Frank Hickey Stories

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Is There Life After Louie? (A true story from the 75th Precinct, New York Police Department.). by Frank Hickey* Near my Coney Island Brooklyn neighborhood, Louie, a grandfather, lives with his kids and grandkids. "We're all close," he says. "Don't we gain strength from our families?" "Maybe some just use their families," his daughter Rachele mutters. "For free room and board." Louie works at being a good family man and grandfather. Except that, three or four times a year, he goes away, gambling, carousing and sucking down anisette until he gets tired. Then he slinks back home, broke, hungover and unshaved. His family walks soft near his room until he feels strong again. Last April, he goes off on the spring season. His family just hears gossip. Louie was here, he was there, andeverything else. But he doesn't slipback, as usual. Nobody knows where Louie is. The cops call the family. They find Louie on a bench at Coney Island, on the boardwalk, especially deceased from a heart attack. No wallet and no cash. The family mourns him, using a two-day wake with an open casket. Coney Island had been Louie's world. He never lived anywhere else. The priest says blessings over him.The whole family weeps. His daughter Rachele misses him. She wishes she had been nicer to him. They plant him in the family plot at Brooklyn's Holy Cross Cemetery. They try to re-adjust their lives without Louie. The next day, the family door opens. Louie sways inside, alive and exhausted. He says that he had gone into Brookdale Hospital for a minor infection. He didn't want to worry his family, so he kept quiet. Everyone asks, how could this happen? To be fair, Louie is an ordinary-looking type guy. A lot of characters look like other guys. Who is the dead stranger? the cops ask. They never find out. He has noidentification when they found hisbody. "We'll leave him in the family plot," Louie decides. "Why dig him up? He got no family claiming him. So, we take him as our own family. We all gain strength from our family.". Frank Hickey*. Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net

May 18, 2026

Heroes Christopher Hoban and Michael Buczek. by Frank Hickey In 1988, New York City is unbelievably dangerous. Killers smash previous records, slaughtering 1842 victims. Chris Hoban, 26, is a cop working undercover at a Harlem drug buy. He doesn't speak Spanish. The Latino drug dealers tell him to sample their cocaine. The Department forbids cops taking drugs on a buy unless their life is in danger. Hoban refuses. The dealers search him, find his gun and kill him. My sister is a TV reporter. She hears the reports over the news radio. She knows that I live three minutes walk away from the murder scene. My Harlem neighborhood is only seven percent white. Everyone lives in fear, black, white and Latino. So, she believes that the victim is me, a District Attorney's Detective Investigator, with gun and badge. With her camera crew, she races to the crime scene. She wonders how she will tell our parents if I am dead. She turns sad at hearing about the murder but relieved that I am still alive. Her TV van drives her to Hoban's family, in a safer Irish Brooklyn neighborhood, 14 miles away. Less than three hours later, Michael Buczek, 26, a cop in uniform but not wearing a ballistic vest, stops two drug suspects uptown. They run. Buczek chases. One turns, firing a fatal shot into Buczek's chest. So, two cops die on the same day. My sister visits the grieving Hoban family. She still feels the adrenaline dump from being scared that I was dead. But she is a pro and is recovering. As she leaves, the dead cop's father shocks her. "Please say hello to your father for me," Mr. Hoban says. My sister stops dead. "You know my father?" she asks. "Yes," he answers. "For years. We both read scripture at Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan". ***Frank Hickey Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net

May 16, 2026

Years ago, Bobby was a Marine. As my cop partner, whenever he sees something or someone difficult, he mutters, "This look like a job for the old Devil Dog Marine." I am not a Devil Dog Marine, but an unknown writer, scared and fascinated by policing. Every night, I sit outdoors and try to write something fresh about working patrol for two years. "Slow down, Bobby," I tell him."'Make haste slowly,'" like the Roman soldiers said." Bobby is always getting into trouble, on and off-duty. Some days, he will not show up for work. He limps in the next day, bruised and just grunting to questions. Bobby always plays it quiet. "You're right, player," he says one day."This jazz DOES happen fast. Happened to me." "What are you telling me, Bobby?" "Me and this guy got into it inna club," he says. "Some kinda stupid stuff. Don't even remember what. I was pretty polluted on whiskey. So was he. "I forgot all about it, heading out to my car. Dude slams me in the head, starts shooting. I grab his arm. Shots go wild. More shots. Gets me down on the ground, gun to my head. Last thing I remember thinking was 'Hickey's right. Stuff happens fast." "That was your last thought?" I wisecrack. "I''m honored." "Drunk fool, forgot to count his shots," Billy says. "I hear the hammer go CLICK!Empty chamber on a two-inch gun. No bullet. I'm pumped. Get up and beat him bloody, old Marine Corps hand-to-hand. Just thought you'd like to know, about these marks on my face." ***Frank Hickey If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.). Frank Hickey became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

May 13, 2026

Are You My Lawyer? or Beest Thou My Barrister?

May 13, 2026

Are You My Lawyer? or Beest Thou Mine Barrister? .***by Frank Hickey *** Aged ten, I was a writer fascinated by detectives. I hungered to be one. At 22, I became a street corner kid private eye , with no training, car or gun. All I sported were thick eyeglasses, languages and a longing to learn. Murder defense cases thrilled me. For ten years, I worked those challenges. My main job skill was annoying normal adults. They told me so. The Manhattan District Attorney's Office offered me a chance as one of their investigators. Sometimes, I worked undercover in torn and dirty clothes. Living in a drug-and-murder neighborhood, I needed to blend in. ...

Pounding Down Suds with Gaga. by Frank Hickey You civilians can't know about police paranoia. So I never tell my cop partners that I write COPERAS. In my view, COPERAS are unusual cop stories, in operatic style. Music and feelings matter more than facts. "Franky, we seen ya on Poplar Street," a cop on our joint task force accuses me. "You were smiling and toting a sixpack of suds," he continues. "Beer, that is." The state troopers, US Postal inspectors and New York cops tense up.They glare my way, mad-dogging me. "Of course," I say. "Sure. Why not?" "Don't ya know what they got on Poplar Street?" another probes. "Yep," I say. "My boxing gym. I sweat there, buy some beer, ferry it to my grandma, lives on Cranberry Street, around the corner." "You box good?" one asks. "Terrible," I admit. "Trying to lose this gut." "How old is your granny?" the cop asks me. "92." "And she's still pounding down suds?" he pushes. "Brooklyn beer is her favorite," I say."We call her 'Gaga.' Why, what's shaking on Poplar Street?" "That's the headquarters of our NYPD Internal Affairs," the cop says. "The rats. Wearing body tape recorders. And wires. "Bringing us cops up on charges for wearing white socks in uniform," another adds. "Discourtesy. Or for drinking off-duty in the wrong bar." "Or dating a woman with a wiseguy ex- husband," a sergeant says. "Cost me three vacation days." "It's like that new liberal website, 'Bad Cop, No Doughnut,'" a trooper snorts. "Reporting that Pickaway County, Ohio, just fired their dog warden for misconduct. Like, who cares?" "And the rat bosses," another spouts. "Ya sure ya weren't bringing beer to them? And ratting on us dumb cops that ya working with?" "We're gonna check your granny, she lives there," a detective mutters. "She a Hickey?" "Born Buckman," I say. "Jewish?" "Yeah, kinda," I say. "It's confused." "On your mother's side?" someone asks. "Yeah," I answer. "That makes you Jewish," the postal inspector says. "My ex taught me Jewish law. The hard way." "My family's a bit different," I admit "Sounds like it," the detective announces. "Stick to that story, Hickey. Okay?Jewish granny drinking Brooklyn beer near the IAD rathole. But we're gonna keep watching ya". Frank Hickey. If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view Frank Hickey Stories on the Medium app or frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.) Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.

May 10, 2026

Ricky Caputo, Serial Killer Dayby Frank Hickey "Mark, I got new leads on my serial killer case, Ricardo Caputo," I say. "Wanna check them out?" "Anytime, Hickster," Mark Baldessarre chirps. Mark would die next month. Bearded, commanding and learned, he pierces the Manhattan District Attorney's Investigation Bureau with grace. Standing strong and witty, he laughs at all the silliness of life. "You and the other Irishers around here want to punish Caputo for enjoying sex without holy marriage," he proclaims "And for not being Irish. Not part of your Budweiser tribe." After Mark dies, I would try to keep him alive by writing. Grieving, I created the character of Dancing Max Royster, the world's only ballroom dancing detective. Nine published Dancing Max Royster books followed. Today, by accident, I'm carrying the Caputo case. I have just three years as a cop. Often, like today, I have no idea what to do. Our fourth stop is a huge office building on Broadway. The secretary scans our gold-and-blue police shields and calls his boss. The boss, Mr. K. copies our names, shield numbers and command. Politely, he seems to expect corruption. He calls our office to check. This feels unusual to me. My nerves start singing. "What brings you?" he asks, stroking his short executive beard. "You have a janitor here," I say. "Ricardo Diaz." "And?" he prompts. "Our Bureau has an interest in him," I say, following procedure. "That's no answer, Hickster," Mark hisses. "That's just more government linoleum. Stating nothing, meaning nothing." I change tack. "We're looking for a serial killer, Ricardo Caputo," I say. "Killed at least six women." The boss nods. He still mistrusts us. His diploma from Deerfield Academy hangs on the wall. I want his trust. "You went to Deerfield?" I ask. He nods his surprise. "I graduated Canterbury," I say. "It was the wrong elite prep-school for me." He looks more surprised. "Do you know George M?" he asks.(I have ommitted the last name, to save my friend George embarrassment.) "Yup," I say. "For years. His family's from Lebanon.". It works. He relaxes. The prep-school world smiles. "This is our file on Mr. Diaz," he says. The file shocks me. I start shaking. My voice climbs. I'm a naive rookie, lost among professionals. "These ID cards you copied are fake,"I say. "Times Square bogus cards. Anyone can buy them." "And you oughta know," Mark whispers. "This date of birth is the same as our subject, the killer," I say. "Your janitor could be our killer. Where is this janitor from?" "Argentina," he says. "The boss is Argentinian." "So is Caputo," I say. "He only hires Argentinians," Mr. K. says. "May I call downstairs and see if Diaz is working today?" "Do you usually do that?" I ask. "No, never." "Then, please, don't do it today," I say. "Oh, let him call, Hickster," Mark advises. "What are they gonna say, 'Some weird guy from Canterbury is asking about you'?" Mr. K. rises and opens the door to the dark stairway. "Our power downstairs is out," he says. "Just happened at three." "And Diaz is down there?" I ask. "In the dark?". (To Be Continued). Frank Hickey *** Frank became a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective at frankhickey.net

May 08, 2026

Pink Elephant Undercover

May 07, 2026

Pink Elephant Undercover ***by Frank Hickey*** "I'm working my city detective job," Mazzi says, grinning naughty boy-style. "Way undercover. But I'm also working for an old-style Sicilian father. 1950's model. He's all worried about who his daughter Franchesca-Maria is seeing. Is the new boyfriend legit or is he a player? Or mobbed up. Maybe married with kids. "This is a cash job," he drills on, eyes sparking over a gold bling neck-chain. "Nothing on paper. No PI license or nothing. Daddy doesn't even know my real name. If the city finds out, they'll fire me yesterday." A good undercover survives by spinning stories. He can make you believe that you're a pregnant pink elephant. "So, I hang in the clubs they fre-quent," he chirps on. "Watching them, picking up a little gossip here, a word there. Ya know, right? "Summertime, the two lovebirds decide to nest out in Southampton," h...