Once Were Cops (10 page)

He stared at me, said,

“You fucked up good, here was a chance to move

on up and what… you get smartass … Jesus H.”

And he strode off. I tried, “Sir, I’ll work on it.”

Without breaking stride, he said, “I won’t hold my

breath.”

I’d fucked up, my smart mouth doing me in yet

again. I was back riding the bloody desk and

Christ, I so wanted to be on the streets. Nothing

touched the sheer rush of that. It was the not

knowing, the constant anticipation of something

major. Twiddling a pencil, answering the phones,

checking through traffic files, I was bored out of

me skull. To occupy my mind, I thought about what

that prick had said. Three stranglings.

Fuck, the fourth, I’d have thought she’d be easy to

find, and her neck, not my favorite, it was mottled,

was sorry to waste the beads on her.

Fucking whore.

MORRONNI HAD GATHERED HIS CREW,

EVEN THE SMASHED-up Gino, just released

from the hospital and hurting, hurting real bad.

There was Fernandez, the psycho who’d

supposedly done the job on Lucia, then the muscle

guys, and others down the totem pole.

Fernandez, usually out of his head on dust, swore

he hadn’t done that bitch, he didn’t even know

where the fucking hospital was, hell, he swore, he

could hardly find his way to Brooklyn most days.

Morronni said,

“Kebar, the mad fuck, has been staking out your

place, Fernandez, sitting outside every night, and

we figure he’s about ready to take a run at you.”

Morronni didn’t share that he had personally

threatened Kebar with retribution and although he

hadn’t actually got around to it Kebar, of course,

had to figure it was the attack on Lucia, talk about

bad fucking timing.

Fernandez, dressed in gangbanger denims and

leather, smiled, three gold teeth showing, said,

“Bring it on, muthah.”

Fernandez didn’t give a good fuck about being

accused of shit, especially if he couldn’t remember

it, all his life, he’d been accused of some stuff,

most of it, yeah, he’d done … he thought.

Morronni sighed, God be with the days you could

get decent help, using these off-the-wall crazies

was like handling explosives, never sure when

they were going to blow up in your face, he said,

“He’s got backup, that Irish kid, looks like he’s

going to come in with him.”

Fernandez seemed delighted, the mad bastard,

said, “The more the merrier, we’ll be ready.”

Morronni looked at him, went,

“Wasting one cop, bad enough, but two, the heat

would be intense, no, we have to get rid of that

Mick kid, my gut tells me he’s trouble, but the K-

bar, whole other story.” Gino, still seething, asked,

“Boss, I get to deal with that cocksucker, right?”

Morronni said, “All in good time, now lemme

think about it.” Then, tiring of them, he said, “Get

the fuck out of here.” The crew took off and

Morronni was left with the damaged Gino, who

said,

“Boss, Fernandez, the crazy fuck, he’s going to be

a major problem.”

Morronni said,

“Him and Kebar, they’ll be, how should I put it,

canceling out.”

Gino wasn’t always sure what the hell his boss

was thinking but he liked the sound of this, it

sounded … biblical.

r

Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the

Jews have a psychosis. JUST WHEN YOU’VE

SETTLED INTO A ROUTINE, ALBEIT A hated

one, the powers that be shake it up, shake you up.

O’Brien summoned me to his office and without

any preamble said, “You’re back on patrol.” I was

delighted, said, “That’s great, thank you … sir.”

He gave a nasty chuckle, said, “Don’t thank me yet,

you’re back with Kebar.” I tried to roll with that,

said,

“We’ve worked fairly good together, got some

decent collars.”

He looked at me, like, was I really that thick? Said,

“Jesus H, how dumb are you? The order came

from on high and trust me, they aren’t doing you no

favors, Kebar is fucked, he’s as good as gone and

looks like they’re bringing you down with him.”

I had no answer to that and he barked,

“Get your ass in gear.”

Kebar was leaning against the car, his head fresh

shaved again, he said,

“Dead men walking.”

He got behind the wheel and I waited till we

pulled out before I asked,

“The fuck’s that mean?”

He had two Starbucks foam cups on the dash,

indicated I should take one and said,

“They’re giving us enough rope to hang ourselves,

we’re history.”

I was seriously pissed at how everyone was just

wiping me off the board and asked, “So what do

we do?” He swerved past a stalled cab, growled,

“We do our job, is what we do.” He flicked a file

at me, said,

“Take a look.”

It was on a guy named Crosby, a child molester,

had taken two falls and was out again. I asked,

“And?”

Kebar checked his rearview mirror, said,

“He’s been hanging around a schoolyard on the

Lower East Side, getting ready to snatch another

kid, they let this piece of garbage walk after two

years, you believe it?”

I closed the file, the pictures of the kids he’d hurt

were gruesome, I asked,

“What are we going to do?”

Kebar smiled, said,

“Gonna have a wee chat with him, isn’t that what

you Micks do … chat}”

We got to the playground and sure enough, sitting

on a bench near the school was a lone figure,

huddled in an army coat. Kebar said, “He’ll have a

camera in that coat and candies.” I had to know,

asked, “How are we going to handle this?” Kebar,

sliding out of the car, said, “Head-on, like a

collision.”

Casey watched us coming, his eyes considering

flight, but he opted for defiance. Bad idea. Kebar

said, “They let you out, huh?”

He didn’t look like a monster, but then they rarely

do. He was slightly built, more like a lower-level

clerk than the freak who’d done what I’d seen in

the file.

He looked at Kebar, said,

“I’m cured, took the therapy in the joint and I’m all

well now.”

Kebar sat beside him, his body relaxed, no

aggression showing, said,

“That so, then … how come you’re hanging around

a schoolyard, huh, academic interest?”

Casey was staring at me, trying to gauge how much

of a threat I might be, then said,

“Just proving to myself I’m cured, that I can come

here and not be tempted to … you know?”

Kebar looked at me, said,

“He means, he won’t have to grab a kid and stick

his dong in them, or what was your special gig, oh

right, making a five-year-old suck your shlong?”

Casey looked offended, said,

“No need for such abusive … language, I was sick

then.”

Kebar was almost smiling, real bad omen, and

said,

“And the kids you fucked, you think they’re all

better now?”

Casey hung his head, said,

“I suffer deeply for who I was then.”

Kebar reached in his jacket, took out the Glock, let

it lie loosely in his lap, said, “This here, it’s a hell

of a piece.” And Casey got smartass, jibed, “You

gonna shoot me, Officer?”

The mockery in his voice showed me the face he

kept hidden most of the time.

Kebar said,

“You ever hear of a guy getting shot in the ankle?

See, the beauty of that is, how could it be planned?

Who shoots someone in the ankle? And guess what,

the ankle never sets properly, you get to hobble for

the rest of your miserable life.”

Casey was openly defiant now, looked at me,

asked,

“This guy for real?” Kebar shot him in the ankle,

stood up, said,

“Better call the paramedics, oP Casey won’t be

attending school today, tell you what, buddy, I’ll

write you a sick note.” Looked at me, said, “Let’s

roll, partner, our work here is done.” We got back

in the car and I said, “Interesting approach.” Kebar

put the car in drive, said, “My aim was off, I think

I blasted his heel.” I didn’t know what to say and

Kebar laughed, said, “Shitheel… huh?”

He was true to his demons.

-Inscription on Jim Morrison’s headstone (in

Greek) by his parents

I WAS STILL HIGH FROM THE SHOOTING OF

CASEY WHEN Kebar said, “Man, I’m hungry,

let’s go grab breakfast.” Like, I could eat? … You

betcha.

We went to a diner on West Thirty-eighth and

Eighth.

The waitress, who’d never see fifty again, greeted

Kebar with effusivness, said, “Hey, hon, where’ve

you been?’ He smiled, said, “Keeping the filth off

the streets.”

She smiled in return, said, “My hero.” I let that

slide. She asked, “So, what can I get you keepers

of the peace?” Kebar ordered: Two eggs over

easy. Toast, rye bread. Link sausages. Mushrooms

and tomatoes.

OJ.

And me:

The same, the shooting, it wasn’t a buzz like the

necks, but fuck, cops can’t be choosers, I was

cranked on the violence.

She gave me a look, then went to fill it. Her neck

was old, I hate that. Kebar asked, “Pedophile gave

you your appetite?” I wished I smoked, I’d have

blown a cloud in his fucking face.

He changed direction, said,

“Lucia, you know, the damnedest thing, she has …

had … like you saw, the mind of a child but one

time, she heard Dylan sing ‘Sad-Eyed Lady of the

Lowlands,’ man, she freaking played the song to

death, that’s how I see her, like that song, guess she

won’t be hearing it no more.”

Dylan had come to Galway when I was a Guard,

and I pulled crowd control.

Beautiful sunny July day and no trouble.

What I remember is this wizened gnome, crunched

in on himself, singing in a croaked twisted voice.

The crowd loved him, he was sixty and he had a

charisma, small as he was, a kind of radiance, and

after, when we were escorting him to his car, he

mumbled something that only later I realized was

… thanks.

You know, that impressed me more than his whole

concert.

Our food arrived and we attacked it like it was our

last meal.

My coffee was bitter and seemed right.

I said,

“There’s going to be a shitstorm about you

shooting that guy.” He was mopping up the egg

yolk with the toast, didn’t look up, said,

“I’m going down, we both know that, so these last

days I have, I’m going to get biblical on every

sleazebag I can.”

I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice,

asked,

“And I’m going to be with you, right, buddy?”

He reached in his wallet, laid out some bills and a

very generous tip for the waitress, said,

“Tell you, kid, I don’t give a fuck what you do,

long as you don’t get in my way.” We were outside

and I had to ask, “That means what exactly?” He

got in the car, said, “Means, shit or get off the pot.”

Cryptic, huh?

We took down a middle-ranking dealer in the

Village, without violence, the guy knew who

Kebar was, he wasn’t going to give any lip.

Rest of the day, we issued some parking

violations, adrenaline hovering above us like bad

prayer. End of the shift, I let out my breath and

Kebar said, “I get some very mixed vibes offa you,

kid.” And I thought,

“If you could have seen me riding your retard

sister …”

Before we could get into it, we saw McCarthy, the

black guy, and three other cops approach.

McCarthy was smiling, said,

“You really screwed up this time, mister, the guy

you shot, he lodged a complaint, get out of the car,

slowly, you’re under arrest.”

Kebar got out and they read him his rights, he

never looked at me, and they handcuffed him, I

protested, went,

“Christ’s sake, that necessary?”

McCarthy said,

“Shut your fucking mouth, be thankful you’re not

joining him.”

The black cop stayed as they led him away, and I

asked him,

“What am I supposed to do?”

He was chewing his stick, spat it out of the side of

his mouth, said,

“Get the fuck out of here.”

On the way back to Brooklyn, I stopped in a music

store, bought a Dylan album, and on my third beer,

I listened to “Sad-Eyed Lady.” Could only listen to

a few minutes before I had to take it off, maybe if

I’d had a few belts of Jameson, I’d have listened to

it all, but on three lousy Millers, no way.

Reminded me of Galway, the croaks of that first

one pleading with me, the rosary already in me

hands.

The police never think of suspecting anyone who

wears good clothes.

Charles Peace, Victorian murderer

I WENT TO SEE LUCIA, I DIDN’T WANT TO

GO, TRIED TO Rationalize why it would be a bad

idea and then just the hell went, thinking, if she

woke, Jesus, she might remember.

The nurse on duty was a dote and said,

“She hasn’t had any visitors, we thought her