The Steel Kiss

Over the river and through the woods…  to bad guys we will go…

Leaving behind the transit hub now, he walked to Broadway, past the car repair garages, building supply outfits, real estate offices, check cashing and salary advance storefronts, bodegas, cheap diners with flyblown, handwritten menus on cards in windows. As he moved farther away from the commercial streets, he passed apartment blocks, mostly three- or four-story. Lots of red brick, lots of painted stone in beige and brown, lots of graffiti. On the horizon were the towering projects of Brownsville, not far away. On the sidewalk were cigarette butts, trash, malt liquor cans and a few condoms and needles…  and even crack tubes, which seemed almost nostalgic; you didn’t see that scourge much anymore.

The 33…

Pulaski was walking fast.

One block, two blocks, three blocks, four.

Where the hell is Alpho?

Ahead, on the same sidewalk, two kids—yeah, young but together weighing four Pulaskis—eyed him hostilely. He had his Smith & Wesson Bodyguard on his ankle, his private weapon. But if they wanted to perp him, they’d perp him and he’d be on the ground and bleeding before he could snag the punchy gun from its holster. But they turned back to their joints and grave conversation, letting him pass without another look.

Two more blocks and, finally, he spotted the young man he’d been searching for. Back at One PP he’d taken a furtive look at a precinct activity report from the 73 and had a rough idea of where to go, where Alpho might be hanging. The kid was on his mobile and smoking, a cigarette not weed, in front of GW Deli and Phone Card store.

GW. George Washington? Then Pulaski thought, for some reason: Gee Whiz?

The skinny Latino was in a wife-beater T-shirt, exposing arms that didn’t see a lot of pushups. Street Crimes surveillance had gotten some solid pix of him, which was why Pulaski recognized him immediately. Alpho had been brought in, questioned and released a few times. But he’d never been busted and was still, Narcotics believed, in business. Had to be true. You could tell. From the posture, from the wariness, even while concentrating on the phone call.

Pulaski looked around. No obvious threats.

So get this over with. Pulaski strode toward Alpho, glanced his way and slowed.

The young man, a grayish tint to his dark skin, lifted his head. Said something into the mobile by way of farewell and slipped the cheap flip phone away.

Pulaski eased closer. “Hey.”

“Yo.”

Alpho’s eyes scanned up and down the street, like skittish animals. Didn’t spot anything worrisome. Then back to Pulaski.

“Nice day, huh?”

“S’all right. Guess. I know you?”

Pulaski said, “Alphonse, right?”

A stare in response.

“I’m Ron.”

“So who?”

“Kett. At Richie’s in Bed-Stuy.”

“He cool. How you know him?”

Pulaski said, “Just know him. Hang with him some. He’ll vouch.”

Eddie Kett would vouch for Ron Pulaski, not because they were buddies but because a few days ago, while breaking up a fight, off duty, Pulaski had found out that Eddie had been carrying a pistol when he shouldn’t’ve been, which was never. He also had some pills on him. The meds had interested Pulaski, who’d suggested he could forget about the weapon and Oxy charges in return for a favor, provided Kett never said a word about it. Kett had wisely chosen that route and had pointed him in Alphonse’s direction and was happy to play character reference.

Looking up and down the street, both men now.

“Kett, he okay.” Repeating. Stalling. Alphonse was his name but on the street it was mostly Alpho or, to cops and gangbangers, Alpo, after the dog food.

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“I’ma call him.”

“Why I mentioned him, why I came to you. He said you could hook me up.”

“Why not him? Help you, I mean.” Alpho wasn’t calling Eddie Kett, Pulaski noticed. Probably believes me. You’d have to be an idiot to come to the 33 without somebody vouching.

“Eddie doesn’t have what I need.”

“I’ma say, brother, you ain’t lookin’ fuckin’ strung out. Whatchu want?”

“No brown. No C. Nothing like that.” Pulaski shook his head, looking around too. Looking for threats from anyone. Male or female. Girls were just as dangerous.

Pulaski scanned for uniforms and plainclothes and unmarked Dodges. He sure didn’t want to run into any compatriots.

But the streets were clear.

He said in a low voice, “There’s some new shit I heard about. It’s not Oxy but it’s like Oxy.”

“I ain’t hear about that, brother. I hook you up with weed, with C, with speed, methballs.” Alpho was relaxing. This wasn’t the way undercover busts worked.

Pulaski pointed to his forehead. “I got this thing happened to me. Crap beat out of me, a couple years ago. I started getting these headaches again. They came back. I mean, big time. They’re crap, totally. You get headaches?”

“Cîroc, Smirny.” Alpho smiled.

Pulaski didn’t. He whispered, “These are so bad. I can’t do my job right. Can’t concentrate.”

“What you do?”

“Construction. Crew in the city. Ironwork.”