The Fence - Dick Lehr [47]
Tiny had given Marquis the car keys and gone to find Smut and Boogie-Down, all the while looking over his shoulder. He wanted protection. He ordered Boogie-Down to give him his gun. Boogie-Down resisted, but Tiny was adamant. He needed the gun. Boogie-Down handed it over, and Tiny turned to head back toward the club.
He was maybe two car lengths away when Smut detected a car moving slowly past his from behind. Smut saw the flame of gunfire first. Then he heard the pop-pop of gunshots. Tiny jumped sideways behind a parked car. Tiny was not hit. One bullet struck the black Isuzu Rodeo in front of Smut’s car, leaving a hole in the front door. The others went off into the night. Tiny stood up, gun raised high over his head, and he got off a few shots. The car sped up, driving past the club and up the street. Smut threw his Volkswagen into reverse. He backed into the intersection so he could turn the car around and drive away in the opposite direction. Tiny was running to the gold Lexus and jumped in so he and Marquis could follow.
Within seconds, the gang unit police radios exploded in noise. Voices collided.
“Shots fired! Shots fired!”
It sounded like the percussion section of an orchestra gone haywire.
“Shots fired! Right out front!”
Up on the hill, Mike and Craig exchanged looks of extreme frustration. “I’m like, Awww!” Mike said later. They’d just left the club and now the main event had started. This was the whole point of the night—guns and street gangs—and they weren’t there.
They raced back and found the street crowded with people running in different directions. Some were jumping into cars while other cars were already pulling away, including the Volkswagen Fox and the gold Lexus. Mike saw the other guys from the unit looking around and trying to talk to people. Donald Caisey was there. The unit’s supervisor, Sergeant Ike Thomas, was there. Teahan and his partner, Ryan.
“Everyone who was working in the gang unit that night,” said Mike.
The gunshots also drew other officers working in the area. One was Richie Walker, the officer known for wearing his hair in braids, who worked out of the Mattapan station. Walker activated his siren and lights and immediately began heading toward the club. But on his way he saw a Peugeot speeding toward him and then turn abruptly down a side street. His participation in the main event would have to wait. Walker chased the car and arrested the twenty-one-year-old driver. He found plastic bags in the front seat containing “vegetable matter,” or marijuana. The suspect was taken in by another officer, and Walker stayed with the Peugeot to await a tow truck. While he waited, he monitored the radio for updates on the shootings at the Cortee’s.
One officer who did make it to the club was Jimmy Burgio, who, like Dave Williams, worked in Dorchester out of the C–11 station. Burgio was from Southie, a sports jock. He was crazy about ice hockey and made up for a lack of skating finesse with a bullet-hard slapshot launched from his muscular, husky frame. Burgio was starting his fifth year on the force and brought his competitiveness to the job. For example, he was extremely proud of the seven binders he’d filled with photos and intelligence about street gangs and criminals. He was wary, however, about sharing the intelligence—especially with the gang unit—for fear his enterprising work would get ripped off and he wouldn’t get any credit.
He also viewed each night’s shift as a full contact sport between the good guys and the bad guys. He talked about police work in these terms—a high-stakes, hard-checking rivalry played out nightly. Some nights, he won. Some nights, the bad guys won. He got charged up looking ahead to work—each shift being a competition with the suspense of not knowing who was going to come out on top. He loved the cop life.
No surprise that, like Dave Williams, Jimmy