Back in the late 80s my friend worked as a narcotic detective for the NYPD. The 27 year-old Brooklyn native belonged an elite squad trained to raid crack houses and dealers’ apartments in Red Hook, Brooklyn’s biggest housing project. His job was simple, but dangerous.

Once their battering ram smashed down the reinforced door, Rocco dropped to his knee with a shotgun seeking any threat. The twelve-guage was an effective calling card and most perps froze in his sights, although some fled through elaborate escape routes chopped through the walls of tenements buildings. The undercover officer was infamously known as ‘Dead-eye’, although he swore to me that he had never pulled the trigger on a fugitive.
Rocco earned $27,000 a year without OT. His salary wasn’t much after taxes and Rocco was always short of cash.

At that time I was working at the Milk Bar on lower 7th Avenue. The triplex was filled with models, artists, musicians, criminals, dancers, and stars. No photos were allowed inside the club and Rocco only got through the door, because we were friends.
Once a week the young detective would stopped by after work,

“This is pleasure, right?” I had to ask. My boss hated the NYPD. They were aways shaking him down.

“Nothing but pleasure, I’m off-duty.” Rocco liked his drink.

“Make sure.” I didn’t want him arresting aynone on the premises and Rocco obeted my edict to the letter, however every time he visited the club, several drug dealers left in a hurry. Even in his street clothes they read Rocco as narco cop.
One night he arrived at the club and asked to use the office. Rocco occasionally swiped some blow from the crime scene. He didn’t do any zoot, but the detective liked to be in my good books. I told the bouncers that I was taking a break and shut the door. We sat down at the desk and Rocco pulled a paper bag from under his jacket. It was packed with cash. $20s.

“What you think?” He handed me a bill.

“It’s good.” The touch was silky smooth and the images were clear to the eye. I held it up to the light. Something wasn’t right. Jackson’s eyes were off. “It’s a fugazi. Where you get them?”

“I was raiding a dealer’s apartment in the projects. We knocked down the door. I covered the room with my shotgun. The perps scooted out the windows. My boys chased them. I was left in the apartment by myself. There were paper bags in the corner. I looked inside and I found this.” Rocco took back the bill. “I thought I’d give myself a raise.”

“How much you think is in there?” Cops are honest whenever there’s more than one of them around, but like everyone else in the world, no witnesses to a crime breeds larceny in the hearts of honest men.

“Only one way to find out.” Rocco dumped the phony cash on the desk.

We counted out just under $5000.

“You know someone who can rid of this?” Rocco believed in breaking one law at a time. He had done his share, now it was my turn.

“I can get you 50 cents on the dollar.”

“Then do it.” He trusted me to do my part.

I stashed the money in the safe and told Rocco, “Don’t tell anything about this.”

And he didn’t.

Later in the week we split the money. He never asked who bought the fugazis. I never said who, because secrets are easier to keep when no one asked questions. Rocco retired from the NYPD a hero. I went to his party. The two of us said, “Bad paper.”

It was a good laugh.