Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Priscilla remained silent. Rizzo turned to face her. “Civilization is just a facade. You know it. I know it. Every cop knows it. But Carol, she don’t know it. She was never on the streets. She may as well have grown up in fuckin’ Mayberry with Aunt Bea bakin’ her pies.”

“Okay, Joe,” she conceded, “I see where you’re coming from. But consider this: you only know Carol as her father, and see her only from that limited viewpoint. She may be tougher and a little more realistic than you figure. If this is something she really wants to do, you got to figure she’s thought it through. Carol’s lookin’ for your support. She needs your support. But, believe me, if she don’t get it, she’ll adjust. She wants to be a cop, she’ll be one.” Priscilla sighed. “I know what it’s like not having a parent’s support.” She paused before continuing. “And I’ve seen the other side, too. With Karen. Her parents were always there for her. No matter what. With the gay thing, with the ‘I wanna be a lawyer’ thing.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Hell, even with the big thing-the black cop girlfriend thing.” She shook her head. “You don’t have to like it, Joe. You don’t have to encourage it or pretend to be happy about it. And you can still make your case against it, clear and calm, without beatin’ on what’s probably your big old hairy Italian chest. You can discuss it with her. You know, like two adults. Then you gotta let her decide. And when she does, you smile at her, you wish her luck, and you back her up the whole way.” Priscilla’s expression turned sad, and the twinkle drained from her eyes.

“That’s what a father does, Joe,” she said. “From what I’ve been told.”

Rizzo looked at her with a sad smile.

“Yeah, that’s what I hear, too.”

They sat in silence. After a few moments, Rizzo spoke again.

“I was just gonna tell her what it’s like. Tell her about the dead kid on the highway, about the I.A.D. jam-up I got myself into, about the shit me and Mike got tangled up with, about the political flunky bosses.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair, his eye twitching nervously.

“I was gonna tell her all about it,” he repeated. “Instead, I completely lost it. Went right into a tirade, just like my grandfather used to do when he came home from the job too full of bourbon.” Rizzo shook his head. “If I know Carol, even if she changes her mind and decides she’d rather become a friggin’ nun, she’ll still go on the cops. Just to show me I can’t push her around.”

Priscilla hesitated a moment, then laughed, slapping backhandedly at Rizzo’s left arm.

“There you go, Partner,” she said. “You’re startin’ to look on the bright side of this thing already.”

Rizzo turned to her, a puzzled look in his eyes.

“Hell,” she said. “At least she didn’t say she wants to become a nun. Now that would call for a fuckin’ tirade.”

Rizzo laughed grudgingly. “Yeah,” he said, “really.”

She turned to face him fully.

“You know, Joe, it ain’t the end of the world if she goes on the job. There’s worse shit parents got to deal with.”

“Yeah. I’m aware of that,” Rizzo said. “But we’re talkin’ about my daughter, my little girl. Not some hypothetical kid somewhere. My little girl.”

Priscilla sighed. “I know, I know.”

Rizzo’s face animated, his cheeks flushing slightly. “No,” he said firmly. “You don’t know. You don’t have kids.” A pensive look came to his eyes.

“When my girls were little,” he said, “I’d tell them stories. Bedtime stories. When I was home to do it, that is. Carol was always the toughest. See, I’d make up the stories. I’d give them a choice: Ben the bear, Flipper the dolphin, or Lassie. Marie usually went for Lassie. Jessica bounced from one to the other. But Carol, she was tough. She’d pick combos-Ben and Lassie, Flipper and Ben-like that.” He raised his eyes back to Priscilla’s, pulling himself back into the car from those faraway nights. He smiled sadly. “You got any friggin’ idea how hard it is to make up a story with a goddamned fish combination? A fish and a bear? Or a collie?

“I’d have ’em all go waterskiing. On a river. Flipper pulling the other guys.” He laughed. “One time Carol asked me, ‘Where’d they get the skis, Daddy?’ ”

Amused, Priscilla asked, “I’m a little curious myself. Where did they get the skis?”

“Where else?” Rizzo asked. “Santa Claus.”

That brought a laugh from her. “Of course.”

He shook his head at the memory. “What I always wondered was, how’d they make the arrangements? To meet, I mean. What’d they do, e-mail each other?”

Priscilla opened the driver’s door and swung a long leg out of the car.

As he opened his door, Rizzo turned to her again.

“She can’t do this, Cil,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not right for her. It’ll hurt her.” Again his head shook. “She’s still my little girl.”

Priscilla pressed her lips, uncomfortable with Rizzo’s obvious pain.

“Yeah,” she said kindly. “She’ll always be your little girl, I guess.” Now her own mood turned sad, and she made a conscious effort to push it away. “I wish I had been somebody’s little girl. Damn, I wish I had. Wish I was. But, you know what? I handled it. I still handle it. Because I’m an adult now, Joe. Not a little girl. A woman.”

Priscilla climbed from the car, leaning back in to address him one more time.

“And so is Carol. What ever happens, however this plays out, she’ll handle it. Like a full-grown woman.”

Rizzo remained silent.

“Now,” Priscilla said, her voice businesslike, “let’s go do our job. Let’s go get real. ” Then she added one last thing. “And by the way, Joe. Just in case it should ever come up. A dolphin is a mammal, not a fuckin’ fish. ”

THE TWO detectives sat in high-backed upholstered chairs in the neat, sparsely decorated living room. Across from them on a plain black sofa, three civilians sat facing them.

“I have a question,” Rizzo said. “About the names.”

Twenty-nine-year-old Cornelia Hom nodded.

“I’m sure you do, Sergeant,” she said.

Rizzo continued. “I have your grandmother’s name as Hom Bik and your grandfather’s as Hom Feng. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Cornelia answered. “Hom is the surname. Chinese names are the reverse of English-surname first, given name second.”

Priscilla said, “So it’s Mr. and Mrs. Hom. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Cornelia said. “And, as I told you, they both understand English and speak some. They’re just more comfortable with me here, which is why I took off from work today.”

“Where is that, Ms. Hom?” Rizzo asked.

“Morgan Chase,” she replied. “On Broad and Wall Streets.”

“Okay,” Rizzo said, jotting it down. “Before we leave, I’d like all your numbers-home, business, cell. In case we need to contact you.”

Cornelia nodded. “Of course,” she said.

Rizzo looked at the elderly couple to Cornelia’s right. “You folks were robbed four nights ago,” he said. “I apologize for the delay in getting here. The case was originally assigned to the day tour the morning following the crime. The detectives who caught it have been in court since then, testifying on other cases, or were on regular days off. This morning, my boss reassigned the case to us. I checked the file. The first detectives assigned had done some preliminaries. This is the third mugging in the precinct in the last month. All elderly victims, always at night.”

Rizzo turned his attention back to Cornelia Hom.