Don't Try It On Eleventh Street
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PRIVATE Charles "Chuck" Wyznewski tc \l 1 "Charles \"Chuck\" Wyznewski " I smack this prick collar against the car, pat him down, come up with a 45, a shiv, a kitchen knife, knuckles, a billy and three bags. What the hell? He's a fuckin arsenal. Bobby an me, we figured these two for nickel-dime stuff, batteries, radios, nothin hard. I cuff him. I holler his rights at his backside and he’s hollerin somethin I can't understand right back at me. I yell em off again. "Youhavetheright-toremainsilent..." but he ain't bein silent, no way. "Shut up, you bastard. No lip." Sarge must hate our guts for somethin or other. Eleventh Street, corner of Second, again today. Definitely not the worst block in the precinct, but one that really draws a select pile of crud. No medal-material here. Ever. Bobby is yacketing at some broad near the antique shop. Some partner. She's givin him lip, and he's "yes, ma'am" ing her. Jesus! "Bobby, shape up. It's almost noon, already. Let's get these guys booked or we'll never get home tonight." What's he doing? Trying to make out with that babe? I think she’s a new hooker on the block. She's dangerous. Look at the way she’s flashin him. He’ll get us both in trouble. He thinks that cuz he’s in his own jeans, he’s on his own time. Glancing sideways, I see the perp's strung-out, creep friend defying gravity, weaving back and forth near Bobby, in front of the dealer's big store window. At least he won't give us any trouble. He's totally out of it. I figure he's got five seconds before he crashes right through the plate glass. Maybe two. Then we'll have that problem on our hands. I grab my guy by his greasy hair, push his head down and shove him into the cramped space in the back of our crappy, old VW. This sure ain't Dragnet. Anything they pick up in the Ninth Precinct, that's what us hot shot detectives get to drive. Shit. A five-year-old Volkswagen, a wreck that must have been used in Avenue C drag races. Thinking about that, I know Sarge has it in for us. Benny and Ram are sitting stakeout on Fifth Street in a brand new BMW pimp car. Shit. I pick up the goddam grungy battery, the evidence, and toss it in the front of the VW, onto the floor. The perp spits out the back window. "Man, this is a fucking Volkswagen, for chrissake!" Like I need this ace to show up and introduce me to car models. Besides, I thought he was wasted. I'd better pay attention. These two might be more than we figured. Maybe there’s something else coming down. Maybe they’re decoys. Maybe the batteries are a sideline. Maybe... What the fuck is Bobby doing? I swing round to take the other guy myself and see that the fucker has come alive. He rips a 32 out of his pocket, waves it in the air like a flag, then splits away from us
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About the Book
There's a mugging. There are shootings. There are cops. There are robbers. There are druggies. There are EMTs. There are adulterers. There are hookers. There are thieves. There are good guys and their women. There are bad guys and their women. Also a pimp, a banker and a double-dealer. There are twenty trees. They are maple, cherry, honey locust and gingko. It is just an average day on East Eleventh Street between Second and Third Avenue, New York City. October 29, 1974. Just bear in mind... DON'T TRY IT ON ELEVENTH STREET!
About the Author
Sheila has seen her byline in more than one hundred publications, internationally: The New York Times, Harpers Bazaar, The London Telegraph, New York Daily News, The New York Times Magazine, The New York Post, Milwaukee Journal, Newsday, Elle, Le Nouveau Femina, London Readers Digest, London’s She, Woman and Woman’s Own as well as countless other magazines and newspapers. Her travel writing has taken her away from 11th Street to 50 states and 76 countries. A graduate BA from University of Wisconsin and Suny Empire State, MFA from Goddard College, Sheila is a Ph.D. Learner at The Union Institute, where her memoir will be her PDE in 2005.