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  CASSIDY’S CORNER

  A Harry Cassidy Novel

  Henry Hack

  SALVO PRESS

  An Imprint of Start Publishing LLC

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places.

  CASSIDY'S CORNER © 2013 by Henry Hack.

  This edition of CASSIDY'S CORNER © 2013 by Salvo Press.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Salvo Press, 609 Greenwich Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10014.

  Published by Salvo Press,

  an imprint of Start Publishing LLC

  New York, New York

  Please visit us on the web at

  www.start-media.com

  iStock Cover Image by Ezekiel11.

  ISBN: 978-1-62793-405-3

  Also By Henry Hack

  Danny Boy

  I dedicate this work to all police officers who proudly wear the Silver Shield, especially those I served with in the Fifth and Eighth Precincts, Nassau County Police Department. With the closure of both precincts all we have left are our memories.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to thank all my friends and supporters who took the time to read the draft of this novel and offer up their comments, suggestions and corrections, especially Jim and Kathy Magee, Richard and Barbara Paul, Charles Jeny, Carl and Jeanne Moller, Joan and Arnie Sparr, Frank and Edie Mauro, Joe and Kathy LaSpina, and Eileen Casserly. And, above all, a special thank you to my wife Lorraine who keeps me on the straight and narrow despite my verbal wanderings.

  Chapter One

  The distant sound of breaking glass stopped Police Officer Harry Cassidy in mid-stride. He turned, sucked in a lung full of the frigid night air, and listened intently. His eyes swept along both sides of the avenue, scanning each storefront, alert to any absence of reflected glare from the piles of snow heaped on the sidewalks. But there was nothing. No sound, no movement, no further clue to this sudden break in the tranquility of Christmas Eve.

  He exhaled and jogged back along the avenue, retracing the path he had just covered on his beat, puffing before completing a full block, the heavy winter overcoat and flapping rubber boots adding to his discomfort. He crossed 16th Street, but didn’t bother to glance down it, knowing the source of the breaking glass was still a block or two away. Gathering speed as he approached 17th Street, the adrenalin released by the expectant encounter gave him the extra push necessary to overcome the cold, the slippery footing and his cigarette-shortened breath.

  Harry slowed as he neared 18th Street and began to regain his breath. No sound impinged on his ears, except the pounding of his blood. Then the buzzing click of the relay in the traffic light control box made him jump. He glanced across the intersection. The bank clock said “11:31,” then flashed “+7̊ F.” His hands were moist and his armpits were drenched. A cold trickle of sweat worked its way down his spine. Withdrawing his gun he cautiously peered around the building edge, down 18th Street. Still nothing, but he was sure he was close. He edged round the corner, every muscle and nerve taut, ready for action. Then, just as he spotted a glint of shattered glass in the snow, he heard a muffled moan from the same vicinity. He relaxed slightly and approached the source of the sound. He spotted a body, lying on its back, amidst broken glass. It was dimly illuminated by the red neon glow from the sign above the Bird’s Nest Bar.

  As Harry approached to within a few feet of the body, he spotted the door to the Nest and realized what had happened. Someone, obviously not filled with the spirit of Christmas, had ejected this unlucky guy without first troubling to open the door. A movement from the body in the snow drew his attention. He holstered his automatic and crouched down. He was just a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, and Harry’s practiced eye and ten years experience told him the cuts were superficial. His nose also told him the boy was more drunk than injured.

  The boy opened his eyes as Harry cradled him in his arms. He jerked his head and a groan slipped from his throat.

  “Easy there, fella,” Harry said. “Calm down, I’m just trying to help you. What happened?”

  The boy did not respond, but only stared up at him with what Harry perceived to be a mixture of distrust and fear. He was olive skinned; perhaps Middle-Eastern or Hispanic, and Harry figured he probably came from the neighborhoods some five miles to the west.

  “Relax for a few minutes son while I get this straightened out,” Harry said as he

  lowered the boy’s head back onto its pillow of snow and headed toward the Nest. He stepped through the opening in the door. No one glanced up. Seven patrons, all men, sat spaced unevenly along the length of the mahogany bar. They all stared straight ahead at their glass of beer, all conversation having ceased with Harry’s entrance. The bartender nonchalantly passed a damp, gray rag over the bar top, paying no attention to Harry’s presence.

  “All right, Richie, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Cassidy. I ….”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. You damn well know what I mean. Who threw that kid out there through the door?”

  “Wait a minute, Cassidy, don’t come in here throwin’ your weight around. I run a decent place here and ….”

  “Richie, Richie, Richie, spare me the crap. All I wanna know is who threw the kid through the door, and when I find out I just might lock his ass up. It would make me extremely happy if that ass was yours.”

  Richie clenched his teeth and a bright pink color rose up his neck to his pockmarked cheeks. Harry knew Richie hated him more than he hated all cops, but he also knew Richie feared him.

  “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t give me the ‘I don’t know nuttin’ routine,’” Harry said, thrusting his long arms over the bar and grabbing Richie by the throat. He jerked Richie’s face to within an inch of his own and squeezed his hands tightly.

  “Listen close, you dirt bag. Tell me what I want to know, and tell me now, or I’ll choke you out.”

  “O…ok...okay...,” Richie managed to gasp.

  Harry relaxed his grip and Richie’s hands moved up to massage his aching neck. Then, much to Harry’s surprise, Richie smiled at him, and said, “Officer Cassidy, what happened here was a strong wind blew the door open and broke the glass. Nobody threw nobody out my door.”

  Harry stared hard at the grinning Richie not believing he had the nerve to lie right to his face. He was about to grab him again, but something told him to look outside. The kid was gone. He rushed out and looked up and down the block, but there was no one in sight. He walked back into the bar to a slight snickering from the patrons and a smiling shrug of the shoulders from Richie.

  “Like I said, Officer, ain’t nuttin’ happened here.”

  The urge to smash Richie’s face was almost irresistible, but he was beat, and he knew it, and he knew Richie knew it. Harry clenched his teeth and stormed out of the Nest, viciously slamming the door. The remaining pieces of glass flew out of the frame as a high-pitched voice called after him – “Merry Christmas, Officer Cassidy.”

  Harry walked back toward the avenue. The bank clock said “11:56.” Four minutes and his tour would be over. He began to shiver. As he calmed down from the encounter with Richie, the change in his body chemistry exposed him to the full effects of the dropping temperature and gusty northwest winds. He lifted the receiver from the callbox and waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A bored voice said, “Sergeant Miller, Nine-Five Precinct.”


  “Cassidy here, Sarge. Any relief tonight?”

  “No, Harry. The old man got the Christmas spirit and gave half the midnight tour the night off. The sector car’ll cover your beat. Have a Merry Christmas.”

  “Right, Sarge, same to you.”

  He replaced the receiver and walked up the street to his parked car lighting his first cigarette since he heard the breaking glass over a half hour ago. He dragged deeply and eased out onto the avenue. As he drove the seven miles to his apartment he reflected bitterly on Richie. He could visualize his NYMPD rap sheet – “Winston, Richard, male, white, 5’9”, 185 lbs., brown hair, brown eyes, poor complexion, age 41, Identification Bureau #63247, F.B.I. #Q19720438.”

  They should add, “Local low-life, two-bit burglar, part-time junkie and full-time pain in the ass,” muttered Harry. Richie was not a murderer, but he was living proof that crime, indeed, did pay. He had seven felony arrests with no felony convictions. Three were for house burglaries, Richie’s early specialty. The other four were for narcotics possession, possession of a loaded weapon, promoting gambling, and assault with a knife. His numerous misdemeanor arrests were for similar, though less serious crimes, with the last three being for possession of stolen property. This reflected a change in Richie’s M.O. from an active criminal to the more passive role of “fence.” Using the Nest as a front, Richie would be content to give the young burglars ten to fifteen cents on the dollar for their hot goods and, when they cooled off somewhat, he would deal them out a few items at a time for a nice profit.

  The more Harry thought about Richie, the madder he got. It infuriated him that he had always beaten the system and was released time after time to continue his illegal activities. But what bothered him the most was Richie operated on his beat, in his corner of the world and he seemed powerless to stop him. A lot of people on his beat ran numbers, or peddled dope, or committed petty thefts, but he always caught them and terminated their activities one way or the other, in the system or outside it. But he had been unable to stop Richie, and the courts wouldn’t stop Richie and… and what the hell was the sense of getting so worked up over this crumb? He grinned, remembering that brief, delicious instant awhile ago when he had his hands around the dirtbag’s throat. If only he had squeezed a little bit harder and a little bit longer….

  ●

  The sudden silence caused by the unconscious act of switching off the car’s ignition made Harry realize he hardly remembered driving home. He walked up to his third floor apartment in New Hyde Park and headed for a cold beer from the refrigerator. He took a long swallow and then grabbed a second can before heading back into the living room. Throwing his cap, overcoat and gun belt on the chair he plopped heavily onto the sofa, punching the on button on the remote on the way down. Just as he finished the first beer, Jay Leno’s face materialized on the screen. He removed his blue wool shirt and tie, popped open the second beer and lit a cigarette, deliberately trying to keep his mind blank, not concentrating on the heated discussion between two of Leno’s guests.

  After another beer he felt better. Leno ended and Harry switched channels to a late movie. An old black-and-white World War II flick he had seen a dozen times before played on the screen. At least in those days, he fondly recalled, the good guys always won. Black-white, good-bad – no grays, no hassle, no confusion. At the first commercial break he got the fourth can from the six-pack and slumped back on the sofa. It whooshed loudly, reacting to the shock of his 190 pounds hitting it. By the next commercial his head tilted back and he dozed lightly.

  He awoke to the stirring rhythm of the Marine Corps Hymn as the credits rolled by. He glanced at his watch – 2:30. As he arose from the sofa, a hazy plan began to take shape in his mind. He was a little dizzy from the four beers, but the thought of his recent humiliation would not go away. He would do something, but just what he did not yet know. Stripping off the remainder of his uniform he got into a pair of blue jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. He tucked his off-duty automatic into his belt, threw on his brown leather jacket and strode out the door.

  ●

  Harry eased his four-year old Dodge around Hempstead Avenue onto 18th Street. The numbers on the bank clock blurrily flashed, “2:55,” then “+1̊ F” as he slowed to a stop about 100 yards north of the Nest. He walked to the bar, shivering as a gust of wind pushed him from behind. The fractured glass and drops of blood were still scattered on the dirty snow. It was so cold the blood was still bright red as if it had been deposited there just five minutes ago.

  As he turned to enter the bar, he noticed Richie had attempted to secure the front door with some old slats and cardboard nailed sloppily to the frame. It might keep the wind out, but it sure as hell wouldn’t keep a burglar out. He drew himself up to his full six foot, two inch height and, still not knowing what the hell he was going to do, pushed through the door.

  Richie, at the far end of the bar, started at the sudden appearance of Harry. He said nothing as Harry threw a leg over the stool nearest the door, but continued his muted conversation with the one remaining customer.

  Harry waited patiently – one, two, three minutes. Richie continued to ignore him.

  “Hey, dirtbag,” Harry called out, “get the hell down here and give me some service.”

  Richie came down toward Harry staring at him with a menacing glare. The customer swiveled toward the front of the bar in expectation of the confrontation that might occur. “What’re you doin here, Cassidy? If you harass me, I’ll turn you in to Internal Affairs. I’ll have your badge, I’m warning you…”

  “Shut up, and draw me a beer. And use a clean glass, if you got one in this crummy joint.”

  Richie started to say something, but then shut his mouth. He went over to the tap, drew the beer and placed it carefully in front of Harry. He took the ten dollar bill Harry placed on the bar in front of him, and rang up the sale returning with the change. He then retreated to the far end of the bar to resume his conversation with his pal. He occasionally glanced down at Harry, and when his glass was empty, walked down, refilled it, and rang up the sale without uttering a word.

  Meanwhile, Harry tried to sort out his thoughts. Just what was he doing here anyway? Why had he come all the way back to his beat? To break Richie’s chops? To provoke him into a fight? Or did he just want to be somewhere – anywhere – on Christmas, just so he didn’t have to spend it alone with his memories?

  Twenty minutes later, the man at the end of the bar got up and walked to the front door giving Harry’s stool a wide berth. Richie cautiously moved nearer to Harry now that they were alone, but Harry noticed he stayed well out of arm’s reach.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would drink up, Cassidy. It’s Christmas y’know and I wanna close up.”

  “What’s the big rush, Richie? What are you gonna do? Follow Santa around and steal some kid’s toys?”

  “Listen, Cassidy, if you got somethin’ on me, why don’t you lock me up? If not, bug off or I swear my lawyer’ll be knocking on a lot doors in the New York Police Department’s Headquarters tomorrow, Christmas or no Christmas.”

  “One of these days, you slime ball, I’ll get you good. And if I can’t do it legal, I just might take care of you myself with these two hands.”

  Richie’s hands started to move up to his throat, but then he dropped them back to his sides. The movement did not go unnoticed by Harry.

  “What’s the matter, neck still hurt?”

  “Stop threatening me. I’m too smart for you guys. The system had plenty of chances at me and I beat ‘em every time. And you’re too smart to do me in yourself. You’d never get away with it and you could kiss your job and pension goodbye.”

  Harry felt himself about to lose control. He and Richie were alone in the bar – and now there were no witnesses.

  “Please,” Richie said. “Drink up. I gotta fix that door before I leave. Please.”

  The abrupt change in Richie’s tone defused the imminent mayhem in Harry.

&
nbsp; “Gotta fix the door,” he said, mimicking Richie’s voice. You should have thought of that before you and your pals threw that kid through it.”

  Harry grabbed his change and prepared to leave. He hesitated momentarily as he remembered the guy who had left a few moments ago. Was Richie setting him up? Could that guy be waiting for him in a dark doorway? Christ, he must be getting paranoid. That pockmarked-face weasel wouldn’t have the nerve to try to take him out. He opened the door and stepped out into the icy, clear darkness.

  Just as he reached his car, a sharp crack echoed through the freezing air. He hit the snow, slipping on an icy patch, his right hand desperately groping for the gun at his waist. He ripped it free and waited, crouched behind the car. Three more loud bangs split the silence. He relaxed somewhat after realizing they were not the sounds of gunfire. He peered cautiously over the fender of his car as another series of blows sounded down the street. Just as he had said he would do, Richie begun to nail some more boards across the door of the Nest.

  Harry chuckled to himself at the thought of how he must have looked hitting the ground. Yet he knew his reactions and reflexes had kept him alive all these years. He would take a cold, wet ass anytime to keep the bullet with his name on it from splitting his skull.

  He entered his car, started the engine and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and laid his head back on the head rest. He exhaled slowly allowing the tension to flow out with the blue smoke. He lit another cigarette as the car began to warm up. As the heat began to fill the car, he watched Richie finish up and head toward the alley. What had he accomplished by coming back here? Nothing. What could he do to stop Richie anyway? Beat him up? Kill him? He must be going nuts. Imagine wanting to kill a guy because he got away with a lot of little crap. But as he remembered his hands tightening around Richie’s neck, a bit of satisfaction entered into his tired brain. Jesus, he had to go home and get some sleep.