Crossing the Blue Line (eBook)

Chapter 1

Sitting in his civilian car, Randy Bishop stared up at the communications tower looming over the police cars behind the district. With the rain coming down, he wasn’t enthusiastic about beginning the shift. Watching the younger cops in their rain coats checking the oil and a few other responsibilities that go with operating a patrol car, he was happy to be on a foot-beat. Waiting for the rain to slacken, he looked at his watch, realizing the time was getting close to report in. Fortunately, being in the squad he was in, he and a few others with longevity didn’t have to stand roll call. They were privileged to be on their honor to check out a hand held radio and get to their assignments on time.

“Hello, David, happy birthday,” he said to the corporal behind the desk.

“You too, Randy,” looking across the operations room he said, “Happy birthday to you too, George.”

“Yeah, that’s right. It is our birthday.”

Another cop by the name of Don, someone who always bragged about being in the Marines, replied, “It’s all your birthdays today? That’s funny.”

“You were in the Corps; and you don’t know what today is?” Randy asked.

“Yeah; It’s November 10th,” he replied.

David, George and Randy looked at each other then looked at Don. David said, “If you didn’t know today’s the Marine Corps birthday, you were never a Marine. You’re full of shit! Every Marine knows what today is.”

Embarrassed he was discovered, Don quickly checked out a radio, then headed out the door. The corporal asked, “What do you think of that asshole Randy?”

“I don’t,” Randy replied, as he looked in the cabinet that stored the hand held radios. He asked, “Hey corporal. Is there a strap for this radio?”

Pointing to several cops working in the operations room, the corporal jokingly replied, “Yeah. There’s a strap sitting over there, and there’s another one over there in the corner typing that report.”

Everyone looked at him and laughed. Walt, who was making out the report, had a rebuttal to his claim, by crumpling up a piece of paper and hurling it across the room, landing on the corporal’s desk.

“Hey, Randy:”

“What’s that corporal?”

“I received a few phone calls from girls this morning asking whether you were on duty today. What the hell are you running for, mayor or something?”

Turning before he walked out the door, Randy replied, “No, I’m just a lovable kind of guy.”

Randy always tried to keep in some sort of physical condition, and at almost 40, the trips to the gym were getting harder. That was one of the reasons he preferred walking a beat. Daily exercise, and let’s face it, being in uniform helps with the opposite sex.

He worked the same neighborhood for 18 years, from 1967 thru 1985. First, in a police car, which were always one-man, for the exception of his assigned sector, then a police wagon which were two man. He had a black partner named Jesse for about 8 years, from 1968, to 1976, covering the same sector in a patrol car from 1968, until 1972, then a police wagon. The area they were assigned was part business, a large part residential, and a public housing project. The makeup of people who lived in their assigned area was about 60% black, 10% Puerto Rican, and a mixture of whites and Orientals.

Unlike Jesse, he chose not to go up in rank, thinking he was going to cure some of the ills of the world. They had that discussion several times, and he pointed out on more than one occasion, they were in the best position to help John Q Public. Looking back on it, he questioned whether he was right. After 18 years, to his dismay, he realized with few exceptions, his contribution to mankind would have been the equivalent of standing on a pier and pissing in the Pacific Ocean.

Getting back to his private auto, he headed south on Frankford Avenue to the beat. Parking on a small intersecting street, he picked up his radio and walked out on his assigned area. His beat was commonly referred to as “the avenue.” It was under the elevated train-trestle that serviced about 12 stops in different areas, on its route to center city, and the noise, as it passed overhead, was deafening. The beat consisted of all businesses: five banks, two savings and loans, four jewelry stores, four shoe stores, three bars, and the rest a mixture of women’s and men’s clothing stores. A restaurant was at each end, and one was conveniently located in the center of the beat. That in itself; will give you an idea of the foot traffic he encountered daily.

An added responsibility, at the center of the beat, was a major intersection. It was also an elevated train stop. Margaret- Orthodox station was a hub where busses and trolleys deposited passengers. The majority coming from the northeast section, traveling to center city to work, and at the end of the day, traversed the same route. Several businesses were also on Oxford Avenue, an intersecting street, which wasn’t a part of the beat, but as he said, he was a public servant. There was also a high school several blocks away on Oxford Avenue, and being visible, deterred more than one fight between students after dismissal.

A small coffee and sandwich shop was located between Frankford Avenue and the high school. Alma’s restaurant was more or less a small order take out sandwich shop, with five stools for patrons who chose to have breakfast or lunch. It was in a prime location, being next to a news stand that took daily numbers. That was before the state moved in with daily lotteries, which robbed a lot of people from making a living. Alma was in her late fifties and worked side by side with a woman a little older, named Sadie. They were proficient, and turned out a sandwich that was so packed full of lunch meat, it was difficult to span with one’s mouth. It was also a stop where Randy usually began his day.

“Good morning, Alma. How’s the coffee?”

“You know; same as usual,” she said, pointing to a sign prominently hanging over the coffee urns. Looking at it, he laughed. It read, “Don’t complain about the coffee. Some day you’ll be old and weak too.”

Outspoken, she had the kind of demeanor that was brash, but one of those people that could say something offensive, and you automatically knew she wasn’t serious. Sadie was a perfect accomplice when it came to backing up Alma’s statements. The restaurant was open from 6 a.m. until 3 p.m., and he always tried to make it a point to be there early when the students were on their way to school, and at dismissal, so they wouldn’t take advantage of her, by stealing candy from an open display-case.

“Thanks, Randy. Sometimes they rush the store and steal half the candy in the cases when my back’s turned,” she said.

“That’s okay, Alma,” jokingly adding, “I’m here to serve.”

He always played sort of a game with Alma. She never knew how old he was, and he kept her guessing, by reminding her of things associated with the neighborhood, such as establishments that had been gone for years, places he was told about in general conversation by older people familiar with them.

She asked, looking over her shoulder as she poured his coffee, “What do you think of the police department hiring female cops?”

“Alma, the police department always had female officers, but they were always assigned juvenile aid, or sex crimes unit. If they can handle the job, I say more power to them. Personally, I was tired of working different shifts. When the chance came to walk a permanent day-work beat Monday through Friday, I took it.”

“When do you retire?” she asked, trying to trip him up on how old he was.

“I don’t know when I’ll pull the plug. The job’s not the same as when Dumont’s was around the corner,” he said, knowing Dumont’s was a night club that had been long gone, even before he became a cop.

Turning to face him, she replied, “Damn it! “That’s what I mean. If you’re old enough to remember Dumont’s, you have to be in your 50’s. If you are, you preserve well. If I was your girlfriend, I’d have to follow you with a damn baseball bat,” pausing for a moment to refill the small cream pitcher on the counter, she continued, “Every morning when I wake up, I look in the damn mirror and wonder who in the hell’s the old lady staring back at me? I always open the medicine cabinet door hoping someone else was there, but no, it’s just me.”

Sadie remarked, “Ain’t it the damn truth.”

He laughed as he walked out the door.

The rain slacked off, and he decided to make “the run.” That’s what he called walking from one end of the beat to the other, checking stores. Part of his duties was signing a log-book kept in all the banks, savings and loans, and the two drug stores, morning and afternoon. He knew most of the people who were tellers, and bank personnel, from when he worked a car. Amongst the radio assignments, which dealt directly with the beat, on occasion, he had a school crossing at one of the elementary schools, just off the beat, when one of the crossing guards was absent.

Passing one of the bank parking lots, he saw what looked like the female cop assigned to the high school. There were two cops assigned, one male and one female. Champ was her nickname, and he didn’t know how she came by it, unless it had something to do with her kick boxing ability. He saw her demonstrating her skill once to a few other cops in the roll...