Buried on Avenue B Read Free Page A

arrests, the overwhelming majority in eight square blocks of the Lower East Side and East Village. If they gave a lifetime achievement award to junkies, thinks O’Hara, this guy would be tough to beat.
    Then O’Hara turns to Williamson. “Paulette, I’m going to run your name too. Before I do, is there anything I ought to know about?”
    Williamson stares hard at O’Hara, then wearily shakes her head, as if telling herself she should have known that this would be her thanks for walking fifteen blocks on her own time.
    â€œAt one point, Detective O’Hara, I had a drug problem myself. Eight years ago, I cashed two stolen checks. Since then I’ve been clean. A year ago I made full restitution, every last cent.”
    O’Hara runs her name, and what comes up corroborates her story. Her last arrest was in ’99.
    â€œThose checks totaled almost eleven thousand,” says O’Hara, looking at the screen. “That’s a lot of money. How’d you pay it back?”
    â€œI worked,” says Williamson, although it sounds more like “Fuck you.” “Are you going to look into this?”
    â€œI doubt it,” says O’Hara, “but thanks for coming in.”
    Williamson gets up to leave, then hovers over her chair and looks down at O’Hara. “I had a problem, Detective. It’s true. But at least I dealt with mine.”
    MCBETH MAKES IT through his first surgery, and two hours later he is wheeled back in for a second. When O’Hara and Jandorek step into St. Vincent’s ER, it’s almost 7:00 p.m. The office of the admissions nurse has a glass window overlooking the dreaded waiting room. Above it is a sign informing arrivals that patients will be treated based on the seriousness of their condition, not the order in which they arrived. Jandorek refers O’Hara to the second sign, which reads, “Don’t Spread Germs! Please cover your mouth when you cough.”
    â€œYou think these motherfuckers cover their mouths when they cough? Not a chance in hell.”
    They are informed that the nurse in charge of the intensive care unit is on her way down, but twenty minutes later she still hasn’t arrived. Being in a hospital with Jandorek reminds O’Hara of the events that made him a legend among fellow detectives. A dozen years ago, Jandorek was working in homicide in Queens when he was appointed to be a union rep, a full-time position that supplants all your responsibilities as a detective. Careerwise, a stint with the union can work for or against you, but if you’re already in homicide and essentially guaranteed to make grade, there’s not much upside. Nevertheless, Jandorek took the job, and proved to be an effective rep, but one incident elevated him to the pantheon. About ten years ago a Brooklyn detective, after a long night of drinking, ran a stop sign and broadsided another car. Although the detective had only suffered minor injuries, a couple broken ribs, both passengers in the other car—a kindergarten teacher and her husband—were killed. Jandorek got the call in the middle of the night. He told the detective not to say a word before he got there, and more importantly, not to blow a Breathalyzer. “Tell them you’re in too much pain,” he said, “that you can’t breathe.” Both Jandorek and the DA arrived at the scene within minutes. The DA wanted the detective bad, which was understandable—he drove drunk and killed two human beings. But Jandorek refused to let the detective blow a test, said he’d got three cracked ribs, he could barely breathe, claimed it was unconscionable to even ask an officer in his condition to blow, that it was jeopardizing his life. Without the failed test, the only thing they got him for was running a stop sign, and a year later, the detective retired with a full pension. But brass was pissed, and now Jandorek is the only longtime homicide