"Before They Were Stars," a challenge on Thursday 100 Plus. For cops, write a story set at the police academy or during their time in uniform, before becoming detectives. For lawyers, write about their law school or articling days, or their time in traffic court before landing positions as ADAs in Major Felonies, SVU, or CI.
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"Curtis! Get your lazy ass out here!"
Rey Curtis swore under his breath as he hurried outside. Trust Gonther to call him at the exact moment he got to the front of the line for a sandwich. The asshole was probably waiting and watching.
"Yeah?" he said impatiently.
"You gonna work today, or you just gonna look pretty in blue?"
Curtis bit back several sharp retorts. Talking back to Gonther never did any good. "What do we have?"
"Vandalism at an apartment building two blocks over."
"Vandalism? What, are the perps still there?"
"Nah, they're gone. Probably happened last night. Dispatching wants us to go over and talk to the complainants."
"And that's why you called me out here?"
"Oh, sorry, do we have to wait for a particular moment for you people now? Are you only a cop when it's convenient for you?"
Curtis had one of his rather frequent strong urges to pull out his gun and shove it into Gonther's big greasy bigoted face.
Two months out of the Academy, two months paired with Sgt. Bill Gonther. Gonther was big, beefy, had 23 years experience walking the beat, and a decided attitude about rookies. Especially Rookies of Colour. Their partnership had begun with Gonther looking Curtis over disdainfully and muttering, "Oh, brother. Welcome to the new fucking NYPD," and it had gone downhill from there.
What made it really irritating was that Gonther very carefully and obviously stayed away from racial epithets that could be officially reprimanded. Gonther was all sneering subtlety - 'amigo,' 'kid,' 'Pretty Boy,' and, most infuriating, "our new PR brethren." Never mind that Curtis wasn't from Puerto Rico and brethren was the plural of brother, and the last time he'd checked, he wasn't a plural anything.
And even when Curtis snapped back at Gonther, which he did several times a day, there was no satisfaction in it. Whether Gonther was being passive-aggressive, sarcastic, or just plain rude, there was no comeback Curtis could come back with that made him feel any better at all. His only recourse was to keep fantasizing about pulling his gun or slugging Gonther's big beergut.
They entered a building, Gonther with his perpetual look of indigestion, Curtis in fuming silence. And hungry.
Second floor hallway, the dispatcher had told Gonther. There indeed was a shining example of vandalism, some racist garbage, and the scrawled paint was still shiny. But it was on top of old vandalism. Lots of it. Mets Rule! scratched out. Mets Suck! scrawled underneath it. Tina for a fun time, 555-9934. Tina 69s. Eat shit.
"This is what we had to come running to see?" Curtis said disgustedly.
"Welcome to the new world of PC policing. Whenever any of you people get hurt feelings, the rest of us gotta jump," Gonther spat into a corner of the stairwell.
Not knowing whether to be more disgusted with the graffiti, the smell of stale urine in the hall, the spitting, or just the general Gonther ambiance, Curtis grimaced, took out his notebook, and started to write down the words on the wall.
"What's it say?"
"What?"
"That. What's it say? I can't read that crap, it's just damn scribbles."
Curtis blew out his breath, knowing Gonther could read it perfectly well and just wanted Curtis to say it out loud. He finished writing, tossed his notebook at Gonther, and headed for the stairway.
"Very nice handwriting, Curtis," Gonther followed him. "They offering some fancy penmanship-thing class at the Academy now instead of real police procedures?"
"Calligraphy," Curtis muttered, "And no. Dispatcher said the complainant was on the third floor?"
Gonther didn't answer him as two dark youths came clattering down the stairs, speaking quickly and loudly in a mix of English and Spanish. Gonther stared at them with the suspicious squint he reserved for all minorities and Curtis ignored them, turning to Gonther to ask him the apartment number of the complainant. Suddenly Gonther cursed as one of the boys put his hand in his pocket. Curtis barely had time to feel annoyance at yet another charming example of Gonther's bullet-headedness when Gonther suddenly shoved him aside and almost made him lose his balance on the stairs. What the hell?! Furious, he scrambled to stay on his feet, turned to shove Gonther back, and heard a shot. Next to his ear.
"Get down!" Gonther flattened him down on the stairs and stood, his gun already out, as the youths screeched with laughter and danced past the men they'd just shot at, racing down the stairs. Curtis felt completely lost before Academy training took over and he started to get up and reach for his weapon. Gonther slapped it down. "Put that goddamn thing away!"
The two boys were now running out of the building, laughing maniacally. Curtis started to follow, only to be hauled back by Gonther.
"God damn it, Roger Ramjet, put that fucking gun away before you get somebody killed!" Gonther was holstering his gun and getting out his radio. He shouted some words that Curtis couldn't follow into the radio. Curtis tried once more to follow the youths.
"You STUPID fucking ROOKIE, sit your ass down on that top step and I swear to God if you make one more move, I'm gonna shoot you myself!" Curtis glared at him, ready to take off anyway. "THAT IS A DIRECT ORDER!!"
Curtis hesitated, and in the moment of hesitation several facts fell into place.
Gonther had known what the youths were about to do before Curtis had a clue that anything was wrong.
Gonther had pushed him down, pulled out his gun, and stood over him, putting himself at risk while he saved Curtis' own life.
Gonther had 23 years experience.
Gonther just might know what he was doing right now, better than a kid two months out of the Academy.
He sat on the top step and listened to Gonther talk to somebody over the radio, describing the two boys and the direction they'd taken off. Quick exchange of words, some of which fell into place - gang, crack, blood-in - words Curtis knew but had utterly failed to connect to the situation. A situation Gonther had picked up instinctively - two wannabe gang kids, on crack, wanting to make their bones by shooting at cops. Whether they killed them or not apparently wasn't the issue. If they had the balls to shoot, that would be enough to get them in.
And Gonther had pushed him down. Curtis stared at the bullet hole in the wall, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. That bullet was where his head had been. Those kids were too high to care whether they killed him or not, and he would have died if not for Gonther.
An image of his wife, five months pregnant with their first child, belly only just starting to swell, came to mind. He had just felt the baby kick yesterday. His son or daughter would be born in four months and he had almost been killed today. He hadn't had a clue what to do and if Gonther hadn't pushed him down he would've been killed and knowing that his job carried certain risks and thinking that he was OK with that and not being scared in a few tight spots where he handled belligerent drunks or faced down thugs meant absolutely nothing in the face of the bullet hole in the wall where his head had been and he could have been dead and buried before his son or daughter even drew breath and-
"God damn it to Christ, Curtis, if you're gonna be sick, go into one of the apartments and ask to use their bathroom. Don't puke in the fucking stairway."
Curtis abruptly became aware of just how nauseated he felt. He blanked his mind and pushed the nausea down. No way was this bigoted asshole going to see him lose it right now. He looked up at Gonther, noticing that in the dim light of the stairwell, Gonther looked a little green too.
"Gonther? You OK?"
"Twisted my fucking ankle. Wounded in the goddamn line of duty," Gonther spat derisively. "I think it's fucking broken." He sat down heavily, the step creaking under him. "Oh, Heller and Nabon grabbed our friends across the street. Now take your little notepad back," he tossed it to Curtis, "and see if you can learn anything from any of the people here."
"What, about the vandalism?"
Gonther snorted impatiently. "No, kid, the cop-shooting. Fuck the vandalism. Heller and Nabon got 'em, and for sure somebody in this pit knows who they are. Go see. Oh, and take your badge out - they'll all wanna see it before they let anybody in, after that racket."
Curtis stood up to start knocking on doors, then turned. "Gonther?"
"Yeah?"
"How'd you know Heller and Nabon could get 'em?"
"Saw them across the street when we came into the building. And if you wanna know why I didn't want you to go chasing after them, lemme spell it out: when they tell you at the Academy that you don't go after armed suspects alone, they actually mean it. And I couldn't back you up 'cause I fucked my ankle. That clear enough for you?"
"Yeah," Curtis muttered, feeling like he was back in elementary school getting a reprimand from one of the nuns.
"Oh, and wait at least an hour before you call your wife."
"What?"
"Your wife. Your life flashed before your eyes, yadda yadda, all that crap - she don't need to know that, and if you call her now you'll scare the crap outta her. Get back on the job and it'll all fall into place."
"Yeah. Uh, thanks." Curtis hesitated, then cleared his throat. "And thanks for-"
"Whatever," Gonther grunted, taking off his shoe and starting to flex his ankle. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he muttered as he tested his ankle's mobility.
Curtis stared at him for a moment, then turned to go. Get used to this, he told himself. This is what being a cop is all about. Not every day, but often enough, you are going to have to face the kind of thing that just happened and get through it and then go right back to work. This is exactly what you signed up for.
He approached the first door, forcing himself to only think of the job and not the bullet in the wall.