Irish Eyes (8 page)

C.W. frowned. His blue-green eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was much thinner than the last time I’d seen him. “What’s the matter,” I said teasingly, “Nickells got you on a diet?”

Linda Nickells was C.W.’s wife and one of my best friends. They were both cops, that is, former cops. C. W. had been captain of the robbery squad when both Bucky and I worked there; Linda, his second wife, was a homicide detective whom I met when I was working for an antiques-dealer client accused of killing a teenage girl.

We had a lot of history, me, C.W., Bucky, and Linda.

C.W. struggled to his feet, reached for his canes. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, looking around.

It was painful, watching him walk like that. Linda assures me that he isn’t in pain, doesn’t mind the canes, but it hurts me just the same. The sight of him always reminds me that he needs those canes because of me, because a homicide suspect had shot him when I’d been too slow-moving. After the accident, they’d given C.W. a desk job. Not long after that, he took a disability pension and bought a security business. And not long after that, Linda, worn out from trying to be a good cop and a good mother to their two-year-old son, Wash, had quit too, to work in the security business with C.W.

I followed C.W. out to the vending area. He got a pack of gum, offered me a stick. “Sorry. I didn’t feel like talking about Bucky in front of those Irish assholes back there.”

“Boylan,” I said. “He’s not one of my favorites either. The other guy, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know Michael Kehoe?”

I thought about it. “I’ve heard his name recently, but I don’t know the guy.”

“You wouldn’t,” C.W. said. “Kehoe is with the DeKalb S.O.”

“Since when did these guys get so tight with Bucky?” I asked. “I never heard him mention them before. And what’s with the Irish assholes bit?” I asked. “Remember who you’re talking to here, laddie.”

“You may be Irish, but you’re not one of them,” C.W. said. “Sorry. I just can’t take their racist bullshit, you know?”

It dawned on me then. “Kehoe. He’s the one who’s president of the Shamrock Society. With Boylan. Bucky’s new best buddies.”

Now it was C.W.’s turn to be surprised. “Since when did Deavers get buddy-buddy with those guys?”

“Recently, I guess. Bucky came over last night, wanted me to go to this St. Patrick’s Day party they were throwing. He wanted me to meet his new girlfriend. She never showed, but I did have an unhappy reunion with Johnny Boylan.”

“Your old boyfriend,” C.W. said.

“We went out once. I didn’t know he was married. The guy makes my skin crawl. I can’t understand how Bucky got mixed up with a loser like Boylan.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” C.W. said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I wanted to know.

C.W. gestured toward the waiting room. “Those guys—those assholes. Supposed to be some damn Irish-American police fraternal organization—right?”

“I guess. That’s how McNabb described it. They march in parades and drink green beer. Harmless fun.”

“That’s a load of crap,” C.W. said vehemently. “Boylan. You know what he’s famous for?”

“Besides chasing anything in a skirt? What?”

“Bashing in heads down in the projects. Loves to beat up the brothers, then come back to the squad room, trade nigger jokes with his buddies. He worked for me once, back in the early nineties. I had him transferred down to the airport precinct, get him out of my sight. How he’s stayed in the department this long—and the chief’s black and knows the score—I don’t get it.”

“So he’s a bigot,” I said. “The world’s full of bigots, C. W. We Irish do not have the exclusive franchise on hatred.”

“Those guys do,” C.W. insisted. “They might as well be the Klan. You take a look at their membership roster. All white, all good old boy. All asshole.”

C. W. was a third-generation Atlanta police officer. His grandfather was one of the first black officers sworn into service with the city, back in the days when black cops weren’t allowed
to arrest white citizens or even shower in the same precinct with white officers. But three generations of Hunseckers had made a career of policing, and C.W.’s own career had been pretty impressive until the shooting.

“Hey,” I said. “Look at the African American Patrolmen’s Association. I don’t see any white names on their roster. Does that mean they’re racist? Come on, C.W., I can’t believe there’s anything sinister about a bunch of dumb micks who wanna dress up in kilts and pretend to be leprechauns every March seventeenth. What’s the harm?”

C. W. chewed his gum agitatedly. “I hear things, okay?”

“What kind of things?” I asked, wanting to defuse his anger. “Boylan’s the one who put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder?”

“Funny,” he said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t recognize Kehoe’s name. Think—you don’t remember hearing about a Michael Kehoe a few years back? When the issue was discrimination? Only he charged that it was reverse discrimination?”

I glanced back at the waiting room. One of the men was standing up, reading notices on a bulletin board. He was tall, with thinning blond hair and a high forehead and pants that rode low on bony hips. That Michael Kehoe?

“Okay, I remember,” I said. “Didn’t he used to be a priest before he went into law enforcement?”

“Not quite a priest,” Hunsecker said. “What do you call them before they graduate from priest school?”

“A seminarian.”

“Yeah. A seminarian. His summer assignment was to assist as a chaplain in the DeKalb Sheriff’s Office. But he liked cop work so much he quit the priesthood and went to the academy instead,” Hunsecker said. “He was supposedly in line to be assistant chief deputy, but then he got passed over for the job—by a black guy.”

“And Kehoe sued for reverse discrimination and won.”

“Won big,” Hunsecker said bitterly. “The court ordered the sheriff to make him assistant chief deputy. The other guy, Oscar Braymore, got shoved into some nothing job in warrants. He quit the department; last I heard, he’s selling used
cars. But Kehoe? He got his back pay plus damages of, what I heard, nearly a million dollars.”

“He’s a rich man, then,” I said, not taking my eyes off Kehoe. “What’s he want with some dipshit sheriff’s job?”

“Revenge,” Hunsecker said. “Wants to stick it in everybody’s face. He was a white man and he was wronged and he made ‘em pay. Besides, he claims the lawyers got most of the money.”

“He must be real popular over at the S.O.,” I speculated.

“They made him assistant chief deputy of nothing,” Hunsecker said with some satisfaction. “He pushes paper, punches the clock, spends most of his time organizing these Shamrock clowns.”

“So Kehoe’s a jerk and Boylan’s a bigot,” I said. “I’ll give you that. What kinds of things are you hearing? You never heard anything bad about Bucky, right? You know he wasn’t like them.”

Hunsecker’s face softened. “Deavers. Damn. I don’t want to believe anything bad about him. I saw that thing in the
Constitution
this morning. About internal affairs investigating. Then I see Boylan and Kehoe in there, weeping and wailing, it makes me wonder, that’s all.”

“Wonder what?”

“Nothing,” C.W. said. “Let’s get out of here. The doctors won’t tell us nothing, anyhow, and I’m thinking a chili dog might taste good about now.”

I knew what he was thinking about. “Nickells lets you eat that stuff?”

“How’s she gonna know unless you rat me out?”

“Okay,” I said. “My van’s in the garage. I’ll fly if you’ll buy.”

“Deal,” he said.

The Varsity sits high atop North Avenue overlooking Interstate 75 and the nearby Georgia Tech campus like an aging fifties battleship. It’s probably the last place left in Atlanta with curb service.

I pulled into a slot on the top deck, gave the carhop our order: three chili dogs, an order of rings, a fried apple pie, and a Coke for C.W., and a plain hamburger and Diet Coke for me.

“You getting prissy on me, Garrity?” C.W. asked. “Was a time, you could outeat anybody, anytime.”

“Ten years ago,” I said. “Right now, my idea of middle-aged crazy is having half-and-half in my decaf espresso.”

He shifted his weight in the front seat of the van. I knew he was trying to get comfortable.

“What’s so bad you couldn’t talk about it in the hospital?” I asked. “You’re giving me bad vibes, Hunsecker.”

“It’s not me putting out the vibes,” he replied. “It’s those Shamrocks.”

“You’re getting me mad with all these Irish put-downs,” I warned. “If you know something, tell me.”

He chewed his chili dog, took a sip of Coke. “I don’t know anything. I’m not on the force, and I mind my own business. Don’t have many connections anymore. But Linda and her girlfriends, well, you know how gals like to gossip.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re treading on thin ice here, bub.”

He sighed. “I’m just trying to tell you how it is. Gossip, or at least that’s what we thought. It was just something Linda overheard. The women detectives, they all get together once a month, it’s a girls’ night out kind of thing. Linda goes, ‘cause she misses seeing her girlfriends. Misses the action.”

“Don’t we all?”

“They were at some Mexican restaurant they always go to. Place has dollar margaritas. It was late, the tequila was flowing pretty good. There were maybe a dozen gals there, all cops or cops’ wives. Linda went in the ladies’ room, and as she’s fixing her makeup, she hears these two women talking, stall to stall. ‘Where’s Kirstee tonight?’ one of the women asks. Kirstee, that’s Kirstee Boylan, she’s a detective in auto burglary, married to your old boyfriend. She’s what? Wife number three or four?”

“Who’s counting?” I said.

“Anyway, the other one says, ‘She’s working security at a bank in Buckhead, at least that’s the story she gave me.’ And the other gal, she kinda laughs. ‘You see that brand-new BMW she’s driving? I need me a job like that.’ And the other woman says, ‘Don’t joke. Okay? It’s not funny. Somebody’s gonna get hurt. I told her she’s crazy messing with that shit.’

“Linda tiptoed out, waited around outside to see who the women were. It was two gals who work in vice. Gals Linda’s known for years.”

“Did she find out what they were talking about?”

“Not that night. She felt funny about asking. Next day, she made some phone calls. Nothing. But you know how Linda gets. She’s like a terrier, once she’s on something. So she had me make some calls. About Kirstee Boylan. What kind of security work she does.”

“And what did you find out?”

C.W. dipped an onion ring in a paper cup of ketchup, then covered it with a frosting of salt. “Nothing. I’ve got a buddy in records. I had him check. You know, there’s a new policy, cops have to have written approval to work off-duty.”

“That’s what I heard last night. And that’s why internal affairs is so interested in Bucky.”

“That’s just it,” C.W. said. “Kirstee Boylan isn’t approved to work any off-duty security jobs.”

“So she forgot to get her permission slip signed,” I said.

“Lots of people forgot a lot of stuff,” Hunsecker said. “After I read that story in today’s paper, I got curious. Called my buddy back. All of a sudden, Kirstee Boylan’s been approved to work two nights a week at the SouthBank branch on Roswell Road. And according to the records, the approval was signed two months ago.”

“You’re not the only one with friends in the right places,” I observed. “She covered her ass. Got the permission postdated. I still fail to see anything sinister in any of this.”

“I run a security business, provide guards to places like banks,” Hunsecker reminded me. “We pay our guys ten thirty-five an hour. None of them is driving new cars. And there’s no scary stuff involved. It’s boring as hell. The worst thing you get is a bunion. So what were those two women talking about?”

“I give up,” I said, reaching my hands in the air.

“You’re being deliberately dense,” C.W. said.

“So educate me.”

He leaned forward. “Look. Security guards are my bread and butter. I got twenty, thirty cops working for me. Most of it’s nuts-and-bolts stuff. Nightclub bouncers, guys directing traffic during lunch hour in front of the Burger King, guys riding around in little funny cars outside the mall, maybe work
Wrestlemania over at the Georgia Dome. My guys don’t get rich. They use the money to supplement their incomes. Buy a secondhand car for their kid, pay orthodontists’ bills, alimony, child support, take the family to Disney World on vacation.”

“Yeah?” I was trying, but I still wasn’t making the connection.

“I’m black, right?”

“So you say. Although the green eyes always make me wonder.”

“Honky in the woodpile,” C.W. said. “Anyway, just because it’s the way these things work out, most of the guys who work for me are also black. We got a few white dudes, but mostly my contracts are on the South Side, and my guys live on the South Side, and they’re black.”

“Racist pig.”

“Probably,” C.W. said mildly. “Lately, my guys are hearing things. Like, the white guys, they’re pulling down some heavy change working security. Banks, stores, restaurants, clubs. Mostly on the North Side.”

“Maybe some security company on the North Side is paying more.”

“Uh-uh,” C.W. said, shaking his head. “I checked. These guys work directly for the owners, not for a security company. At least that’s the story they tell anybody who asks. See, I had one of my guys ask a white buddy of his how could he get a good security job like he had. The white guy got all jumpy about it. Said he didn’t know about any security jobs.”

“So?”

“The white guy’s name was Hurley. He’s one of those Shamrocks. They got a gig, Callahan. I don’t know what it is, but it’s some kind of gig, and it’s something smells bad to me.”

“And you think Bucky was in on something bad, too? Because he worked an off-duty security job, and he’s white, and happened to join some fraternal organization because his new girlfriend wanted him to? Please.”

“All right,” C.W. said. “Don’t believe me.”

He ate another onion ring, took a bite of chili dog, wiped his mouth with his paper napkin.

He gave me a sidelong glance. “What’s this about Bucky joining because of his new girlfriend?”