Chapter 2. On the Job

Full disclosure: I'm Canadian and have never been to New York City although it's on my bucket list. That being said I think Sebastian Stan and Anthony Mackie really need to do a New York cop buddy flick. So I decided to try and write one. I don't know police procedures except for what I can find on the internet. This story is already taking me in different directions than what I originally envisioned so we'll see where the creative process leads me. Please let me know if you enjoy what you're reading.

Bucky

The itching in my armpit was driving me crazy. Sitting up from my bedroll in the doorway I scratched it fiercely then swore when I saw in the overhead glow of the streetlight the tell-tale signs of blood adding to the grime under my fingernails.

"Good, you're awake," said Sam's voice in my comms earpiece. "I wondered if you were sleeping or passed out from the bottle you found."

"I poured that shit out," I muttered. "It was piss, if you must know. I kept the bottle for the deposit."

I scowled at Sam's chuckle but his voice in my ear was comforting. Living on the streets for the past two months wasn't easy especially when you chose the method actor's way to undercover work. Not only did I live 24/7 as a homeless person I also dressed as one, wearing the same clothes every day, including socks and underwear although a very nice lady gave me new ones a few weeks ago. To prepare for this role of a lifetime I stopped shaving and cutting my hair four months ago, when Sam, Steve and I cooked up this operation after a few too many beers at Paddy's bar. I never did have a problem growing my hair or beard out having been shaving since I was fourteen. Funny how that seemed to make me the one to always be the undercover operative.

"Heads up, Buck," said Sam, interrupting my thoughts. "Dark sedan entering down the block from your twenty. Tinted windows."

I laid back down and watched it approach through the wheels of my shopping cart, which held all the worldly possessions of Mickey Blue Eyes. It wasn't my choice of street name but was given to me by more than one homeless person who had for some reason seen the movie. Sometimes you have to go with the flow.

"He's slowing up in front of Dom's," I reported. "Front license plate RDA 4758. Three guys coming out with bats. What's the play?"

"Stand by," said Sam, from his command truck set up several blocks away. It seemed forever before he gave me an answer. "Let it play out. He should have a couple of goons on site. They can defend themselves. Make sure you're invisible. Still running the plate."

"Roger," I answered.

Dom Perignon Leone was a mid-level drug dealer with ambitions. He gave himself the middle nickname claiming to be heading towards a champagne lifestyle. As if he had the brains for that. In reality he was a high school dropout who sold cocaine to college kids at Brooklyn College. He kept his mouth shut and his nose clean by not sampling the merchandise which drew him higher into the hierarchy of the Gallo crime family. Drug squad figured he was as high in that family as he could be and could only go higher if he betrayed them to another family. Part of my job was to figure out if Dom had taken that step, especially since he began selling tainted fentanyl, which wasn't normal business for the Gallo family.

"Buck?" said Sam's voice. "You're sure about the license plate?"

I looked again, making sure not to draw the attention of the driver.

"Yeah, why?"

"Dom's been a naughty boy," replied my partner. "That plate's registered to a Gallo associate. I think he's about to be disciplined."

Sure enough I could hear yelling and the sounds of breaking glass coming from inside the small warehouse where Dom ran his business. A couple of gunshots rang out and I noticed the other homeless people sitting up, so I did the same. We might not "see" anything when the uniforms came to take statements, but we could always admit to hearing gunfire. It wouldn't put us in danger to say that much.

The three men with bats came out, two of them dragging Dom between them. After shoving him in the backseat the car took off, presumably to permanently deal with the champagne drug dealer. I relayed the action to Sam and laid back down, awaiting the arrival of the uniforms. Like all the other homeless people it was tiring to get up and try to find a new spot for the night so we just stayed put until we could go back to sleep in about an hour.

Within ten minutes the place was crawling with cops, police vehicles, forensic crew ... you name it. The uniformed police officers were going homeless person to homeless person asking for witnesses. They got to me, and I looked up into the dark eyes of Officer Joaquin Torres, a young uniformed officer who was part of our investigation team. His eyes twinkled and I just knew the little shit was going to play this for all it was worth.

"Well, well, if it isn't Mickey Blue Eyes," he smirked. "Up you get. I'm sure we've got a bottle of whiskey with your name on it."

"I didn't see anything, Officer," I mumbled, "just minding my own business."

"Yeah, you always say that, you old lush." He reached for my jacket, and I batted his hand away. Another cop, who wasn't part of the team hit me in the jaw, ringing my bell. Spitting out some blood onto the sidewalk I glared at him, but Torres stepped in front of me.

"Jesus, Rollins, no need to use violence. Mickey's not a problem, not if he gets the right motivation."

"Fuckin' leeches," said Rollins. "Should just ship them all off to prison, make them work for a living."

"Sure, save it for when you run for office," replied Torres pulling me up and hustling me over to an alley. "Sorry about that, Sarge. Guy's new to the squad and is a total asshole."

Sam was waiting in the alley, shaking his head. "We'll see if we can get him reassigned to traffic division on game days. Or better yet running the lost kids' office at Coney Island. Let him listen to toddlers screaming for their mommies. Descriptions?"

I gave him the vehicle description, descriptions of the three men with bats and the driver. He told me the two heavies inside were shot but still alive. I raised my eyebrows over that.

"A warning? That doesn't sound like Gallo. You think there's another player?"

"If there is we may be able to identify the source," he said. "Plates are Gallo related but for a wife's car, a Gina Testa."

"Mario's wife?" That was another can of worms entirely. "Weren't they on the outs?"

"Yep," replied Sam. "Going to run some pics of her, see if she's been hitting the sheets with someone else."

"Keep me posted," I said. "With any luck I can be off the streets in time for Rose's birthday."

"Let's see who Gina's been with before you think of that," said Sam. "You know she'll understand if you're not there."

"I know," I replied. "I miss my baby, that's all."

Torres smirked and part of me wanted to shove my fist in his face. Sam noticed and leaned closer.

"I know you're reaching your limit," he said in a low voice. "Whether we get that information or not it's almost time to pull you out. Even Steve thinks so. We can always find another undercover operative. Even Torres here, although he only shaves once a week whether he needs it or not."

Torres took the insult well, smirking again. "You're not wrong," he said. "Sorry Sarge. We miss you in the squad room, if it's any consolation."

"Yeah, I miss you too, kid," I replied then looked back at Sam. "Do me a favour ... if you do pull me out get me some anti-lice soap and shampoo? I've been drawing blood when I scratch myself. The barber won't touch me unless I get rid of the lice first."

Both men backed away from me. It sounded gross and, in many ways, it was but it was a fact of life for many homeless people. Satisfied with my report Sam nodded at Torres to escort me back to my spot. I was pissed off as someone had overturned my cart, scattering my possessions. That Rollins asshole just grinned the entire time I picked my stuff up. Torres wanted to help but it would blow my cover if he did. It was obvious that what Rollins did pissed him off as well and I knew if Torres ever did get out there undercover, he would give it the attention it deserved. He was a pretty good kid, all things considered. Once I packed up everything, I looked Torres in the eye and began pushing my cart away from the scene of the crime. Ten minutes later I was a couple of blocks over, found a spot beside the chain link fence of a parking lot and set up my bed for the night.

Before I laid down, I took stock of who else was sleeping in the same area. You might think all homeless people dressed in whatever they could scrounge, and it was true to a degree, but people always had preferences, and in many ways it was their identification. Homeless women tended to wear as many layers as they could, not just for warmth but to make it difficult to be assaulted while they slept. You could tell if a woman walking on the street was homeless because she would have a parka on over several sweaters or hoodies, pants, tights, shorts ... anything to give them another layer of physical protection. I was acquainted with several women down on their luck, and always made it known that I had their back, no strings attached. There were several attempted assaults that I had intervened in, making sure the guy or guys received extra special attention for their efforts to rob a woman of her sense of security. For homeless guys some clothing choices reflected their previous professions. Ex-military often had some sort of camouflage wear ... it was a comfort thing, I think. Former executives would wear a suit until it finally fell off of them, only switching to something more basic when they had no choice.

As I scanned over the other sleepers I noticed Big Bobby at the other end of the parking lot. Big Bobby wasn't homeless or dangerous because he wanted to be. From what I could gather he was mentally ill, heard voices telling him to hurt people or worse. At the height of his mania he could be freakishly strong and it would take several of us, mostly ex-military to wrestle him down and immobilize him until he was more lucid. We didn't hurt him as many of the homeless had issues that wrecked them in one way or another but Bobby was a danger because of his size and strength. Once he settled down he would cry like a baby, upset that he had lost it again. He had been committed at one point in his life but either he ran out of medical coverage or he just became too hard to handle and was released on his own recognizance. Ever since then he lived on the streets, in an endless cycle of manic highs and depressing lows. I hoped he stayed sleeping tonight.

Once I had my bearings, I burrowed into my sleeping bag and tried to sleep, thankful that at least there weren't rocket attacks or IEDs littering the sidewalk I was on. Yeah, I was former military; joined at 18, fought three years in Afghanistan then came back and got into the NYPD police academy. I'd been a cop ever since. It was a good job and appealed to my sense of right and wrong, plus it meant I could take care of my Rose. I met Sam in the military, and he saw the potential in being a cop as well, joining me in the academy. My best friend from childhood, Steve Rogers, was already in the force, and became our first sergeant when we graduated. Now he was our lieutenant, and we were both sergeants. As I began to drift off to sleep on that patch of dirt beside the chain link fence, I just hoped there wasn't anything else I needed to handle.

"Sam?" I said, before sleep overtook me. "I'm going to sleep. I'm in the parking lot of the funeral home two blocks from where I was."

"Roger that," he said. "I'll wake you up if I see anything happening. Goodnight, buddy."

A couple of hours later I heard a car stop nearby and looked up from my spot. An interior light came on and I saw a woman sitting in the car, looking worriedly at her phone, the glow lighting up her face. I didn't blame her for being worried as it wasn't a good part of town even in daylight. At night it was hazardous. She looked upset and I sat up, figuring maybe she had car trouble or something as she sure didn't look like the criminal type.

"Sam?" I said, pressing my earpiece to make sure it was still in place. "Check out a late model Chrysler 300, rental plates L-15769, Airport Rentals. It just stopped near me. I think they have car trouble."

"Roger that," he said then a few minutes later he gave me information. "Rented out to a Jane Peterson. Nothing coming up on the boards about her. You're probably right about the reason. You going to do the Good Samaritan thing?"

"You know me too well," I replied, then approached her passenger side window.

I knocked on the car window which startled the woman into a scream. Drama queen or what, even though she was quite nice looking. Moving to the driver's side window I motioned for her to roll it down.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I'm not."

That was frustrating but I couldn't blame her as she obviously was in the wrong part of of town and didn't know I wouldn't hurt her. Quickly I raised my hand to my shirt and flipped the top of it backwards so she could see my police badge. Trying to use my raised eyebrows to communicate that I could be trusted, I put the badge back into its place and motioned once again for her to lower the window. She did it but just a couple of inches.

"Lady, you're in the wrong part of town," I said in a low voice, trying not to draw attention from the others asleep along the sidewalks.

"Tell me something I don't know Sherlock," she replied flippantly. "I entered the wrong address in the GPS, and I have a flat tire."

Unbelievable. "There's no way the rental company will send a truck into this neighbourhood to change out the tire. Unlock your doors so I can get into the trunk and do it for you. As soon as it's open you can relock the doors and stay in the car. I can get it done in a few minutes."

She looked at me as if I were crazy. "Why are you dressed like that?" she asked.

"I'm undercover," I stated, getting more frustrated by the second. "Now before I blow my cover would you please let me help you?"

With a huff she unlocked the doors, and I went to the back, popping the trunk open. As soon as it came up, she relocked the doors and sat there as I jacked up the right rear end. Like I told her, in a few minutes I had the tire off, and the spare loaded, ready to tighten the lug nuts. Then I suddenly was aware of one of my sleeping mates approaching. Big Bobby was not someone I wanted to deal with on my own, although with the tire iron I could probably fend him off if he became violent.

"What the fuck, Mick?" he slurred. "What does the fucking bitch want?"

"I'm just changing her tire, Bobby," I replied. "Just being a Good Samaritan."

"She paying you?"

"No, man," I said as I finished tightening the lug nuts and dropped everything in the trunk, closing the trunk lid.

Bobby didn't like my answer and pulled his knife out, running the blade over the tire I had just changed. I returned back to her window while closely watching Bobby.

"Big Bobby wants 20 to not put a knife into another one of your tires," I said. "Pay him. He's mean enough to do it." She shook her head in disbelief but took 20 out of her purse and opened the window enough to slide it out. I looked at the single bill. "Where's mine? He's not going to believe I did this out the goodness of my heart."

"Are you for fucking real?" she asked in disbelief.

"Are you?" I countered. "You're in one of the most dangerous areas of New York after midnight. I just changed your tire and talked ..." Bobby was over on my side now, running that knife over the tire tread. "Bobby, she's going to pay. Put the knife away." He looked at me menacingly and I pleaded with her. "Just pay already."

Angrily she pulled another 20 bill out and slid it through the crack in the window. I called to Bobby to give him his cut then waved her on to get the hell out of there. As she pulled away, I watched her drive off. I don't think she was truly aware how much danger she was in. Bobby took the 20 I offered him and smiled. At that moment I didn't know if it was a smile of happiness or of the craziness to come.

"Thanks, Mick," he said, patting my arm. "I think I'll buy a good meal tomorrow."

"Sure Bobby," I replied. "We good?"

He nodded and shuffled back to his sleeping rolls. I stood out on the street for a moment, looking in the direction that Jane Peterson had driven off in, wondering what her story was. Maybe I would meet her again because the New York romantic sap in me didn't think a city of 8.5 million was too big to reconnect with a woman you helped in the middle of the night. But then what did I know. My one and only marriage ended because I took off to Afghanistan when Connie needed me most. I didn't have the best track record as a husband, or as a boyfriend since then.

When morning came, I was awakened by the sight of the command truck in the parking lot. Sam was sitting in the open back door with coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches for me. This was different and I got up, seeing I was the only sleeper left in the area. The others must have taken off when Sam drove into the parking lot.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Case solved," he replied. "Gina Testa was arrested with her boyfriend, Fab Fontaine. They ran a red light, were stopped and it was learned that Fab didn't pay a speeding ticket. Search of the vehicle brought up a pound of the tainted fentanyl. Drug squad got a search warrant for the Fontaine warehouse in Queens, the place was full of it. Found Dom Leone there as well. He'll live, although he won't be so pretty anymore. Apparently, he wasn't supposed to be selling the fentanyl in this neighbourhood. Fontaines didn't want the Gallo family to know they were selling on their turf. But we got the fentanyl off the street and Steve said to pull the plug. You're in out of the cold."

"It's about god-damned fucking time," I said, grabbing the breakfast sandwich and demolishing it. "Did you get the soap and shampoo?"

"About that," said Sam. "How bad is it? I mean you reek already. How infested are you?" I leaned toward him, and he looked at my scalp then made a face and pulled back. "You're crawling with them. I have a hazmat suit for you to wear and they're going to take you somewhere to be treated. I thought they should just have a hazmat shower set up in the parking lot and sell tickets to watch."

"You're a funny guy," I replied, as I finished the second breakfast sandwich, then guzzled the coffee. "Will you at least bring me some sweats from my locker, so I have something to change into?"

Sam gestured to a bag inside the truck. "I did better, brought you your shaving kit and everything. Steve actually made an appointment for you with a special clinic that will treat the lice. They'll cut your hair at the same time, make you pretty again."

"Okay, am I going in the truck with you?" I asked, as he handed me the hazmat suit.

A laugh erupted from Sam's throat. "Not exactly," he said. "Here's your ride now."

There was a brief siren sound and a paddy wagon, the old fashioned one they used in parades, pulled up. One of the other sergeants, Clint Barton, was driving and he stepped out of the driver's side.

"I heard a grumpy homeless guy needed a ride to the lice clinic," he said, trying not to grin. "Man, you really go all in, Buck. You get results though. Oh, Rollins has been permanently reassigned to traffic duty. What an asshole."

"Thanks, Clint," I said. "Glad this one is over. I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Yeah, might be time to let the young guys have all the fun," said Clint. "Still you'll get a bunch of personal leave out of it. Not to mention a likely commendation. That makes how many?"

I shrugged as I didn't do it for the commendations. "Six," said Sam, answering for me. "Well, I better get this truck back to the motor pool. Clint, I turn responsibility for this grumpy homeless guy over to you. I'm going home to sleep and to tell Natasha that the party is on for this Saturday."

Clint took the bag that Sam had for me, made sure that I was completely covered up then opened the back of the paddy wagon. I laughed, seeing it covered in plastic sheeting.

"You sure you're not Dexter?" I asked as I stepped in.

"Just get in the damned wagon," he smirked, closing the doors behind me. He opened the window between the cab and the back then started it up. "Music preference? I'll take anything as long as it's country."

"Fuck you," I said. "But I don't mind Steve Earle."

"I can do that," he replied and plugged in his phone.

As Copperhead Road began playing, I sat on the bench and thought about getting used to sleeping in a bed again, about seeing Rose, and having a cold beer. God, did I crave one. I also really wanted to brush my teeth and clean every orifice on my body. I did reek and it would probably be several days of hot showers before I finally washed the stink of the street out of my sinuses and my brain. It would be almost dinner time before Clint dropped me off at my home. We shook hands and he drove the old paddy wagon back to the motor pool, minus the plastic sheeting. As I entered the door to my home, I noted all my mail was piled neatly on the kitchen counter. The plants, inside and outside, all looked healthy so either Sam or Natasha had kept them watered. My cell phone was charging, and I grabbed it, sitting down on the couch. Right away I pressed Rose's phone number. She answered on the first ring.

"Hi baby," I said. "I'm done my undercover assignment. I missed you so much. Why don't you come over and I'll cook your favourite?"

My heart filled as she said she would be right over. All was right. My baby, my Rose, was coming over.