Buddy Boys by Mike McAlary Page B

man.”
    â€œDon’t bullshit me. I just ran the fucking plate. You’re in a stolen car.”
    Henry looked to his left and saw the radio cars closing in, their lights flashing. He had to make a quick decision, a fateful decision. Should he or shouldn’t he rat on a fellow cop?
    â€œAll right. Get the fuck out of here now.”
    The cop sped off just as the first radio car arrived, carrying a sergeant, no less.
    â€œWhat happened?” the sergeant asked. “I thought you had a stolen car.”
    Henry tried a smile. “No. I must have put over the wrong plate because he’s got papers for that car and everything. I just let him go.”
    â€œAll right,” the sergeant said.
    But things were not all right. The sergeant had caught a glimpse of the fleeing car and had written down a plate number just as he arrived. He called the dispatcher to ask what plate number Henry Winter had given over the air. The two numbers matched. Henry was in a lot of trouble.
    They took his gun and shield away pending an in-house investigation. But later that night, following a meeting in the precinct captain’s office between two borough commanders and members of the Field Internal Affairs Unit, they were given back. Henry insisted he had made a mistake, that he had put over one number and seen another on the car and registration. Essentially the department decided to look the other way. Henry was given an official reprimand; a yellow sheet was placed in his file.
    The cop whom Henry let get away was assigned to watch prisoners at Kings County Hospital. He had taken an impounded car from the parking lot of his precinct during his break and was on his way to see his girlfriend when Henry pulled him over. As punishment for unauthorized use of the car, the cop was transferred to another precinct and given a foot post.
    There was no reason to transfer Henry Winter anywhere else. He was already assigned to a dumping ground. Only now Henry wasn’t going to get out of the 77th Precinct. Ever.
    Originally, Henry had been dumped in the 77th because the department didn’t know what to do with a cop everybody thought was a rat. Now he was anchored to the Alamo, a yellow flag sitting in his personnel folder, all because he had refused to turn in another cop. Life was strange, Henry Winter concluded.
    â€œI never really did much in the beginning. Maybe little things. You know, if you go into a burglarized apartment and there’s money left, you put it in your pocket. But then I worked with Gallagher—we called him Junior—one night in 1983 and I got started.
    â€œAt that time, Gallagher was looking for a partner. His partner Artie had left the precinct to join the highway patrol, and Junior was auditioning for his replacement. He was the precinct union rep. He had his ear to the ground. Gallagher always knew what was going on. He asked me to be his partner but I just didn’t want to work steady midnights—I couldn’t take working from midnight to eight in the morning. But Junior told me, ‘Midnights are good. Get any days off you want. Nobody is out here watching you.’
    â€œWe had stopped outside a place on Rogers Avenue—there was a social club upstairs. Junior said he had to go and see this guy Robbie for a minute. I said, ‘All right. I’ll stay down here with the car.’ Junior insisted, ‘Come up.’ So I went up to the club with him.
    â€œIt was a Jamaican club. Junior was talking to a guy off on the side and having a beer. So I ordered a beer just to be sociable. Then after a few minutes, we went back to the car. Gallagher handed me a ten dollar bill as we pulled away. I said, ‘What’s this for, Junior?’ He replied, ‘This is from my friend. Every once in a while he gives me a couple of dollars just to stop up and say hello. I give half to the guy I’m with.’ I said, ‘Oh, all right, thank you.’ I didn’t