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FAST BALL FOOCH
by Ercole Joseph Gaudioso
Fast Ball Fooch pitched a good season for the Red Sox, got drafted into the army, did the two years, took the test for the job, went through the Academy, became Patrolman Joseph Malfucci same day I became Patrolman Vincent Vecchio. Assigned together, Four-Four Precinct, South Bronx.
Standing in the rain, first time we spoke, adjoining foot posts, a four to-twelve. About five-eight, five-nine, he seemed taller. Taller, even in memory.
"I played ball in the army," he told me. "Arm's shot. Goes wild after a few innings. Anyway, I always wanted to be a cop."
For three or four years before the thing on Davidson Avenue, Fooch worked Sector J with Bobby Flynn. Bobby Balls. I worked Sector H with Tommy Sanchez. Cowboys they called the four of us. Always together. Four-to-twelves, backing-up each other on car stops, burglaries, robberies, gun runs. Then hanging out, backing-up each other with green monsters or scotch and water. Cowboys. We loved it.
Fooch loved it more. Hurricanes, blizzards, car problems, transit strikes, blackouts, nothing made him late for his tour. Uniform cleaned and pressed, shoes spit-shined, teeth and shoulders square, haircut every ten days. Equipment in shape, two pairs of handcuffs, the expensive ones, the smell of gun cleaner in his locker, in his clothes. A four-cell flashlight, bright as a beacon, tall as a lighthouse, at his hip, on his gun belt. And on his other hip, what we called his cocobolo furniture -- a nightstick, hand engraved by his grandfather, varnished by his father, treated like a family heirloom.
Fooch loved his wife, I suppose. His kids he loved for sure. Both with good pitching arms, according to him, especially the boy. "A little wild sometimes, Frankie is, but I'll train him to be better than me."
We'd just built my deck.
"Fooch," Bobby Balls said, "the kid is five years old. What can you train?"
"Discipline, control, patience." Fooch yanked the Red Sox cap off his head, admired the logo.
"What about the job?" Tommy Sanchez asked. "Want Frankie on the job?"
Fooch looked hard at Tommy. "Never thought of that." He peeked into his Red Sox cap. "But no. Things happen on the job."
Things happen on the job. A lot of things to a lot of cops. Good things, nice to remember, bring a smile, a laugh, and best, a feeling only kids are supposed to get around Christmas trees.
And bad things. Cops shot, dead babies, jumpers, floaters, abused kids. Those things we handled, shoulder to shoulder, the four of us, together. Fated together, Tommy used to say and, since the thing with those poor kids, I'm trying hard not to believe him, trying to stop supposing that if we hadn't been together that day . . . If Fooch had not refused the gold shield . . . If . . .
But this is not about philosophy, and it's not about truth. Truth doesn't matter. Perp, victim, cop, you learn that after your first court appearance. Lawyers learn it in school. Truth doesn't matter.
But try telling that to Fooch.
* * *
Fooch played football for Cardinal Hayes High School. Quarterback, strong, precise passes, the same arm that made him a solid pitcher. The team did well, but they'd always done well. It was the Hayes baseball team that needed help and, during the two years that Fooch pitched for them, he broke the city's strike-out record, grand-slammed the team into first place, kept them there till he graduated.
Bobby Flynn went to Hayes too. Sophomore year, he lit up a cigarette in Geometry class, got his ass kicked by an Irish Christian brother. On the way to the Dean's Office he sucker-punched the brother, got his ass kicked again, this time on his way out the door. Next semester, in Evander Childs High School, he walked into a Geometry class, didn't light up, and three years later graduated Evander with Tommy Sanchez.
Bobby and Tommy became four year marines, but not together. Then, together, they graduated the Police Academy, nineteen sixty-three, just two months before me and Fooch got sworn in. I'd done two years in the army, about the same time as Fooch, got out before Viet Nam became nighttime television.
Four of us, eight kids. Two each. Fooch and Sanchez divorced their wives around the same time. They used Myron Kopp, Cop-Em-Out-Kopp, a lawyer who used to hang around the Arraignment Part in the old Bronx courthouse. Fooch and Sanchez paid the same child support -- a hundred a week, and the same alimony -- fifty a week, a lot of bucks in the early seventies.
It wasn't too bad for Tommy. He drove a cab to make up the money, saw his kids whenever he wanted.
But Fooch had a hell of a time, wasting vacation days and trading day tours for four-to-twelves just to sit in Family Court -- where truth, child support and visitation had nothing to do with one another -- trying to see his kids.
Eight hours, every other Sunday, his ex-wife, Donna was her name, refused him visitation. Either with an excuse or by being gone with the kids when he got to the house that used to be his grandfather's. Family Court did nothing for Fooch and we saw him, heard him crying all the time, all the time making excuses for his ex-wife, that really she wasn't a bitch, wasn't purposely doing damage to the kids, just reacting to times of change in our maturing society, women looking to their individual selves for meaning and accomplishment.
Fooch was a real jerk-off sometimes.
The ex-wife, miserable bitch, not even good looking, kept calling the captain, calling the desk with allegations, all unbelievable, thank God, that Fooch used drugs, didn't care about his kids, never sent the support checks on time. The precinct had to listen, stroke her kindly, her daddy a full inspector down in Operations.
Then, when Fooch didn't die or fall apart or whatever he was supposed to do from her allegations, her imagination escalated to details of sex with the kids, the boy and the girl. She called the precinct, nothing happened, she called Internal Affairs. They gave it a number, assigned a detective and a sergeant. When she refused a doctor's examination for the kids, refused a psychologist's interview, they closed the case, unfounded. They informed Fooch of the charges, they had to, but kept out the details.
Anybody who knew Fooch knew he was an on-the-level guy. Too on the-level. His father-in-law, the full inspector, had hooked him up with the gold shield, the Detective Bureau. Before the divorce, of course. Transfer orders said the Two-O Squad. A little better than the battle zones of the Four-Four. Lincoln Center, the Met, fur coats, tuxedos, the kind of polish Fooch appreciated. Nice pay jump. He refused, said he didn't want to be obligated to a hook like his father-in-law, who'd made his rank sitting in mid-town bars sucking ass and good scotch with the right bosses.
Anybody else would have glommed that shield, pretended he'd earned it. Me, Sanchez, Flynn. But not Fooch. Too on-the-level.
Anyway, he wouldn't leave Flynn.
* * *
One night, after locking up an attempted rape -- Excellent Police Duty medals, all four of us -- Tommy in the system with the perp, the rest of us at the End of Tour, a cop hangout up on Broadway, north end of the Bronx, "God Bless America" and Kate Smith on the jukebox.
Green bottles and wet bills in front of me, and Balls; Balls said, "Burglary report, last Monday. I wasn't gonna tell you guys. Me and the legal aid over there." He pointed with his face toward Fooch and the bimbo hitting on him. The women liked Fooch, but he was still stuck on the idea of having a family.
"The big building on Harrison near Tremont," Balls said.
"Yeah."
"Little pimply scumbag answers the door, hair needs an oil change, picture of Lenin or Marx, one of those fucks, on the wall."
"Commie."
"Peace posters all over the place. Fire escape window open, commie probably scared away the burglar when he came home, left a bag of cash on the kitchen table."
"How much cash?"
"What about that money? I ask the scumbag. He says never mind about that. Never mind? How do I know you ain't the fucking burglar, I say, show me ID. I want to smack this fucking weasel, Fooch is looking at me, you know, one of his ex-ray stares. Pimply scumbag starts in about privacy and intrusion and I tell him what about them fucking bucks, comrade."
"How much bucks?"
"I tell him we take all cash that can't be accounted for."
"We do?"
"He's a scumbag commie. Money's going to kill marines in Nam, I'm getting that fucking money. So I tell him that, and I'm looking at Fooch making faces and shaking his head. Voucher it, I mean, I says, and he's still shaking his head. Then the commie says he'd rather burn it than give it to pigs and I say okay, and he says, okay what, and I says burn it. I grab his skinny fucking neck -- Fooch's rolling his eyes now, turns around like he don't want to see -- and I make the comrade put the cash on the stove and turn on the napalm."
"How much?"
"What the fuck's the difference how much, Vinny? What I'm telling you is this fucking Fooch is getting to be a real pain in the ass. A few hundred, I don't know, but it's all ashes now anyway, flying around this dirty fucking apartment. Mission accomplished, I hustle Fooch out the door, give the guy a smack on the way out, go back on patrol."
"Commie's making a complaint, I bet," I said.
"Don't matter. Fuck him. But I don't know about Fooch anymore. I'm thinking maybe he ain't stand-up no more."
"You should know better than me, Fooch is super straight, but he won't a hurt a cop."
"I don't know, Vin. Since his ex-wife, his kids, you know, sex crime allegations . . ."
"You don't think -- "
"No fucking way! His wife's a lying fuck. It's just, I don't know, he's in another world or something."
Flynn was right. About Fooch, and about that money killing marines in Nam, but Flynn probably would have beat the comrade into reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and the Our Father if anybody else, other than Fooch, had been with him.
It was good for Flynn that super-straight Fooch was his partner. Fooch kept cool, nothing heated him up. He was good with his hands, stayed in shape, kept physical force at a minimum. Fooch kept Flynn toned down. Not in control, but toned down. And Fooch knew all the great Bobby Balls stories:
Burglar running down an alley, Flynn flung his nightstick, missed the guy. "Stick lands on its tip, bounces like a rocket," Fooch said, "and breaks a kitchen window, second floor, old lady sitting, minding her own business, reading her bible." Duty captain asked Flynn why he threw his stick. Flynn said he didn't want to fire shots, hit somebody inside an apartment. Captain said, we don't shoot fleeing felons. Flynn said, "See, Cap, good thing I didn't shoot the fuck."
Another time, Flynn and Fooch stopped a car, University Avenue, two white females, Jersey plates, looking to cop pot, coke, whatever. Passenger said that the only reason you stopped us is because we're lesbians.
Flynn said, "No, your friend didn't stop for the stop sign. Besides, you don't even look like dykes to me."
"You're giving her a ticket?"
"Yes."
"Do you have to?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I have to give out three movers a month."
"And we're lesbians and you don't approve of our lifestyle."
"Hey, I got nothing against dykes, I like pussy too."
Bobby Balls.
The whole precinct, heard that tale. The whole division heard this one.
Sniper on a roof, Gerard Avenue, near Yankee Stadium, game beginning. Fooch and Bobby Balls first on the scene, came in on a cross-street, ran alleys, jumped fences to the building. Balls hoofed it up one stairway, Fooch the other, Balls got up there first. A guy, in the prone, rifle in position. Star Spangled Banner, a cappella, from the stadium. Fooch, on the roof, found the sniper, didn't find Bobby, but heard him, "Drop the fucking gun, drop the fucking gun." The sniper ignored him, Balls figured the guy a psycho or whacked out on dust or something. "Drop it or I'm putting one in your fucking head."
"No, Bobby, it's that kid." Fooch ran, jumped on the kid, pinned down the rifle. Bobby ran from wherever, started stomping on the kid. Big kid, tall, heavy, sixteen, seventeen. Fooch pushed him off. "Bobby, no, it's a toy, take it easy."
The toy looked real. Fooch -- and Balls too -- knew the kid. Sex abuse victim. A lot of deaf kids, sex abuse victims.
Joey Fooch would not leave Bobby Balls.
* * *
The day on Davidson. Cold, five, six degrees. Sewer of an apartment. The four of us together, and here's why I'm having a problem disregarding Tommy Sanchez and fate.
A day tour, Tommy and Bobby go to court, separate cases. Roll call teams me with Fooch, double sectors, H and J. Then, about two o'clock, Tommy and Bobby report back to the house, desk officer puts them in J, keeps us in H.
Two-thirty, three o'clock, Central sends J to this shithole building, sixth floor. Abandoned Child or Sick Child, something like that.
Fooch hears the run, says, "Let's back them up," and what he means is, let's go keep Bobby Balls from turning a skirmish into a battle.
Apartment 6C door an inch from being closed, we hear sounds. Sounds I can't explain. Not crying, not yelling, but the way a dog cries if the dog could make more sounds than just whining. Sounds in a movie about the devil.
Bobby first, always first, gun in his hand, shoulders the door a little, peeks, pushes it open. We step into a short, narrow hall, the devil sounds stop. All quiet, except for roaches crackling between our feet and brand new, green linoleum.
Bobby points to a doorway, I take off my hat, peek into a kitchen. Corn flakes and roaches. Across the slim hall, a living room. Elvis and Jesus together on purple velvet on a purple wall. A couch, a kitchen chair, a television.
Fooch and Sanchez pass us, tiptoe to a bathroom, then a bedroom, its door latched shut, not shut enough to keep in the stink. I'm thinking DOA. Sanchez lifts the latch, nudges the door three or four inches, then all the way. A mattress on the floor, a dresser, a crib, a radiator hissing like a dragon. Warm, no air. Shit on the floor, no dogs, no cats.
Two kids. Concentration-camp skeletons. Squatting, cowering, side by side, in a corner of orange walls, faces in their hands, trembling, whimpering the dog sounds. Nothing on but gray jockey shorts, used to be white.
Sanchez assumes the kids' position. Fooch imitates him. I want to leave the stink and the sight, but stand near the dresser with Flynn. Sanchez says, "Hello." No response. He says something in Spanish. No response.
Two windows, both closed. Stink and heat and I'm cold but I'm scared and I'm sweating. Fooch's face is white and it's damp with balls of sweat. He stands, unbuttons his jacket, his collar. Flynn can't open the windows, breaks a pane with his nightstick, scares the kids. Boys or girls, we can't tell, they stand from being scared, face the wall, hug the wall, show us old welts and new welts on their legs and backs. Long hair matted with what I think is shit and old blood.
They were either five years old or ten years old. I step closer, between Fooch and Sanchez, Sanchez still in a squat. The stink is worse. The welts are worse. Swollen faces, dried blood, now I know it's shit and blood in their hair. Sanchez waves us away.
"I'm gonna find a phone, talk to neighbors," Fooch says. He's going to puke or cry and I remember thinking that he was thinking about his kids. He leaves the apartment. Flynn and I back at the dresser, one kid turns from the wall, Sanchez smiles at him. The whimpering breaks up, the other kid turns. A roach roams over an empty glassine envelope -- heroin envelope. Sanchez stands, opens his jacket, fans himself.
Flynn opens dresser drawers. All vacant except for two empty beer bottles, welfare check stubs. We go through the apartment, Flynn and I, meet in the kitchen. An Ozzie and Harriet formica table, two folding chairs near the window. Bottle caps, bobby pins, spent matches, more empty glassines.
She comes in, no sound. Skinny, short. Yellow bandanna, orange and maroon hair. Twenty years old or thirty years old. She sees us, turns to leave, runs into Fooch's furniture. Fooch pokes her into Flynn, Flynn puts her against a wall, a roach scurries to the ceiling. Her eyes watery, she's sweating. "I ain't did shit." She squirms, snaps at Flynn. Doberman snaps, teeth the color of puss. Flynn spins her, pushes her face to the wall. "I ain't did shit." Sanchez leaves the kids, the kids wail, Sanchez goes back, they hush.
"What you doing to my babies, cop?" she yells, wants the neighbors to hear, wants to intimidate us away. "Get your hands off my fucking children. Help! The cops is hurting me and my children. Help!"
"You're under arrest," Flynn says.
"For what?"
"Endangering the welfare of minors," Fooch says and, as he Mirandizes her, she listens as if polite. But she fights the cuffs. Three of us wrestle her, I'm watching her teeth, I've been bitten before. Fooch's furniture is in the way or it's in danger. He tosses it onto the couch. She snaps, I put my stick, horizontal, under her skull, keep her face on the wall. It hurts her. Flynn gets a cuff on one skinny wrist, needs two hands to pull it to her back, to keep it there. She smells like a wet dog.
"Help!" She pushes, pulls, squirms.
Fooch grabs her other wrist, struggles to connect it to Flynn's cuffs.
"They's hurting my children. They's fucking my family in their baby asses."
I need to rap her but I'm afraid to let go.
The kids wail, sound like cats now.
Flynn, still holding one empty cuff, says, "One of us gets stuck with a needle, I'm ripping out your bitch mouth."
"They's touching their peepees and fucking them in their anuses."
"Bitch mouth," Flynn hisses.
"They's sucking at their peepees."
Flynn grunts, jerks her wrist up, up.
"Aieee," she yells.
"Cocksucker."
Sanchez is hoofing it from the bedroom.
Fooch lets go her wrist, steps back, muttering, talking to himself, aggravated, annoyed. Hell of a time, just let go like that. Hell of a thing, worry about Flynn hurting a scumbag like this.
"Scumbag," I say, but I'm looking at Fooch.
He's on the other side of Flynn, this aggravated look in his eye, his jaws tight, chest puffed. In a blur, he yanks his lighthouse flashlight from his hip, puts a hand in Flynn's gun belt, yanks him back, pushes him into Sanchez, goes into a big league windup, sends his arm into a fast ball pitch that blurs the flashlight into an arc that swishes past my face because I'm still holding the junk yard dog and, when her skull cracks, the flashlight lens cracks, the light goes on. Before she hits the green linoleum, she's a homicide.
* * *
In minutes we had a story.
Three witnesses, all figuring that Fooch and his lighthouse did the world a favor. The kids, the apartment, coke and heroin in the DOA's pockets, no way Fooch would have been indicted. Not back then.
"I'm telling it like it happened," he said.
* * *
Myron pled Fooch out to Manslaughter, three and a half to seven. Every other Sunday his ex-wife brings his kids to visit.
THE END
Ercole Joseph Gaudioso is a writer and retired police officer, having worked for the NYPD for twenty years. His writing has appeared in American Catholic Magazine, Italian Americana, Inkwell, among other places. He lives in Southbury, CT.
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