Frank Zafiro: Under a Raging Moon

“Fine,” Hart’s tone was curt. “As soon as you finish.”

“Yes, sir,” Chisolm answered, his respect a hollow echo.

Hart gathered his papers and left the room.

What a prick, Winter thought. From the look on his face, Thomas Chisolm was thinking the exact same thing.

0643 hours

Breakfast was holy writ for the day tour. Everyone knew it, including the radio dispatchers. Day shift dispatchers routinely held low-priority report calls to allow the officers their break. The oft-given justification was that once things got busy, there was a strong chance that the officer would not get a lunch later on. This was rarely true.

Eliza’s Cafe was seven blocks from the station and a favorite of the south-side day tour. Winter arrived to find Will Reiser and Mark Ridgeway already half a cup down.

“Can you believe that prick Hart?” Reiser asked Winter as he sat down.

“Been that way since he got the gold bar,” Winter responded, waving at Eliza and mouthing the word coffee.

Ridgeway, a seventeen-year veteran who was one of the fittest men on the department, sat glumly at the table. His craggy face pinched into a scowl. “Hart,” he said in a bitter voice, “is so stupid he couldn’t find his ass with both hands and a flashlight.”

Eliza brought Winter’s coffee. “What are we chuckling about today, my evil little policeman?”

For a woman who looked like everyone’s grandmother, Winter was often surprised at what came out of her mouth.

“We were discussing the virtues of our superior officers,” Reiser told her with a wink.

“Oh, you mean what a horse’s patoot Lieutenant Alan Hart has become.” Eliza returned the wink before turning to Winter. “The usual, Karl?”

Karl considered the offer, then declined. “Just coffee this morning, sweetie.”

Eliza shrugged. “Is anyone going to eat this morning?”

“Gio will,” Reiser said. “Hart volunteered him for something at roll call. You can probably start the French toast now.”

Eliza walked away, saying, “If he doesn’t show, I’m charging you for it, William Reiser the Third.”

Reiser grinned.

The three men talked easily for several minutes, though Winter and Reiser carried the conversation. Ridgeway muttered an occasional response, then returned to sipping his coffee.

Ten minutes later, Anthony Giovanni entered and slumped into his seat. He looked at each of the three men in turn, then asked, “Is that Hart a raging prick or what?”

All three men nodded sympathetically.

Giovanni continued. “Try to tell the guy why there are no volunteers and I get hammered.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Ridgeway said, stroking his short mustache.

“And who the hell else calls me ‘Tony’? No one has ever called me that. Even my own parents don’t.” He shook his head. “It’s like some kind of harassment. That’s what it is. I should call my Guild rep and file a grievance.”

“Why don’t you?” Winter asked.

Giovanni shrugged. “It is overtime.”

“Charlie-257 and a unit to back,” squawked the portable radios of all four men.

Giovanni cursed. “I just checked out here.” Then to radio, “-257, go ahead.”

“An alarm, 5103 E. Trent, KayPlus parts. No zoning.”

Giovanni copied the call and looked at all three men. “That vindictive wench.”

All three immediately understood. Thirty-two year old Giovanni was one of the youngest men on day shift. Fit, tall and dark, he made use of his physical assets when it came to dating. A self-proclaimed womanizer, Giovanni made no bones about his intentions and he made no promises. And given that, he couldn’t understand what the hell was wrong with all these women who ended up hating him so much.

Irina was the third dispatcher Giovanni had dated briefly and then stopped calling. In each case, he ended up getting hammered on calls for quite some time after the breakup.

Winter chuckled. He didn’t really approve of Giovanni’s dating habits, but he had to admit he had lived vicariously through him on occasion. Twenty-four years of marriage, even a happy marriage, was not as outwardly exciting as Giovanni’s many conquests.

“I’ll take it,” Reiser said, finishing his coffee and notifying radio. Ridgeway did the same. All four men could hear the slight tone of irritation as Irina copied their transmissions.

“You know,” Reiser said as he left, “Janice would not let this type of thing go on. She might not be a supervisor but she would still put that Irina in line right now.” He snapped his fingers.

“Too bad she went to graveyard,” Ridgeway muttered as he walked away. “Abandoned us.”

Eliza arrived and put a huge plate of French toast in front of Giovanni.

“My God, Eliza, I can’t eat all of this,” he protested.

“You’ll eat it and you’ll like it, Anthony Vittorio Giovanni,” Eliza told him, pouring him a cup of coffee and refilling Winter’s cup.

“I won’t eat all day and night after this,” Giovanni muttered and dug into the pile of buttered, syrupy bread. In between bites, he complained bitterly to Winter about Irina. He didn’t understand what her problem was. They went out, they had fun, they had some great sex and now he was done. He didn’t want to be tied down, he wasn’t looking for a relationship and he had told her that right from the beginning. Well, maybe not the very beginning, but pretty early on.

Poor Gio, thought Winter. He really doesn’t understand.

Even though he knew it was probably pointless, he tried to explain. “Gio, listen. Everyone knows your reputation. Still, a lot of women think maybe they’re the one that can change you.”

Giovanni snorted around a mouthful of food. “Fat chance. There ain’t a woman alive.”

Winter didn’t answer. He hated to admit that twenty-four years ago, there was a man who felt and acted much the same way. That man had been wrong. And the woman’s name had been Mary.

0854 hours

Chisolm was almost two hours into overtime when he burned off a copy of his report on the copier and put it in the Captain’s box. He turned the original into Sgt. Poole, since his own sergeant had already gone home. Poole accepted the report woodenly, skimmed it and scratched his initials on the bottom before Chisolm had even made it out of the office.

So much for supervisory review, Chisolm thought as he left the office. Tired and in a bad mood, he was not particularly looking forward to seeing Hart.

Hart was waiting for him in the shift commander’s office. Chisolm knocked and stood by while the lieutenant continued to write something. Chisolm doubted it was anything important and figured Hart just wanted to make him wait.

After almost a minute, Hart looked up. “Come in. Close the door.”

Chisolm obeyed.

A plastic chair faced the desk. Chisolm once heard that Hart had purposefully brought in a small chair that sat low to the ground to intimidate his visitors. Hart made no offer for Chisolm to be seated. Chisolm made no move toward the chair. A brief, silent battle of wills ensued until Hart surrendered.

“Officer Chisolm,” he said with exaggerated formality, “as you know, I am the Officer-in-charge of the FTO program. I would like your appraisal of Officer Trainee Maurice Payne.”

Chisolm set his briefcase on the chair. “Lieutenant, I have been quite specific in my reports.”

“Nonetheless, I would like a verbal to-date report,” Hart insisted.

“Fine.” Chisolm crossed his arms and gave Hart a hard look. “I think that Trainee Payne should be dismissed.”

“On what grounds?”