They didn’t want that, no.
This was all before Ferguson, before Baltimore and the rest of those killings, and while the Latin community was offended by the nightclub raid, it had no truck with baby killers, and neither did the black community.
Malone kept at it.
His team hit bodegas, stash houses, cash houses, clubs and corners. The word got out on the street that if you were dealing or shooting anything but Dark Horse, the police were going to turn the other way, but if you had Diego Pena’s product, Da Force was coming straight at you on a collision course, no skid marks.
And they weren’t going to stop.
Not until someone gave them something they could use on Pena.
Malone, he took it to a whole new level, one that broke the unwritten rules that govern the relationship between cops and gangsters. A dealer going down on his third bust gave up where Pena was really living, and Malone found him up in Riverdale and staked it out.
He’d watch Pena’s wife take their two kids to the ritzy private school. One day, as she was walking from the car to the house on the way back, he walked up to her and said, “You have nice children, Mrs. Pena. Do you know that your husband has other people’s families murdered? Have a wonderful day.”
Malone wasn’t back at the station ten minutes before a civilian assistant came up to tell him there was someone downstairs asking for Sergeant Malone.
She handed him a card. Gerard Berger—Attorney-at-Law.
Malone went downstairs to see an elegantly dressed man who had to be Gerard Berger, Attorney-at-Law. “I’m Sergeant Malone.”
“Gerard Berger,” Berger said. “I represent Diego Pena. Is there someplace we could go to talk?”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“Nothing,” Berger said. “I just wanted to spare you potential embarrassment in front of your fellow officers.”
Embarrassment? Malone thought. In front of these guys? He’d seen some of them have contests to see who could ejaculate the farthest.
“No, this is fine,” Malone said. “Why does Pena need representation? Has he been charged with something?”
“You know that he hasn’t,” Berger said. “Mr. Pena feels that he is being harassed by the NYPD. Specifically you, Sergeant Malone.”
“Gee, that’s too bad.”
“Go ahead and joke,” Berger said. “We’ll see how funny you think this is when we sue you.”
“Sue away. I don’t have any money.”
“You have a home in Staten Island,” Berger said. “A family to take care of.”
“Keep my family out of your mouth, Counselor.”
Berger said, “My client is giving you a chance, Sergeant. Cease and desist. Otherwise we will file a civil suit and an official complaint with the department. I’ll have your shield.”
“Well, when you get it,” Malone said, “stick it up your ass.”
“You’re dog shit under my shoe, Sergeant.”
“Is that it?”
“For now.”
Malone went back up to his desk. The whole squad had already heard that the infamous Gerard Berger had paid a visit.
“What did that hump want?” Russo asked.
“He gave me the whole you’ll-never-work-in-this-town-again speech,” Malone said. “Told me to lay off Pena.”
“Are you going to?”
“Absolutely.”
What Malone did next will forever go down in the folklore of Manhattan North as “Dog Day Afternoon.”
Malone went to see Officer Grosskopf of the K-9 squad and asked to borrow Wolfie, an enormous Alsatian that had been terrorizing Harlem for the past two years.
“What are you going to do with him?” Grosskopf asked.
He loved Wolfie.
“Take him for a ride,” Malone said.
Grosskopf said yes because it was very hard, not to mention risky, to say no to Denny Malone.
Malone and Russo got Wolfie into the back of Russo’s car and drove to a food truck on East 117th that was technically called Paco’s Tacos but was generally known as the Laxatruck, where Malone fed Wolfie three chicken enchiladas with chile verde, five mystery meat tacos, and a giant burrito called the Gutbuster.
Wolfie, normally held to the strictest of diets, was thrilled and grateful and fell instantly in love with Malone, licking him enthusiastically and happily wagging his tail as he got back in the car, eagerly awaiting the next gastronomic surprise.
“How long will it take to get there?” Malone asked Russo.
“Twenty minutes, no traffic.”
“You think we got that long?”
“Gonna be close.”
It took twenty-two minutes, during which time Wolfie’s joy turned to discomfort as the greasy food worked its way through his bowels and then demanded exit. Wolfie whined, giving the signal that Grosskopf would instantly have recognized as a need to get out.
“Suck it up, Wolfie,” Malone said, scratching his head. “We’ll be there soon.”
“This dog shits in my car . . .”
“He won’t,” Malone said. “He’s a stud.”
When they got there, Wolfie was twisting in discomfort and headed straight for the strip of grass outside the office building, but Malone and Russo took him inside, into the elevator and to the seventeenth floor.
Berger’s receptionist, a drop-dead gorgeous young woman that Berger was probably banging, said, “You can’t bring a dog in here, sir.”
“He’s a service dog,” Russo said, staring at her boobs. “I’m blind.”
“Do you have an appointment with Mr. Berger?” she asked.
“No.”
“What’s the matter with your dog?”
The answer became immediately apparent.
Wolfie whined, Wolfie whirled, Wolfie let loose an almost apocalyptic blast of steaming, chili-infused dog shit all over Gerard Berger’s (previously) white Surya Milan carpet.
“Oops,” Malone said.
Exiting to the sound of the receptionist retching, Malone patted the shamefaced but relieved Wolfie’s head and said, “Good boy, Wolfie. Good boy.” Then they took Wolfie back to the station.
The word got there ahead of them because they were greeted with a standing ovation, and Wolfie was lavished with pets, hugs, kisses and a box of Milkbone cookies tied up with a blue ribbon.
“The captain wants to see you,” the desk sergeant told Malone and Russo, “as soon as you get in.”
They returned Wolfie to a livid Grosskopf and went into Fisher’s office.
“I’m just going to ask you this once,” he said. “Did you take a police dog to shit all over Gerard Berger’s office?”
“Would I do something like that?” Malone asked.
“Get out. I’m busy.”
He was. His phone was ringing off the hook with congratulations from every precinct in New York City.
Grosskopf never really forgave Malone for abusing Wolfie’s digestive system, a hostility that was exacerbated by the fact that any time Malone came within fifty feet of Wolfie, the dog would try to go to him, because Malone had given him the best afternoon of his life.