Leuci takes readers into the world of the New York City Police Department at a time when the city was crumbling under its own weight, drugs were taking over the poorer neighborhoods, and crime was rampant on the streets and subways.

A narcotics detective in New York City for more than twenty years, Robert Leuci is the author of several books, including Blaze. He lives in Rhode Island.

The Biggest, Baddest Gang in Town

1

(10)

Heave Heaven

11

(34)

Commandos

45

(13)

Combat

58

(50)

Dope Street

108

(39)

A Partner

147

(36)

The Dark Side of the Moon

183

(47)

The Awakening

230

(71)

Mounting Casualties

301

(43)

Prince of the City

344

(23)

At the End of the Day

367

(2)

Acknowledgments

369

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All the Centurions
A New York City Cop Remembers His Years on the Street, 1961-1981

Chapter One

The Biggest, Baddest Gang in Town

It's the fall of 1961. I'm twenty-one years old and part of a phalanxof gray-uniformed recruits marching into an out-of-datebuilding on Hubert Street in lower Manhattan, the NYPD's policeacademy. What I remember most are glimpses of things antiquatedand worn and the smells, the pleasant aromas of cinnamonand leather that have lingered for more than a hundred years fromthe lofts nearby that were used as storehouses for bales of spicesbrought by nineteenth-century sailing ships. I felt the mix of excitementand unnamed anxiety that comes when you are about to enteran unfamiliar world, knowing full well that you are a long way frombelonging there. I was at the start of a journey and willing to gowherever the trip took me. Soon enough, mysteries began to slipaway and the trip became more important than the destination.

In the academy, time flowed gently -- class work, the gym, and thepistol range. Every day we took a certain greedy pleasure in knowingmore about the life we were going to live than we had the day before;and after a time the weight of a gun belt felt natural.

We recruits got the feeling that there was nothing about policework the instructors didn't know, they were so confident, so sure of their view of the world. I'd ask a question and they would standsmirking at me with a fixed serenity. Though I looked for signs ofuncertainty, none were there. I marveled at the number of medalsthey carried on their chests, and how their eyes shone when they repeatedover and over, "Pay attention here and now or you'll pay aprice later."

Most of us were in our early twenties, a time for illusions andwild imaginings, when dreams are new, dazzling. I was sure it wouldlast forever; we all were.

As those first days turned to weeks and then to months, I foundwhat I was looking for -- acceptance, connection, kinship -- call itwhat you like -- belonging just to belong, that kind of thing. It is avery particular sort of yearning, a curious personality trait that hasafflicted me my whole life.

You have to learn to compartmentalize your life. You must separatethe street world from your world. Do not bring the job home,they told us. When you are all alone on patrol and need help, youwill learn to love the sound a siren makes.

The Baby was so small, two or three months old, and it cried alot. Lover-boy wanted to have sex with the baby's mother; he wantedthe baby to stop crying. He thought the bottle of sweet wine he gaveit would end the crying. The baby went into convulsions, and Ididn't have to wonder anymore how I'd behave at my first arrest.

It was an old story: a single mother, her baby, and a drunk, hornyboyfriend. The first time you see such a thing it's a shock -- the language,sounds, gestures. The veterans spoke to me slowly, gently, soI would understand that this arrest could turn a long night into aneternity.

I was on a training mission in Harlem. The veterans were tellingme, "Rookie, here's your first arrest. You want it, you got it. Thisguy's going to be a pain in the ass to collar. Look at him."

We were standing in the kitchen, and cops and ambulance attendants seemed to be everywhere. The mother left with the medicalpeople and the baby. I stared at the boyfriend. He seemed cool,aloof, detached. A small smile, his brains all down in his dick.

That first time and forever after you know you're part of somethingextraordinary. You begin to gain experiences that give youknowledge and pride. I don't mean all the bullshit macho stuff. Insteadit's a real sense of accomplishment. Down deep you feel asthough you're some kind of hero, the man in the white hat, the marshallof Dodge City.

"You're under arrest," I told him.

He said, "For what?"

It was a good question. "Don't worry, we'll figure somethingout," one of the veterans said.

When I tried to handcuff him, lover-boy went off and startedthrowing punches. He was tough, fast, strong, and a lot more ruggedthan I thought. There were cops in the apartment, cops waiting inthe hallway, cops on the stairway, and they were all getting a laugh atmy inability to handcuff this character.

Finally, two or three of them jumped in and gave me a hand; itwas over in a flash. A veteran Harlem cop, a huge black guy, grabbedmy shoulder.

"Kid," he said, "this is the street, not the Golden Gloves. There'sno referee out here. Remember," he said, "you belong to the biggest,baddest gang in town. You need help, don't wait -- ask."

In the detectives' squad room bright and early the followingmorning, I stood looking at a precinct detective who was wearingbrown brogans, black ankle-length socks, a T-shirt, and boxershorts. He was chomping on a cigar, banging away at his typewriter.

His face was covered with stubble and there were bags under hiseyes. He wasn't a bad-looking guy. He did not seem at all happy.

It was early February, a cold and windy morning. I had dressedwarmly, way too many layers for that sauna of a squad room.

My prisoner sat in the holding cage across from the detective.His legs and arms were crossed like a Buddha's, his head was down,his eyes at half-mast, all the fight in him gone.

"A real pain in the ass," the detective said. "When I was printinghim, he broke free and tried to dive out the window. Your shit-birdsmashed our fucking window. We were freezing in here all night."

All the Centurions
A New York City Cop Remembers His Years on the Street, 1961-1981. Copyright © by Robert Leuci. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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