Richard Price - The Whites

Leaving the scene an hour later, the rising sun accentuating the emptiness of the street, Billy heard his cell go off, Stacey Taylor again, this time a text:

i know u r screening my calls dont

I’m not even going to ask you who threw the shot, because I know you didn’t see, right?”

Milton was talking to the head-bandaged Shakespeare Avenue banger, who was sitting up on his wheel-locked gurney in the trauma room of the St. Ann’s ER.

“Where my clothes at,” the victim ducking and weaving in an effort to look past Milton, standing less than a foot away from him in the curtained-off space. “Call the damn nurse.”

Milton gave it a beat, watching dispassionately as the traumatized tissue around Carlos Hernandez’s bullet-creased temple finally began to balloon in earnest, forcing the thick gauze dressing to slowly rise like a bloody soufflé.

“You know what?” he finally said. “Don’t tell me. Take care of it yourself, or at least let him get another crack at you and finish what he started, because God’s truth?” Milton shut his notepad. “I don’t give a shit.”

“Yeah, see? You going psychological on me.”

“Really, I’m not. I mean this from the bottom of my heart, soldier boy, I don’t give a shit. Just try not to let it go down near a playground or on a basketball court, that’s all I ask.”

Milton never saw the point of the detective squad getting involved in a gang shooting so early in the game like this, knowing that the 4–6 Street Intel Unit, on a first-name basis with every young Morlock out there, had probably already hauled in their informants. By this afternoon they would be not only smart-bombing the streets looking for the shooter but scarecrowing the two beefing crews — Shakespeare Over All and Creston On Top — from any planned retaliation and/or re-retaliation. The fact of the matter was, only two hours after getting creased, Carlos here was already old news, the only thing anybody cared about right now was minimizing the inevitable mayhem to come.

“I tell you what,” Milton said, leaning in and putting a hand on Carlos’s bare knee. “Give me a name and you get one free get-out-of-jail card, on me.”

“I ain’t in jail.”

“Not today.”

“You like putting your hand there?”

“I’d rather put it around your throat.”

Milton turned to leave.

“You supposed to give me your card,” Carlos said.

“I would, but I’m running kind of low.”

Psychology, my balls.

Coming back out into the main reception area, Milton walked past the Latina nurse manning the triage desk and up the center aisle of the waiting area, the benches eerily silent despite a full house. Reaching for the wall-mounted remote button that opened the door to the street, he hesitated, abruptly overcome with a powerful sense of having forgotten something important, the sensation like waking from an intense dream and trying to remember the fading details. He patted himself down — sidearm, notepad, wallet, keys, all there — then turned and started to retrace his steps, walking back past the triage station, getting as far as the door to the trauma room before stopping in his tracks and once again reversing his steps, this time coming back at an angle so that he could take a good look at that nurse without her noticing.

Standing in the near shadows, he stared at her, then stared some more, only snapping out of it when he felt her starting to sense his presence, at which point he put his head down and took off, not looking up until he was back out on the street, the sudden sunlight adding to his hyped sense of disorientation.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, still in a daze as he typed up the Fives on Carlos Hernandez, that he belatedly registered the name tag that had been affixed to her whites, Milton reaching for a pad and writing it down in a chittery hand:

C GRAVES

Wanting to be alone with this, he slipped into the windowless bunk room. Ignoring the two detectives lying belly-up and near lifeless in opposite corners of the fetid cell, he perched himself on the edge of an unmade bed and tried to think it through.

C Graves. The C he got. The Graves, he assumed, was her husband.

“Carmen Graves,” he said, trying it on for size.

So. Married, moved on, a few kids most likely, and a career.

Moved on.

It was enough to snatch your breath.

Stepping into the house at eight in the morning, Billy came across his father and his two sons seated at the dining table eating Eggos, Billy Senior in his pajamas, the boys, as usual, in full Enduring Freedom gear from dog tags to child-sized paratrooper boots.

“See, at the college, the students, they took over two buildings, one by the blacks, you know, the Afro-Americans, the other the white radicals, the Suburbans we called them,” his father said. “I don’t think they trusted each other, or at least the blacks didn’t trust the whites. And Charley Weiss, my boss in the TPF, after two days standing around waiting for the go-ahead, he finally gets on the bullhorn, says, ‘You have fifteen minutes to vacate the building or we’re coming in after you.’”

“Dad,” Billy said.

“Now, the, the Afro-Americans, they been around the block a little more, and they know we mean what we say, so after a little trash talk from the classroom windows, they pretty much come right out. But the Suburbans? They never had any dealings with the police before, so it’s all a big adventure for them: ‘Come and get us, pigs.’”

“Pigs?” Carlos looked up from his waffle.

“Dad.”

“And whenever we had to go in someplace, Charley Weiss always put me in the first wave, ‘Send in the Big Guy,’ he used to say. Riots, blackouts, demonstrations—‘Send in the Big Guy.’”

“The Big Guy,” Declan whispered, his face shining.

“And so we went in, and we went in swinging. It was ugly, and some of us were sick about it after, but we cracked some heads that day…”

“Dad…”

“Some of those kids were crying and begging us to stop, but you get to this place in yourself, you’re so pent up with all the damn waiting, your heart’s pumping so hard…”

“Hey, guys…”

“I put one kid down who tried to snatch my radio, rammed him in the ribs with my baton like they taught us, it hurts like hell, let me tell you, he’s laying on the ground, looks up at me, says, ‘Mr. Graves, stop, please stop…’ I take a good look at this kid, I’m… You got to be kidding me. Turns out he was the son of the people who we bought our house from when we moved out to the Island. Nice couple. Nice kid, too. Last time I’d seen him was about four years earlier, he must’ve been fourteen, fifteen, but we recognized each other that day, we surely did.”

“Did you feel bad, Grandpa?” Declan again, the story a little over Carlos’s head.

“Yeah, I did. I started yelling at him, ‘What the hell did you grab my radio for?’ He says, ‘I don’t know! I don’t know!’ I get him up, march him out of the building, take him around the corner to Amsterdam Avenue, and I tell him to go over to the St. Luke’s ER, just get lost.”

“My mom works at the ER,” Carlos said brightly.

“I tried to tell myself that these kids had it coming, that they were trying to bring us down as a great nation, but yeah, I felt bad. That day I felt bad.”

Knowing the worst was over, Billy finally retreated into his coffee, marveling, as always when he heard this story, that when his father finally retired, twenty years after those bloody sit-ins, his first job as a civilian was director of student safety at the same university.