Once Were Cops (13 page)

Joe handed over the bottle and Peters went to get

some glasses.

When he returned, he said,

“You were on the job?” “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Peters indicated Joe should sit, as he poured

healthy slugs of Maker’s, said,

“You have cop eyes and you cased the place, like

only a cop does.” Joe was impressed, said, “Did

eight months out of the Nine Seven.” And Peters

asked,

“Why’d you quit?”

Joe thought about shining him on but the guy was

sharp so he told the truth.

“I couldn’t stomach it.”

Peters nodded, then:

“Me, I loved it, still be doing it but I got

sideswiped by a damn cab, they pensioned me out,

worst day of my life, the fuck am I supposed to do

now, tend to my roses?”

Joe had clocked a bare garden, not a single flower

in it.

Peters drank from his glass, gave a slurp of

contentment, asked,

“So, what do you want?”

Joe ran down the strangler case, Gino, Morronni,

but didn’t mention Shea, then said, “I’d like to hear

your thoughts on it.”

Peters poured another wallop, swirled it around in

the glass, as if there might be some truth in there.

If truth is to be found in the bottom of a whiskey

glass, then God help us all.

-Irish bishop in sermon on drinking

THERE wasn’t, LEAST NOT ANY THAT

WOULD LAST.

Peters put it down, said,

“The whole case stunk to high heaven but we could

go with hero cop or …” Joe decided to go for

broke, asked, “Gut feeling, did Gino strangle the

Irish girl?” Peters gave him an odd look, said,

“No, not his MO … but if my instincts are right,

you’re going after Shea, be real careful, this guy is

three steps ahead of everybody else and worse, he

likes to play.” Joe stood up, thanked him for his

time, and they shook hands, Peters didn’t let go,

stared at Joe, said,

“This isn’t about a book, this is personal, you

mentioned the Irish girl, you looked like you were

gonna lose it.” Joe thought what the hell, he liked

the guy, said, “She was my sister.” Peters nodded,

then:

“You better work on your act, buddy, Shea sees

what I just saw, you’re fucked, nine ways to an

Irish Sunday and believe me, this guy has antennas

like I never encountered.”

Joe was at the door and Peters said,

“Give me your phone contacts, I know a Guard in

Ireland and discreetly I may be able to find out

about the girl in Sligo, you’re betting she was

strangled with something green.” Joe gave him his

card and said, “Why the green?” Peters snorted,

“Maybe he’s patriotic.” Neither of them smiled.

Joe said, “You’ve been a great help.” Peters laid

out both hands, palms up, said, “Once … were …

cops. Right?”

Joe took a leave of absence from his job and

packed a few belongings, got a flight to Newark.

He was letting his cop experience and his

journalist instincts lead him and they urged:

“Go see the sister, Lucia.”

It seemed like a wild goose chase but it was just

these out-of-left-field notions that had given him

his biggest scoops.

He’d booked a small room in the Village on the

Internet for a month. If he hadn’t gotten anywhere

then, well … fuck.

JOE HAD FORGOTTEN HOW COLD NEW

YORK WINTERS WERE

and after Miami, it was fierce.

He bought a heavy seaman’s jacket from Goodwill,

thermal underwear, and a pair of Gore-Tex boots.

He then sat down with the phone directory and

began to ring the hospitals, and to his amazement,

Lucia was still in the very same place.

He’d figured she’d have been shipped off to some

state one long ago. He took a cab out there, he’d

rent something after this, he needed to be mobile.

He was directed to Lucia’s room by a nurse who

said, “Thank God she finally has a visitor.”

Joe, sensing warmth, asked,

“Would any of the nurses from eighteen months ago

still be around?”

The nurse smiled, said,

“This is a very good place to work, we tend to dig

our heels in here, and Maria, she still looks after

Lucia, you go ahead, I’ll page her.”

Lucia looked like a corpse, a beautiful one but no

life evident, except for the monitor that counted out

her vacant moments like a death knell.

His heart felt bruised just looking at her and then

he heard:

“Isn’t she lovely?”

He turned to face a Spanish-looking woman, late

thirties, with a face, if not pretty, certainly riveting

and he felt something he’d given up on …

attraction.

She held out her hand, said,

“I’m Maria.”

He felt electricity when their hands touched and he

muttered … “Joe.” She studied him for a moment,

then asked,

“Why are you here?”

Despite his years as a journalist and the lies that

sprang naturally to him for cover, he went with

some of the truth, said,

“I’m writing a story on her brother, the hero cop.”

Her face looked hurt, she said,

“His death robbed her of company and he sure

worshipped her. I thought for a while, his young

partner was going to be a regular, a gorgeous dark

Irish guy …”

He felt a pang of… jealousy?

She continued,

“I saw him put a gold medal of the Madonna round

her neck and then he looked like he was massaging

her throat, it seemed … odd and too intimate …

and his face, like El Diablo, I wasn’t sorry he

didn’t come by no more, the feeling I had, like I

interrupted him.”

Joe felt the rush, the old familiar kicking in of the

story taking shape. She asked, “You’re new to

Nuevo York?” He smiled, went, “That obvious,

huh?” She indicated his new boots, heavy coat, and

said, “The scare effect, tourists rush out and dress

like they were in the arctic.”

Back in the Village, he needed to get his ass in

gear, get focused.

He went to a bar near Partners in Crime bookstore

and for a fleeting moment wondered about going

in, seeing if his book was on the shelves. And …

what if it was on the remaindered shelf? He went

to the bar, ordered a Jameson and a Bud back.

Nora loved a shot of the Jay. Used to tease him.

“Joe, can you imagine if we ever actually went to

Ireland, sitting in some Galway pub, the band with

bodhrans, spoons, tin whistles, playing some song

to break your heart and drink, like, real Guinness?”

He downed the Jay in jig time, blot out the

memories, and the bartender asked, “Hit you again,

buddy?” Jesus, he wanted to but said, “No, I’m

good.” He had work to do.

Went to a diner and had meatloaf, gravy, mashed

potatoes, and though he had no appetite, he got it

down, called it… comfort/energy food. Back in his

room, he looked at the bare surroundings and

nearly laughed, muttered,

“I’ve become Thomas Merton.”

Yeah, Merton on Jameson.

Got his laptop fired up and did some more

research on Shea.

God bless Google.

McCarthy, the Internal Affairs guy, now he might

be worth a chat, he jotted down some numbers and

then hit another search engine and up came the

smiling face of Shea, a newspaper feature on the

young hero, Joe peered for a long time at the photo

and all it told him was the prick was photogenic.

Then a wave of tiredness hit and he decided to

grab a power nap, just five, okay, ten minutes and

he moved to the single bed, lay down and was in a

deep sleep in seconds.

On his laptop screen, the smiling face of Shea

seemed to watch him, the gaze unflinching and

without feeling.

YOU WANT TO KNOW ABOUT COPS, YOU

HANG OUT IN COP bars and if you’ve been on

the job, they know. Joe’s partner in the eight

months he’d been on the force was a quiet guy

named Jay, looked more like a rock star than a cop,

long black hair, gray shades that he never, ever

took off and despite department rules, he managed

to avoid the regulation haircut, kept his hair under

his cap on the job, then off duty, he let it hang.

Cops don’t much like long hair, it’s instinctive, but

with Jay, he had enough street cred to get away

with it, now if he’d tried an earring, well, whole

other gig.

He didn’t.

J and J they used to be called.

Joe met him in the watering hole near the Nine Six,

Jay’s new precinct.

Jay was dressed like an undercover vice cop.

Heavy battered leather, lots of scarves, mittens,

wool hat, and boots that Joe knew had steel caps.

He looked older, lots of lines around his eyes and

Joe knew they weren’t from laughter.

They’d been real close in the day and within five

minutes, it was back to that bond.

He did a thing you don’t much see cops do, he

hugged Joe, said he was so sorry about Nora, Jay

had always a little shine for her but his buddy’s

sister… ah-uh, no way.

They went in the bar and there was silence for one

split second but then Jay got lots of: “How yah

doing?” And drinking, talking continued. Jay didn’t

ask, just upped and ordered. “Two boilermakers.”

They took them to a table, got on the other side of

the bourbon, let out a collective “Ah …” of serious

appreciation.

They studied each other for a moment, not in any

threatening way but just sussing it out, then Jay

asked,

“What brings you back, bro?”

Joe felt the booze warm his stomach, let it swirl a

bit, do its alchemy, then:

“I’m doing a book.”

Jay signaled to the bartender for another, Joe

didn’t object though he had to keep his wits about

him, he used to be one of them but he’d walked and

that drew a line. Jay asked,

“What about?”

Joe gave him a brief outline of hero cop shit,

Kebar, Shea.

Like that.

The drinks came and Joe still hadn’t seen any

money appear but he went with the flow, the tab

would come, always did, one way or another, Jay

said,

“You’re full of crap, buddy.” Joe raised his glass,

clinked against his friend’s, said, “Slainte.” Jay

nodded, waited.

So Joe told him most of it, not all, but enough. Jay

said,

“Come outside.”

For a fleeting moment Joe panicked, had he blown

it already?

Outside, Jay huddled against the wind factor, got

out a pack of Marlboro Red, fired one up with a

heavy Zippo, said,

“I’m assuming you Florida types don’t smoke,

probably drink herbal tea?”

Jay’s tone had a new hardness, a bitterness, and

Joe tried, “You used to be a nonsmoker.” And got

the look, then:

“You used to be a cop.” Loaded.

Jay flicked the butt high into the air, a tiny flicker

of light against the cold Manhattan sky and then

nothing.

Jay grabbed Joe’s arm, not roughly but with a

certain firmness, asked,

“Cut the shit, what are you really after?”

Joe hesitated, then just spat it all out, trying to keep

his voice neutral as he spoke about Shea, the

stranglings, Nora.

Jay shook his head, said, “You dumb prick, come

on, we’ll have another brew and I’ll tell you the

skinny.”

The music had got louder and being a cop hangout,

it was country and western, the only concession

they make to sentimentality, Lucinda Williams with

“Drunken Angel.”

They got their drinks and Jay ushered them into an

alcove, away from prying ears and where they

could hear each other, said, “You’re going after

Shea?” Joe considered, said, “Well, his name is

all over this whole business.” Jay looked around,

then:

“You must be out of your cotton-picking mind, bro,

Shea is golden, he’s so far up that corporate

ladder, he’s bulletproof, he’s not liked but fuck,

ain’t nobody gonna go up against him, you do and

sayonara sucker.”

Joe felt a rush of rage, he’d come to his running

buddy and here he was getting … what… a shit

sandwich, he gritted,

“Sorry to have wasted your time, I didn’t realize

you’d be scared of the little bastard.”

Jay was stunned, actually took a step back, calling

a cop a coward, whether true or not, you better be

packing more than attitude, he took a deep breath,

asked,

“You hear I got shot last year?” He hadn’t.

And Jay nodded, said,

“Thought so but then, you’re down there sunning

yourself, why the fuck would you care what

happens to cops?” Joe was going to say, “I fucking

care what happens to my sister.” But asked,

“How’d it happen, the shooting?” Jay sighed, said,

“A gangbanger, fourteen years old, I took my eye

offa him and he shot me in the gut, and they’re

right, nothing hurts like that sucker so yeah, it made

me more careful and I’m certainly not gonna have

Top Cop thinking I’m sniffing around him.”

Joe was tired, maybe the damn cold or the series

of boilermakers, he shrugged on his gloves, said,