Something about being the eyes and ears of a city and knowing everything that was going on got young Anthony Ambrose to dream about becoming a Newark policeman.

"My uncle was a cop," Ambrose said. "He used to tell stories about being up all night while the whole city was sleeping. He seemed to know everybody. And everything. Since I was 5 years old, all I wanted to do was be a Newark cop.""

But first he had to overcome his father's objections. Not so easy if you grew up in the North Ward and your father was built like Rocky Marciano, with hands just as heavy.

"I shouldn't tell this story ...," he began, which is the way Ambrose begins many stories, " ... but my father didn't like cops. He was a diesel mechanic and had a garage. One night, somebody broke in. Some tires and $40 went missing. They (the police) told him it was probably some kids. Later on, my uncle told him some cops tried to sell him the tires."

So, Anthony Sr. wanted his son to go to college.

"He wanted me to become a lawyer or something," Ambrose said.

Or maybe a politician.

"He said, 'Become somebody who tells cops what to do."

Ambrose had no intention of doing that in the beginning. He was happy being in uniform. But when it did happen -- telling cops what to do -- it was because of his work ethic, street and strategy smarts, and the mentorship of people who recognized both.

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On Wednesday, Newark Mayor Ras Baraka held a year-end summary of crime for 2017, with Ambrose positioned at his right shoulder.

The headline: Homicides were down 31 percent. The secondary headlines: a 23 percent increase in guns taken off the street; a 26 percent drop in robberies; and, despite a 22 percent increase in police-citizen "encounters," such as arrests, investigations, stops and serving warrants, complaints against police fell 20 percent.

"This isn't a victory lap," said Baraka. "We still have a lot of work to do. But we're moving in the right direction."

When Ambrose took his turn at the podium, he led with the bad news. That's Ambrose. No sugar-coating. Old school.

Shootings were up by 28 percent, as 75 more people were hit by gunfire this year. Ambrose attributed the increase to a factor that has frustrated police across the country: the presence of more high-powered assault-type weapons on the street.

Of the 517 guns recovered by police, 53 were the type capable of spraying multiple rounds in seconds.

He also took a swipe at new bail reform rules that put criminals, especially those involved in non-fatal shootings, quickly back on the street.

"I'm for bail reform," he said. "But things have to be worked out. We have guys who get arrested and they're back out, and there's retaliation or they want to finish the job. That increased the opportunity for more shootings."

It's been almost two years since Baraka appointed Ambrose, 59, as the city's public safety director, the culmination of a police career that began in 1986.

It was somewhat of a surprise move. Ambrose was part of a department that Baraka, as an activist, used to protest against.

"Hey, everybody changes," Baraka said, perhaps referring to both himself and Ambrose. "But he's been in the ranks, both in good times and bad."

Equally important was the time Ambrose spent working for the Essex County Prosecutor's Office, forging relationships with state and federal law enforcement entities.

"He was the guy who could bring everybody together," Baraka said. "He had the reach to get us the help we needed ... I knew some people might see it as a risk. But it paid off. It was one of the best things I've done."

In the two years since Ambrose's return, most crime has dropped or stayed flat. Police have been added in triple digits. There are plans to open two new precincts and a city police academy.

"What I'm most proud of, though, is our community engagement," Ambrose said during an interview in his office prior to the press conference.

Each of the city's five precincts must hold five engagement events a week.

"We have pizza-with-a-cop or coffee-with-a-cop programs in the neighborhoods," he said. "We have a citizen-clergy academy where the people do an eight-week course learning what we do. We have a captain-for-day program, where they (the citizen) goes into the precinct."

What Ambrose has done is try to return police to the streets to build trust. Old school.

"If you don't have trust, forget it. You can't get anything done," he said. "We need the people out there to trust us and help us. That's the only way to reduce crime."

Ambrose got his start in police management thanks to an unnamed sergeant. The down side of old school.

"I probably shouldn't tell this story ...," he said, "... but we were at our Christmas party and the guy is there (drunk) with his hat on backwards and I thought, "If this guy can be a sergeant, I sure as hell can do it."

After a few years on the beat and in narcotics, he began working for Azell Terry, a veteran sergeant.

"You could tell Anthony was a hard worker and a very positive force," said Terry, 85 and long retired. "I had him in homicide for seven years. He was very impressive to me. You could bet your life on him."

When Terry took over the intelligence unit several years later, he brought Ambrose on board.

"He was the only white guy," Terry said. "It was a risk, but he was just as good on the street."

Former Newark police director Joe Santiago came to know Ambrose when Ambrose did a two-week stint in the police administration office.

"The guy never went home," Santiago said. "He was there all day, all night. At the end of the two weeks I told him, 'You're staying here.'"

Santiago said he was frustrated trying to introduce a NYPD-style crime and manpower analytic called COMPstat into the Newark police operation. New school meets old school.

"I sent a few guys over, they didn't get it," he said. "Then I sent Anthony. When he came back, I told him he was going to run it."

In 2000, with the re-election of Sharpe James, Santiago said he promised to reduce crime by 50 percent.

"We were going for the win, and to win I told Sharpe I wanted to make Anthony chief," Santiago said. "He was young, he was only a lieutenant, but he was a leader and I wanted a guy who was on the same page with me. I knew it was a risk, but I knew Anthony would get it done."

After the election of Cory Booker, Ambrose left the city to work for the county, eventually becoming chief of detectives for the prosecutor's office.

When Baraka was elected mayor in 2014, he inherited high crime and a decimated police department.

"When you're the mayor, you own violent crime," Santiago said. "You're measured by the murder rate. I think it took a lot of guts for Ras to bring back a guy who worked for Sharpe James to fix things up. And he hit a homerun."

Mark Di Ionno may be reached at mdiionno@starledger.com. Follow The Star-Ledger on Twitter @StarLedger and find us on Facebook.