Target Panic
Finch's voice wormed its way through his foggy brain.
"Detective, are you still there?"
Fusco couldn't very well answer, could he? What with the cool nose of a gun pressed against his jaw.
His captor, a junior-grade mobster with delusions of hitting the big-time tonight, shoved Fusco across the lobby of the old office tower and toward the revolving door.
For some reason, Fusco noticed the fancy pattern in gold, black, and white tiles on the floor and the carved gold door frame with little angel faces in plaster all around the opening.
Decorating details weren't going to help him get out of this fix, but focusing on them did seem to clear his mind.
Finch's voice blared in his ear and Fusco wanted to tell him to pipe down, the goon with the gun might hear.
"Detective, our colleagues are positioned on either side of the doorway. Carter to your left, Reese on the right. They should have a chance to shoot Widmark as you exit if you can get yourself out of the line of fire."
Or they could just take him out and miss the baby gangster. Coin flips were not his favorite game.
Widmark nudged the gun against Fusco's head again. The creep, who was an inch taller and sixty pounds lighter than Fusco, wore his blond hair slicked back from a boney forehead. Moving in tight lock-step formation, the two men squeezed into a single wedge-shaped enclosure of the revolving door. They shuffled forward together as the glass cage slowly turned.
Fusco could smell Widmark's sweat and cheap hair gel, but now these rancid odors mixed with a new one: urine.
Perfect. This amateur clown pisses his pants in a low-risk caper like this and he expects to rise up in the ranks of Elias' mob? If Reese didn't finish him tonight, Elias would take him out tomorrow for sure.
A chill fist of dark air punched the two men when the door set them free at last.
Fusco inched forward, assessing the street scene. If Finch was right, Carter was positioned beyond the wooden shed of a newsstand to the left of the entrance. Reese must be crouched behind the white panel truck parked at the curb.
He wanted to give Reese the clear shot. So with little twitches of his legs and shoulders, Fusco angled himself and his captor so that the other man's back was exposed to Reese's position. He figured with his bright blond head, Widmark was an easy target even in the shadows of the deserted street.
He heard the first shot crack, but didn't feel the expected jerk from Widmark. As the second shot whizzed by, the gangster turned his head toward the van.
Fusco didn't know why Widmark wasn't on the ground, but his next move was simple. Drop straight onto his knees and then forward onto his belly, hoping another round of shots would take Widmark this time.
Fusco heard Carter's blast from behind the newsstand. Widmark whispered "Oh," and keeled over backwards. Dead before he hit the pavement from a bullet between the eyes.
When Fusco looked up, Carter was crouched over him. She pushed at his shoulder to turn him on his side and peered into his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the cuffs of Reese's black trousers flapping in the gusts of freezing air.
"Fuck."
Fusco hoped that Reese's reaction wasn't to the fact that he had escaped death by the narrowest of margins.
"Detective Fusco, are you all right?" Finch was still in his ear.
"Yeah, yeah. Cancel the hearse. I'm O.K."
"Oh, thank God! All I could hear was the sound of gunfire. I'm glad to know you're safe."
Carter pulled him to his feet and squeezed his elbow to get him started in the direction of her car.
"Let's get out of here, Lionel. You done good tonight."
Her words warmed him.
"I don't know another cop on the force who could've done what you did to save those people in there."
"Back at ya, Carter. But you did Elias a favor. Offing that little sap Widmark means an instant up-grade in the talent of his hit squad."
"Fuck." Reese's back was already turned to them as the wind caught his parting word. They watched his long black overcoat billow out around his knees as he retreated into the shadows.
+P+O+I+
It happened three more times over the next four weeks.
Reese sent two shots flying harmlessly over the head of a female sniper but she was so startled by the attack that she rolled out of her rooftop nest and fell to her death. Finch considered that case's conclusion successful, but Fusco had his doubts.
Then in a close encounter with a Bronx gangbanger, Reese again missed wide right on a clear shot. Fusco had to step in and take out the bad guy with an exhilarating kneecapping worthy of the master.
On another day, Reese stutter-stepped at the apartment door of a suspected drug runner. Fusco could hear the thug and his chattering lackeys scrambling for the fire escape. So he barreled through the cardboard door, waved his gun around a few times in the air, and the cowards vomited onto the carpet and surrendered. Reese never even crossed the threshold.
And Fusco noticed that he was fielding all of Finch's requests for backup solo.
When he asked Carter about it, she confirmed that she had not been asked to join Reese on a case since the Widmark fiasco. Finch continued to need her to gather information and check records from her desk, but she was off the street beat it seemed.
So now Fusco was the go-to-guy for the Justice League one hundred percent of the time.
Carter stated it as a flat fact rather than as a curiosity, but Fusco wondered what her demotion meant. He didn't mind the assignments, but the change was worrying.
Since telephones worked both ways, Fusco finally managed to trace back a call to a working number that reached Finch.
When Finch answered on the fourth ring, Fusco got right to the point.
"What is up with the Caped Crusader these days?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Detective." Finch sounded detached, like he was busy exploring Mars.
"Don't play games with me, Finch. It's my ass on the line every time we go out on a case together. If he's got a problem I need to know about it."
"He is indisposed, Detective Fusco. That is all I can tell you."
That wasn't good enough. After a little more badgering and a few threats, Finch agreed to meet at a neighborhood restaurant on a quiet side street in mid-town.
Even though it was only three in the afternoon, the basement level café was dark, a flight of steps down from the sleepy street. Finch was already sitting at a table in the dimmest corner of the empty room when Fusco arrived.
This wasn't a date, so they only ordered drinks, a glass of fancy red something for Finch and a Miller Lite for Fusco.
"Detective, thank you for agreeing to meet me this afternoon."
Nice try. As if the meeting was his idea.
"Yeah well, like I said, if Ace has got the sniffles then I end up with the flu. So what gives?"
"I'm not exactly sure, Detective. I know that several weeks ago our mutual friend requested I not include Detective Carter on any of his cases. When I asked him why, he left the room and didn't speak to me for two days."
The older man removed his glasses and used the white table napkin to polish the lenses to a high gloss.
"I also know that he has been spending a considerable amount of time practicing at a firing range I have access to through a private club on the Upper East Side. During the past year he would generally go to Apthorp's once a month. For a tune-up, he said."
Fusco reflected on the fact that he had not been on a firing range for at least two years. Little Miss Perfect Carter needled him about it every time she came back from her monthly sessions. Maybe he needed to get in some practice himself.
Finch continued his account, lowering his voice to a whisper, even though the lone waiter had retreated to the kitchen.
"But recently I got a call from the manager of the club who reported that John has been showing up there four and five days a week. Spending hours at a time at target practice with a variety of weapons. Then swimming laps and laps in the pool.
"What do you think it means, Detective?"
"I'm not sure. But I got an idea. You heard of the 'yips,' Finch?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"It's a sports thing. A guy, usually a real reliable player, will suddenly start muffing the easy passes. Or suddenly start walking three batters in a row inning after inning, game after game. They got no explanation for it. It just comes over them all at once. Golfers can get the yips too. When they keep missing the easy putt they call it twitches, or jitters, or staggers.
"Sounds to me like our guy has the yips."
Fusco and Finch fell silent at the possibility of their friend being afflicted with this mysterious malady.
"So what can be done about it? What do these sports figures do to get rid of the yips?" Finch's voice was wet-sounding and unsteady.
"Some of them switch equipment or warm up routines or techniques. Some change positions. You know, like a pitcher who can't throw strikes any more will switch and become an outfielder. Like that."
Finch blinked and took a long swallow of wine as Fusco continued with his list of solutions.
"Sometimes the player with the yips gets checked out by a doctor to look for a physical cause. Some teams call in shrinks if the problem goes on too long."
Finch looked completely done in when Fusco gave the final verdict.
"And sometimes the player is forced to abandon the game altogether."
Flinching, the older man searched for a glimmer of hope.
"Do those cures ever work, Detective? Does anyone ever recover from the yips?"
Fusco shrugged his shoulders and gulped half the Miller's.
"Yeah, it happens. Not always. But it does happen."
Fusco and Finch spent another thirty minutes plotting. The arrival of a few early dinner patrons disturbed the café's hushed atmosphere and the two men left just as the thin autumn sunlight faded into an early dusk.
+P+O+I+
A week went by before Fusco could put their plan into action.
Arriving on the street of row houses after nine at night made it even more difficult for Fusco to locate Apthorp's Club for Gentlemen despite Finch's detailed directions.
The front of the club was so discreet it didn't have a nameplate next to the black lacquered door, just two brass numbers. Or even a sign inside the high narrow lobby. Lots of dark Oriental rugs layered on top of one another and a scary looking crystal chandelier, but no placards or room directory to help a visitor out.
The prospect of climbing the double flight of stairs leading to the reception area was enough to make Fusco doubt the wisdom of his mission.
But he dutifully plodded up the steps until he arrived, wheezing and cursing, in front of the chest-high mahogany desk that barred access to the club itself. The expanse of black and white tiles on the floor was definitely a classy touch.
The skeleton behind the counter rattled to life and greeted him like he was a long-lost cousin.
"Oh, you must be Mr. Foster! Welcome! So kind of you to come to Apthorp's for a visit. Mr. Hawk told us to expect you at this hour. I trust you had no trouble finding our little establishment."
Fusco was quickly pinned with a visitor's access badge. "Stephen C. Foster" wasn't the worst undercover name he'd ever had, although he suspected Finch was playing some kind of joke on somebody.
Hadley the receptionist, despite his sunken eyes and yellow picket fence teeth, was as chatty as a kindergarten teacher, like he had nothing better to do in the world than lead Fusco on a fact-filled tour of the place.
Once past the reception area, the building transformed like Oz after Dorothy landed.
Dark musty old rooms gave way to a dazzling series of snow-white boxes containing state-of-the-art racket courts, weight rooms, lounges, bars, and dining rooms. Each of the soaring gray-and-tan bathrooms was bigger than Fusco's apartment. There was a grand light-filled library with lots of blonde wood tables and a firing range with rows of Plexiglas partitions that stretched for half a city block.
After twenty minutes of this posh rigamarole, Fusco, who was supposed to be touring Apthorp's with the idea of applying for membership, asked to see the pool. Hadley explained that there were two, a regulation-size Olympic facility and a smaller lap pool with just two lanes.
Reese was in the lap pool, as expected.
Fusco climbed to a glass-enclosed bar overlooking the pool to wait out his quarry. Sunk into a beefy black leather chair, he could see Reese slicing through the water, his dark head and pale shoulders bobbing in graceful rhythm. No waves, no chops, barely a ripple disturbed the surface as he slipped back and forth.
Since the tab was Finch's, Fusco ordered the most expensive Belgian ale on the menu and a platter of sweet potato fries. He regretted he had eaten a fully loaded cheeseburger earlier in the evening.
Fusco was half way through a second glass of ale when he saw Reese pull himself from the water at last. His teeth were clenched; his white face as blank as a sheet of paper. He ran a hand over his eyes, red and unfocused, to remove the drops of water and pivoted for the exit.
Fusco figured he had ten minutes so he sipped the ale slowly and then asked the patent-leather head behind the bar for directions to the locker room.
The place was a maze for extremely elegant rats.
Long corridors of tall taffy-colored wooden cabinets divided by rows of matching benches, a parade of muted overhead light fixtures bathed a milky glow over soft carpeting that was the color of sand at a very clean beach. Like everywhere in the club, the metal handles and lamp shades were polished silver.
Finding Reese wasn't that hard, given the late hour.
Maybe most of the members of Apthorp's liked to get in their exercise immediately after work and rush home to the wife and kids. Or maybe they were still in their Wall Street castles plotting their take-over of the world. In any event, the locker room was empty, the shower enclosure abandoned and silent.
Reese was already dressed when Fusco rounded the corner.
His black trousers were buckled in place and the white t-shirt was damp across the back where he hadn't dried off so carefully. His black hair lay in wet spikes over his forehead and his mouth was turned down. He was sitting in front of an open locker, staring at the black socks in his hand.
"Lionel. Or should I call you Stephen Foster?" Not a greeting so much as an accusation.
"How'd you know I was here? That fossil at the front desk tip you off?"
"Yes, Hadley told me that another friend of Mr. Hawk was expected this evening. So I figured it was you."
Reese bore into him with those cold eyes.
"Don't you have anything better to do with your free evenings, Lionel?"
The voice was low, but Fusco was no longer intimidated by this growl.
"Yeah. I do. But instead I chose to come see you, asshole."
"Fuck off."
"Sure, I'm the one who should fuck off. Says the guy who's freezing like a goddamn Eskimo every time we go out on a case."
Fusco had thought about how to approach this for several days and couldn't come up with a better angle than the most direct one.
"You mighta got me killed there a few times, for chrissake."
"Fuck off."
The voice was muffled and shaky, like Reese was still underwater. Fusco was pissed off to hear him give up like that.
"So that all you got? The man with no name goes silent, hunh? Like some kinda Clint Eastwood movie, or something, is that it?
"Well, that ain't good enough. Not anymore."
Reese raised his eyes to Fusco and squeezed out a staccato blast.
"What do you want from me, Fusco? An explanation? A confession? My bleeding heart on a spike?"
Fusco tried to sound soothing.
"How 'bout you just tell me what's going on and we see where we go from there."
"I'm not talking to you, you piece of shit." Reese spat out the words like bullets.
"You're not my priest. Or my boss. Or my father. Or my mother. You're nothing but a rotten crooked cop. I don't owe you a goddam thing!"
"Yeah. You're right. You don't owe me a fucking thing. I'm just your crooked cop partner. You can toss me back in the HR pool anytime you want."
Bitter and true. But he hated the taste of the next words on his tongue even more.
"And what about Carter? She's your partner too. You gonna throw her away too? Now that you took what you wanted from her?"
Reese lunged, leveraging his height to shove Fusco against the lockers. Long fingers clamped around the throat and tightened. Fusco could just hear the dark voice above the roar of blood in his ears.
"If you ever. Speak about her. Like that. Again. I will crush. Your windpipe."
The vise at his throat snapped shut with each phrase. Rage flattened the planes of Reese's face, his lips thinning to a white line.
Fusco could gasp, but just barely. The grip wasn't a choke hold; it was meant to control and subdue.
The punches weren't meant to kill either. But they hurt like hell.
Reese hit him in the gut with a short right hand jab, keeping him pinned with the grip on his throat.
Blow after quiet blow landed in his belly. His arms felt heavy and he couldn't lift them from his flanks. Below the dull thuds, he could hear Reese breathing deeply, leaning his weight into each punch, ribs expanding and contracting to press Fusco into the wood cabinet. The metal handle of the locker jutted into his back like a spike.
Fusco could smell the sweat, the chlorine, maybe the fear rolling off his silent adversary.
If Reese wasn't going to say anything, then he wouldn't say anything either.
How long did Ali last with this rope-a-dope strategy until Foreman wore himself out and stopped? Did it take one hundred blows? Or forty? Or just fifteen?
Fusco lost count and Reese gave up.
Spent, the two men faced each other, then lowered their heads, hands on knees, sucking air with long sobbing gasps.
Reese sat heavily on the bench, his back to Fusco.
His voice came out in a strangled rush. He sounded far away; maybe buried under something wet and cold and stiff and heavy like a tarp.
"I've been freezing, flinching, missing everything I shoot at. It started even before that fuck-up with Widmark. I remember my dad telling me about one of his hunting buddies who had something like it. Line up a big buck, easy clear shot, squeeze off the shot, miss the fucker by a mile. Again and again and again.
"'Target panic,' he called it."
Fusco could see white all around the gray pupils as Reese stared off to the far corner of the locker room.
"I've seen it with guys in combat too: nerves rattled, focus blown. It's a symptom of PTSD. But that can't be what I got. I haven't been in combat for a decade."
Fusco reached for a soft voice he hardly ever used.
"You're in combat every day, pal."
Reese nodded but didn't speak further.
After a long time Fusco broke the silence with a chuckle that startled the other man.
"You remember Chuck Knoblauch? Yankee second baseman a while back? Damned good little infielder, beautiful making the pivot on the double play, just beautiful. Then suddenly he couldn't seem to throw the ball accurate. Threw wild to first, wild to home. He even threw wild during warm-ups in the outfield before the games."
Reese's eyes lit up. He rotated on the bench and squared his shoulders to face Fusco straight on.
"You think I have the yips, Fusco?"
"Yeah, that's what I think you got."
Together they mulled that for a moment.
"What can I do about it?"
Fusco shrugged, running with the simple truth, now that he had an opening.
"I have no idea. I don't know if there's anything you can do. But I have an idea of what you shouldn't do: stop with all this fucking target practice and all the crazy swimming. This club is a soul-sucking trap with that dried up old crypt keeper out front.
"I figure, the more time you spend in this tomb thinking about what's wrong the worse off you'll be."
A faint smile crossed Reese's pale face. He scrubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his hair.
Fusco barreled ahead, pushing his advantage.
"You know, some wise guy once asked Babe Ruth what he thought about when he came up to the plate. Was he thinking about hitting a home run? Lining up his swing technique? Planning how he was going to show-boat around the bases after he pasted one? Tasting that juicy steak he was going to have for dinner? Undressing that broad with the great tits in the front row behind home plate?"
He paused for effect.
Reese bit. "O.K. So what did the Bambino say? What was he thinking about?"
Fusco grinned.
"The Babe said, 'Hell, if I tried to think, I couldn't hit the damn ball!'"
Reese grunted and a smile flickered around his mouth.
"So that's your advice?"
"Yep, that's my advice. No charge."
"Stop thinking?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Fusco ran a hand gingerly over the raw skin at his throat.
"And my other advice is trust your partners. Don't cut us out; don't leave us stewing in the dark. You need something, you ask. You got a beef, you unload. We don't break easy; we can handle it."
He stopped again to see if this was too much all at once.
It wasn't. Reese was listening.
"And my last piece of advice is: when you got the clear shot, just take it."
Reese shook his head.
"Fusco, I'm sorry. For all of it."
He spread his fingers wide and then let the hands drop onto his knees. Fusco thought he looked sad but relieved.
"Hey, already forgotten, pal. Already forgotten."
Words done for the night, Fusco watched the younger man finish dressing.
Together they crossed from the glossy white interior of the club to its dark and fussy entry hall. They nodded at the ancient Hadley who collected Fusco's bogus name tag and filed it carefully. Maybe the mummy was hoping for a return visit.
Fusco wanted to say, No chance, King Tut. But he respected Finch's connection to this pile and kept quiet.
They left the row house together and walked slowly to the corner, slipping from bright to dark to bright as they stepped through the pools of lamp light playing on the sidewalk.
They stood silently for several minutes at the corner, shoulder to shoulder, hands thrust in pockets. The stiff wind pommelling their backs promised a cold taste of winter for the morning.
There were no quick answers ahead, no easy path.
They would work on it together. A week, a month, a season, as long as necessary. It didn't matter.
The thing was to take it on together.