Atmosphere Read Free

laughed amongst themselves. Frank heard them cracking gay jokes about the victim.
    "So Smoky...what brings you out at this time of night?"
    Frank recognized the voice at once. Smiling, he turned to face Captain Hector Rodriguez. Frank had worked his longest tour of duty with Hector at the 13th, nearly twenty years, before being promoted—and transferred—to the 12th eleven years ago.  
    In 1968, his first month as a rookie cop, Frank had been posted at the corner of Bleeker and 3rd, three blocks from an open air concert being performed by the Grateful Dead. Greenwich Village in the late sixties always offered a great deal of culture to look at: drunk and stoned kids roaming the streets, all living life to its fullest, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Frank was just a kid himself at the time, and being from Brooklyn, had had many friends participating in all the far-out activities thriving at the time. The day of the concert he had been perched at the corner watching the semblance of activity, wondering with a bit of envy what his life would have been like had he not chosen to become an officer of the law. He pictured himself dressed in bell-bottom jeans, a tie-dye shirt, headband, John Lennon specs, and a cigarette dangling from his lip.
    As he daydreamed, a group of teens approached him, most of them proudly sporting marijuana joints. They jeered him, and Frank—as young and as naive as they got at the time—just stood there against a brick building as frozen as a snowman while they all took turns blowing pot smoke into his face. He felt so helpless that they probably could have helped themselves to his gun. It was a good thing they didn't; he wouldn't have been a cop today.
    As it happened, the whole episode was simply a harmless prank on the part of the hippies, and as far as they had been concerned, were simply spreading the 'word', love, peace and happiness, man . Frank had gotten so stoned he needed to wait until the following day before he could write up a report on the incident. Of course by that time he had completely forgotten what any of the teens looked like. It was an incident that would haunt him for the rest of his career, and it was how he got the nickname 'Smoky'.
    "Please don't call me that, Hect."
    "C'mon," Hector said, his voice rife with sarcasm. "I couldn't imagine calling you by any other name." He gave Frank a smile and a wink.
    Ballaro returned the playful gesture with a grin of his own. It took effort given the circumstances and the exhaustion racing through in his veins, but Hector was a pal, and deserved his respect. "Well...how about 'Frank'. That has a nice ring to it." He wondered how Hector, especially at his age, found the energy to be so vibrant at this early hour.
    Rodriguez gave Frank a soft tap on the shoulder. "Okay. You got it. No more Smoky jokes...if I can help it." Another wink.
    Frank took a good look at his old friend. Lines adorned every crevice of his face, around the eyes, nose, mouth. And his hair looked like vanilla frosting, white tufts escaping the brim of his cap. Lord, how times flies. He had to be pushing, what, fifty-nine, sixty?
    "So what are you doing here? And when in God's name are you going to retire?" Frank pointed a thumb towards the paramedics, who were now racing the body on a stretcher along with an IV rig toward the ambulance. "You don't need this crap anymore."
    "Can't Frank," he answered succinctly, tipping his hat—a motion handled subconsciously. "This is my life. Call me crazy, but I love this, crap and all."
    Frank knew quite well how Hector Rodriguez felt. He inexplicably felt the same way. It was something special deep inside, something that compelled him to seek out answers to every challenging mystery confronting him. Take criminals off the streets where they could threaten the innocent. He had no idea why all his life he urged for this lifestyle. Growing up, his parents never made any efforts to steer him towards a career of law