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Authors: Stephen Solomita
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look like the work of a maniac, you couldn’t make the hit on the one you really wanted to kill until the media …” I stopped abruptly.
“Spit it out, Means.”
“Never mind, Pooch. I just got an idea about something else. You go on with what you were saying.”
His voice dropped even further as he launched himself into it. “It got to the point where Chief Bowman ordered her to shut up unless she had something constructive to say.”
“Did it do any good?”
“No. She managed to keep quiet when Bowman was around, but she kept talking her shit to anyone else who’d listen, including ranking officers who weren’t part of the task force.”
“What was she, Pooch, stupid?”
“Stupid? She ranked first on the captain’s exam. First. She’s also got a master’s in psychology from Columbia and a bunch of credits toward a fuckin’ Ph.D. El Capitan’s problem was that she was too smart. She was too smart and she let everyone know it. Chief Bowman’s a nice guy, but he ain’t exactly Albert Einstein. If it wasn’t for the fact that his boss and his boss’s boss are as black as he is, Bowman would never have gone past deputy inspector. Think he liked being showed up by another black cop? A black female cop? A black female cop that went to his boss complaining about how she was abused because she was a woman? About how she might even have to file a complaint against the New York City Police Department?”
I smiled by way of encouragement. “I’m surprised he didn’t have her shot.”
“He played it smart, Means. He let her mouth off until there was no way she could back out of it. Then he offered to let her conduct her own investigation on the side. Completely independent, Means. No time limit. She can work it forever and she doesn’t have to report to anyone until the day she arrests King Thong. Or decides to give up. On the day she decides to give up, she has to hand all her paperwork over to Chief Bowman.”
“Real tidy. But I still don’t get it. Why’d didn’t she demand a serious squad to work with? Why’d she settle for me?”
Pucinski sat back, relaxing a bit. A grin split his face, like a watermelon being sliced with a hunting knife. “First, let me say that I was present when the offer was made. That’s because I’m supposed to act as liaison between Bouton and the task force. My job is to guarantee she has access to all the files. Anyway, El Capitan didn’t seem very surprised by the deal. In fact, I’d say she’d been thinking about it for a long, long time. Bowman asked her how many men she needed and she says, ‘One. I only need one.’
“Anybody particular in mind?’ he asks.
“‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘Mean Mister Means.’”
“Just like that?” I demanded. “Just like that? She said, ‘Mean Mister Means’? Bullshit.”
He slid forward and tapped me on the chest with the tip of a pudgy forefinger. “As God is my witness, Means. And Bowman knew just who she meant. How does it feel to be a legend?”
I didn’t bother to answer and he let me stew for a minute before he tapped me again.
“Hey, Means, What do you call a Somali with a swollen toe?”
“I don’t know, Pooch. I really don’t.”
“A golf club.”
SEVEN
M EAN MISTER MEANS. IT was an honor, in a way. The nickname had been given to me by some vicious street mutt with a penchant for rhyme. It’d gotten back to my brothers on the Vice Squad through their snitches and naturally become the vehicle of endless mindless jokes. Cops don’t like to work with hotdogs, and I can’t say that I blamed them, even at the time. But that doesn’t mean I stopped, either. As I said, I came to New York to hunt, not to be one more anonymous soldier in what amounted to a twenty-seven-thousand-man army. Anyone who didn’t like that could, as far as I was concerned, kiss my sweet red ass.
But they didn’t kiss my ass, sweet or sour, red or its actual beige. The job has its own remedies for cops with Rambo
“Spit it out, Means.”
“Never mind, Pooch. I just got an idea about something else. You go on with what you were saying.”
His voice dropped even further as he launched himself into it. “It got to the point where Chief Bowman ordered her to shut up unless she had something constructive to say.”
“Did it do any good?”
“No. She managed to keep quiet when Bowman was around, but she kept talking her shit to anyone else who’d listen, including ranking officers who weren’t part of the task force.”
“What was she, Pooch, stupid?”
“Stupid? She ranked first on the captain’s exam. First. She’s also got a master’s in psychology from Columbia and a bunch of credits toward a fuckin’ Ph.D. El Capitan’s problem was that she was too smart. She was too smart and she let everyone know it. Chief Bowman’s a nice guy, but he ain’t exactly Albert Einstein. If it wasn’t for the fact that his boss and his boss’s boss are as black as he is, Bowman would never have gone past deputy inspector. Think he liked being showed up by another black cop? A black female cop? A black female cop that went to his boss complaining about how she was abused because she was a woman? About how she might even have to file a complaint against the New York City Police Department?”
I smiled by way of encouragement. “I’m surprised he didn’t have her shot.”
“He played it smart, Means. He let her mouth off until there was no way she could back out of it. Then he offered to let her conduct her own investigation on the side. Completely independent, Means. No time limit. She can work it forever and she doesn’t have to report to anyone until the day she arrests King Thong. Or decides to give up. On the day she decides to give up, she has to hand all her paperwork over to Chief Bowman.”
“Real tidy. But I still don’t get it. Why’d didn’t she demand a serious squad to work with? Why’d she settle for me?”
Pucinski sat back, relaxing a bit. A grin split his face, like a watermelon being sliced with a hunting knife. “First, let me say that I was present when the offer was made. That’s because I’m supposed to act as liaison between Bouton and the task force. My job is to guarantee she has access to all the files. Anyway, El Capitan didn’t seem very surprised by the deal. In fact, I’d say she’d been thinking about it for a long, long time. Bowman asked her how many men she needed and she says, ‘One. I only need one.’
“Anybody particular in mind?’ he asks.
“‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘Mean Mister Means.’”
“Just like that?” I demanded. “Just like that? She said, ‘Mean Mister Means’? Bullshit.”
He slid forward and tapped me on the chest with the tip of a pudgy forefinger. “As God is my witness, Means. And Bowman knew just who she meant. How does it feel to be a legend?”
I didn’t bother to answer and he let me stew for a minute before he tapped me again.
“Hey, Means, What do you call a Somali with a swollen toe?”
“I don’t know, Pooch. I really don’t.”
“A golf club.”
SEVEN
M EAN MISTER MEANS. IT was an honor, in a way. The nickname had been given to me by some vicious street mutt with a penchant for rhyme. It’d gotten back to my brothers on the Vice Squad through their snitches and naturally become the vehicle of endless mindless jokes. Cops don’t like to work with hotdogs, and I can’t say that I blamed them, even at the time. But that doesn’t mean I stopped, either. As I said, I came to New York to hunt, not to be one more anonymous soldier in what amounted to a twenty-seven-thousand-man army. Anyone who didn’t like that could, as far as I was concerned, kiss my sweet red ass.
But they didn’t kiss my ass, sweet or sour, red or its actual beige. The job has its own remedies for cops with Rambo
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