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Authors: Stephen Solomita
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(call it a shack if you’re the type who insists on a spade being a spade) on the very edge of the Adirondack Park, six million acres of deep dark forest that held more light for me than home, family, church, and school put together.
I got my first .22 when I was eight years old. One of the many “uncles” who came to occupy Mom’s bed (only to leave in disgust after a few months or weeks or days or hours) gave me a battered, single-shot, breech-loading Stevens and taught me to plink wine bottles mounted on rocks behind the house. I proved to be an attentive student—good enough, after a few weeks, to be handed a couple of rounds and instructed to return with “meat for the table.”
Bottles don’t move; animals do. It was that simple, and after a few hours I returned with no bullets and no meat. Uncle John, by way of demonstrating the fact that ammo costs money, beat me for an hour. Slapping me; chasing me; slapping me; chasing me. Until I couldn’t run anymore; until the only thing I could do was take it. Thinking about it now, the part I remember best has nothing to do with pain or fear. No, my clearest memory of that day is the sound of dear old Mom snoring on the couch.
The “whippin”’ was not without its positive aspects. I don’t recall ever coming back empty-handed again. But that may be due more to the fear of Uncle John’s taking back his .22 than fear of a beating. I’d been beaten many times before, whereas the rifle was entirely new. As was the feeling of power that went with it.
“You still here?”
I looked up to find Pooch staring at me through hangdog eyes. He looked like a scolded puppy.
“Hey, Pooch, I’m sorry about what I said before. It was stupid and I was out of line. There wasn’t anything else you could do, considering that you caught a piece of shit. If one of those men you put under surveillance had turned out to be King Thong, you’d be a hero instead of a goat.”
He nodded his head eagerly. It was the failure that bothered him. The end only justifies the means when the end is realized. “You take the man’s money,” he muttered, “you do the man’s job.”
I nodded back at him. There was no sense in making an enemy of a man I was going to need. “Tell me about the politics here. What’s Bouton’s story?”
“The bitch wants to be commissioner,” he answered, laughing. “And why not? The commissioner’s black. The chief of patrol is black. Even the fucking mayor’s black. It’s the Decade of the Ape in New York.”
I kept my expression neutral, though I couldn’t help wondering if Pucinski referred to me as the “half-breed” or the “injun” when I wasn’t around to hear it.
“I understand the ambition, Pooch. I can read it on her face. What I want to know about is the politics inside the task force. Why’d they let her loose with her cover-up theories? Why’d they let her come to me? Why didn’t they give her twenty detectives so she could do a decent job?”
“It was a trap. They set a trap and she stepped right into it.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “One thing I gotta say for El Capitan, she’s consistent. The task force was organized right after the fourth killing. That’s when the fags hit the streets with the picket signs. Bouton was on it from day one and from day one all she could talk was bullshit about the murders being part of a cover-up. Means, when I tell you there wasn’t a sympathetic ear in the house, you could believe I know what I’m talkin’ about. We must’ve had twenty shrinks in here, every one of ’em a specialist, and they all said ‘serial killer.’ Plus, the first three murders were investigated as routine homicides. The dicks who caught the squeals were out lookin’ for that ordinary motive Bouton kept screaming about and they couldn’t come up with squat.”
“Maybe it wasn’t one of the first three,” I suggested. “If you were gonna cover up a homicide by making it
I got my first .22 when I was eight years old. One of the many “uncles” who came to occupy Mom’s bed (only to leave in disgust after a few months or weeks or days or hours) gave me a battered, single-shot, breech-loading Stevens and taught me to plink wine bottles mounted on rocks behind the house. I proved to be an attentive student—good enough, after a few weeks, to be handed a couple of rounds and instructed to return with “meat for the table.”
Bottles don’t move; animals do. It was that simple, and after a few hours I returned with no bullets and no meat. Uncle John, by way of demonstrating the fact that ammo costs money, beat me for an hour. Slapping me; chasing me; slapping me; chasing me. Until I couldn’t run anymore; until the only thing I could do was take it. Thinking about it now, the part I remember best has nothing to do with pain or fear. No, my clearest memory of that day is the sound of dear old Mom snoring on the couch.
The “whippin”’ was not without its positive aspects. I don’t recall ever coming back empty-handed again. But that may be due more to the fear of Uncle John’s taking back his .22 than fear of a beating. I’d been beaten many times before, whereas the rifle was entirely new. As was the feeling of power that went with it.
“You still here?”
I looked up to find Pooch staring at me through hangdog eyes. He looked like a scolded puppy.
“Hey, Pooch, I’m sorry about what I said before. It was stupid and I was out of line. There wasn’t anything else you could do, considering that you caught a piece of shit. If one of those men you put under surveillance had turned out to be King Thong, you’d be a hero instead of a goat.”
He nodded his head eagerly. It was the failure that bothered him. The end only justifies the means when the end is realized. “You take the man’s money,” he muttered, “you do the man’s job.”
I nodded back at him. There was no sense in making an enemy of a man I was going to need. “Tell me about the politics here. What’s Bouton’s story?”
“The bitch wants to be commissioner,” he answered, laughing. “And why not? The commissioner’s black. The chief of patrol is black. Even the fucking mayor’s black. It’s the Decade of the Ape in New York.”
I kept my expression neutral, though I couldn’t help wondering if Pucinski referred to me as the “half-breed” or the “injun” when I wasn’t around to hear it.
“I understand the ambition, Pooch. I can read it on her face. What I want to know about is the politics inside the task force. Why’d they let her loose with her cover-up theories? Why’d they let her come to me? Why didn’t they give her twenty detectives so she could do a decent job?”
“It was a trap. They set a trap and she stepped right into it.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “One thing I gotta say for El Capitan, she’s consistent. The task force was organized right after the fourth killing. That’s when the fags hit the streets with the picket signs. Bouton was on it from day one and from day one all she could talk was bullshit about the murders being part of a cover-up. Means, when I tell you there wasn’t a sympathetic ear in the house, you could believe I know what I’m talkin’ about. We must’ve had twenty shrinks in here, every one of ’em a specialist, and they all said ‘serial killer.’ Plus, the first three murders were investigated as routine homicides. The dicks who caught the squeals were out lookin’ for that ordinary motive Bouton kept screaming about and they couldn’t come up with squat.”
“Maybe it wasn’t one of the first three,” I suggested. “If you were gonna cover up a homicide by making it
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