Chapter 2 -- Scene of the Crime

This is the second chapter of a novel in progress called "Uncivil Service." Chapter 1 can be found here

Arthur Avenue is the main drag of what used to be the Bronx's Little Italy. It still has the remnants of Italian-American quaintness – a kind of Potemkin village of restaurants, bakeries, and pork stores -- but, like all the other Little Italies around New York, the Italians are gone. The generations that came of age in the '50's, '60's and 70's shed more and more of their forebears' immigrant ways, and moved out to the 'burbs. All that's left are widowed grandmothers in rent-controlled apartments, surrounded by a wave of Albanians who have taken over the restaurants and changed their names from Gonxhe to Guido. When the grown kids come back to visit grandma, they complain about how the neighborhood has been taken over by foreigners, but to the news crews doing their annual “welcome home to Arthur Avenue” stories, Albanians are close enough.

As I exited the subway and turned onto Arthur Avenue, I could see a half dozen police cars parked up the street. As I walked toward the address Crazy Joe had given me, I could see the two EMT's standing on the sidewalk, next to an empty gurney. The smaller of the two looked like he weighed about 350 pounds, and was smoking a cigarette. The other was staring intently at a half-dressed, gleamingly pierced teenager sitting on the stoop of the neighboring building. I couldn't tell whether his heavy breathing was caused by the girl, or his girth, but in either case, he clearly was in no condition to speak. I approached the smoker, introduced myself, and asked what was going on. Given the level of lifesaving activity going on around me, I needn't have bothered.

"Dead guy. Fourth floor. No fuckin' elevator. We ain't bringin' him down."

Who says New Yorkers aren't helpful?

I headed toward the entrance to the building, where I was stopped by one of New York's finest. After we exchanged versions of courtesy professionalism and respect, he motioned me toward a plain clothes officer standing inside the vestibule.

"Excuse me," I offered. "I understand there's a body upstairs. I think I may be able to identify it."

"Yeah? Who the hell are you?"

Good thing they have that slogan on the side of the cop cars.

I introduced myself and explained that I was the one who called 911.

The CPR front gave way slightly to more commonplace gruffness.

"I'm Detective Mike Rendell. Come with me."

We ducked under the yellow tape sealing the building's inner door and headed up the stairs. In addition to being a role model for all police recruits looking to improve their relations with the community, it turns out Detective Rendell was also a paragon of physical conditioning. The three flights took a while.

When we reached our destination, Rendell motioned me through another blue phalanx into a dark, sparsely furnished railroad flat. We walked through the kitchen, straight into the next room, where there was a bed, a folding chair, a lamp, and a dead body. At least I thought it was dead. I've never seen an actual in situ corpse before, but the large pool of red liquid, classically rendered chalk outline surrounding a motionless form, and hovering lab guys probably weren’t part of a school production of "Columbo."

Rendell grabbed my arm and steered me closer.

"Okay, take a close look at this guy's face. You recognize him?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, took a deep breath, and answered.

"Yeah. His name is Tony Paternostro. He works for me."

"What do you mean 'works for you'? Do a lot of guys that work for you get shot in the chest?"

"I work for the City, and believe it or not, this is the first time. Tony took care of ordering asphalt for street repair crews."

"Asphalt, huh? Lotta wiseguys in that business, aren't there? Your boy Tony -- he got any interesting friends? Anybody you can think of might do something like this?"

"C'mon, he's a city worker. You know us. We don't work hard enough to make enemies."

"Looks like his work ethic might have picked up a bit."

"I don't know what to tell you. We fill potholes. There are arguments, even a few fistfights, like in any blue collar job, but Tony hasn't been in the street in years. He was kind of a glorified clerk. Took care of getting trucks filled with asphalt. Talked on the phone pretty much all day."

"What about this guy that called you about this?"

"Crazy Joe? He worked for Tony, and they were kind of running buddies."

"So what's his real name? Why's he called 'Crazy Joe'?"

"Joe Pazzolini. He's missing a few marbles. Always gets into trouble on the job -- says obnoxious things to people, fucks things up, basically, a guy you have to stick in a corner."

"So how come he still works for you guys?"

"So far as I know, he's never done anything criminal enough to get fired. He's gotten some reprimands, and lost some days of pay, but he always manages to come out of hearings with a job. "

"I'm gonna want to talk to him. You know where to find him?"

"Actually, I'm not sure. He just got suspended from work, so he's not on the job. I don't know where he lives, but the personnel people at work have his address. I can try to track it down for you."

"You should do that. What else can you tell me about the dearly departed here? Married? Family? Friends?"

"Not too much. He's married. Lives … I mean lived in Yonkers. Crazy Joe told me on the phone that he kept this place on the side for meeting girlfriends. Tony and I never discussed love lives, though, so I can't confirm any of that."

With that, Rendell said to me "don't go anywhere. We're not done." Then he stepped out of the apartment.

He returned few minutes later, and said to me "We're going to see the wife. I want you to come with me and break the news."

"Listen," I said. "I really need to tell some people back at work about this, first."

"All right, but make it quick."

With that, I whipped out my government issue, economy sized, low-bid cell phone and called my boss.

“First Assistant Deputy Assistant Commissioner Maudlin’s office.”

It was, one of my boss’s secretaries, but I couldn’t say which. Arthur Maudlin had three of them, Alice, Carboña, and Shitonya. Despite being from different parts of the City and completely different backgrounds they had nearly identical voices that produced an effect somewhere between chalk on a blackboard an icepick in the forehead.

In addition to this gift (who could ask for anything more in a woman answering the phone), each was similarly endowed in secretarial and administrative skills. They couldn’t type, use a computer or file, had no idea how to transfer a call, and couldn’t even make a cup of coffee. Not surprisingly, they were all three rumored to be sleeping with Maudlin. They never identified themselves when picking up the phone, expecting you to guess. Like concubines in a pillow book, they hated each other. If you guessed wrong, woe betide you.

Unable to bring myself to say two of the names out loud in the company of a stranger, I dove in and hoped for the best.

“Uh, hi Alice, Jon White. Is the boss in?”

I got it right on the first try. Maybe my luck was starting to turn after the morning’s fireworks.

“Yeah, Jon, he is. He’s been lookin’ fa you, awl mawnin, too,” she scraped.

“All right, put me through, then.”

Using her own version of the phone system, she dropped the receiver on the desktop, shrieked, “Artha! Pick up White on loin faw!”

After a few more rattles, and machine-tool-like vocalizations, the great man himself picked up the phone.

“Jon, where have you been all morning? I expected those reports to be on my desk at 11. I have a meeting with you know who this afternoon, and I can’t go in unprepared”

As usual, since he had no idea who or what he was talking about, neither did I. I fell back on my usual ploy. Knowing he never read email himself (relying on his crack secretarial staff to print it out for him and leave it in the inbox he never checked)

“Arthur, didn’t you read my email? I had to go out in the field this morning. But don’t worry, if you look on the computer calendar, you’ll see that the meeting has been postponed until next month. I’ll have all the data for you in plenty of time for that.”

“Oh I see. I must’ve missed that one, I read so many, I sometimes lose track. Thanks for staying on top of it.”

Worked like a charm.

“By the way, what were you doing out in the field?”

Not knowing of anyway to finesse this, I decided to go straight for the truth.

“Arthur, I don’t know if you heard yet, but Tony Pats died this morning.”

“Who?”

“Tony Paternostro”

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with that name. Was he a relative of yours?”

“Uh, no, he was one of our employees – in charge of ordering asphalt for the repair crews.”

Continuing with the hands-on managerial touch, he asked, “Why would one of our employees do that”

“Do you mean why would he be ordering asphalt, or why would he die?”

“Both, I suppose.”

I had always tried to set aside the rumors that Arthur Maudlin only held onto his job because his daughter babysat for the Mayor’s children, but it seemed that my inner cynic could no longer be ignored.

“Arthur, I know you’re very busy, and I can understand how you might not be on top of some of these details. Our division handles the asphalt contracts. I do the administrative end of things. Tony handles … handled the field operation for me.

“Of course, of course. I knew that. But what were you doing in the field? I needed you for that meeting.”

“Well, because he was dead, Tony was unable to handle things in the field this morning, so I stepped in.”

“I keep telling you, you really shouldn’t micromanage like that. You have to let your employees do their jobs. If this keeps up, it’ll affect your performance evaluation.”

“But Arthur, Tony wasn’t at work, and his job had to be covered.”

“Well, he should have been at work. It’s your responsibility to hold him accountable for his attendance.”

“Arthur, I do try to keep a tight rein on absences, but as you may be aware, death is considered a legitimate excuse.”

“It is? I suppose that makes sense. All right then so come back to the office now, I need those reports.”

I tried my best to fill him on the rest of the details, including my being dragooned into a police investigation. Ordinarily, the only time Arthur paid any attention to the non-estrogen-producing aspects of his surroundings was when his boss scrutinized him. I figured a murder in his branch of the organization chart might turn into an occasion for that, and might have expected Arthur to focus. But he was as disengaged as ever, his mind probably absorbed in the intricacies of scheduling three nooners in one lunch break. I told him I’d be in after lunch.

“All right then, I have meetings all afternoon outside the office. I’ll see you tomorrow, and we’ll go over the reports then.”

“Sure thing boss, see you first thing in the morning,” knowing full well neither of us would be in the office any time soon.

As I heaved the two halves of my phone shut, Rendell grabbed me by the elbow and steered me toward an unmarked police car.

“Taxpayer dollars at work, eh White? Let’s go pay a visit to Mrs Dearly Departed. Now get me that address and get in the car.”

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