home
samples
writing
editing
resume
Out Of Order
ONE
Caution – Wet Floor
|
N |
ew York City napped until Andre Castellano’s scream shook it awake.
Castellano, a porter at the Olmsted Court apartment house, was in the
building’s basement. He had been dragging fat, green, stuffed garbage
bags from the trash compactor room. He already had rummaged through the
piled magazines and newspapers for a copy of that day’s newspaper. The
best he could find was a pristine, unread copy of the previous day’s
New York Times, dated April 23, 1982.
Bulging bag in each hand, Castellano sang “New York, New York” as he
worked.
The compactor seemed to hum in harmony. But then it started to sputter.
It was choking on some chunky morsel again.
Wondering when the co–op would buy a new compactor or, at least, fix
this one, Castellano dropped the bags.
There are two kinds of problems, he thought. Most happen when things are
not what they seem. The rest are because things are what they seem.
He scrambled to the compactor’s base and threw a switch. The machinery’s
whining and coughing stopped. The compactor’s pressing plate was stalled
by the contents of a white plastic bag. Andre’s hand closed tightly on
the bag. Something felt wrong —and wet. His hand jerked open. Blood was
on his hand. Blood painted the inside of the compactor.
The plastic bag had been torn open, and Andre saw its contents — a
portion of a human torso. Peeking out from beneath was the head of the
decedent, Herman Matterweil, president of the co-op. Herman’s eye seemed
to gaze right at the porter.
That’s when Andre screamed. And that’s when he ran to the super.
Upon hearing the news, Calvin Birmingham, the building superintendent,
called 911 and the Police dispatcher directed a patrol car to Olmsted
Court on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. News gathering organizations found
their nostrils dilating when they heard the first call on their police
band scanners.
The second call was even juicier. It came from the police officer sent
to investigate. Portable two-way radio in hand, he was calling in from
Olmsted Court’s basement.
“It’s awful,” he screamed. “It’s awful.”
He started to retch.
A female voice from headquarters broke in. “Officer, tell us what’s
going on.”
“A corpse.”
“Male or female?”
“It’s in pieces. It’s cut into pieces. Oh God.”
“Okay officer, take it easy. Now carefully describe everything for me.”
The New York Post’s City Editor crouched by the police scanner in
his office. He looked like a farmer whose prayers for rain had been
answered.
“What’s to describe,” said the cop. “It’s a human body cut up like a
chicken. Forget the ambulance. Send an erector set. Send a screwdriver.”
The newspaper city editors, the radio news assignment editors, the
television news assignment editors wrote the information down, and
hollered or made phone calls or picked up the microphones from their own
two-way radios and sent reporters and news teams careening toward
Olmsted Court.
Sergeant Bernard Moscowitz was just maneuvering his green Pontiac toward
the Flatbush Avenue exit of the Manhattan Bridge when he heard the
second call on the police radio. He knew the third call would be for
him, and it was.
Some jokers at the precinct house had taken to calling him the “Jewish
cop” because he had his father’s name. Others called him “schwartzer”
because he had his mother’s pigmentation.
Moscowitz had black hair, a
neatly-trimmed, black mustache that extended just beyond his lips, a
long diagonal scar on his neck, a slight paunch and a well-developed
upper torso.
The scar always reminded Moscowitz that it was dangerous to be dumb and
smart to be lucky.
Years ago when he still was in uniform, he was sent to a marital dispute
call. Moscowitz’s efforts to cool the situation failed. The husband grew
increasingly incoherent and abusive. The wife’s fear-filled screams grew
shriller. When Moscowitz managed to slap the cuffs on the husband, both
husband and wife went silent. Moscowitz relaxed, and the wife snatched a
carving knife from the stove and lunged for the cop. Moscowitz sensed
the blur of movement from the corner of his eye, and tried to avoid the
slash.
The knife did catch him in the neck; but his dodge spared him the
humiliation of wearing a coroner’s tag on his toe. With a beefy left
hand pressing against the bleeding wound, he went into a crouch and
butted the wife in the belly and then connected with a solid right to
the jaw.
Upon release from the hospital, Moscowitz decided to practice caution
whenever possible.
After he reported his find to the super, Andre knocked on Michael
Levine’s door for help. Levine, a psychotherapist, was one of the few
shareholders who regularly said hello to Andre as if he meant it.
When Michael opened the door, he saw an agitated Andre Castellano, just
repeating the phrase “Mr. Matterweil” over and over.
“No,” said Michael patiently, “Mr. Matterweil isn’t here.”
Andre greeted this assertion with frantic arm waving and shouting.
Suddenly he reached forward and tugged Michael out of the doorway and
into the waiting freight elevator. Like a new Charon, the porter
silently steered the car down to the basement.
Michael considered explaining that he was going on a date and didn’t
have time for this. He was not about to discuss his social life with the
porter. Moreover Andre was too agitated to pay attention.
A plastic yellow A-frame “CAUTION: WET FLOOR” sign guarded the compactor
room door. Inside stood Calvin Birmingham and the police officer who
apparently had regained his composure.
“Calvin,” Michael began, “what—-”
Michael followed the trajectory of the superintendent’s gaze to the
white trash bags. He found himself in one last staring contest with
Herman Matterweil, his opponent so many times at co-op board meetings.
“Oh, no,” said Michael.
“Mr. Levine,” said the porter, “You must help me.”
Michael dimly heard Andre’s voice, but felt tied to Herman’s eyes.
That thing, that head, looked just like Herman but Michael (and he hated
himself for even thinking this) had never seen Herman looking so
detached.
“Oh, no,” repeated Michael. “Poor Herman. When did this happen?”
“You are my only hope,” said Andre. “You must help me.”
“Sure,” said Michael absently. “When did this happen?”
“I don’t know,” said Birmingham. “Castellano just found him”
“People here will think I did that terrible thing to Mr. Matterweil,”
said Andre.
“You got that right,” said Birmingham.
“Oh” said Michael, “I don’t —-”
“They will. I can feel it. I have watched enough television to know it.
I found it —them — him. That makes me suspect number one. It happens all
the time. “
“Well —”
“You, Mr. Levine, must clear my name.”
“I don’t see a real problem here, for you.”
“These people will think I killed poor Mr. Matterweil,” said Andre. “For
me that is a problem. My goose is cooked. My name is mud. Unless you
help me.”
“Andre.”
“Promise me, you’ll clear my name.”
“I —”
“Promise me.”
This is foolish, thought Michael. But the man is scared. He just needs
to know that somebody is in his corner. As pledges go this is easy to
keep.
“Sure,” said Michael.
“You have just made a solemn promise,” intoned Andre.
Solemn promise, thought Michael. Whoa! I’d better check the fine print
on this one. Herman was good at checking fine print. Oh, poor Herman. He
was such a bastard; but this is no way to go. Why can’t I remember
something good about him?
Michael, ready to embark on his adventure with the unknown but no doubt
fabulous Dolores Caruso, returned to his apartment to finish preparing
for his date.
Perhaps I should cancel, thought Michael. Nah, it’s too complicated to
explain. And besides after what I’ve been through, I need this date. My
first date in months — and now this happens to me.
Didn’t happen to me, he corrected himself. It happened to Herman. Even
now, he’s making trouble for me. Why can’t I think of something good
about Herman? I’m probably just acknowledging that Herman wasn’t a
friend and I’m not in mourning and a date is not inappropriate behavior.
As Moscowitz eased into the Eastern Parkway service road that led to
Olmsted Court, he saw the whirling lights of patrol cars, and
double-parked television news vans.
You don ‘t have to run away to join the circus, he thought. Just stay
with the Department.
Out of Order, a novel
Norman Schreiber
Topquark Press
Order Now