Grandpa Cassidy was a policeman in New Haven, Connecticut, nearly a century ago.

Although he was trained to be a plumber, specializing as a steamfitter, he joined the police force when signs of the Great Depression started to loom. That way, he knew he’d always have a job.

If only we had more stories to share about his years as a “cop on the beat.” Grandpa was the son of Irish immigrants and came by his storytelling talents naturally.

While paging gingerly through another box of Mom’s archives, I came across this handwritten story: “Night Beat.”

Handwritten … in pencil.

Was this a story Mom’s dad had told her? Was it pure fiction, inspired by the radio detective dramas she enjoyed listening to in the evening? Or was it some of each?

I guess we’ll never know. But we can wonder …

‘Night Beat’

“Take your dirty hands off me.”

Callaghan heard the ominous piercing of a truck’s brakes up the street, and his head jerked back.

“Who the heck do you cops think you are, anyway?”

The kid was at it again, the mouth bulging and sullen, the eyes dark with crouched bravado.

“Look, kid,” Callaghan tried again. “Maybe I was too easy with you last time. Maybe I should have used the stick. It’s worked on better lads than you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Big talk. All you cops know how to do is pick on the little guys. That don’t take much. That ain’t worth a badge. All you need is muscle.”

Callaghan wondered what had become of the truck. Probably some dumb dog had darted out in front of it. Maybe the driver wasn’t ready for the light. Anyhow, it wasn’t his problem now. He heard a rumble pass in the street. It could’ve been the truck. Easily.

The kid began again. “Okay, so I had a drink, a few drinks. Is that any reason to beat up a guy. I’m old enough.”

Callaghan knew the kid graduated from grammar school three years ago. His daughter Ellen had mentioned it.

“That Frankie Griffin is the freshest kid. Youngest boy in the class, but that isn’t holding him back. He’s been smoking behind the school fence for three years now. I’m glad he isn’t going to high.”

“What’s the beef with you ossifer? Cat got your tongue?”

Fresh kid, Callaghan thought.

“You don’t know when to quit, do you, son — “

“Don’t call me that, you rotten so-and-so! Only one guy called me that and he’s been under a long time.”

Callaghan lifted his hand, then changed his mind.

“O’Brien’s got a good place, Frankie. He doesn’t want any trouble. Not from anybody.”

Frankie snickered. “Good looking shirt you got on there, copper. Maybe O’Brien likes you a lot, a whole lot. He always was a cagey — “

“Shut up, you little brat. You had your chance and now that’s gone.”

“Why don’t you arrest O’Brien for serving to minors, if you’re so sure I ain’t old enough.”

“I never said you weren’t old enough.”

“You’ve been thinking it.”

What’s the matter with that wagon, Callaghan frowned. It’s been twenty minutes since I called. Darn that Winoski. Probably waming his feet over the radiator in the station house. Probably going the long way round — .

It was a rotten business, the whole thing. After fifteen years things were creeping up on Callaghan. Creeping up and pushing down all his resistance. The sarge would appreciate this evening’s escapade. After giving his strict orders to stick to the warehouse district, this had to come up. And all because of one punk kid who didn’t know when to shut up.

He had come strolling down Carlyle Street on his way to the waterfront. O’Brien’s Bar and Grill blared brashly out at him with its cheap yellow eyes and raucous mouth. He was just past the door when it all started. First there was the shout and the curse, followed by the thick thuds of feet kicking against furniture. Then the shattering of glass, and O’Brien screamed into the night.

“I’ll get a cop and then we’ll see who’s boss.”

“Hey, O’Brien,” somebody yelled. “I just saw one go by. I’ll get him.”

“Hurry up, will you. The kid’s a tiger.”

Callaghan was on his way in before anyone had left.

“What’s the matter, O’Brien?”

“Same old stuff, Officer. Fresh kid got a lot of gin in him and figures he’ll take over the place.”

Callaghan nodded gently.

“Come on, son — “

“Shut up, shut up, you lousy cop. Nobody’s going to make me move. Nobody. I don’t care who it is.”

“Look, boy, you don’t want to make any trouble for me, I just want to get you home for a good night’s sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah. In the pen. You rotten cheesehound.” The kid was crying.

“Use a little force on him,” said O’Brien. “Get him out of here. I’ve got a night ahead yet.”

“Look, O’Brien,” snapped Callaghan. “You tell me how to be a cop and I’ll tell you how to get the most out of a bottle.”

“Wow!” somebody roared. “Nobody could do that. O’Brien’s half Scotch, don’t you know. Even when he ain’t serving drinks.”

“Shut up,” barked O’Brien.

“Get me some water,” ordered Callaghan.

“Think you can find any in the place,” came from a back booth.

“Get me some water,” growled Callaghan.

“Ted, in the back room. There’s a basin. Hurry,” said O’Brien.

“I only need a glass,” growled Callaghan. “I only need a glass to sober the kid up.”

Ted came running out, with the water leaping in the basin.

Callaghan motioned him to put it on the bar. Then he dragged the kid over and doused him, holding his head under the cold water until he squirmed with fury.

“You no-good lousy rat! Get me up and out of here.”

He bolted back from the bar. Callaghan effronted him but he burst onward, ramming the policeman in the stomach. But Callaghan dodged just enough to have had the arm lock on him while the kid was still doubled over.

“You and your lousy brothers,” the kid was crying again.

“I’ll get him out,” said Callaghan. “I’ll call the wagon.”

He snapped the claw on the kid’s wrist and forced him on. There was a box on the corner. It was a quick call.

The kid didn’t say much while they waited. Only a sprinkling of the choicest words to fit the occasion. Once he had struggled a bit too eagerly and Callaghan had twisted the claw to his advantage. That was when the kid had started in.

“What time you got, copper.”

Callaghan studied the face. There were no scars on it yet, but the lines were indelibly traced on his forehead and beyond the ridges of his mouth. The nose was straight and short and there were brown wisps of hair curling from the nostrils. His eyes were dark and dull as empty hallows. He had lips which cigarettes and liquor had twisted into a bulging greasy knot.

“What do you care for? You’re not going anyplace.”

“I got a right to know. It don’t cost nothin’.”

“Eight-thirty.”

Something made Callaghan look up. The light was green. Callaghan saw the lumbering hulk of the paddy jolting down the street. He waved to Winoski. Only it wasn’t Winoski. It was Miller.

“Where’s Winoski?”

“Got sick. Captain sent him home.”

“Staying up nights too much for him.”

“Guess so. He’s getting too old for the job.”

Callaghan nodded.

“Get the kid in back, will you. I’ve got to get down to the warehouse district. The sarge stuck me with one stinker of a beat.”

“He’s getting old, too.”

“That guy was old before he was born.”

The kid didn’t say a word. Callaghan searched for curiosity in his eyes, but there was none. And they were barren of fear, and anger. But there was something there, something he couldn’t diagnose. Something he had never seen before. It might have been a look of abandonment or preoccupation. Callaghan felt that the kid wasn’t really standing there. It was only a shadow.

Darn kids. They wouldn’t let you help them. It was like talking to mirrors and having your own words bounce back to you on invisible wings. He had tried to help him. He had taken it easy, worked into the situation. It used to work. Most of the kids started blubbering or making up to him. Even the fresh ones usually came around. He had even tried to be intimate, calling him “son.” Most kids softened up then.

Maybe he had stuck his foot in it again. The kid probably had a devil of an old man before he died. Didn’t Ellen say something once about Griffin drinking and Frankie having to take care of him — .

It was a mess.

One more night to forget about. Miller slammed the wagon shut, locked it, skipped around, and bounded across the front seat.

“Any messages?”

“Yeah, tell the captain it’s a hell of a life.”

“Sure, sure,” Miller laughed, warming up the motor.

“You tell him,” Callaghan said, “you tell him from me.”

And so goes the Night Beat.

I have a feeling at least part of that story is based on Grandpa’s experience with kids who were hardened before their time. He was a gentle soul, and tried to help whenever he could find a way.

“Night Beat” © 1948 Joan Cassidy. All rights reserved.

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