Carlin Romano - Philadelphia Noir

The El pulled away from Dauphin-York. Lonergan’s body tipped to the left. He wasn’t fully awake yet. Where had he nodded off? Somewhere under City Hall? Jesus, he was tired.

A hard chill cut through his coat. He should have worn a warmer shirt. Lonergan’s city-issue bluecoat was warm, but he wasn’t wearing it. The City liked their cops in uniform as they made their way to their stations-the more bluecoats, the more citizens enjoyed the illusion of a well-protected place. Well, Lonergan decided he wasn’t wearing it any longer than the required seven hours. That’s all the City deserved for its $5.50 a day.

Huntingdon now. The same stops, day after day, night and morning. He had them memorized. Sometimes it helped make the trip go faster, sometimes it didn’t. He should have picked up a pulp at the newsstand. He’d forgotten. The doors opened. A gust of frigid air whipped through the car. Rush hour was long over. The only people who rode the El this late on a Sunday were returning from a night at the cider saloons, the gambling dens, and the rowdy houses in the Tenderloin. The lack of body heat made the cars even colder.

Officer John Lonergan, out in the cold, now and forever after.

Political exile had come swiftly. The Vare boys had won in November, but by that time Lonergan had already broken with the Vares in a very messy fashion. One minute he was their prize enforcer; the next, their ultimate betrayer. At the time, Lonergan thought he’d played it smart by aligning himself with the competition. Not so smart, after all.

Ward leaders don’t have the authority to fire cops, but they can strongly recommend to your captain that a transfer is in the best interests of the Department. It took less than forty-eight hours to have him reassigned to a station so far across the city it almost qualified as Bucks County.

Lonergan used to be able to make it to work at the West Philadelphia station in seven minutes flat-or three minutes on a streetcar when he didn’t mind spending the nickel. Now his trip meant a streetcar to Market, a long haul on the Frankford El beneath Center City and out past the river wards, and then a second streetcar out to the hinterlands of Northeast Philly just in time to make midnight roll call.

Ninety minutes, one way. Three hours round trip. Three hours wasted out of twenty-four, every working day.

That was how they punished cops in this city.

Somerset now. As the El stopped Lonergan tumbled slightly to the left, and threw out a hand to support himself. After he stabilized, Lonergan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He shouldn’t be on this freezing train. Not this late on a Sunday night, breathing other people’s gin fumes. He should be home in a warm bed with Marie. He was already exhausted and his shift didn’t even begin for another hour. It would be a struggle to stay awake through the night.

And then he had the return trip. The same stations, in reverse, early-morning sun stabbing him in the eyes. Pitying looks from the buttoned-up people making their way downtown to real jobs. Another small piece of his life erased.

Lonergan wanted to quit the force. But he couldn’t do that to Marie and the boy. They were all trapped, just like he was trapped on this damned freezing El car.

Just after Allegheny, Lonergan noticed that the green-eyed girl was on the car too.

He saw her often, and wondered about her. She was pretty, but her clothes were worn and frayed. She wasn’t a flapper or a hooker. But clearly she worked for a living. Her hands were gloveless and rough. Lonergan never saw the station she used to enter the train. He hoped it wasn’t the Tenderloin. There were very few good reasons for a young girl to be out riding the El this time of night.

Lonergan pretended to glance at the advertisements above the girl’s head and saw that she glanced at him-briefly. Had she recognized him too, from previous trips? Maybe she saw the blue slacks with the yellow stripe and realized he was a cop. Maybe she felt safer making a night journey with a cop sitting nearby.

A short while later the El pulled into the Torresdale station. Lonergan steadied himself and this time anticipated the jolt. When the train stopped, he was able to keep his body perfectly still.

Lonergan stole another glance at the girl and wondered if they’d ever talk, or acknowledge each other’s presence. Or maybe they’d just keep each other company in polite silence.

He decided he’d be her guardian angel. He’d protect her, even if she never spoke a word to him. She wouldn’t have to ask him, or thank him. He’d be looking out for her, though, from now on. Lonergan would stay awake and find out where she got on the train. She’d ride the El unmolested.

At the very least, it was something for an off-duty cop to keep his mind occupied with in a rumbling car full of drunks.

The doors opened. The green-eyed girl looked to her right. Lonergan followed her gaze to the concrete platform. No one there. The door closed. The El jerked forward and began making the steep incline to the Church Street station. The green-eyed girl looked to her left and nodded.

Maybe that wasn’t a nod. Maybe it was just the jolt of the El.

Lonergan heard movement further down the car. A man in a black duster stood up from the bench. Something heavy fell at his feet, like a length of rope. Lonergan followed its length up to the man’s hand and realized what it was. A whip.

“Wallets and purses,” the man barked.

Lonergan stared at him, unbelieving.

The man handed a small sack to the bleary-eyed passenger sitting closest to him. “Put them in there. Nobody do anything or I’ll cut your face open.”

Was this man trying honestly to pull a hold-up on the Frankford El with a blacksnake whip?

Then Lonergan thought about it. Relatively few people on the train, but one or two of them might even be flush from a night in the Tenderloin. And they were all captive. The incline to Church Street was probably the longest stretch between stations-there was enough time to do what he wanted, and nobody could run away. And then at Church Street, he could run down the stairs to street level and disappear into Frankford.

“Don’t you hear me? I will cut your faces open!”

For a few long seconds nobody moved. The passengers were either too drunk or stunned to react. It probably seemed like a lousy fusel oil fever dream. The El chugged its way up the incline. The entire world seemed to tilt a few degrees.

Lonergan instinctively reached for his hip and felt the space where his holster should be. He stopped carrying his gun too-Marie had forced him to keep it locked up at the station, against regulation. She didn’t want the boy to find it. Too many stories in the newspapers about children shooting themselves with their fathers’ guns.

“Shall I show you?”

No gun meant that Lonergan should just sit tight. Let this man take what he wanted and leave.

The bandit pumped his arm. The whip was a dark blur as it traveled a quarter-length of the length of the car and ripped into a passenger’s chest. His body convulsed. The Stetson fell from the top of his head. He screamed, and then the girl sitting next to him-the green-eyed girl-slid a few inches away. The whip had almost hit her.

Everyone got busy opening wallets after that. The man who’d been whipped was holding his hands to his torn coat, rocking and moaning incoherently.

The El was close to Church now.

“You.”

The bandit was staring at Lonergan. He had hard little black points for eyes and a soft mouth.

“You too, big fella. Your roll in the bag-now.”

The next passenger, a small man in a crooked bow tie, shoved the bag forward, waiting for Lonergan to take it.

Lonergan said nothing. They’d be at the Church station soon. There were two dollars in Lonergan’s front pocket, and he’d be damned if this son of a bitch was taking it. If he tried to use the whip Lonergan would get up and knock him on his backside.