
"I wanna see a policeman, please," Papi loudly announced to the front desk sergeant upon his arrival at the precinct house.
The front desk sergeant looked up from his perch. "What about?" he growled back, eyeballing Papi as intensely as humanly possible.
"I wanna make a complain 'bout da super's dog that attack my son."
"Here," said the front desk sergeant, "fill out this form and state the nature and purpose of your complaint. Sign it, date it, and we'll review it."
"I don't need this for review, I need you to send some officer to 1245 Stratford Avenue, in da basement. There's a mad dog there, the super's dog. He's a killer, that dog. He leaves it alone wid no leash, and he's free to attack my son and everybody. Almost bite my son to death!"
Unimpressed by Papi's description, the front desk sergeant held up his hand in a vain attempt at silencing the wild accusations. "I get it, I get it."
"You send somebody now!" Papi demanded, stressing the urgency of the matter by pounding his fist onto the desk. Bad move.
Having witnessed this type of behavior before from others of Papi's ilk, the front desk sergeant gave him a stern look. But after a few seconds of noiseless calm - a minor miracle in itself, considering Papi's blood pressure spillover - the sergeant picked up a nearby walkie-talkie.
"Officer Brown, report in...Officer Brown, report in, please...Over."
Papi heard the crackling sound of the walkie-talkie's receiver.
"Yeah, Brown here. Over."
"Hey, Brownie, we got a live one for ya. Stratford Av off 172 nd, building 1245, that's 1-2-4-5...canine on the loose, appears to be terrorizing the neighborhood," the front desk sergeant muttered in plainly sarcastic tones. "Over."
A slight pause occurred prior to Officer Brown's response.
"Roger that...Brown out."
The front desk sergeant turned to Papi. "He'll check it out for you, sir."
"What means that, 'check it out'?" Papi asked, still expecting Officer Brown to present himself forthwith, front and center.
"He'll check it out," the bored front desk sergeant reiterated and in the same monotonous tone as before. "You can go home now. Someone should be by within the hour. Or two."
"Dat's too late," Papi argued. Suddenly and without prior notice, the bored front desk sergeant picked his huge frame up from his chair and left the reception area to go on break - a sure sign that Papi's session with him was at an end. Another desk sergeant came up behind him and took over. The new desk sergeant gestured at Papi to move on. Now!
Papi exited the not-so-busy 43 rd Precinct police station, at 900 Fteley Avenue, in an agitated state. He hurried to the apartment, grumbling imprecations under his breath, the kind he had learned in his youth from a lifetime of adversity: "¡Coño, carajo! Come mierda!"
(To be continued...)
Copyright © 2024 by Josmar F. Lopes
