CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
Ava looked at the 37
th
Precinct from across the street. For just a moment, it was like peering into some other land, some fantastical place she’d only ever heard of. It was a grand-looking building, just a design choice or two away from looking elegant. It stood out easily as the premier building within a few blocks, as if a beacon to remind criminals this was where they’d end up.
A sting of nervous excitement rampaged through her as she crossed the street. She was so distracted that she nearly stepped right out in front of a Model T. The driver bellowed something about a “crazy dame,” shaking his fist as the car puttered by. It was almost as if she’d filtered out the outside world—that, for a second or two, the entire world had consisted of only her and the 37
th
Precinct.
Six days had passed since Clarence’s funeral. It didn’t seem like enough time to have passed to carry on, to start this new chapter of her life. But at the same time, those six days felt like an eternity. Besides…Clarence would not want her sitting around weeping over him. She felt that she was doing the right thing, without a doubt.
When she walked inside, it was a bit staggering. There was a large open space and people milling around behind desks and what she assumed was the “bullpen” she’d heard Clarence refer to a few times. She approached the front desk and looked to the pale, overweight man sitting behind it.
He regarded Ava with a smile that seemed authentic. “Help you?” he asked.
“Yes, my name is Ava Gold. I have an appointment with…well, I’m not sure with who. But Captain Minard is expecting me.”
At the mention of her name, understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah yeah, of course. Been expecting you.” He picked up the receiver on the in-house phone on his desk. He pressed a button as if he were stabbing someone and waited a beat. He then spoke two words into the mouthpiece: “She’s here.”
Neither of them said a word and as a handful of seconds passed, Ava became aware of other men looking at her as they passed by, going about their morning duties. Some were not eyeing her as an insect like the hefty man was, but more like a juicy piece of steak to be devoured.
Less than a minute later, a middle-aged man came walking quickly through the bullpen toward the front desk. His eyes locked directly on Ava and he walked as if he were in a hurry. A mostly gray moustache covered his upper lip and he wore glasses that made his brown eyes seem to sparkle.
“Mrs. Gold?” the mustached man asked.
“Yes.”
“Good to meet ya,” he said. He impulsively seemed to want to offer his hand for a shake but then apparently decided it might not be proper. “I’m Wayne Gibb and I have the pleasure of showing you around. It’s not an orientation, but it’s the best we got.” He offered a shaky smile and then waved her on. “Follow me.”
Gibb opened the little swinging door that led behind the bullpen. When Ava walked through, she was pretty sure everyone in the station stopped breathing for a moment. It was eerily quiet and she could
feel
their stares on her. She supposed she understood it—but that didn’t make it right. The passing of the Nineteenth Amendment had not changed nearly as much as people wanted to believe it did. Yes, women could vote, but they were also still seen as nothing more than living, breathing units to keep homes tidy for their husbands; they were expected to clean and cook and spit out a baby whenever their husbands thought the timing was practical.
She did her best to look past this as Gibb walked her through the precinct. She’d heard Clarence talk about it countless times but to see it up close was dreamlike. She saw all of the offices and hallways, the rogues’ gallery on the far right wall by a group of desks she assumed were taken by detectives. She saw signs indicating the direction of the mailroom, the holding cells, and even the small gymnasium—which she knew, thanks to Clarence, was often used to store prisoners captured late at night so they could be photographed and profiled in the morning She wished she could get poetic and misty-eyed by realizing she was walking the same halls Clarence had once occupied, but she didn’t. She wasn’t
dare
going to cry in front of these men who were already betting on her to fail.
“You, of course, will be placed with the Women’s Bureau,” Gibb said. “There’s a nice bunch of dames in the bureau that will get you worked in to everything.”
She had several questions about the Women’s Bureau, but she did not want to seem too eager or ill-informed so she stayed quiet. She followed Gibb and listened to his lackluster tour of the precinct: breakroom, restrooms, bullpen, location of the in-house phones that connected all of the offices, armory, and the location of the Women’s Bureau. She was not all that surprised to find that it was located near the back of the building. It was also down a small flight of stairs, as if making sure the women knew they weren’t
actually
part of the club upstairs.
As she and Gibb walked along, she saw many men starting at her. Some gave sly little smiles. It all made her wonder if they simply didn’t care that they’d spent several years working with her husband—getting to know him and respect him. Did all of that vanish just because she’d had the audacity to assume she could work here? She wondered if Gibb knew. She assumed he did if Minard had assigned him to her. She wasn’t sure if she appreciated the fact that Gibb had not mentioned it or if it angered her.
“There will be some paperwork, of course,” Gibb said as they came to the bottom of the stairs that led to the Women’s Bureau. “But we’ll get that all to you by the end of the day. Any questions?”
She had many but didn’t want to seem foolish, so she simply asked the most pressing one. “Is there some sort of training program?”
Gibb shrugged, and Ava could also see that he was doing his best to suppress a smile. “You’re about to get it. You’ve been assigned to partner with a current woman in the bureau. She’ll show you the ropes.”
They came to the end of the hallway, where a set of double doors sat in the wall. A sign hung from the doorframe that read NYPDWB.
As if the situation itself wasn’t awkward enough,
Ava thought,
even the abbreviation is awkward.
Gibb opened the door but did not step inside. He gave a smile and said, “If you have any questions, any of these ladies should be able to answer them. If not, you can come back up to the front and ask for me.”
“Thank you,” Ava said.
And with that, Ava walked into the room and took the first step on the path she was determined would become a career.
Almost instantly, it was clear that these women—fourteen in all—knew that no one took them seriously and they took it with something like honor. They were all cordial, though there was something different about all of them. Ava could tell that much without even speaking to any of them.
A short woman with broad shoulders met her as she stepped in through the door. She had a homely face but her hair looked as if it was taken excellent care of. It bobbed slightly above her shoulders when she walked over to Ava.
“Gold, right?” the woman asked.
“Yes, that’s right. Ava Gold.”
“Ava, my name is Frances Knight. I’ll be overseeing you until you get your feet under you. I’ve been here from the start—which isn’t long, let me tell you—and I know just about everything there is to know about the WB—the Women’s Bureau.”
Before Ava could say a word, Frances Knight placed a hand to her back and led her across the room. As they walked side by side, Ava realized that she was easily eight inches taller than Frances. She took a look around the room and noted very quickly that this place, in comparison to the rest of the building, was little more than a slightly remodeled basement.
“Your desk is here,” Frances said, nodding to a desk that sat like driftwood in front of them. “And no, we can’t move it.”
The desk was an ancient beast of a thing, pushed into the corner. It was so old and scarred that Ava could easily imagine portions of the Constitution had been penned on it. A stack of papers sat on it, along with two brand new pens.
“Standard protocol says you have to read all of those documents,” Frances said. “There’s no tests or training or reciting afterwards. You just have to sign a paper that says you read it all and understand it.”
“Okay…”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to this report I’m working on. Let me know if you have any questions.”
Frances spoke fast and by the time she started making her way back across the room, Ava felt as if she’d just survived a hurricane. Ava looked around the room as she took her seat and saw that a few of the women were looking at her. She also noticed that only a few of them wore makeup of any kind and their hairstyles were plain and drab for the most part. There were nine women currently in the room, but fourteen desks. Of those nine women, three were looking at her curiously, and another with something like worry.
Ava looked away, focusing on the papers in front of her. She started reading them and was surprised at how much of the verbiage in them reminded her of conversations she’d had with Clarence about his work. There were details on proper investigative procedures, but it was very brief. She wondered how heavily edited the documents had been for the WB as opposed to the men upstairs.
About twenty minutes into her studying, she came to a set of documents detailing what her behavior and attire should be like. Some of it made her cringe. It was written in a way that almost sounded as if the women working at the 37
th
Precinct were little more than pets.
As she read over the
Proper Attire for Women
guidelines, a thin woman with a sharp chin leaned down over her shoulder. “The best thing to do with that information,” this woman said, “is take it home and use it for toilet paper. No matter what you wear around here, the men are still going to stare at you. And believe me, honey, it ain’t flattering.”
“What they
really
can’t stand,” chirped another woman at a desk nearby, “is when you forget to wear a brassiere.”
There was an outburst of laughter at this but as soon as it was started, it died down. A few of the women looked guilty for enjoying themselves and looked directly back at the files and paperwork on their desk.
The tall, sharp-chinned gal sighed. “That,” she said, “is called laughter. You don’t hear much of it down here in the WB. Women, if you didn’t know, are to be seen, not heard…Nineteenth Amendment be damned.”
“I sort of hoped it would be different here,” Ava said.
“It can be, from time to time.” The woman then did something Ava had never seen a woman do; she offered her hand to be shaken, as if they were two men sitting down to have a chat. “The name’s Lottie Mattingly,” she said.
“Ava Gold,” Ava responded, taking the woman’s hand and shaking it. Lottie’s grip was firm and tight. Ava decided that she liked Lottie Mattingly right away.
“You know, some of us crossed paths with your husband from time to time,” Lottie said. “He was a damned fine man. He was one of the few that didn’t mind working with us. We were fellow detectives to him, not just broads.” She frowned and added: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He was—”
She was interrupted by a loud blaring noise. It took her a moment to realize that it was the phone. Ava had never heard one so loud. It rattled and rang like an alarm. She noticed that even some of the regulars jumped a bit, clutching their chests and letting out nervous laughter.
Ava looked around the room as the phone rang a second time. At the other end of the room, Frances was muttering a string of curses under her breath as she got up from her desk, pen in hand, and walked to the house phone installed on the cinderblock wall.
“This is Knight,” Frances announced into the phone. Ava noted that she held the receiver end of the phone to her head as if she did not trust it—like it might be a loaded gun rather than a phone. “Yes, sir,” Frances said, nodding as she followed the conversation. “Yes, sir. Of course…Are you sure? Yes, I’m sorry, of course. Yes, sir.”
Frances placed the receiver back on the phone cradle and sighed. She regarded the room, shaking her head. Very quietly, she said: “What a bunch of dull saps.”
“What is it?” one of the women asked. Ava saw that they were all looking at Frances with something close to anticipation. It made Ava think they didn’t often get calls from the men upstairs.
Frances looked directly over to Ava and sighed. “You about done with those papers?”
“Nearly. Why?”
“Skip ahead quick and sign,” Frances said. “I just got a direct order from Captain Minard. He wants me to take you out on patrol.”
There was a flurry of conversation among the women. Some sounded nearly entertained while others were clearly aghast. Ava noticed that a few were giving her looks of pity, as if she were a calf about to be led to the slaughterhouse.
“But that makes no sense,” Ava said. “I haven’t even been here for two hours.”
“Don’t I know it,” Frances said.
“He’s trying to prove a point,” Lottie said from her desk. “He wants you scared. He wants you doubting yourself.”
It took Ava a while to put the pieces together and when she did, she was both angry and embarrassed. “So you all know…?”
“That you asked him for a job at Clarence’s wake?” Lottie said. “Yeah, we know. And no one here judges you. If I could rub out the coward that killed him, I’d do it. I can only imagine how you feel.”
“In other words,” Frances said, tossing her pen on her desk in frustration, “be ready in five. You and I are about to hit the streets.”
Having no idea that she’d be on patrol on her first day, Ava had dressed modestly but professionally. The purple day dress had been a favorite of Clarence’s so it only seemed fitting. The dress was fine in terms of walking a patrol route, but the flapper-style pumps were going to cause roaring hell on her feet within a few hours. After only the first block, she made a mental note to get better walking shoes.
She also took note of the streets themselves. Walking down the street at this time of the day was a stark reminder that the city now contained nearly six million people, and the place seemed to grow every day. It smelled of cologne, perfume, and a slight tinge of liquor from where the prohibitionist police force had recently been dumping liquor into the gutters. And though she’d gotten somewhat used to the looming presence of the newly created skyscrapers, she couldn’t help but feel like an ant in the midst of it all.
“Oh, this is for you,” Frances said as they hurried along a crosswalk. She handed Ava a small whistle with a chain around it. “Wear it around your neck, and blow on it if you see something that needs the attention of the police.”
“But aren’t we the police?” Ava said.
“We are. But we’re women. We see crimes, we blow the whistle, and the men come running.”
A familiar flash of anger and resentment rose up in Ava. She had ever done very well at accepting a woman’s second-class position in the world. “Doesn’t that allow the criminals time to escape?”
“It does, and it’s a foolish way to go about the job. But it’s…” Frances paused when they came to the next street and pulled Ava to the side. “Listen to me. This is very much a man’s world. Always has, always will be. If you wanted this job thinking that there was equality within the police, you may as well pack it up and go home now. Don’t get me wrong…it can be rewarding and can put deserving women in the spotlight for a day or so. And every now and then, who knows? Maybe you even get to take part in something exciting. But for the most part…this is it. Walking a beat and looking innocent and of no importance. It stinks, but it’s also genius. Most men that are capable of committing crimes see us and we’re just two random broads. And with you…well, they see a dish. They’d never expect that you were a flattie.”
“Flattie?”
“It’s what some of these cretins on the streets call the coppers.”
“Oh.”
“So, you just keep looking pretty and keep that whistle hidden under that dress. And speaking of that dress, it seems you really need to pay more attention to those What to Wear guidelines.”
In Frances’s typical hurricane style, she started walking the moment the last word passed her lips. Without turning to face Ava, she kept on talking. Ava could tell the woman liked her job and that she wanted other women to do well. She was the sort of woman who had accepted that women were seen as subservient and not only embraced it, but seemed to use it to her advantage.
“Unless something big changes,” Frances was saying, “your patrols will keep you around Morningside Heights and Harlem. Low crime rates and an easy beat. You might see minor robberies or bickering as men leave for work. But that’s about it. Now, if you—”
Frances was interrupted by a man who passed by them. A devilish grin was plastered on his face as he said, “Hey there, sweet thing. Let me see how long those gams are!” He chuckled as he kept walking in the other direction.
“And you may as well get used to that, too,” Frances said. “Now, let’s be real. Have a look at me. Take a gander. I don’t get many remarks like that. But some of the other girls do. And there’s not much you can do about it. You’ll get a badge at some point, but most men don’t give a damn about that.”
“Would they give a damn if I decked them in the mouth?”
“Maybe,” Frances said, smiling. “But that’s a surefire way to lose your job. I do like the fighting spirit, though. That come from being married to Clarence?”
“And having a boxer as a father. I used to spar with him from time to time.”
“Actual boxing?”
“Yes,” Ava said, trying not to sound too proud.
“Good to know. I’ll do my best to stay on your good side.”
They walked on, continuing the route as Frances spoke at length about what to expect. She told Ava that for the most part, the WB didn’t venture into harder neighborhoods like the Lower East Side or the Italian Quarter. “That’s where a lot of those mobster shitheads hang out,” Frances explained. “Not the best place for a woman—even if she does have boxing experience. Don’t get me wrong…things can get seedy around here, too. Prostitution is a growing problem and speakeasies keep popping up all over the place. So keep your eyes open for that sort of thing. And hey, it’s pretty easy—look for women dressed like tramps and men that are red in the face and are having trouble walking.”
It was odd, but with each block they passed and with more information from Frances, Ava started to feel more comfortable with the job—day dress and flapper pumps aside. A big part of it was the pride and excitement for the job Frances carried; she was so happy to be showing her around, to bring another woman into the WB. While Ava still absolutely felt like the new, inexperienced broad on the block, she was already starting to feel a sense of pride about what this job could mean.
The morning wore on and the summer heat managed to stay somewhat hospitable. It had been a mostly cool summer, which she assumed meant August and September were going to be sweltering. She wasn’t sure how far she and Frances had walked by the time her feet
really
started to yell at her, though she guessed it was about a mile and a half or so.
“I’m so sorry,” Ava said. “I need to stop for just a moment. These damned shoes…”
“No problem. I really wish someone would have given you a heads-up on what you’d be going through today. Walking a beat in those shoes has to be torture You got different shoes at home?”
“Yes,” Ava said, leaning against the side of a butcher shop. She slipped off her right pump and allowed her foot to breathe. “A nice pair of flat-footed Mary Janes that—”
A woman’s yell from behind them cut her off. “Hey! Someone, stop him!
Thief!
”
Ava and Frances turned in that direction just in time to see a teenage boy rushing toward them. His eyes were staring dead ahead as he clutched a small purse to his chest. He was wearing a newsboy-style cap, pulled down low on his head. Ava saw Frances go for her whistle but the teen was too fast. He passed by Ava, apparently assuming her leaning stance against the butcher shop was out of fear and letting him pass by. He then threw a hard shoulder into Frances’s chest, sending her stumbling back against the building. The sight of it sent a spike of adrenaline into Ava and she started after him with one shoe still removed. She balled her hands into fists, recalling the lessons her father had given her. She was right-handed, but she figured she’d start with a left-handed jab when she caught up to him, shocking him just enough to sneak that devastating right hook across his jaw.
But within three striding steps, Ava stopped. She recalled what Frances had said earlier, about how giving chase or attacking a criminal could result in being reprimanded or even losing her job—a job she hadn’t even been at for an entire day.
But at the same time, there was a sense of justice crawling up from deep within her. It told her there was no way in hell Clarence would approve of her just laying low and blowing on a whistle. With the adrenaline and anger now taking the controls, Ava removed her other shoe, tossed them in Frances’s direction, and went running.
Almost as if it were a sign of some sort, Ava passed by a store that was playing jazz music. She could barely hear it, but the bass line and wailing trumpets seemed to encourage her. She ran down the block, attracting the attention of every single person she saw. She pulled her whistle out from beneath the top of her dress. She placed it into her mouth and blew. It was much louder than she’d expected and it seemed to rattle the insides of her head. As she blew on it a second time, she realized that Frances was staggering behind her, shouting out warnings to her. Ava knew she was already breaking a lot of rules but it was too late now. She was running after the thief and he was within her sights. She figured at some point, the whistle might clue in another copper, and they’d nab the guy.
And if not—if she reached the young thief before a man could come to the rescue—then she’d just have to tackle him. Oops…maybe she tripped and fell on him or something.
Ava bounded through the thin crowd of people along 101
st
Street, blowing her whistle a third time. She wasn’t even sure how far she’d run, blowing the damned whistle. Three blocks? Four?
It then occurred to her that blowing the whistle was counterproductive. It was alerting the thief to where she was. And while she knew her only job was to blow on the damned thing until a male cop showed up, she found the idea not only stupid, but antiquated. She released the whistle from her lips and let it drop to her chest.
She came to the end of the block where the purse-snatcher had taken a left. It was here that Ava saw a thin alleyway that ran between a little candy store and a grains and tobacco shop. It was mostly opened, blocked only by a few crates and trashcans. Ava halted, the bottoms of her stockinged feet scraping on the sidewalk, and went rushing through the alleyway. She knew it would come at just shy of the end of the block and she’d make it there before the thief because he was having to contend with pedestrian traffic and she was not. She leaped over a crate, feeling the grit and overall sliminess of the alley against her stockinged feet. Still, she ran hard—the whistle forgotten, protocol forgotten, even Frances partially forgotten.
Ava came to the end of the alleyway and looked to the right. She saw a few people stepping aside in a hurry and knew why right away. She dashed in that direction and saw the thief coming through the crowd of people. She then put her whistle back into her mouth, waited for him to get closer, and then blew hard on it.
The sound, up so close, shocked him. As Ava advanced, she saw that he nearly dropped the purse. He then turned and headed back the way he had come. He glanced back over his shoulder a single time, his eyes wide with fear now, and that’s when he ran directly into the arms of another cop. This was a policeman of about six foot seven, with shoulders like slabs of granite. The thief rebounded a bit but was snagged by the cop. The thief was pushed against the wall of the sundry shop the policeman had just come out of, and as the policeman handcuffed him, there was a confused buzz coming from the passing pedestrians.
The cop pressed the thief against the wall and then looked at Ava. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head as if he were about to admonish a stubborn dog. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he barked at her.
“Chasing a thief,” Ava answered without much thought.
“And causing a scene! You were supposed to blow on your whistle and nothing more.”
“I did! I’m sure you heard it. But if I hadn’t chased him down—”
But the cop was already looking away from her. Ava wanted to keep arguing her point but knew it was useless. That little defeat allowed her to come down out of the adrenaline of the moment and when she did, she realized that she
had
overstepped. She should have listened to Frances She should have—
“Gold?”
Ava looked around and saw Frances coming out of the alleyway. She was huffing for breath and looking at her with an odd mix of satisfaction and anger. She hurried over to Ava, shaking her head in the same way the cop had.
“You left these,” Frances said, handing Ava her shoes. “Also…what the hell were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry. I just…I couldn’t just let him run off while I stood there blowing my dumb whistle.”
“Blowing that dumb whistle is your job. Running down hoods is not.”
There were several things Ava wanted to say but she kept her mouth closed. It was her first day on the job and she’d already broken several rules. She watched as the cop started hauling the thief away. He gave no thank-you and didn’t even bother looking back to scowl at her again. As far as the cop was concerned, she’d done nothing but break rules.
“I like you, Gold,” Frances said. “But if you want to make it in this job, you have to suck it up and do what you’re told. And please, for the love of God, don’t ever do anything like that again.”
Ava said nothing. She gave her anger a moment to subside by putting her shoes back on. When she and Frances started to walk, continuing their patrol, she tried to process it all. And though she knew it had been her whistle that had alerted the cops, Ava still felt like she had failed somehow. And if this had been her first day, it made her wonder what tomorrow would bring.