Revolver (26 page)

Your daddy has to go on a trip,
his drunk uncle tells him one morning.

But Stanisław knows what his father's done. He heard everybody talking downstairs when they thought he was asleep.

His daddy has shot someone. A police officer, and now he has to hide.

Stanisław watches as he packs fast, packs light. Daddy uses an old T-shirt to wrap the .38 Special he bought from some gangster over near Ninth and Christian. He packs two boxes of ammunition, too—
WESTERN .38 SPECIAL SUPER POLICE LOAD,
the box reads,
200-GRAIN.
The gangster who sold him the ammo told Jan this is what cops use all over the country. If you're going to get into a gunfight with a cop, you want to have the same stopping power.

And then he's gone without a word, leaving Stanisław and his younger brother, Jimmy, with an uncle who's hardly ever around and a loose collection of rough men and women all in the same business—bootlegging.

The cops come around and ask questions but not for too long. His uncle jokes that it's a
murzyn
cop so they're not taking it all that seriously. Hell, Jan could have stayed home!

There's no school for Stanisław. He's needed at home to take care of the cooking (whenever someone wants to eat) and general tidying up. But most of his time is taken up with the house project—digging out a subbasement where his uncle figures they can hide booze or weapons or even a person for a while. Stanisław digs and Jimmy holds the buckets steady. They don't want anyone to know what they're up to, so every time two buckets are full, Stanisław has to carry them out the back, down the street, past the sugar refinery to an empty lot down by Delaware Avenue. He dumps the buckets, comes back for more. The dirt is wet and heavy and hard and smells like mold.
It's probably shit from fifty years ago,
he thinks. The metal handles dig into his palms so hard that the lines never go away.

Nobody stops him or questions him—he's just a stupid little Polack playing with a couple of buckets of dirt.

His uncle says he wants this pit dug out by Christmas, and that means at least fifty runs and ten buckets per day. His uncle “supervises.” His uncle drinks a lot. His uncle is impatient. His uncle yells a lot when he's drunk. One night he yells so loud it startles Stanisław and he drops one of the dirt buckets onto the kitchen floor. His uncle calls Stanisław a stupid
schnudak
and kicks him down the stairs. He tumbles down with the half-empty bucket. Stanisław's nose is bloodied and his lip is split and his ankle screams.

Jimmy cries when he sees his older brother, which makes Stanisław furious. He dumps the rest of the foul dirt out of one bucket and marches up the steps with it. His uncle is taking a pull from his bottle when Stanisław swings the bucket and smashes the bastard upside the head with it. The bottle shatters on his face, which is now a half-mask of blood. The uncle roars. Stanisław drops the bucket and runs out the back door and into the city.

He doesn't intend to stay away forever. Just until his daddy gets home a few months from now. He picks the farthest place he knows in the city—Frankford—and hops the El there, ducking the fare. He doesn't know anyone in that neighborhood but his daddy took him and Jimmy there once to see a movie at a gigantic theater near Orthodox Street. It seemed nice.

Now it seems alien, frightening. He ducks into the nearest place with an open door—a café with live entertainment. He tells the bartender he's waiting for his daddy (technically not a lie). The whole place shakes whenever the El comes roaring past, temporarily drowning out the piano player set up in the corner. Stanisław is starving so he asks for a sandwich. Bartender puts in the order, no questions asked. The piano player catches his eye, smiles, and bangs out a song Stanisław actually recognizes—“Baby Face.” A joke on him, he guesses. Bartender holds the sandwich and asks Stanisław if he's sure his daddy will have the money to pay for it. He lies and says yes and quickly devours the sandwich.

Of course after an hour or so with no father, the bartender realizes what's up. He threatens to call the police but Stanisław begs him not to—can't he work it off instead? The piano player takes up his defense, telling the bartender to cut Little Man a break.

The bartender doesn't want to call the cops, of course—he's selling liquor in teacups and doesn't want the bluecoats to use a visit as an excuse to shake him down for another payment.

So the bartender cuts the nine-year-old a break. He'll work at this café for the next eight years—cleaning dishes, then lugging boxes, eventually even learning a little piano and filling in on the keys once in a while. The El constantly roars over their heads, and during that first year Stanisław thinks about going back home to see Jimmy, just to make sure he's okay.

But he doesn't dare. His uncle is most likely still fuming.

On July 22, 1934, John Dillinger is gunned down outside a movie theater in Chicago and everybody in the café is talking about it. Stanisław picks up the
Ledger
and reads the story, excited to learn how they finally caught Public Enemy Number One. He likes cop and crime stories.

But below the fold on the front page is a short piece about an attempted jewelry store heist.

Shot dead was the alleged ringleader, Big Jan Kaminski, forty-two, of the city's Southwark neighborhood.

When he joins the US Army in '43 he enlists as Stan Walczak—the name he's been using since leaving home. He lifted the last name from a poker-playing lodger who was once kind to him, taught him some magic tricks.

A bunch of years later, while working at a nightclub near Kensington and Allegheny, he meets Rosie Avallone, a short funny girl with an amazing bust. His pals warn him to back off—she's dating some young gangster type. But Stan is back from the war and feeling like he's ready for anything. He asks her out. He shows her his service photo. She says she likes how he looks in a uniform. Stanisław tells her good—because he's joining the police academy. No gangster would mess with a cop.

At first, the decision is all bravado—and a lack of other options. Piano playing is fun but doesn't pay nearly enough to start a family. A cop can make $2,400 a year with potential for advancement. Decent, steady money in 1951.

But it's not just about that. He realizes he wants to bury Jan Kaminski for good. And replace the police officer he killed.

And besides—Rosie likes how he looks in a uniform.

Before long the gangster catches wind of this big Polack Rosie is seeing. Stan's pals try to warn him. He's got a violent streak and is fond of his .38 Special.

Then one day he walks into the club when Stan is in the middle of a tune and comes right up to the piano and bangs on the top and says,
Goddammit, I can't believe it's you!

The gangster is his younger brother, of course—Little Jimmy Kaminski all grown up. People around town call him Sonny. They don't let on to anybody else. Not even Rosie. In private, though, his younger brother tells him he's lucky.

“If it were anybody else,” Sonny Jim says, “I would've had you killed.”

Homicide Detective James Walczak is headed for a divorce.

In early January Philadelphia is hit with a winter storm of historic proportions—thirty inches of snow. The city can barely keep up with plowing the roads. Jim and Claire and the kids are trapped inside their small house on Unruh Avenue for three days. Fighting is constant. Audrey cries a lot. Jim drinks too much. The roof of their deck, overloaded with snow, collapses.

Claire leaves the following summer, in the sweltering heat of August 1996. She can't deal with his moods, his depression, his drinking. She wants a better life for their boys, she says. He notices she doesn't include Audrey in that. Despite all her promises, there's still that painful division.
Your kid, not my kid.
She suspects he's been cheating again and that he's wracked with guilt, hence the drinking. Let her think that. Better than the truth. Maybe it's better that they go away. Safer for them all.

That fall, Sta
ś
goes off to the police academy in spite of his father. On graduation day Rose hangs his photo on the wall near her staircase.

Homicide Detective Jim Walczak watches his highest-profile murder case unravel in the courtroom.

In February 1997, Timothy Hoober and Bobby Haas are tried for the murder of Kelly Anne Farrace. They claim they were beaten and forced to sign blank pieces of paper that would later hold a typed confession. After a monthlong trial, both men are acquitted. There's simply not enough physical evidence to convict. Jurors also don't find the prosecution's case compelling. The murder of Kelly Anne Farrace is considered unsolved.

Captain James Walczak retires from the Philadelphia Police Department after thirty years of service. There is a small retirement party but none of his children (nor his ex-wife) choose to attend. He visits his father's grave and begs for forgiveness for his sins. He takes care of his mother, Rose, bringing her groceries and doing small repairs on the house on Bridge Street.

Within a few months of retirement, however, he finds himself growing restless, drinking way more than he should. He enters a program and emerges forty pounds lighter. He begins to consult on cases for the department from time to time. He also reinvestigates his own cold cases, hoping to make up for some earlier career missteps, though he'll never admit this to anyone else. To those who ask, he simply explains that he's keeping his mind busy. There's one case, however, that he refuses to touch, despite reporters calling him every year, on the anniversary of the murder. The most he'll give is a mostly subvocal
no comment
before hanging up the phone.

Retired police captain James Walczak receives a letter informing him that his father, Stanisław Walczak, will be honored with a plaque recognizing his service to the city of Philadelphia on the fiftieth anniversary of his death—May 7, 2015. It's both an honor and a terror. James gets very drunk that night, listening to the 45 on repeat until he can't stand it anymore and pulls it off the record player and snaps it in half.

In the cold sober light of morning he calls each one of his kids, asking them to attend. Not for him. But for the memory of their grandfather. And their grandmother Rose.

He's pleasantly surprised when they all agree. Even Audrey, who will fly back from Houston to attend the event.

He misses her more than words can convey.

Retired police captain James Walczak hears the news about his daughter, Audrey, and collapses. He is rushed to the same hospital—but no one tells Audrey, since she's fighting her own battle.

The prognosis for Jim is not good. The heart disease is too advanced. Surgery would be a gamble that even in the best-case situation would result in only half a year, a year tops.

Jim, however, refuses to go out like this.

He asks Cary to go to the house on Unruh Avenue and bring back files from the Kelly Anne Farrace murder. If Cary knows one thing, it's police paperwork. Then he summons a lawyer and Lauren Feldman, the former editorial assistant who is now city editor of the
Philadelphia Daily News
.

As they gather around his bedside, Jim tells them he believes mayoral candidate John DeHaven murdered Kelly Anne Farrace twenty years ago, disguising her rape and strangulation as the result of a random street attack. DeHaven's mother, mayoral advisor Sonya Kaminski, abused her position at City Hall to cover up her son's involvement. Furthermore, he believes that his police officer son, Sta
ś
, and daughter, Audrey, were attacked by those close to the Kaminski family in an effort to keep this quiet.

Lauren Feldman can't rush back to the newsroom at Eighth and Market fast enough.

The story breaks the next day—a Saturday, typically the worst day in the news cycle. But the word of the retired police captain is more than enough to sink the campaign. And for the DA to assemble a grand jury to investigate the Kaminski family's criminal ties going back to the 1960s. Jim's lawyer cautions him that he'll be crucified for this. “I'll bring the hammer and nails,” Jim replies.

But before the grand jury can be assembled, Jim's condition worsens. He tells Claire, Cary, and a recovering Audrey he wishes to be buried next to his father and his son over in the national cemetery in Beverly, New Jersey.

Audrey tells him, “You're not going to die, old man.” Clasping his hand tight, even though there's an IV line running into it. “We've got too many bad guys to catch. Father-and-daughter detective shit.”

“The family business,” Jim says, smiling.

“You know I love you, you grizzled old bastard?”

Jim knows. And on June 10, 2015, he gets his wish.

Audrey crouches down to pick the cigarette butts and chewing gum wrappers and other unidentifiable urban detritus from her grandfather's memorial plaque. “Sorry, gentlemen,” she says. “But I've been away for a little while.”

Bryant tries to help, too, dropping down to his knees and rubbing his great-grandfather's name with the lollipop he's been sucking on. Only through quick reflexes does Audrey prevent him from returning the lolly to his mouth.

The plaques are in good shape, one year later. Barry kept up with the cleaning of the plaques as long as he could, but quit the pizza joint by summer's end to attend grad school in…wait for it…
Houston
. Very romantic, and quite a surprise. But nobody was more surprised than Barry when Audrey revealed she was taking Bryant and moving back to Philadelphia as soon as possible.

She never finished her independent project; she dropped out of CSI school. However, none of the professors gave her the gas face since they all knew what had happened to her family in August. Her mentor even suggested that she write about her experiences and submit that as her independent project. But Audrey doesn't see the point. She has other plans.

Barry likes that she's a cop and he's a deacon. She can plug 'em, he can plant 'em.

Ben Wildey claims he can make Audrey a decent shot in one hour.

They're at the range early this morning—her request. Ben was thrilled to hear the news—especially after all the bad stuff that seemed to haunt the family this past year. Of course, it didn't hurt that Audrey flattered him by saying she wanted to learn from the best.

“Most cops think they can outshoot anybody,” Wildey says now. “Let me tell you something: the average cop can't shoot. Maybe fifteen percent can. And listen—it's all hype that cops are outgunned by drug dealers. They don't need more bullets. They need to be better trained.”

All it takes to be a decent shot, Ben explains, is good eyesight and two and a half pounds of pressure to pull the trigger. “No size or strength requirements, male or female. Anybody can shoot a gun.”

Sounds good. Ben sits her down in his office and places the two different types of handguns on the table in front of her: a revolver and a semiautomatic. Audrey is more interested in the revolver, of course. Official department weapons are Glocks, but Audrey likes the idea of carrying something extra. Something a little more personal.

Ben asks Audrey if she's left- or right-handed. She tells him left, but that she bats right. “Why?”

Ben explains that when left-handers shoot semiautos, the ejected shell invariably hits them in the head.

“Really hard?” she asks.

“Yup,” he says. “Enough to put your eye out.”

Audrey decides to become a right-handed shooter. Ben continues his safety lesson on semiauto shell ejection. “Just be careful with certain kinds of shirts. Hot ejected shells can land in funny places.”

“How about we stick with the revolver.”

“Good idea.”

Ben points to the revolver, a .38 Special, not too dissimilar to the gun used to kill their grandfathers, and explains that a revolver draws bullets from a cylinder, as opposed to a semiautomatic, which draws from a magazine.

“Pick it up,” he says, and she does, marveling at how heavy it is. He shows her how to open the cylinder—thumb, middle, and ring fingers around the cylinder, index and pinky splayed on top—and load the bullets. Her hand position resembles a deviant peace sign.

The next step—and most crucial—is learning how to fire both single-action and double-action. The names are misleading. Single-action involves two actions: You cock the hammer, then pull the trigger. Double-action is really a single, continuous action: you pull the trigger back until it cocks itself and then squeeze off the shot.

After donning protective eyewear and headset (and buttoning the top of her shirt—just to be safe), she stands at the range table. Ben staples a bull's-eye target sheet to the cardboard backing.

“Okay, single-action. Aim for six o'clock on the bull's-eye.” Cupping her left hand under her right, Audrey raises the .357 to eye level. She uses her left thumb to pull back the hammer and then places her right index on the grooves of the trigger. She closes her left eye and adjusts her position until the two rear sights and front sight form a W beneath the target.

“Go ahead,” Ben says.

She fires.

Suddenly there is white smoke everywhere, as if someone has set off a firecracker directly in front of her.

“Good shot,” Ben says. “You're just an inch below target.” Good shot, indeed—considering a second ago she couldn't even see the damned thing.

“Go again,” Audrey says, smirking.

The trick, according to Ben, is lining up your shot. Once you know how, you never lose it—no matter if the target is twenty-five, thirty, or a hundred feet away. Ben guides her through forty-nine more shots, varying between single- and double-action, finally giving Audrey a human silhouette to shoot at.

Out of twenty shots at thirty-five and fifty feet away, she manages to put fifteen slugs in Mr. Silhouette's “kill zone,” plus two decent shots in his left arm.

Ben Wildey doesn't lie. An hour later, Audrey can shoot better than most guys on the force.

She's lost thirty pounds since last year and has to admit—she looks pretty fucking good in a uniform.