Chapter 4 – Back to the office

This is the fourth chapter of a novel in progress called "Uncivil Service." The previous chapter can be found here.


Apparently, the Bronx homicide division’s headquarters were nowhere near lower Manhattan, and Rendell wasn’t offering to go out of his way. A short while later, he pulled up to the curb next to a subway station.

“Out you go. I’m done with you for now, but don’t leave town,” he said.

Shocked at the circumstances I found myself in, and frustrated with being dragged around town and bullied all day, my natural peace-making and problem-solving instincts rose to the surface:

“Wow, so cops really say ‘don’t leave town?’, or have you just been watching a lot of Kojak on cable?”

“A wise guy eh?”

I guess that answered that question.

“No just trying to win you over with my charming sense of humor, but I can see it’s not working. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

With that, I descended. A short while later, I found myself on the train, with plenty to think about on the long ride downtown.

I guy who worked for me, whom I was friendly with, but not too close, was dead. Really dead. Usually, when a City worker dies, no one notices for a while. Lack of movement and strong odors don’t mean much in a typical civil service office, but this time there no was getting around it. Pats was dead -- he didn’t just smell funny.

A no account scam artist sleaze bag and known associate of the deceased finds the body, and decides to tell me about it instead of the cops. I should be honored by his faith in me, I suppose, but confidant to the bums wasn’t exactly my first career choice.

The widow of the dearly departed can’t keep her stories straight. Either she worshipped the ground he walked on, or she couldn’t wait to bury him. Either she didn’t know a thing about her husband’s extra-curricular activities, or she knew exactly what he was up to, and wanted to make sure she got her cut.

As for the dearly departed, he was turning into a complicated guy. It seems he was stashing girlfriends in an apartment owned by a guy with an animal for a middle name. Never a good sign.

And here I was, a bureaucrat, not bloated yet, but getting there. Rip Van Civil Servant waking up in the middle of a mystery. Except, as we say in the business, it’s not my department. Mysteries are for cops. Not for guys who drift through a career or two, wind up in a job they couldn’t imagine themselves doing in a thousand years, and stay there until it’s too late to leave. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great job for a guy who thrives on paperwork and tedium, but I flunked torpor in college. I may not be an artist, or a poet, or a rock star, but I’m not this guy behind this desk. And I’m definitely not a homicide detective. With a long ride ahead of me and psychopathic fellow passengers to stare down, I tried to put thoughts like that out of my mind. Soon enough, I found myself behind the desk behind which I’m not the guy.

For a change, the phone rang.

Before I could utter an officially approved greeting, I found myself being warmly addressed for the second time that day

“Where the fuck you been? I’ve been trying to get you all day.”

I quickly filled Big Al in on the details, and for the first time in 10 years, I heard his voice drop below a bellow.

“Holy shit. Pats is dead? Shot? Why would anybody kill him?

Not having gained any insight into that question myself, there wasn’t much to say, so I said it.

“I don’t know. His wife didn’t seem upset -- more like she was pissed off. She said something about a death gamble or something, but I couldn’t really follow it.”

“You still didn’t read that pension booklet? How many times I gotta tell you. Read the fuckin’ book and pick a fuckin’ plan. Don’t you know that’s your money?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“I know, I know, but I still don’t know what I’m gonna do. I might quit in six months and putting all that money into the pension would be like throwing it away.”

“Who do you think you’re kidding. You’re a lifer like me. You gotta take care of these things.”

“Yeah, yeah, but what does that have to with Pats?”

“Listen you dope, she said death gambit. She was talking about the death benefit in Pats’ pension.”

“Yeah that must have been it. But I can never figure that stuff out.”

“Big shot executive. Got numbers comin’ out his ass, but can’t even read his own pension plan. Jesus H. Christ. Do I gotta teach you everything?”

With that big Al launched into a detailed explanation of civil service pension options. Apparently, when you sign up, you have a choice. Either you take your full pension when you retire, and if you die before your wife dies, tough luck for wifey – she gets nothing. But, if you agree to take a reduced pension, if your wife outlives you, she can keep collecting. It’s called a death gambit because you have to bet on who dies first. It also, as I understand it, involves filling out forms.

“Sounds sort of like a blueprint for spouse-a-cide, if you ask me,” I said after he finished.

“Yeah, well I love me wife and I don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe Pats’ wasn’t so sure about his wife.”

“Yeah, but if he didn’t set it up for her to get the pension, she wants him alive, or she’ll never get a dime.”

“I guess that knocks her out of suspicion, but I’m telling you, there was something really funny about the way she reacted – almost like she knew he was dead already.”

“Look at you. Sam Fuckin’ Spade. Leave it the cops, and get your ass down to the pension office.

“Yeah sure. As soon as I can. Hey, what were you calling me about anyway?”

“Asphalt you dirtbag, waddya think? What am I gonna do tomorrow? Who’s gonna place the orders?”

“Oh shit. That was the last thing on my mind. I’ll take care of it.”

After I hung up with big Al, I made the requisite phone calls and made sure that streets would flow black for another day.

I decided it was time to turn to my in-box and see what the bureaucrats on high had for me today before settling into some real work avoidance.

“Memorandum:
To: All Department Employees
From: Commissioner Davis
Subject: Objections to Materials

It has come to my attention that some employees have been displaying appropriate materials of an unobjectionable nature at their work stations such as pictures. As you know, exposure to appropriate materials constitutes a serious violation of the employee code of conduct and may result in serious consequences.”

I tacked the memo up on my bulletin board, next a collection of similar missives, and made a note to surf the web for some appropriate porn to hang on my wall. I hate to be out of compliance with policy. Then I continued to work my way through the pile. After a while, I reached the bottom and decided to move onto my next activity – reporting back to my superiors about the day’s developments. By that time, it was a few minutes after five, and I noticed that everyone else had cleared out of the office. Oh well, too late for that. Time to clock out.

Actually, sign out. A person of my exalted status didn’t actually have to punch a time clock, but I did have to write in the time I came and left, and account for any time taken off, or extra time worked by filling in a code on the card. There’s a code for everything – sick-leave with a doctor’s excuse, sick leave without a doctor’s note, sick leave for when you’re just malingering, scheduled vacation, taking a day off when your not scheduled to take off, coming to work when you’re scheduled to take a day off. The City’s got it all covered. It all goes into a computer. Nothing ever comes out of the computer, but that’s okay. We know it’s in there.

I couldn’t find “overtime spent watching a corpse and interrogating a widow,” though. I bet the cops have that one in their time code book. I wrote in the closest thing I could find and headed for the door.

Before I could get there, the phone rang. Surprised by such a late call, I was barely able to squeeze out an official greeting.

“Jon White speaking, how may I help you?”

“May I speak to Jon White please?”

“This is he.”

“Mr. White?”

“Yes?”

“Oh thank goodness I caught you. I’ve been leaving messages for you all day.”

“Funny, I checked my voice mail, and there weren’t any messages. Who is calling?”

“Oh, well I never use voice mail. I prefer to write messages down.”

“I didn’t see any notes in my inbox.

“Oh no, I have them right here.”

“That would explain why I didn’t get back to you.”

“I beg you pardon?”

“Well, you didn’t leave the messages anywhere where I could see them, so I couldn’t respond to them.”

“Oh that’s all right, I have you on the phone now.”

“Let’s try this again. Who am I speaking to?”

“There’s no reason for you to use that tone with me!”

“Tone? I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware of any tone. Can you tell me who you are and what this call is about?”

“This is Miss Davis from payroll.”

Ah, now were getting somewhere. A fellow civil servant. Time to turn on the esprit de corps.

“Yes, Miss Davis? How can I help you?”

“Please send the cards I mentioned in my messages.”

“But I didn’t get the me … Oh never mind. Miss Davis, I seem to have misplaced your messages. Could you please tell me what cards you need me to send you.

“We’re missing the timecards for two of your employees. Could you send them in please.”

“Which ones are you missing?”

“The ones which weren’t handed in last week.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Which employees are you missing cards for?”

“Honestly Mr. White, the least you could do is look at your messages. Time cards for Anthony Paternostro and Joseph Pazzolini were not turned in last week.”

“Uh, Anthony Paternostro is dead.”

“That’s all right, just submit his card. Make sure all the right codes are written in – and make sure he signs it.”

“I don’t think that would be possible in his current condition.”

“Why? Is he absent? There’s a code for that.”

“He is dead.”

“Oh. Well just put the code for that and write and have him sign it. Then send it in as soon as you can or he won’t be paid.”

“I think that’s the least of his problems. How about if I sign it for him? Also can you tell me what code to use.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t expect me to do your job for you. I’m sure you have a code book in your office.”

With that, she hung up. I decided to put off the late, questionably not-too-lamented Anthony Paternostro’s final payroll reckoning for another day, and headed out the door.

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