Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [76]
Lonergan had been one of them, along with Marie and the boy one bitter Saturday in early December ’22. They didn’t mind the lack of heat, or the way the cars tossed their bodies around like dice in a cup. Riding the El was a thrill like no other. The boy’s eyes were wide the entire trip.
“Papa, look! There’s a giant milk bottle on top of that building!”
“Papa, what if the train tips over and falls off the track?”
“Where will this take us, Papa? Can we ride it again?”
Lonergan had no idea that in less than a year he’d be riding the El all the time. And now he actively hated the damned thing.
It froze him, the night wind chilled by the Delaware before it blasted into the cars. It carried him past neighborhoods he didn’t know, and didn’t care to know. It jolted his body before and after each stop. Worst of all, the Frankford El constantly reminded him how badly things had gone since the elections.
The El pulled away from Dauphin-York. Lonergan’s body tipped to the left. He wasn’t fully awake yet. Where had he nodded off? Somewhere under City Hall? Jesus, he was tired.
A hard chill cut through his coat. He should have worn a warmer shirt. Lonergan’s city-issue bluecoat was warm, but he wasn’t wearing it. The City liked their cops in uniform as they made their way to their stations—the more bluecoats, the more citizens enjoyed the illusion of a well-protected place. Well, Lonergan decided he wasn’t wearing it any longer than the required seven hours. That’s all the City deserved for its $5.50 a day.
Huntingdon now. The same stops, day after day, night and morning. He had them memorized. Sometimes it helped make the trip go faster, sometimes it didn’t. He should have picked up a pulp at the newsstand. He’d forgotten. The doors opened. A gust of frigid air whipped through the car. Rush hour was long over. The only people who rode the El this late on a Sunday were returning from a night at the cider saloons, the gambling dens, and the rowdy houses in the Tenderloin. The lack of body heat made the cars even colder.
Officer John Lonergan, out in the cold, now and forever after.
Political exile had come swiftly. The Vare boys had won in November, but by that time Lonergan had already broken with the Vares in a very messy fashion. One minute he was their prize enforcer; the next, their ultimate betrayer. At the time, Lonergan thought he’d played it smart by aligning himself with the competition. Not so smart, after all.
Ward leaders don’t have the authority to fire cops, but they can strongly recommend to your captain that a transfer is in the best interests of the Department. It took less than forty-eight hours to have him reassigned to a station so far across the city it almost qualified as Bucks County.
Lonergan used to be able to make it to work at the West Philadelphia station in seven minutes flat—or three minutes on a streetcar when he didn’t mind spending the nickel. Now his trip meant a streetcar to Market, a long haul on the Frankford El beneath Center City and out past the river wards, and then a second streetcar out to the hinterlands of Northeast Philly just in time to make midnight roll call.
Ninety minutes, one way. Three hours round trip. Three hours wasted out of twenty-four, every working day.
That was how they punished cops in this city.
Somerset now. As the El stopped Lonergan tumbled slightly to the left, and threw out a hand to support himself. After he stabilized, Lonergan rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. He shouldn’t be on this freezing train. Not this late on a Sunday night, breathing other people’s gin fumes. He should be home in a warm bed with Marie. He was already exhausted and his shift didn’t even begin for another hour. It would be a struggle to stay awake through the night.
And then he had the return trip. The same stations, in reverse, early-morning sun stabbing him in the eyes. Pitying looks from the buttoned-up people making their way downtown to real jobs. Another small piece of his life erased.
Lonergan wanted to quit the force. But he couldn