Some great books have been written and published in segments, such as Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities and Dasheill Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon. In the spirit of American episodic pulp, I thought I’d put up a story in installments. This one’s called Eddie May.

Eddy tells me we can make money together. Eddy is the best police impersonator there is. He hangs out in police bars. He goes into police stations and talks to cops in perfect jargon. He goes down to court and gets search warrants and arrest forms and types them up. Eddy fed himself in the seventies by sending little kids into bathrooms to solicit pedophiles. Then he would go in like a cop and shake them down.

I’m hanging out on Christopher Street with Eddy. He’s by the phone booth in plainclothes, a sport jacket and plain black shoes. Eddy told me that’s how you dress like a detective. So now I’m also wearing a sport jacket and plain black shoes. Eddy and I have the same name, but Eddy doesn’t know that.
I’m going to Brooklyn today and I’m pissed about it. I haven’t crossed that water since I moved to Washington Heights and my father cursed me as a traitor.
It’s early on a Tuesday afternoon. The Lower West Side teems with productivity; Starbucks supports a line out onto the sidewalk. People steadily file down into the subway. Busses yawn, stretch and lumber up and down avenues. Eddy whistles an old song, ‘If I were a Bell,’ the way Miles Davis played it. It’s a show tune, pretending to be jazz genius, about a man, pretending to be a bell. Eddy catches a glimpse of something through the dark window of the bar on the corner. He gets up close to it. I am still by the phone booth, being a detective. He abruptly curses, and starts pacing, fixated on the bar window. Concerned that something is going wrong, I go over to him. He curses again, rolling his eyes and smacking himself on his pocket keys.
-Problem?
He wipes the sweat from his old, wrinkled brow.
-The fuckin’ unit. Gave up three fuckin’ homers in a row.
The Big Unit. The Yankees’ biggest disappointment this year. Eddy and I are Yankee fans. We’re both from Brooklyn, home of the former Ebbit’s Field, where Brooklyn’s own Dodgers once played, now a large project. You ask me it’s just as good, replace bums with more bums. Most native Brooklynites are Mets fans, as if obeying some law of transfer from one non-Yankee NY team to another. The Brooklyn bitterness towards the frequent champions is deep. Eddy chose the Yankees because some aspect of his life deserved to be aligned with a winner. My preference came at greater cost. To my father it was evidence of a great betrayal.
Many of my teenage years were spent explaining why Micky Mantle was better than Snider, Pee Wee, Robinson and Campanella combined. They’re bums, Pop, I would tell him. It’s common knowledge. His hurt was palpable. I told him it’s only baseball, but he didn’t believe me. Bums? That what you think of me?
The dark bar at daytime reminds me of my father. Three or four drunks sit at the bar stools, faces tilted to the blue wash of the TV screens above. Could be any time of day, it will always be the same time inside. Pop was like that; no matter the pitch, it was always a strike.
On the three mounted sets, Randy Johnson paces with his hands on his hips, spitting as though the homer was anybody’s fault but his. The Big Unit irritates the hell out of me and Eddy. After he blows a game, I find myself making up my own Post and Daily News headlines. Big Disaster. Flop of Fame.
-Cocksucker ain’t worth half what we gave for ‘em, says Eddy.
-Got that right.
I’m a New York Times reader. Eddy reads The Daily News- New York Post. But when the Big Unit loses, I buy The News too, so I can fully absorb the crass, ruthless abuse my team deserves. Then I talk to Eddy about this year’s 200 million dollar joke.
-No word though? I ask.
-He’ll be here.
Eddy is right about that. He thinks so but I know for sure.