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  Most officers were placed on desk duty for several months while the shrink screened them for any unusual stress-related behavioral changes. The NYPD could not allow a bunch of Quick-draw McGraws to roam the streets with guns and badges. Some officers tried to milk extra time off for an injury, but Bellamy kept them honest, returning them either to full or light duty depending on the status of their injuries.

  Luckily for Micko, he lived close by and the drive was short. It was a sunny morning, yet too cold to drive with the T-tops off. The guttural growl of the Firebird’s eight-cylinder engine mixing with the soothing tunes always relaxed the tense detective.

  The medical department was on the second floor of a North Bronx precinct. The building was typical of the Bronx station houses, most of which were almost one hundred years old. The city of New York slowly built newer buildings to replace the older ones, but many remained open with landmark distinction.

  This particular building was a three-story red brick monstrosity located in a heavily populated area. It looked like a residence stuck in a bustling business area. There were no parking spaces available, so Micko had to leave his Firebird in a McDonald’s parking lot.

  The first floor of the building was a typical Bronx precinct. A pair of green lights adorned the outer doors, indicating that the doors were always open. Inside there was always a plethora of activity—mothers screaming about missing children, men complaining that their cars had been towed, crossing guards awaiting their work assignments, cops coming and going with prisoners who cursed them, and the never-ending chatter from police radios. The interior of a Bronx station house was always like an asylum.

  In the center of the huge room stood the ancient sergeant’s desk. All people had to state their business to the desk sergeant, who stood high above the complainants behind his holy desk. If he found someone’s complaint to be trivial in nature, he would look down upon that person with disdain and growl his displeasure at having his valuable time wasted. If the good sergeant took an interest in someone’s complaint, he would direct him or her to someone who actually gave a shit. A desk sergeant was like a god, so it was not a good idea to incur the surly man’s wrath.

  Micko said hello to several police officers as he entered the bustling building. He knew most of the Bronx cops, but they all knew him. His shooting was part of a high profile case, so it had received plenty of publicity.

  “Hey, Micko. How’s it going?”

  Micko turned to see his partner Gus Lopez walking with a cup of coffee in one hand and a donut in the other. They had met as rookies, and it was Gus who had given him his nickname. Gus was a middle-aged man of average height and proportional weight. Being of Puerto Rican descent, he spoke Spanish very well, which was more than helpful since they were working in the South Bronx. Gus had premature white hair and a well-trimmed white beard, giving him an uncanny resemblance to the country singer Kenny Rogers. Latin girls loved his mature “Q-tip” look.

  “What are you doing here?” Micko asked.

  “The fiftieth precinct had a double homicide last night, and they requested my help,” Gus replied.

  Only Micko’s best friends called him “Micko,” and Gus was more than a close friend. The two men were more like brothers. Gus and Micko shared some small talk until Micko said, “Gus, I gotta go. I don’t want to be late. Call me later and let me know how the investigation is going, and I’ll let you know what the doctors said.”

  “Tell him to just cut it off so we can use it as a doorstop,” Gus said with a laugh. “You don’t use it much anyway, you lazy Irish bullox.”

  “I’m not worried about him. I’m worried about the shrink,” Micko returned. “She might put me in a straitjacket and send me off to the Bronx State Mental Hospital.”

  Micko took the elevator to the second floor and signed in at the reception desk. The second floor of the station house was peppered with numerous offices. The detective squad and the medical section used most of them.

  “Have a seat over there,” a large, ancient sergeant growled.

  Micko took a seat and silently laughed at the old time sergeant stuffed into his little cubicle. I wonder who he pissed off to pull this shit assignment, he thought. The sergeant’s nametag read Callahan, and he was easily thirty pounds overweight. Callahan was dressed sloppily, and his uniform shirt bore the remains of his last dozen meals. He had an unusually large head with cauliflower ears, making him look like an aged boxer just waiting until his pension and Social Security kicked in.

  The clock on the wall read 07:48 hours, so Micko knew he was on time. The waiting room was large, but each office was rather small—an impression not helped by walls painted battleship gray and the fact that each office was stocked with metal military surplus desks. Various help intervention posters were taped to the walls, including alcohol recovery, Gambler’s Anonymous, drug rehabilitation, gay pride, anger management, domestic abuse prevention, and psychiatric counseling. Micko began to wonder if he was a member of the NYPD or a resident of Sodom and Gomorrah.

  He sat in a little plastic chair that appeared to be made for schoolchildren, but he didn’t want to stand lest he incur the wrath of Sergeant Cauliflower Ears. God, this place is so depressing, he thought.

  Then he chuckled to himself as he looked at his choice of available reading material. Besides the intervention stuff, there were pamphlets on how to save your soul and get back to church. The sports magazines were comically outdated, as were the business and news magazines.

  As he flipped aimlessly through a very old Reader’s Digest, his mind wondered back to the events that had led up to this point in his life. What track am I on and how will all this affect my career? he wondered.

  Mick O’Shaughnessy had been born and raised in the Bronx, the oldest of three siblings. His family lived in a nice tenement in the projects, and he attended the local parish’s Catholic schools. He was athletic and popular all throughout school. All these years later, he still maintained close relationships with dozens of his childhood buddies.

  Although he had been a star athlete, he had been a rather poor student. In high school, Micko had been called into Brother Kevin’s office, the school’s guidance counselor. It was time for him to interview each student about college and career choices.

  At that point, Micko had recently become a huge fan of Jacques Cousteau and the wonders of the unexplored underwater world, so when his guidance counselor asked, “Well, Michael, what do you want to do when you graduate?” he answered, “I’d like to be an oceanographer.”

  In addition to being a humorless man who would have made a great desk sergeant, Brother Kevin was built like a linebacker. From his chair, Micko was knocked to the ground by a wicked backhand. Brother Kevin then used the same hand to right the boy and his chair. “Michael, you have a seventy-two percent grade average. You aren’t even college material, so how can you be an oceanographer? An oceanographer must have a degree in marine biology and marine engineering.”

  Before the stunned youth could reply, Brother Kevin added, “Do yourself a favor and forego any attempt at college. Apply for a job with the utility companies and take all of the civil service exams.”

  Micko discussed this scenario with his family, who agreed with Brother Kevin. So he applied for work with the local gas and electric company, as well as the local telephone company. He also took the police, fire, and sanitation tests. Upon graduation the following year, Micko was hired by Ma Bell and also placed on the police hiring list. After swinging on telephone poles for five years, he was finally called to enter the NYPD Police Academy.

  Four months later, he was walking a beat in the hustling business area of the South Bronx. Micko had finally found his niche in life. He’d been a clumsy telephone repairman, who often caused more damage than he fixed. As a police officer, though, he was following a longstanding family tradition. His father and grandfather were both retired policemen, so they were very proud of him. Micko was determined to work hard for the coveted gold det
ective shield. He knew that he didn’t have the book smarts to pass the sergeant’s test, but he was street smart and fearless, and he knew that someday he would be a homicide detective.

  A phone rang, and Micko snapped back into the present as he looked up to see the good sergeant fielding a call.

  “O’Shaughnessy,” he barked, “room number three.”

  Micko struggled to get out of the tiny chair and slowly walked into room three where Dr. Bellamy was puffing on a cigarette as he perused Micko’s folder. Micko liked Dr. Bellamy. He was a bit unorthodox, but fair. He was also a bit comical in his ways. Lost in thought, he didn’t acknowledge Micko’s entrance.

  The office was small and unassuming, and it was painted a boring mustard color. A picture of that poor skinless man hung on the wall with his insides visible to the world, and an ancient eye chart adorned the opposite wall.

  Micko looked at the balding, sixtyish, overweight man who nervously sucked down cigarettes like they were candy. Neither the doctor nor Sergeant Callahan were destined to win any best-dressed awards, that was for sure. Dr. Bellamy wore a dark blue shirt that had faded with age. The collar was frayed, and he was missing a button where the shirt entered his brown trousers, revealing a once white undershirt. He had one of those plastic penholders that all the nerds had stuck in his shirt pocket. Cigarette ashes covered his clothes, making him look like a refugee from the Mount St. Helen’s eruption. Without looking up, he said, “Take off your pants.”

  “But, Doctor, I hardly know you!” Micko replied.

  Bellamy smiled and slowly looked up. Then he looked Micko directly in the eye and said, “It’s nice to see you again, Detective.”

  “You too, Doc. Hey, I see you’re buying your clothes at Yves St. Laurent.”

  “Do you want to be returned to work full duty tomorrow, funny man?”

  “Sorry, Doc,” Micko said with a grin.

  The two usually traded funny barbs and light banter before getting down to business. Dr. Bellamy gave Micko a thorough examination and then spoke frankly. “I don’t like the way your leg developed atrophy while it was in the cast. Nine months is too long for a full leg cast, but there was no choice. It’s still too soon to send you back to light duty, so I’ll recommend to the medical board that you remain on full sick leave for at least another thirty days.”

  That was fine with Micko. He was not eager to get back to work yet, especially in his current physical and mental condition. He knew that he would be assigned to desk duty, which meant manning the switchboard and handling stupid calls from stupid people complaining about stupid things until he would need help from one of the intervention posters.

  The doctor and Micko discussed several exercises to help strengthen the leg.

  “You could practice kicking the dog,” Bellamy cracked.

  “Can’t. The dog ran away.”

  “Okay, kick your wife.”

  “Can’t. She ran away with the dog.”

  “Isn’t there anyone you can practice kicking?”

  Micko raised his eyes and rolled them toward the doctor’s big butt.

  Noticing his gaze, Bellamy muttered, “Don’t even think about it.” Suddenly, he said, “I have a better idea. Wait outside while I make a call.”

  Micko did as he was told and decided to stand rather than squeeze into the midget chair again. If Sergeant Cauliflower Ears wanted a fight, then a fight he would get.

  A few minutes later, Dr. Bellamy stuck his head outside the door. “It’s all arranged. Dr. Goldberg will see you now.”

  Micko walked over toward the end office where Dr. Gladys Goldberg held court. Dr. Goldberg was much more than just the department psychiatrist. She was a stunning redhead that oozed sex appeal out of every pore in her body. Micko was very lucky that Gladys liked him. When she liked someone, she would harmlessly flirt with him, but she also had the power to end the career of any cop, from patrolman to chief. Micko had already had several sessions with her, and he’d won her over with his charm.

  Dr. Goldberg’s office was as small as Dr. Bellamy’s, but hers was freshly painted egg yolk yellow. Several lithographs of Renoir paintings added a serene touch, providing a relaxed setting.

  “Come on in and have a seat, Michael,” she offered.

  Micko thought Gladys looked terrific that day. She had her hair in a sweep that coyly covered one eye and she wore a pink silk blouse that fit her ample bosom so snugly that Micko feared a button might pop off and take out one of his staring eyes. Gladys always wore black stockings, and this day was no exception.

  Micko looked her over from the tips of her sexy high heels right up her stockings to her leather skirt. This woman sure knew how to get a rise out of men.

  “Good morning, Doctor,” he answered. “God, you look great today.”

  “Just today, Michael?” She pretended to be hurt as she gave her best puppy dog frown.

  They both laughed, and as her breasts heaved with each chuckle, he feared he would surely lose an eye.

  “I have some very good news for you, Michael,” she said, “and I bet you could use some good news. Dr. Bellamy consulted with me about the atrophy of your leg, and we came up with a solution that you might like. The weather is turning cold and winter is approaching, so it will be difficult for you to properly exercise outdoors. We think that you need a vacation in a warmer climate.”

  “Can you do that?” Micko asked.

  “Hell, I’m the department shrink,” she said with a laugh. “I can do anything. My sister is a travel agent. I’ll have her set something up for you. Dr. Bellamy mentioned that you like scuba diving. We both agree that scuba diving would be great stress therapy, and it would also help build up your leg muscles without risking further injury. Water related exercises are zero impact.”

  This is too good to be true! Micko thought. “Where should I pick to go diving?” he asked.

  “I’ll call my sister Sharon and let her find a nice place that’s not too expensive. We all know about a cop’s paltry salary.”

  Her smile was as wide as the Grand Canyon. He wondered if those magnificent white teeth were all capped.

  “I guess I’ll see you in about thirty days or so,” she added with a smirk. “Call me when you return. We still have to discuss the insensitive comments you made at the shooting scene and the failure to render assistance to your prisoner.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” he muttered.

  Micko was on Cloud Nine as he walked out of Dr. Goldberg’s office. He stared at Sharon Goldberg’s business card and wondered where on earth she would send him to recuperate.

  Then he barged into Dr. Bellamy’s office and interrupted him while he was with a patient.

  “Thanks for everything, Doc!” he blurted. “Hey, Fritz, how’s the elbow?” he called out to the patient that he suddenly recognized.

  “Better,” Fritz replied.

  Micko smiled to himself and he limped toward the elevator. He had worked with Fritz on a detail when they were both young patrolmen. The man’s speech and facial features reminded Micko of Fred Flintstone’s sidekick Barney Rubble. Fritz almost always answered any question with a one-word response. If he was ever run over by a truck and someone asked him what happened, all he was bound to say was, “Ouch!”

  When Micko reached his car, he decided to take off the T-tops, pop in a doo-wop tape, and slip back into the 1950s. Dion and the Belmonts were belting out a song called “Runaround Sue” as he drove off. He was too young to remember, but he had an unexplained love for fifties music. It was a very cool ride home, but even if the weather was challenged, his spirit wasn’t. There were no signs of depression now.

  Back at his apartment, Micko took off his monkey suit and immediately began pulling out his scuba gear. It had been a few years since his last dive trip, and the gear needed some serious servicing. His dive computer needed new batteries, his regulator had to be refit, he had to replace the straps on his fins and mask and replace the O-rings on his underwater camera and any ot
her gear that required them…. He couldn’t wait to call Gus and tell him about his good news.

  Micko waited until thirteen hundred hours to call Sharon. Gladys wanted to give her a heads-up first so her sister would have time to do a bit of research for a cheap trip. Micko was surprised when she answered the phone on the first ring.

  “Gold’s Travel, Sharon speaking.”

  “Hi, Sharon, this is Mick O’Shaughnessy. Gladys gave me your card.”

  “Oh, Michael, I’ve been waiting for your call. How soon can you get down here?”

  “Um…down where?”

  “Five hundred Park Avenue, suite number two-eleven.”

  “I guess I can be there in an hour.”

  “You’ll love the trip I’ve got planned for you. See you in an hour.”

  Micko left his dive gear strewn about his living room floor and dressed in casual jeans and an NYPD sweatshirt. He wanted to remind Sharon that he was a poor cop. The Park Avenue address concerned him that the trip might cost him either an arm and a leg or his firstborn child.

  Micko rode the elevator alone, exited at the second floor. A huge set of ornate bronze doors caught his eyes and the number “211” was proudly displayed.

  “I can’t afford this,” he disappointedly murmured to himself as he pushed his way into the labyrinth that was Gold’s Travel.

  The waiting room was as big as a gymnasium, and the walls were pockmarked with posters of various exotic vacation destinations. After each poster was a door leading to an agent’s office. From behind a large desk, an anorexic-looking woman inquired, “May I help you?”

  Micko almost replied, “Yeah, I’d like to fatten you up with a couple of Big Macs,” but instead he said, “I’m here to see Sharon Goldberg. My name is—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted with a boney smile. “Sharon is expecting you, Officer.” She resembled the Grim Reaper as she pointed a skinny finger toward the largest office. “Go right in.”

  Micko tried not to limp as he ambled toward the door.