Merrick (3 page)

SHARDS IN DESPERANCE.

The next week, I was on the girders, up ninety floors, walking the metal like an

Michael Flatley. Only The American Indians really have the hook on that work

and get the big bucks for it. Me, I volunteered when their crew was one short,

he’d fallen the previous Friday. Their foreman, a Comanche, how do I know,

because he told me every fooking time he could

, asked

‘Whitey, you think you can handle the clouds.’

I gave him the Galway granite stare, said

‘Let’s see.’

I had a flair for it as I didn’t care. Since I lost my wife and daughter, I really

didn’t give much of a fook for anything. It didn’t make me reckless, just less

pressurized about where I landed. You have a guy who lost everything, what the

Sweet Jesus is going to scare him.

Apart from clowns?

End of the day, the foreman offered me to come have some brews with his crew.

Sure.

A tavern on the lower East Side. Drinking with a bunch of Indians, I thought

‘Yah never know.’

The foreman, named, I kid thee not, Crow, bought me a Lone Star longneck,

cracked his bottle against mine, said

‘You did good, real good.’

I said

‘I like the heights.’

He liked that, pushed

‘Why?’

Told the truth

‘It’s clean.’

He took a long chug from his brew, said

‘It’s serious money doing this kind of work, you could be very rich in a short

time………………….if you don’t…………fall.’

I savored my own brew, said

‘I don’t fall.’

He was intrigued, asked

‘What makes you so sure?’

I looked right into his dark eyes, said

‘Back home, the tinkers, told me, I’d die in the water, didn’t see any water where

we’re working.’

He bought me another brew, said

‘Come, I’d like you meet someone.’

Led me over to table, awash in long necks, packs of cigs, and in the middle, one

of the most striking women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Crow said

‘This is my sister Shona.’

He clapped his hands and all the crew at the table fooked off, leaving me with

Shona. My brain went into meltdown, I had nothing. She said

‘Sit down and stop drooling.’

I sat down, the drooling, well, I was working on it. She said

‘The crazy Mick who walks the high rise like an Indian.’

Lamely I ventured

‘That’s me.’

She smiled, showing beautiful teeth, said

‘Don’t the Irish have a way with words.’

I muttered

‘So I’ve heard.’

And she laughed. I stood , said

‘It’s been…………..fraught, you’ve taken the piss, see you around.’

She grabbed my arm.

Nobody puts a hand on me, without lethal due cause. She said

‘I’m hungry, you want to go grab a bite?’

I still couldn’t get me fecking brain in gear and she said

‘Ok, just follow me, you can do that , right?’

I could, badly.

And we were outa there.

The large man had watched Ryan on the girders. Fuck, he was agile, like a

frigging Indian.

Now Merrick he could handle. Ex cops were so predictable but this guy, anyone

who could fly across the sky like that?

You had to wonder?

But the woman, now that more like it, let her get in the picture and he could write

the scene any way but loose and even then.

Only two ways to fuck the Irish, booze and that they did just fine them selves

and………a woman. They were suckers for the ladies.

Went to Tad’s Steak House. She choose it. I asked

‘You eat meat?’

Got the look, then

‘You think I’m vegan?’

We were just being seated and I said

‘Tell you the truth, you’re a pain in the arse.’

She laughed out loud. The kind of laugh you’d marry a woman for, no worries

about her mascara or how she looks, just out and plain merriment.

We got some brews in, and yes, she drank from the bottle, like I said, the type you

should marry. My ex drank sherry and was…………vegan.

We ordered the porterhouse steaks, mashed potatoes, no starter. Sat back and

surveyed each other.

She was still amused, then

‘What do you know about Indians?’

She was fucking with me…….ok, I could do that, said

‘John Wayne killed a shit load of them.’

She looked like she could kill me.

Said

‘And you love the stereo- type, what a dick.’

I took a sip from my brew, said

‘And you’re so fooking judgmental, my favorite movies are

Thunderheart

Chato’s land

Ulzana’s Raid

Dances with Wolves.

She went to say something and I snapped

‘Did I say I was finished? You might be a noble Indian but you could learn some

fooking manners, I read ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, love Graham

Greene, the Indian actor, not the writer and lest you forget, I’m Irish, we had

some shite come down the pike on us over the years so don’t go Whining Indian

on me.’

She leaned over, took my hand, said

‘See, I knew you could talk.’

You just couldn’t fooking win with her, I stopped trying, the food came, giving

me a respite.

She ate without inhibition and that was a joy to behold. She stopped mid bite,

asked

‘Why are you staring at me?’

I was going to bullshit but changed to

‘I like watching your face.’

She wiped her mouth, said

‘Good, then you have a shot.’

‘What?’

‘At getting me in the sack.’

I was signaling for more brews, paused, said

‘Jaysus, you’re awfully fooking sure of yer own self.’

She leaned over, took some of mashed potato, a very intimate act if you’re Irish,

she said

‘I’ve been a long…………..long time alone, The Shaman told me a man from

over the Atlantic would steal my heart.’

‘What, you think it’s me?’

Now she gave me the full intensity of those brown eyes, said

‘You should be so lucky.’

GACY’S JOURNAL.

At last.

Worthy opponents.

I couldn’t have wished for a more delicious scenario.

A Jew!

Failed cop, half assed PI, bar owner and an overpowering sense of his own

strength.

And true icing on the cake.

A Mick.

Now if he could just get his supplier to calm down, he was mouthing off about

low profile’s, beneath radar!

As if

As if genius could be hidden?

The Irish…….ah……….

Fresh off the boat, gung ho, full of all the low cunning of his race.

And richness indeed, The Gods of Boy love truly smile on me, the dumb Irish

hooked up with a Red Indian.

………………………
how sweet it is.

How blind these Guardians of morals are. All they need to do, is look a little

further, and there I be, in translucence.

I throw them a morsel, the loser Gacy, and oh boredom, they go off on a serial

killer quest. But I’ll keep them a time longer on this track, for utter amusement.

Keeping it local as it were, Noo Yawk, let’s give them a good ol boy from the

town they prowl.

I reached out and touched the dumb Mick, time to ration the load, throw a scare

into the kike.

Something to keep him………………barking.

LONG ISLAND IDYLL.

Merrick was up early, the lawn needed trimming and he was fucked if he’d pay

some guy to do a half ass job and bill him for a full day.

Growing up in Brooklyn, he’d never expected to own a home on the island. That

was for rich dudes. After he got invalidated off the force, he’d hooked up with

Moe, used his cop skills to build up their PI agency, enough so he could put down

the deposit on the bar. Moe had helped, then, Moe always did, help that is.

The bar was work, real graft but began to turn a profit and the property became

available on Long Island. His wife, a care worker, persuaded that with their

combined salaries, they could get it.

They did.

Lot’s of sleepless nights over mortgages but finally, they were within five years of

owning outright.

And………………two kids in college.

He stopped the mower, stared at his home, could smell the toast and bacon frying

and thought

‘You did ok Rabbi.’

Merrick didn’t do friends real good, you were a cop, you were too cynical to

believe in it. But first Moe, now this stoner Irish guy.

…………………….
who smoked.

Merrick didn’t let on he knew but when your parents died of lung cancer, you

fucking knew.

Ryan was a stand up guy, no doubt, even if half of what he said went over

Merrick’s head. He just liked the guy. He hadn’t told him all of Moe’s

investigation. Still holding some stuff back.

Cos like, you never knew.

Moe had narrowed the search for the child killer to three definite potentials.

Merrick had ruled one out as the guy was doing ten to life in Attica. The

remaining two.

Well, he’d need Ryan’s help in tracking them down and seeing if they were the

skel. He was about to jolt the mower up for the last inning’s when he heard a soul

scrunching scream. Judy!

He ran like a demon to the house, his heart pounding, found her in the hall, her

hands covered in blood, she gasped

‘Upstairs.’

He checked her, it wasn’t her blood. Grabbed his Louisville Slugger from the

hatstand, took the stairs, three a t a time.

The bedroom.

He paused, raised the bat, kicked the door wide open.

Their beloved Labrador, James Dean, was spread on the bed, it’s entrails spilling

out on the carpet, it’s head positioned on the pillow, a note in it’s pathetic mouth,

he snatched it, rage spilling from him, read

…………………….the dog made me do it.

………………
AND A WORLD SO FULL OF WEEPING

THAT

………………
FEW

……….
CAN UNDERSTAND.

The day of the hurling match, I was alight. Going to show me mate our National

Game. Jaysus, I felt fierce proud. Us Irish don’t really do pride, not so you’d

notice and you’d say, fook all to be proud of. But whatever morsel we had, the

Brits kicked the living shit out of it. So a chance to show my friend one of our

rare achievements, It felt good.

And Galway playing mayo, old rivalries, no matter what continent it was on. Met

Merrick at The Stadium, he was dressed in chino’s, a T-shirt that read

……….Fifth of………….

The rest was washed away. He had Ray bans so I couldn’t see his eyes but he

wasn’t as the yuppies say,, a happy camper. I could sense it. When you feel good your

own self, you are especially attuned to the nuances of discontent. I asked

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing, looking forward to the game is all.’

Right.

I said

‘Got a small surprise.’

He could give a fook, his whole body language screamed, …enough with

surprises. He tried though, said

‘Great.’

Meaning, I’d rather shove hot pokers up me arse.

I took him inside the stadium, flashed my laminated pass, led him down into the

bowels of the stadium, to the dressing rooms. Knocked on a door, opened by the

manager of The Galway Team, who said

‘Jesus, Ryan, they let you out.’

I introduced him to the team, and the captain, one of the best around, handed

Merrick a hurley, said

‘Take a swing of that big fellow.’

He did, liked it and had the flow.

He was handing it back when the captain said

‘Turn it over.’

On the other side was the signatures of the team.

He was moved, said

‘Thank you, I’m…..moved.’

Being Galwegian, the captain, said

‘

You might want to give it back it they hammer the be-Jaysus out of us.’

And we had the best seats too.

I put my holdall at our feet, unzipped it, took out two cold one’s

‘Slainte.’

He was looking at me with a new eye, asked

‘How’d you pull that off?’

I said

‘I got some moves.’

He whistled, said

‘Ain’t that the truth.’

The game was one of the great one’s, sometimes you get lucky. Merrick was stunned by

the sheer speed of the game and the skill necessary to run up a field, the ball, balanced

precariously on the tip of the hurley, he asked

‘The fuck do they do that?’

I said

‘Practice.’

He was fascinated by the shape of the ball, I said

‘It’s a sliothar.’

There is no real translation for that , save a baseball that has lost the run of it’s self.

Galway won by two points but it was close, so tight that Merrick was up and screaming

‘Pass the fucking ball Cunningham.’

I think he got the gist of the game.

After, we headed for Frankie and Johnny’s, the steak place by Penn Station. Yeah, the

one used in the movie. Merrick was aflame, said

‘Jesus buddy, I loved that, got me an appetite too and hey, this is on me, capiche?’

Sure.

We ordered some Philly steak sandwiches, like I knew what the fook they were, and got

the brews while we waited for the grub.

Merrick had pushed the shades atop of his bald dome, sighed, said

‘Some shit came down the pike buddy.’

Told me.

I let it sink in, then said

‘Son of Sam.’

‘What?’

‘This lunatic is playing with serial killer references, Son Of Sam, he said his dog told him

to kill people.’

Merrick thought about it, said

‘Fuck, you might be right, how’d you know about Son Of Sam?’

‘Movies, most all I know is from them, Summer of Sam, Spike lee?’

Our food arrived and Merrick asked

‘You’re all lit up buddy, gotta be more than the game?’

I paused then figured, why not, told him of Shona.

He put down his fork, raised his bottle touched mine said

‘

L’chaim.’

After the meal, we sat back , sipping on expresso with a hint of cognac in there.

Merrick said

‘I have two leads.’

I said

‘Ok.’

He reached in his chino’s, took out a slim notebook, flicked through it, then

‘The first, James P. Mallin, an accountant, single, aged forty, no priors, lives in Queen’s.

Moe had put a star beside his name, meaning he was due to interview the guy. Second up, is

Bob Temar, a dentist, again, single and no priors, aged forty five, lives in Tribeca,

business must be good I’m guessing.’

I said

‘Marathon Man’

I’d lost him , he said

‘You’ve lost me.’

’William Goldman, made into a movie with Hoffman, Laurence Oliver.’

He was surprised, said

‘I thought you didn’t read.’

I don’t, my ex was a huge fan of mystery, I suppose no bigger mystery to her than why

she married me.’

I let the bitterness leak all over my tone.

Merrick ambushed me, asked

‘What was her name?’

‘

Why?’

“Because it’s important to you.’

Fook.

I said

‘Roisin.’

‘And your daughter?

I needed a smoke, said

‘Got to make a piss.’

Got outside, fumbled for my cigs, my Zippo, my throat choked. Jesus, I had as they say,

compartmentalized

My feelings, especially about Siobhan, that’s Joan in English and in the heart, all the woe

I know. She was six now, six years without her Dad. My last call to Roisin, to see if they

needed any money, she’d told me Sioban called the new husband……….Dad.

I bit down and swallowed hard.

Crushed the cig under my converse sneaker, turned to see Merrick, he touched my

shoulder, said

‘The tab is paid, wanna grab a night cap.’

I did.

He took me to The Mansefield Hotel, up on 54
^th
, across the road from The Algonquin.

Even I’d heard of Dorothy Parker. The bar there was lined with books and we ordered

some Sam Adams, I said

‘Flash place.’

He smiled, said

‘You believe it, an Irish guy introduced this place to me.’

So you have to ask

‘A friend?’

He shook his head, said

‘The guy was a writer, they don’t really do friends I hear.’

Thought about it, said

‘Writers are no mystery if you know you are just part of the plot.’

Too deep for me. I raised the beer, asked

‘This is good, right?’

He nodded, said

‘They might have cursed us with The Red Sox but they make decent beer.’