Once Were Cops (2 page)

the bottle with ferocity and by Jaysus, the bottle hit

back. He looked like death warmed up. I lied,

went, “Mr. Taylor, you’re looking well.” He gave

me the look, said, “You’re full of shite.” It was in

a pub, naturally.

One of the old ones, still unchanged, Caravan’s, on

Shop Street. Even had an Irish guy behind the

pumps and believe me, the Irish are rarely to be

found doing these jobs anymore.

Most likely, you’ll find a woman from Nigeria or

some guy from Lithuania behind the counter, and

can they pour a pint?

Nope.

They just pour it straight into the glass, no time to

sit, or get that creamy head settled.

They know about Bud, Coors, Miller. Who

doesn’t?

Taylor still had the all-weather Guards coat and it

was as battered as himself. I asked,

“Aren’t you like, supposed to give that back?” Not

that I gave a feck but… chat, you know. He sighed,

said, ” ‘Tis me only link to what once was …”

I thought that was pathetic, a frigging lousy coat,

that’s what he had to show for his life? No wonder

he drank. I asked, “Get you something?” No

hesitation. “Jameson, pint of the black.” What the

hell, I had the same.

We watched the guy build the pints with care and

craft and he knew his trade, didn’t bother us with

nonsense like asking if we wanted ice in the

whiskey.

The nonnationals, they don’t ask, plunk ice in

everything, especially their attitude.

We took our drinks to a corner table and he said,

“So you’re going to the States?”

Galway, now a cosmopolitan city but still a village

where gossip was concerned. One of the reasons I

wanted out.

Before I could answer, he said,

“And let me guess, you want to be on the NYPD?”

He might have been fucked in just about every way

there was but he still had that intuition.

I said I might consider it.

He raised his glass, a tremor in his hand, which we

both elected to ignore, said, “Slainte.” Without

hesitation, I threw back, uLeatfein.v And you.

He shuddered as the whiskey hit his gut and

followed it fast with half his pint, get the sucker

nailed down. He wiped the cream from his lip, an

old pro, and said, “You want to carry a gun.”

Jesus, he was good. I said, “That’s not the reason

I’d sign on.”

He gave a bitter smile, the corners of his mouth

turned down. I saw a photo of Beckett in a mag

once and fuck, more lines on his face than the

ordnance map of the country.

Taylor’s face would have given him a close run.

The lines were imbedded, like with a very sharp

knife.

And the ones around his eyes, you just knew

laughter certainly hadn’t been responsible. He

said, “Be sure you don’t let the gun carry you.”

Deep—or pure shite. I said I’d bear it in mind.

And he said, “You’re the new Irish, you know

that?” I knew this wasn’t flattery and asked, “Yeah,

what’s that?” He’d drained his pint, was signaling

for another, said, “Arrogance, confidence, and

fuck-all ability.” Drink that. As I got up to leave,

he said, “That darkness in you, get some help on

it.” Fucking loser.

18

K-BAR: A SHORT STEEL POLE, HIGHLY

EFFECTIVE IN SUBDUING CRIMINALS

THREE

KURT BROWSKI, BUILT LIKE A SHIT

BRICKHOUSE AND JUST as solid. A cop out of

Manhattan South, he was having a bad day.

Much like most days.

His heritage was East European but contained so

many strands, not even his parents knew for sure

its exact basis. And cared less. They wanted the

American Dream. Cash … and cash … and yeah,

more of same. They didn’t get it.

Made them mean.

Very.

His mother was a cleaner and his father had been a

construction worker but had settled into a life of

booze, sure beat getting up at five o’clock in the

morning.

His father beat his mother and they both beat Kurt.

Somehow he, if not survived them, got past them

and finished high school, joined the cops.

He wanted to be where you gave payback.

That was how he saw the force, emphasis on force.

He was certainly East European in his view of the

boys in blue, they had the juice to lean on …

whoever-the fuck they wished. And he did. Hard.

His early weapon of choice was a K-bar.

Short, heavy and lethal and you could swing it real

easy, plus, they rarely saw it coming.

They were watching your holstered gun and

wallop, he slid the bar out of his sleeve and that’s

all she wrote.

Flis rep was built on it and over the years, he

became known as Kebar.

Did he care? Not so’s you’d notice. He didn’t do

friends, so what the fuck did he care.

Sometimes though, he longed to go have a few

brews with the guys, shoot the shit, chill. He

adored country music, that sheer sentimentality

was a large part of his nature and he kept it hidden.

His fellow officers, they went to the bar, got a few

put away, then played country and western till the

early hours.

He loved Loretta Lynn, Of Hank of course, and

then Gretchen Peters, Emmylou Harris, Iris

DeMent, Luanda Williams, they were his guilty

pleasures. All that heartache, it was like they knew

him.

His partners in the prowl car rarely lasted long, he

took so many chances, they either got hurt real fast

or transferred.

And now, you fucking believe it?

They were giving him some snot-nosed kid.

O’Brien, his commanding officer, a Mick, those

guys, they still got the top jobs, had summoned him.

Anyone tell you the Micks were a thing of the past

in the force … take a look at the roll call.

You think they were letting that lucrative line of

not so equal opportunity slip away?

O’Brien didn’t like Kebar, knew the guy was

unhinged, but he sure got results and like O’Brien,

he adhered to the old idea:

Justice was dispensed in alleys, not courtrooms.

He said to Kebar,

“Have a seat.” “I’ll stand, sir.” Naturally. O’Brien

wondered if the guy ever eased up, said, “Suit

yourself.” He took a good look at Kebar. The guy

was all muscle, rage and bile. Perfect cop for the

times.

His face was a mess of broken nose, busted veins

(he liked his vodka, straight), a scar over his left

eye: he looked like a pit bull in uniform. O’Brien

said, “Got you a new partner.” Kebar growled,

“Don’t need no partner.” O’Brien smiled.

This is where it was good to be chief, flex that

muscle, asked,

“I ask you what you needed? … Did you hear me

do that? Yeah, it’s not what you need, mister, it’s

what I tell you you’re getting. We have a

reciprocal arrangement with the Irish goverment to

take twenty of theirs and twenty of ours go over

there.”

Kebar had heard all this crap before … yada yada,

he sighed, asked,

“Who am I getting?”

O’Brien was looking forward to this, opened a

file, took out his glasses, all to annoy the shit out of

Kebar, pretended to read: “Matt O’Shea, did a

year on the beat in Galway.” He paused, then

added, “Galway, that’s in Ireland.” Kebar would

have spit, reined it in a bit, sneered,

“A Mick, no disrespect, sir, but a greenhorn, gonna

have to break his cherry for him?” O’Brien was

delighted, better than he’d hoped, he said,

“Actually, he seems a bright kid.” Kebar was

enraged, rasped,

“In Ireland, they don’t even carry freaking guns,

they’re like …”

He couldn’t think of a suitable degrading term,

settled for,

“Rent-a-cops.” O’Brien smiled again, he was

having a fine morning, said,

“I’ll expect you to treat him properly, that’s all,

dismissed.”

Outside the office, Kebar spat, a passing cop was

going to say something, saw who it was and kept

on moving.

Kebar went down to the car pool, rage simmering

in his belly, leaned against his car, got his flask

out, drank deep. A young guy, in a sparkling new

uniform, approached, put out his hand, asked,

“Officer Browski?”

Kebar stared at him, the new uniform was blinding,

the gun belt neon in its newness, the buttons shining

on his tunic.

He belched, grunted,

“Who’s asking?”

The kid still had his hand out, his eyes full of gung

ho bullshit, said,

“I’m your new partner, Matt O’Shea, they call me

…”

Before he could go any further, Kebar said,

“Shut the fuck up, that’s your first lesson, I want to

know something, I’ll ask you, can you follow

that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir. Kebar thought it was going to be even worse

than he’d imagined. He asked, “Can you drive?”

“Of course I. “Then get in the fucking car, get us

out of here.”

Kebar looked at his sheet, the assignments they’d

pulled, and said,

“Head for Brooklyn, can you find that?”

Shea was going to tell him he now lived there but

buttoned it, just nodded, thinking,

“Holy fook, I get a psycho on me first day.”

They were passing an area of deserted lots, mud on

the ground, no signs of habitation, and Kebar said,

“Pull up here.” Shea, nervous, before he could stop

himself, went, “Here?” “Deaf as well?” He pulled

over. Kebar got out, said, “You hear of backup, get

out of the fucking car.” Shea got tangled in his

safety belt and harness, all the frigging equipment

and it weighed a ton, plus, the uniform, Christ, how

hot was it? And it itched. Kebar said, “Before the

weekend, maybe?” Shea, finally out, waited and

Kebar said, “Go, I’m behind you.”

And for a wild moment, Shea wondered if the mad

bastard was going to shoot him. The other cops had

already told him of how Kebar’s partners never

lasted.

Before he could think beyond this, he got an

almighty push in the back, sent him sprawling in

the mud, covering his brand-new blues in crap and

dirt.

He rolled round, tempted to go for his piece,

Kebar was slugging from a flask, said,

“Now that’s more like it, you don’t look like such

a freaking virgin. We go into the hood, they see that

shiny new blue, we’re meat.”

And then he turned back to the car.

Shea watched his retreating bulk and hated him

with a ferocity of pure intent.

As they drove off, Kebar was chuckling and Shea

asked, “You going to share the joke?” Kebar

looked at him, said, “First day on the job, you’re

already a dirty cop.”

They did a full day, settling domestics, leaning on

dope dealers, cop stuff, some of it wildly

exhilarating and most boring as hell.

And Shea, he never attempted to change his

uniform or even brush the mud off it.

Kebar was impressed, he didn’t let on but thought,

“Kid has cojones.”

Even better, he didn’t whine or complain,

whatever nasty task Kebar set him, and he sure had

some beauts, the kid just went at them, head down,

his mouth set in a grim smile. End of the shift,

Kebar was tempted to say, “You done good.” Went

with: “Early start tomorrow, don’t be late.” The

kid looked down at his feet, asked, “You want to

grab a cold one?”

And for a moment, Kebar nearly said yes, then

reined it in, said,

“I don’t drink with the help.” EVERYONE HAS

THEIR ACHILLES’ HEEL, THE ONE AREA that

makes them vulnerable. From Bush to Bono, there

is something they don’t want known.

Be it pretzels or lack of height.

Kebar’s was his sister, Lucia.

She had a serious mental handicap and now, in her

thirties, she still had the face and mind of a five-

year-old.

Their parents had been horrified and regarded her

as a curse.

They had tried to beat it out of her, literally.

Now, she was in a very expensive home, where

they treated her well, and she seemed, if not happy,

at least less terrorized. Out on Long Island, it cost

a bundle to keep her there. Kebar poured every

nickel into her upkeep. He was losing the battle.

The thought of her being put into one of the state

institutions filled him with dread.

She’d been there already, courtesy of her parents,

and suffered serious setbacks on every level.

Soon as Kebar could, he got her out of there, and

into the new home.

The freight was killing him, he didn’t go to ball

games, or buy new clothes, every damn dime went

to her. It wasn’t enough.

Enter the wiseguys.

A particular slice of sleaze named Morronni,

feeling Kebar out and finally putting it to him:

“You need some serious wedge and we can give it

to you.”

How the fucks knew about Lucia, he didn’t even

ask, that was their gig, secrets.

He wanted to get his K-bar, ram it down the

cocksucker’s throat, but it was a week when he

couldn’t make the payments for Lucia so he asked,