Reflections from the Pit

By Michael Berish

Bad things happen in "the Pit," a notorious crime-infested ghetto in downtown Miami. Michael Berish's experiences as a Miami policeman for twenty-two years (thirteen of which were in the REAL Miami Vice) serve as fuel for these exciting, intense stories about life as a cop in a tough part of a big city.

Not just another collection of rehashed police stories with shootouts, car chases, and damsels in distress, Reflections from the Pit, contains individual, quirky, off-center characters. The stories focus on basic character flaws while dealing with social issues of the day: racism, hangings from police cruisers, sexism, affirmative action, prejudice, drug-dealing cops and corruption, homelessness, segregation, and police brutality. Berish uses his intimate knowledge of "the Pit" to bring these tales alive.

This book pulls no punches; it shows you the dark side of police work: the good, the bad and the ugly (warts and all), both the humor and the tragedy. These reflections, covering more than one hundred years of history, give one pause for thought and a peek into the human swamp of life in "the Pit."

WEBSITE: www.realmiamivice.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 17, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595896172

Michael Berish

Michael Berish earned a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Pittsburgh and a Master's Degree from Barry University in Florida. He worked for the City of Miami Police Department for twenty-two years as a patrolman, detective and supervisor; thirteen of those years spent as an undercover detective on the REAL, where he worked everything from Narcotics and Vice, Prostitution, Gambling and Pornograpyhy, to Dignitary Protection of President Jose Napoleon Duarte (of El Salvador) to Pope Paul II. His police stories have been published in several national magazines and won several writing awards. His latest book, REFLECTIONS FROM THE PIT, was awarded Best Fiction Novel by the Public Safety Writers Association. JUDGE'S COMMENTS ON REFLECTIONS: "This is an intriguing book with many fascinating stories that certainly reveal a side of police work that's seldom written about or shown on television. The author has a unique voice with a spark of humor that keeps the reader turning the pages. The characters were three-dimentional and intriguing to read about-police and criminals. All the dialogue was crisp and realistic. For anyone wanting to know the nitty-gritty and often dark side of police work, this is the book to read." TESTIMONIAL "That fellow (Berish) has a real talent for writing a story. That's excellent work." E. Howard Hunt (American author & C.I.A. spy) Not just another collection of rehashed police stories with shootouts, car chases, and damsels in distress, "Reflections from the Pit" contains individual, quirky, off-center characters. The stories focus on basic character flaws while dealing with social issues of the day: racism, hangings from police cruisers, sexism, affirmative action, prejudice, drug-dealing cops and corruption, homelessness, segregation, and police brutality. These reflections, covering more than one hundred years of history, give one pause for thought and a peek into the human swamp of life in "the Pit." This book pulls no punches; it shows you the dark side of police work: the good, the bad and the ugly (warts and all), both the humor and the tragedy. When you are finished reading it, you’ll say to yourself: “I never knew people, much less cops like this, ever existed." Berish currently lives on one of the barrier islands off the Florida coast with his two dogs: Dewey and Huckleberry Finn. WEBSITE: www.realmiamivice.com BLOG SITE: www.realmiamivice.net The BLOG SITE (www.realmiamivice.net) is a potpourri of the weird, interesting and unconventional. It has a bonanza of videos (a MUST SEE!; guaranteed to make you laugh) on everything from Christmas Shopping in Miami; the crazy people that call into 911; amazing magic tricks; the "Fruitcake Lady"; dogs that can absolutely do things that are out of this world; this little girl singer from the Philippines that will knock your socks off; a dance scene with Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell, the likes of which you will never see again. It has radio interviews, that I've done, about the REAL Miami Vice and my career on the force; informative photos of the Old West with interesting text which dispels various historical myths and disinformation like the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and Billy the Kid; a wonderful site on animals that love from the heart; the most unusual people and situations one would ever encounter; cop blunders on the street; and music from Romantic Latin songs, Italian Love songs, the Blues and some Country, to Rock ‘N Roll and Pop music. It's a must see; guaranteed to make you smile, hopefully laugh, and maybe even touch a few heart strings. It even has a TALK FORUM. "The world is made up of stories, not atoms."

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Copyright © 2007 by Michael Berish

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-45304-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-69358-0 (cloth)

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PREFACE

AND THEN, ALONG CAME JONES

SEPARATE, BUT EQUAL

GOD WAS MY CO-PILOT

THE NAKED CITY

FLIGHT 917 TO BOGOTÁ

THE SECOND AVENUE BUS DOESN’T STOP HERE ANYMORE

’TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

MERRY CHRISTMAS, GRANDMA

EVERYBODY COMES TO VIC’S

I MUST HAVE IT!

DON’T GET INVOLVED

ONE FOR THE CITY, TWO FOR US

ME, ME, ME!

BASTARDS AND CREAM

FWI WICE

POUR QUÉ? POUR QUÉ? POUR QUÉ?

ANOTHER MAN’S FREEDOM FIGHTER

WHAT DO BIG DOGS DO ON A MONDAY?

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT CHARLENE GROONER

I’M HIT!

JUST BACK FROM THE CONSTELLATION ORION NEBULA

JUST ANOTHER NEW YEAR’S EVE IN THE PIT

GONE FOREVER

THE REAL MIAMI VICE

HAMMER & FRYE: HEADBANGERS

A NIGHT IN THE TROPICS

A QUART OF MILK AND A LOAF OF BREAD

WALKIN’ AROUND MONEY

THE GIG LINE

ONCE MORE WITH FEELING!

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

These short stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, organizations, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

This book, or any parts of this work, may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic or mechanical—including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, or by any means including the scanning, uploading or distribution via the Internet without the prior, explicit, written permission of the author. Copyright © 10/13/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-332-778.

Individual Copyrights for REFLECTIONS FROM THE PIT

Separate, But Equal. Copyright © 3/22/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-168-938.

I Must Have It! Copyright © 4/5/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-172-393. First published in Enigma Magazine in Winter Issue, 2005.

Merry Christmas, Grandma. Copyright © 4/28/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-177-894.

The Naked City. Copyright © 5/21/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-178-466. First published in Hardboiled Magazine in Spring, 2006 Issue.

Flight 917 to Bogotá. Copyright © 6/1/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-178-482.

Don’t Get Involved. Copyright © 8/8/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-197-866. First published in Low Budget Adventure Stories (No. 3) in Fall Issue, 2006.

One for the City, Two for Us. Copyright © 10/15/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-199-932.

’Twas the Night Before Christmas. Copyright © 10/25/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number PAu 2-904-340. First published in Poetry Forum Short Stories in December, 2005.

"Just Another New Year’s Eve in the Pit." Copyright © 11/2/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-208-380. First published in The Goblin Reader (Rembrandt & Co.) in February, 2005.

Bastards and Cream. Copyright © 12/7/04 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-213-428.

Everyone Comes to Vic’s. Copyright © 1/4/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-216-504. First published in Cynic Magazine in June, 2006 (Volume 8, Issue 6). Republished in January, 2007 issue as one of Cynic Magazine’s Best Stories of 2006 (only 15 of 143 features were selected).

Gone Forever. Copyright © 1/20/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-218-995. First published in Enigma Magazine in Fall Issue, 2005.

"The Real Miami Vice." Copyright © 3/31/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-232-479.

A Night in the Tropics. Copyright © 5/6/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-239-202.

Fwi Wice. Copyright © 5/31/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-243-543.

Just Back from the Constellation Orion Nebula. Copyright © 7/1/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-241-943. First published in Cynic Magazine in November, 2005. Won First Prize for Fiction in the 2006 Public Safety Writer’s Association Short Story Contest.

Another Man’s Freedom Fighter. Copyright © 8/3/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-247-099.

And Then, Along Came Jones. Copyright © 8/26/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-256-098.

A Quart of Milk and a Loaf of Bread. Copyright © 10/5/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-261-414. Won Third Prize in the 2006 Public Safety Writer’s Association Short Story Contest.

There Was Something About Charlene Grooner. Copyright © 11/18/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-273-779.

Walkin’ Around Money. Copyright © 12/2/05 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-264-936.

The Second Avenue Bus Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore. Copyright © 2/6/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-279-308.

ME, ME, ME! Copyright © 2/21/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-285-176.

Hammer & Frye: Headbangers. Copyright © 3/7/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-287-280.

Once More with Feeling. Copyright © 5/12/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-300-706.

Pour que? Pour que? Pour que? Copyright © 6/19/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-300-706.

I’m Hit! Copyright © 7/28/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-312-114.

The Gig Line by Michael Berish. Copyright © 8/8/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-313-531.

What Do Big Dogs Do on a Monday? Copyright © 8/29/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-311-520.

God Is My Co-Pilot. Copyright © 9/28/06 by Michael Berish, Library of Congress Registration Number TXu 1-324-405.

For my grandmother,

my mom, and Daphne, who are

still all things both bright

and beautiful to me.

Fortunate am I to have had

women in my life who have

loved me without restraint.

And, for Dempsey: one truly loyal

and faithful companion, who never

knew he was a dog.

PREFACE

Pit, (n)

1. a deep or sunken place; an abyss; specifically, (a) a grave (b) the place of the dead or of evil spirits; hell: used with the.

"Back to the infernal pit I drag thee chained." MILTON

2. a covered hole in the ground for catching wild animals.

3. any concealed danger; a trap; snare.

"He keepeth back his soul from the pit." JOB xxxiii

4. an enclosed space or area in which cocks, dogs, etc. are set to fight.

In ancient times in certain cultures, men often fought to the death in a pit. [WEBSTER’S DICTIONARY]

My name is Michael Berish. I was an officer with the City of Miami Police Department from 1972 to 1994, retiring as a lieutenant. Thirteen of those years were spent as an undercover detective (called P.I.’s for Police Investigators) in the real Miami Vice where I worked everything from Narcotics, Prostitution and Pornography, to Dignitary Protection of President Duarte of El Salvador to the Pope.

I’ve been involved in barroom brawls, knife fights, and shoot-outs; survived high speed chases, cargo planes crashing in the streets, and over ten civil disturbances—as the City preferred to call them—most of which were due to differences between the various ethnic and cultural milieu within Miami a.k.a. the Magic City.

I worked my first civil disturbance as an academy recruit during the presidential conventions of 1972: both the Republican and Democratic conventions were held in Miami that year. The next civil disturbance resulted in eighteen deaths; I’d call that a full-blown race riot. That riot was in 1980; others followed in ’82, ’84, and ’89; and that was just the decade of the Eighties!

I’ve been praised (got my fair share of commendations, citations, ribbons, and awards, and when decked out in my uniform, I looked like a Russian ice skater), persecuted, and passed-over for promotions (several times) because of reverse discrimination.

88.17 percent of the racial makeup of Miami is minorities; 11.83 percent is Non-Hispanic Whites. The Magic City has three official languages: English, Spanish, and Haitian Creole.

According to the FBI’s Uniform Crime Reports, Miami is ranked as the second most dangerous metropolitan area in the U.S., based upon the number of murders, rapes, robberies, aggravated assaults, burglaries, and motor vehicle thefts. The City ranks second to last in people over 18 with a high school diploma. It’s the third largest immigration port in the country and ranks number one as the poorest city in America with nearly a third of its residents living in poverty—a greater percentage than any other city in this country of 250,000 or more. A City Manager once described it as a city of extremes where there are the rich, the very rich, and a lot of poor people—no middle class. Bottom line: all this makes for a very bad mix on the crime rate.

I chased the dross of society in every sector and on every shift as either a patrolman, detective, or supervisor; none was more beguiling, nor as vibrant as the hundred and forty square block area in 40 Sector that geographically ran west from North Miami Avenue to Northwest Seventh Avenue, and north from West Flagler Street to Northwest Twentieth Street.

Originally—when Miami was incorporated in 1896—Julia Tuttle and Henry Flagler laid out Colored Town, as they called it, as a section for the Black laborers to live in; it later became the black ghetto in downtown Miami, stigmatized as "the Pit" by the officers who worked it and known as Overtown by the denizens who lived, worked, and played there.

What follows is an anthology of fictional short stories that attempts to psychologically portray human puzzles—with different points of view—enduring within the absurdities of urban existence, all sharing one common bond: they live in the grip of the Pit.

Some of these contes, or reflections, might amaze you; others may horrify you; several might amuse, while still others might impinge upon your inner emotions; and a few deal with such baser instincts as corruption, which the Magic City has a long history of: one of the earlier Chiefs of Police was indicted for first-degree murder. I once heard a Chief of Police say that it was only a few rotten apples and not the whole barrel; his career ended in disgrace as he was accused of being one of the few rotten apples, just like another Chief—around the same time—who ended up serving time in a Federal prison: two dishonest Chiefs in a relatively short period of time; that barrel can get awfully crowded at times.

And what about the street cops? … Just before the 1980’s River Cops scandal, well over 100 officers were either arrested, fired, suspended, or reprimanded for crimes including ripping off drug dealers (from a Miami New Times article by Frank Alvarado, published 2/16/06). That’s more than a few in that barrel.

We’ve all heard that expression: You get the type of government you deserve; well, to me, the citizens of Miami got and are still getting, from what I can tell, the type of department they so richly deserve.

This is not just another collection of rehashed police stories with shoot-outs, car chases, and damsels in distress. I feel my approach to storytelling is unique in that all of these stories contain individual, quirky, off-center characters that focus on their basic character flaws while dealing with the social issues of the day. They are meant to be snapshots into the dark side of police work and deal with segregation, teenage prostitution, police brutality and its senseless violence, crazies who think they have been abducted by aliens, the murdering of transvestites, the lack of compassion and sympathy by the younger generation for their elders, the stupidity of criminals and the cowardice of police officers in the face of danger (the latter of which is rarely seen on TV), hangings from police cruisers, affirmative action, Cuban freedom fighters a.k.a. terrorists, the callousness of society towards the homeless, drug-dealing cops and corruption, bungled police stings, the don’t get involved syndrome and the raping of the elderly.

If you are looking for politically or culturally correct stories, read no farther; these tales are not meant to be; in fact, some stories are openly racist and sexist in nature, which is exactly what a police department is at times: a racist, sexist, prejudicial, homophobic, bureaucratic institution where brutality—of all forms and every description (physically and mentally)—and injustice abound.

Mostly, I hope these reflections give you pause for thought and a peek into the human swamp that moves ever onward, resolving nothing.

All of these stories were written to stand on their own (several were published separately and won awards); however, various personalities appear in several of the stories so that the fabric of the anthology might flow like a novel with repeating characters as offenders or victims, and where the officers of M.P.D.—like modern day gladiators in the arena of ancient Rome—battle, sometimes to the death, in the Pit.

Depend on the rabbit’s foot if you will, but remember it didn’t work for the rabbit.

—R. E. Shay

AND THEN, ALONG CAME JONES

On July 28, 1896, Miami was incorporated as a city. Also, on that day, the citizens voted to hire ONE "policeman who would preserve the peace and maintain order" as the marshal over a city of 1,500.

Since 1901 the Afro-American community requested that Black policemen be assigned to Colored Town, as it was called back then, later dubbed Overtown by its inhabitants, and the Pit by the Anglo police officers that worked in it.

1944. That was the year the City of Miami allowed five Blacks to serve on the force, not as police officers (the Civil Service classification for Whites), but as Patrolmen; Blacks were not allowed to attend the academy until 1960. All the "Coloreds" were assigned to foot patrol, allowed to carry guns, and had arrest powers—just as long as they only arrested other Blacks; if an arrest—as a last resort—had to be made of a White person, they were required to call an Anglo police officer to make said arrest.

In 1950, the residents of Overtown got their own—separate, but equal—precinct. And it was from here, in the early 1950’s, that Patrolman C.P. (Charles Previs) Milltoast exited one fresh November night after having ingested some very fine barbequed chicken. Life was looking up. And then, along came Jones. Charlie Milltoast was about to hit a bad patch of road.

Patrolman Alvin Jones was approaching the front of the precinct when he saw a suspicious figure squatting in the side-alley next door. Nervously, he pulled his Smith & Wesson revolver and quietly sneaked down the side of the building. HALT! POLE-LEECE! he yelled at the top of his lungs. The shadowy figure—quite obviously surprised—sprung up, and Alvin thought—at the time—right towards him like a brand-new set of false teeth opening up. Patrolman Jones jerked his shaking weapon at the figure and fired point blank—six times—instantly killing Patrolman C.P. Milltoast, who was pulling up his britches and gun-belt after having just relieved himself of several buckets of some very fine barbequed chicken. He was dead before he took that nose-dive into his own excrement.

How to handle—in a judicious manner—what was, clearly, a major imbroglio for the City of Miami Police Department?

The City dispatched a couple of over-the-top, Southern, all white bread, down-home, old-school, kick-ass, Florida Crackers to investigate the homicide; these two good-old boys couldn’t find a goat’s ass with a stick if it was whistling Dixie, centuries of inbreeding saw to that. They both looked as if they’d been up all night shelling peas and eatin’ taters, and talked as if they just stepped out of a comic book. The detectives—Grody and Beale a.k.a. Low and Common—came up with a practicable, though not necessarily insightful, resolution to everyone’s problems: they said C.P. was surprised by a party—or parties—unknown, while trying to stop a robbery. Very original. A robbery of whom, by whom, in an odious—borderline macabre—passageway littered with dross—next to a police station—was never adequately addressed, nor were the alleged killers ever caught. The City gave the widow a pipperoo of a ribbon to wear on her housedress at the funeral; this saved everybody a lot of grief concerning unanswered questions i.e., when Grody arrived on the scene—after seeing the body—he was, apparently, the first to wonder aloud to his partner: Ya know, for the life of me, what I can’t figure out is: Why?

Beale—sucking on a cigar—was nonplussed. Why what? Why’d he shoot him?

Nah. Why would this here Milltoast come outta his own sub-station, which had a tur-let in it—no less—and pro-seed to take, he peered over towards the side of the building, what would appear to be, one hellacious crap on the side of the building?

I’ll betcha he didn’t have no toilet paper with him, neither, snickered his partner, between puffs.

I mean, why? Why, in the hell, would he do such a dumb-ass thing?

Beale shrugged his shoulders, all the while coughing as if he’d just swallowed a boiled ferret. He had a cough that reminded you of the Civil War and men lying around a campfire with tuberculosis. Maybe he jest wanted ta take a leisurely master dump out in the fresh night air and feel the cool evening breezes whippin’ through his skivvies. It’s a nice night fer it. Grody looked at his partner with an uneasy note of concern, as Beale continued. "Look at that Jones over there in the corner, weepin’ away and prattlin’ on like sum baby. Ain’t he got no self-respect? Look at him! Such snivelin’! He’d confess to anythin’ right about now includin’ the Lindbergh kidnappin’ and the disappearance of Judge Crater, if ya asked him ta.

He keeps babblin’, over and over: ‘It just happened! It just happened!’ Like this shootin’ was akin ta sum freak electrical storm that knocked out power in 12 states or sumthin’ and he didn’t have nothin’ ta do with it. Sarcastically mimicking the Black cop: "‘It just happened! It just happened!’ The guy’s got no fuckin’ off-switch! … He must be a complete idiot ta shoot a fellow patrolman like that!"

Grody, who was wearing a Brobdingnagian tie—as part of his frippery—with a tawdry palm tree on it that looked as if he tied it with his toes, countered with, "Not a complete idiot. I’d give him an A+ in marksmanship. He lit up that coon like a bottle rocket. I’ll betcha his ears are still ringin’ from all that gunfire in this pocket-sized alleyway; musta been like a half dozen howitzers goin’ off in this cubbyhole … But, it don’t sir-prise me none though why Alvin, over there, shot his buddy."

It don’t? replied Beale.

Hell no! That’s whatcha git when ya gives niggers a gun; they’re bound ta end up cappin’ each other.

I sometimes think that God in creating man somewhat overesti mated his ability.

—Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

SEPARATE, BUT EQUAL

"‘Separate, but equal’ was segregation and unconstitutional; that’s what the Supreme Court said back in ’54"; that’s what I remember saying. I was a fledgling cop in Patrol, riding the midnight shift in the Pit, the Black section in downtown Miami. I was parked on the ninth hole of the Sable Palm Golf Course, just off Northwest Twelfth Avenue, drinking coffee and taking a break with my partner. And what did my partner respond? I still remember, forty years later.

"Equal, my ass! … Equal?! … It’s that ‘separate, but equal’ decision that got us into all this affirmative action bullshit we have today.

"How’d you like it if you scored number four on the sergeant’s exam but was passed over for some Sambo that scored thirty-four on the same test? He gets promoted and you don’t, all because of affirmative action. Is that whatcha call ‘EQUAL’?! … When’d you say those sissies on the Supreme Court came out with that decision?"

1954, I repeated.

1954 … Right … Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Liberal Rookie Cop. I was riding this shift, in this same sector, back in 1954 and we didn’t pay no attention to all them Fancy Dan decisions—

I’ll bet!

—back then. And you know what?

Can’t wait to hear.

We were a lot better off then.

That was my partner, Officer Stan Spooky O’Kofski. He was half-Irish, half-Polish, but he was ALL spooky. If he was upset with someone, ready to explode, or maybe he did something that was perfectly logical to him but was a bonehead decision to anyone else, or maybe he was just plain discombobulated internally and didn’t know what to do about a situation, he’d just sit there, staring straight ahead, right through a person. He wouldn’t say a word, he’d just stare with a spooky edge to it, straining straight ahead with a vacant expression as if he were either trying to remember something or else forcing a bowel movement and you hoped it was the former, not the latter. Then, he’d smile; a smile that