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He came home early one morning with his policeman’s coat in tatters. She had come at him with a butcher’s knife, he said. Mom and Sis were horrified. Being a 12-year-old male, I feigned nonchalant concern. He survived the attack without a scratch. That didn’t surprise me. My father was indestructible. Yet, deep in my subconsciousness, for the first time I realized when he stepped out the door in his uniform, there was always a chance he might not return alive.
I remembered when he first decided to join the force. He was a few pounds short of making the weight. He came home with a determined look on his face and ate bananas and drank water all day long to make the cut. When he reapplied, he was welcomed into the Philadelphia Police Department. It started his 20-year love affair.
Dad took great pride in his new job. He had no fear. His courage knew no bounds. He was consumed with being a good cop. He grew to detest those cops who allowed themselves to grow fat and sloppy, the ones who could not chase a thief on foot without getting winded, the ones who looked the other way when a crime was being committed because their shift was almost over. In those days, cops were not paid overtime for court appearances. They were not allowed to hold part-time jobs. Being a cop meant you were considered on duty 24 hours a day. But no one looked more handsome in his neatly pressed uniform. His shoes were always polished to a high gloss. His weapon gleamed. He got his hair cut once a week. He became known as "Pistol Pete."
It took a long time, but he finally got the opportunity to become a plainclothes detective. As he told the story, he had been given the choice of joining Vice or Narcotics. Being a member of the Vice Squad would’ve posed a serious family conflict because some of them were in what was then called "the numbers racket." He chose the Narcotics Squad without having any such compunctions.
During the 1950s, all was not "Happy Days." Heroin was the drug of choice. Dad hated pushers, but felt sympathy for the users, especially if they played a good saxophone. It was once said he heard some cat blow his axe, and he couldn’t make the arrest. But he did make lots of arrests in his day, and earned 35 commendations for his bravery.
Dad purchased his suits at Ripley’s or Howard’s on South Street (he couldn’t afford Bill Diamond’s, which he no doubt would have preferred). He had a sense of style. His neckties had just the right Windsor knot. He wore his Stetson with the brim up a la Gene Hackman in "The French Connection" (only Dad was doing it before the popular film was ever made). He was living life on the edge, knocking down the door of drug pushers in the dead of night, engaging in wild car chases. He never felt more alive.
His life suddenly came crashing down. There was a shake-up in the Narcotics Squad. He never was charged with any wrongdoing, but he took the fall with everyone else. I knew he never took a cent of payoff. We lived a meager lifestyle, even for those days. Mom questioned why some of his colleagues had homes down the Shore, while she didn’t even have a washing machine. I knew why. I believed in him with a sense of trust I’ve never found again. He found himself back in uniform after seven years of glory.
The old fire was gone. He still looked sharp in his uniform, but he was tired and disillusioned. Mom had grown ill in the meantime. She was tired of the shift work and waiting for him to come home in one piece. She wanted him with her. Reluctantly, he resigned from the force.
Dad was not ready to leave law enforcement just yet. He took a job with then- District Attorney Arlen Specter’s Drug Taskforce. He convinced Mom the hours would be more regular and the duties, less dangerous. He seemed like a new man. He was wearing his natty suits again. But Mom’s illness became worse and it forced him to finally leave the job for good.
Dad ended his days as a runner for a law office. He made his own hours, went in early and was home by 3 p.m. to be with Mom, but he never lost his interest in law enforcement. He remained a cop at heart until he died of lymphoma. He only lived to the age of 67, but what a life. I live mine wishing I had half his guts.
