Slow Motion Riot (26 page)

She gives me a playful sock in the
shoulder. "Can't win if you don't play, Steven."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in
mind."

She adjusts a pink barrette in her
hair. "I've gotta go study now... I had a blue comb with me. Did you see
where it went?"

"Um, no... Listen, am I gonna
see you again?"

She's still scanning the room for
the comb. "Sure, Steven. Classes don't start till after Labor Day. I'll be
around the office until then."

"That's not what I'm talking
about. What I mean is, I'd hate to think I was just this thing you did over the
summer. It's like, you know that old song, 'Will I See You in September?'"

"No," she says.
"That's from before my time."

There's only about six years
between us, but sometimes it feels like two decades. I can still remember the
end of the 1960s; she's probably studied them in school. She smiles wistfully
and takes my hand. "We'll see, Steven," she says, and kisses me
tenderly on the cheek. Then she's out the door and down the stairs. From my
window, I watch her cross the street. The coffee cup is cold in my hands. I
wonder how I'll get through the rest of the day without seeing her.

Around midnight, a radio car with
two cops came by the public pool in upper Manhattan. Nine kids were swimming.
They'd all climbed over a locked gate to get in there. Two boys were trying to
pull off a girl's bathing suit top in the deep end. Another boy was pushing his
friend off the diving board. Eddie Johnson's body floated in the right lane,
near the shallow end. The other kids just kept swimming around him.

After a minute spent arguing about
whose job it was, the younger of the two cops waded in and tried to drag
Eddie's body out of the water.

The cop who had not gone in the
pool was outraged. "Hey!" he yelled at the other kids. "Didn't
you notice this guy's dead?"

"Yeah." One of them
shrugged. "But we're swimming."

A couple of the main arteries in
Eddie's neck were cut and his face was slashed. The chlorine had faded the
color from his parka. His blood drifted like red smoke in the blue water.

Part of a ham and cheese sandwich
bobbed along the surface nearby.

Monday and Tuesday are my
long-awaited report days, when I get to catch up on my paperwork and see some
of my old clients before I go back out in the field.

Since my old cubicle is being used
by somebody else, they've given me a ratty, unpainted corner office for the two
days. Somebody's left an old Sports Illustrated on the desk, with a cover shot
of a famous wide receiver dropping a football under the word
"BUTTERFINGERS!"

I wonder if somebody's making a coy
joke about the way I handled the Darryl King case. I would have expected other
probation officers to be a little more understanding, but it's a cruel world,
as Jack likes to say, especially when labor contracts are almost up. My guess
is Deputy Dawson left the magazine here because he's still sore over the
meeting with Jack.

I decide to ignore all the
potential hassles and concentrate on work. Ms. Lang has arranged for me to see
a couple of my old clients and the first in is Freddie Brooks, the homeless
wino-junkie who's only reliable in keeping his appointments with me. He looks
more worn-out than usual and he has these strange spots on his hands and arms.
I hope it's not AIDS. Still, he's happy to see me and he gives me a screw-on
bottle cap to remember him by just in case he can't show up again.

The rest of the appointments don't
go as well. A number of my clients have strayed into trouble, mostly with
crack, and I find myself being less understanding than before. The guys in the
Field Service Unit have taught me to think like a cop, and it's harder than I
thought it would be just to switch back to being a social worker.

When Scottie Austin, the thief from
the Port Authority, shows up, I just turn him away. "Too late, my
man," I say, closing his folder once and for all. "You already got
violated."

After a while, the steady stream of
repeat offenders starts to get me down. What was the point of me working with
any of these people in the first place? The more I think about it, the worse I
feel. The Darryl King thing threw me off-balance to begin with, then Andrea's
got me reeling, and now I need a little reassurance. I'd like to know if I
actually did somebody some good. I start going through my master list of
clients and then I hit on Maria Sanchez's name.

I haven't seen her since the Fourth
of July when I chastely brought her home, which was indisputably the right
thing to do. So she seems like a safe bet to cheer me up. I go through my black
book and find the phone number for her girlfriend's house on Edgecombe Avenue
where Terry and I helped her move.

As I listen to the phone ring, I
remember that she'll probably be out at school at this hour. So I figure I'll
leave a message anyway.

But then the little girl who
answers the phone tells me something in perfect English that makes my heart
stop. She says Maria is not living there anymore. She moved out a week ago. It
looks like she's pregnant again and she's certainly not going to school. The
little girl gives me the new number. When I go to write it down next to Maria's
name in the black book, I notice it's the same as the old number I crossed out
for Maria's family's house, where her uncle molested her all these years. I
read the number back to her twice to be sure. I can't believe this. My head's
swimming. She's moved back in with her uncle and the others, in the house where
she threw the baby out the window. I dial the number quickly.

The phone rings nine times before
somebody picks it up. I hear the crash of the phone dropping and then being
lifted again. "Hola," says a heavy, slurred male voice.

"Is Maria there?"

Dishes clatter and dialogue from a
TV soap opera drones on in the background. "Who's looking for her?"
the male voice says.

I identify myself and then there's
a long silence. "Chinga su madre," the man says before he hangs up
the phone.

I dial the number again
immediately. This time the man picks up the phone after six rings. "She
don't wanna talk to you," he says belligerently. I guess this is Maria's
uncle. Scumbag. Lowlife. Degenerate. I fight the urge to curse him out right
now.

"Can she tell me that
herself?" I ask as a woman's voice begins talking in loud, rapid Spanish
on the other end.

Maria's uncle grunts and hangs up
again. I slam down my phone and punch the wall hard. "FUCK.'.'"

The place rattles and the Screamer
across the hall yells at me to keep the noise down. I light a cigarette and try
to think about what I should do. I could call Bill and Angel over at the Field
Service Unit office and we could all drive up to the house and drag Maria out
of there. I may have to get a warrant first, though.

I try her one more time. She
finally picks up.

"Hold, Mr. Baum."

"Yeah, Maria." I try to
sound calm and reasonable. "What's up? You living back there again?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Baum. Could you
do something for me please?"

"I'll try."

"Would you please not call
again?"

"I don't understand."

"I can't talk to you no
more." Her voice wavers as though she's about to start crying.
"Please leave me alone."

She hangs up. I try dialing the
number once more, but get a busy signal. I try a second time, and the same thing
happens. I call the operator and ask her to break in on the line, but the phone
is off the hook.

I put my head in my hands. I
haven't cried since the day my mother died but I feel like doing it now. I
don't understand how she could do this to me. She's breaking my heart, going
back to her sick old life with her fucked-up family. I tried to save her. I
gave her my home number. I helped her move. I didn't even take advantage of her
that night with the fireworks. I put myself on the line for her.

Fuck her. I can't do anything for
her now.

I throw my chair across the office
and walk out with other P.O.s bitching at me.

That night I don't sleep much.
Things I should've said to her keep running through my mind. I construct an
imaginary conversation in which I try once more to convince her not to throw
her life away. I tell her that she has to talk to me because I'm her probation
officer. But every time I try to imagine her side of the dialogue, it all gets
too emotional and I have to start all over again. I watch sleeplessly as the
green glowing numbers flick by on the clock radio.

I'm still feeling hurt and angry
when I get to the office the next day. Just after eleven, I open my office door
to get some fresh air. A couple of young black guys in sneakers and jeans are
standing in the hall waiting for their appointment with another P.O. They're
talking to each other about movies on television.

"I was watching The Private
Navy of Sergeant O'Farrell," says one of them, who's wearing a Pittsburgh
Pirates cap. "With Bob Hope..."

"And Phyllis Diller?"
says his friend who wears a black Nike T-shirt and a Fade haircut.

"You see it?"

"Yeah."

"Man, that shit was bug,"
says the one in the Pirates cap.

"Yeah, I was buggin' out. You
ever see, uh, It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World?"

"That was some star-studded
shit in that movie."

I try to ignore them as I look
through my files.

"And did you see that program
about Darryl K. on Channel Four?" the one in the Nike shirt asks.

I keep looking at the file I have
opened on my lap, but the words are starting to appear backward. That's what
happens when I can't concentrate. I find myself just waiting to hear what these
guys are going to say next about Darryl King.

"Man, he popped those
motherfuckers," says the one in the Pirates cap. "The rest of them
come after him, they'll get popped too."

"Darryl K. all the way,"
says his friend in the Nike shirt. "Darryl K. will take no shit before its
time..."

I get up and slam the door on both
of their laughing faces. From outside I can hear the Screamer warning me once
more to stop making so much noise. "I'LL FUCKIN' HAVE YOU ON REPORT, I
SWEAR IT, BAUM."

I ignore her and call the guard at
the reception desk on the phone. "Hey, Roger, is that metal detector ever
going to get fixed out there?"

On the other end of the line, I
hear the buzz of the television and the sound of elevator doors opening and
shutting. "Works as well as it ever did," paunchy old Roger says in a
bored voice.

"I don't mean to sound
paranoid, you know, but I'm a little worried about people coming in here with
weapons after all this publicity about Darryl King."

"Like I said. Works as well as
it ever did."

Enough is enough, I finally decide.
I'm sick of sitting here and sick of these deadbeats coming in and out. I call
Ms. Lang's office and leave a message that I'm going to make a field visit and
I'll be back later. "She's not going to like that," the secretary says.

"She'll deal with it," I
tell her.

I take another look through my
files and make a quick decision about who I want to see. Charlie Simms. Charlie
is the black kid from Washington Heights who I told Andrea about. He's the one
solid success that I have left, I figure. When he came into my office two years
ago after his first arrest for stealing a car radio, he was unsure of himself,
and vulnerable to fast-talking hoods like his friend Rashid. Since then,
Charlie's gotten married, gone back to school, and worked part-time with the
Parks Department summer jobs program, which I got him into. At the moment, I
probably need to see him worse than he needs to see me, if only just to remind
myself there's some purpose to what I've been doing.

I put his file under my arm and
catch the uptown express. Charlie's building is fairly easy to find in
Washington Heights, even though I've never been there. It's just off Broadway,
with a green cornice and a gray brick fagade. I'm a little surprised how
rundown it is. Charlie always led me to believe he lived in a nice place. But
half the windows are boarded up and bricks are missing from the sides.

I hurry into the building before
anything falls on me and run smack into a teenage black girl in a yellow smock
dress coming out of a first-floor apartment.

"Sorry," I say. "You
know if Charlie Simms is around?"

Without even pausing to answer, she
turns and looks toward the blinding rectangle of sunlight at the other end of
the dim hallway.

"Charlie!" the girl calls
out. "Man's here to see you."

I see a head peek out of a doorway
halfway down the hall and look toward me, barely long enough to register that
I'm a white male, let alone someone he might know. Without warning, he goes
shooting out toward the rectangle of sunlight.

"There he go," the girl
in the yellow smock dress says.

I take off after him, down the
hallway, through the rectangular doorway, and out into an alley between the
buildings. Charlie is running ahead of me over landfill and garbage and
anything else that happens to be lying there. Once he hits the street, I know I'll
never catch him. I'm not even sure why I'm chasing him. This is supposed to be
a friendly visit.

"CHARLIE!" I shout.
"It's Steve Baum! Slow down!"

He pulls up short in front of a
pair of aluminum garbage cans and waits for me to catch up with him. When I
finally do see him up close, I feel my heart breaking for the second time in
two days. Through his plastic-rimmed glasses, the sunlight reflects dully off
his eyes. He's lost a tremendous amount of weight. His jeans sag from his waist
and hang over his flat butt like a drape. His Patrick Ewing shirt envelops his
torso. When I shake his right hand, I give it a good look. There's a dry burned
crust of skin near his thumbnail. It's the kind of patch you get from flicking
a lighter over and over to keep a crack pipe going.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothin'," Charlie
mumbles.

"What do you mean 'nothin'?
How long have you been smoking that shit?"

"I'm not smoking anything,
man. I just say no. Leave me alone."

"You're not smoking
crack?"

Charlie casts his eyes downward and
shakes his head from side to side.

"Don't you fucking lie to me,
Charlie," I say, shaking his folder at him, like it's a contract that's
been broken between us.

"I'm not lying."

"No?" I take his sleeve
and start to walk toward the street. "Okay, let's go then."

"Where we going?"

"Downtown. You're gonna piss
in a cup and we're gonna do a test to see if you're lying and smoking crack. If
you're telling me the truth, there shouldn't be any problem."

"Later for that
bullshit," Charlie says softly. "You ain't got no machines to do tests..."

Actually, that used to be true, but
just recently the department started getting the facilities to do testing.
"Come on, let's go. I love to catch people lying..."

Charlie puts his hands up.
"Forget it."

"Does that mean you admit
you're smoking crack?"

"Yeah," Charlie says.
"You happy now?"

"The opposite. Believe
me."

Charlie sits down on one of the
garbage cans and fingers the leather Back to Africa medallion he has around his
neck. "Shit."

"What's the matter with
you?" I say a little more calmly. "Why'd you run from me like that?
You been in any more trouble besides the crack?"

"You got my file," he
says into his hand.

I didn't bother looking at the file
on the subway, but now I see he's gotten two hit notices since he was
transferred to another P.O.'s caseload. He was arrested a month ago for a
disorderly conduct in the Bronx. A week later, he was picked up for possession
of a controlled substance in this neighborhood.

"Have you tried
quitting?" I ask.

"Yeah..."

"How many times have you
quit?"