Once Were Cops (4 page)

come out a door.”

McCarthy put up his hand to stop me, asked,

“And did you caution him, tell him to drop his

weapon, identify yourself as a police officer?”

I glanced at the black guy and was he smiling? I

asked, “You ever hear a shotgun being primed?”

He stared at me, irritation on his face, asked,

“What’s your point?” I made a click with my

tongue, said,

“That’s the sound and it tells you, you have maybe

two seconds to identify yourself or … save your

partner, what would you do or don’t you get out

from behind a desk?”

The black guy chuckled and McCarthy was riled,

snapped,

“Hey pal, you’re a goddamn rookie, don’t get

mouthy with me, you got that?” I let that hover for a

bit, then said, “A rookie who saved his partner’s

life.” He changed tactics, became Mr. Cordiality,

asked,

“How do you find your partner, busting your balls

is he?”

Now I got to smile, said, “I thought that was your

job.” He let it go, continued, How do you feel

about cops on the take?”

I didn’t hesitate, said, “Much the same way I feel

about informers, sorry … Internal Affairs.”

He jumped up, leaned right in my face, and if he

expected me to flinch, he was wrong.

In Templemore, the first month of Guards

enlistment, you have training officers from the

Midlands, big country fuckers who play hurling

because they love the brutality, they are thick

bastards and as tough as granite, and they spend

that first month shouting, spittle included, into your

face.

You get through that, and learn early … never …

ever, wipe the spit off, you can face any fucker

roaring into your mouth. He shouted,

“Listen up, Paddy, you’re going to be seeing a lot

more of me, and you don’t know it yet but IA might

be a bigger part of your life than you ever

imagined, that is, if you intend staying on the

force.”

He pulled back, well pleased with his threat. I

asked,

“Can I ask a question?” “Knock yourself out, I’m a

Mick too, remember?” “What happened to you

calling me Matt?” He spat on the floor, said, “Get

out of my fucking office.” I was at the door and I

said,

“McCarthy, despite your name, I think you got the

wrong country in your heritage.” He was curious,

thinking maybe I was making amends, he asked,

“Yeah, where should I be from?” I let a beat go,

then said, “Nazi Germany.” I swear, the black guy

winked.

That black guy, whose name was Rodriguez, there

was something about him, a familiarity, as if I’d

known him before, and it took me a while to figure

it out, I was staring in the mirror, a habit I’d

become more and more addicted to.

Not out of vanity but there was a little of that, I’m a

good-looking guy, so some of that but primarily, to

try and see if the two sides of my nature showed,

they hadn’t… yet.

After Internal Affairs, when I stared in the mirror, I

saw Rodriguez, that was it, he had that same dark

shadow on his soul.

An echo in the darkness.

I was pretty pleased with meself but as usual, my

frigging mouth had made me a bad enemy.

If the blue menaces are ever going to catch me,

they had better get off their fat butts and do

something.

—The Zodiac, letter to the los angeles times, 1971

SIX

RIDING WITH KEBAR AFTER, THE WHOLE

DYNAMIC HAD changed, he no longer gave me

grief and Jesus, asked my opinion on stuff, like if

we were going into a crack house, he’d go,

“How d’you want to play this … partner?”

Even he seemed stunned by his behavior, as if he’d

lost his way and was floundering.

Fuck, I let him flounder.

The bollix had gone out of his way to make me life

hell, and now he didn’t know his arse from his

elbow, he even forgot one time to slide the bar up

his sleeve till I reminded him.

Our luck stayed golden and we brought down a

major dope dealer by pure chance, it was a collar

that made the front pages of the Daily News.

Kebar said,

“This rate, kid, you’ll make detective in no time.”

And thing is, I felt blessed, bulletproof, no matter

what I touched, it panned out. I’m Irish, I should

have known better, things go that well, God is

seriously screwing with you, seeing just how much

you think it is your sheer talent before He fucks you

good.

I was learning the lingo, my American coming in

daily, still had me brogue of course and it amused

the other cops to hear me cuss American with an

Irish accent but at least I was getting there.

I noticed they had picked up a few of mine too,

even Kebar had started calling creeps “bollix” and

I once heard him say …

“Things were fierce.”

Best of all was when we pulled in a vicious

hooker who had been slashing Johns and he said,

as she tried to bite him,

“Fuck on a bike.”

Had him.

A month flew by in a haze, and knocking off work,

Kebar asked,

“There’s a bar in Brooklyn, got some great beer,

I’d, um … you know, appreciate it if you let me …

buy you a few brews.”

I figured he’d done enough penance, said,

“Sounds good.”

His whole face lit up and to see him smile, it was a

whole other guy, like he was ten years old.

We arranged to meet at eight o’clock and as I

headed for the locker room, he went,

“Shea?”

First time he used me name, and I turned. He said,

” ‘Predate it.” I said, “Whatever.”

I was going to cut him some slack but not get stupid

either.

Little did I know.

I got back to my place, I showered, broke out a

cold one and rolled a little weed, nothing major,

just chill on out, fingered the green rosary, the need

was mounting.

This was always the roughest time, as the darkness

mounted and demanded its due, the other side of

me, the good cop, wanted to be a regular guy and,

here’s the joke, to meet a woman who would so

consume me that I wouldn’t need the long slender

necks of others. The zoning was becoming more

powerful and the durations longer, how much of

any decency was left was eroding rapidly.

I had the TV on, listened to the news, a hundred

Americans killed in Iraq in one month.

Jesus.

I turned it off, sank back in a chair, lit up the spliff, took a long draw of the Miller, hit the radio, a

station playing old hits.

“Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, I sang along with the

chorus, the weed chilling me way out.

My uniform was hanging on the back of the door,

and I gazed at it, still in amazement it was actually

mine.

I said,

“Fuck, you son of a gun, you really did it.”

I had bigger plans, no way was I going home after

a year, I fully intended being a hero cop and then

no way could they send me home, that precinct, it

would be mine, I’d already started gleaning

information, like that O’Brien liked young girls, I’d

gather me ammunition and then when my plans

were full crystallized, I’d hit like that cobra.

Back home, the lads would be getting ready to go

out for a few pints.

For few, read fifteen. Jaysus, if they could see me

now.

Was this the American Dream?

Fecking would be if I made detective, and the way

I was cruising, what could stop me?

Dumb fuck I am, I’m Irish, superstition is our

birthright but did I bless meself, touch wood, do

any ritual stuff? Nope. Bad fuck to it now, would it

have changed anything? Wouldn’t have hurt. But

no, I opened another brew, and here were U2 with

still haven z found what I’m looking for. I had,

hadn’t I? Damn straight, my accent coming in.

I figured I should eat something and the weed had

given me the munchies so I called out for some

pizza.

The guy arrived in like jig time and I spotted him a

five, he looked at me, said, “Cop, right?” I was

delighted, asked, “How’d you know?” He gave

that New Yorker look, said, “Cop lives in the

building, everyone hides their stash.” Then he

wrinkled his nose, smelling the weed, said,

“Evidence, huh?” I put my fingers to my lips, made

the shssssh noise. He was cool, down with it, said,

“You ever need some decent blow, you gimme a

call, my name is Jimmy.”

I asked,

“Jimmy, how come you think I won’t bust your

arse?”

“Ass, you’re in America now, and you’re Irish, the

Irish don’t give a fuck, see yah.”

And he was gone, whistling what might well have

been “Galway Bay” but that was probably the

weed.

The pizza was good and I felt wired, good to go,

good to … boogie.

I didn’t have a whole lot of clothes so wore a

white T … whitish, and black 501s, a pair of

knock-off Nikes and me one sports jacket.

Whatever else it said, it sure as shite said, he’s not

on the take.

A line that would come back to haunt me.

In my mind, I saw the green rosary … gleaming.

KEBAR WAS IN THE LOCKER ROOM,

FEELING PLEASED THE kid had agreed to have

a brew. He asked himself why it was so important.

He’d never wanted buddy stuff before. But then,

nobody had ever saved his life either.

If the kid hadn’t stepped up to the plate, Kebar

would be pushing up dirt, and he shuddered:

What would Lucia do if he was gone?

Back to the state garbage bins.

Yeah, he owed and not just for himself, Lucia too,

so the least he could do was buy the kid some cold

ones, maybe let him in on stuff that would take

years to learn.

Clean the slate.

He’d never owed before and it was confusing him.

Plus, fuckit, he liked the kid, who’d have ever seen

that coming?

Kebar hadn’t liked anyone in … jeez … when …

ever?

The other cops, they gave Kebar a wide berth, you

bid him the time of day, he growled right back at

you.

But the older guys, they didn’t much like him, what

was there to like, he was a surly mean bastard, but

they sure as shit respected him, he was your real

beat cop, a stand-up guy, and he believed in the old

ways.

A sergeant, a Polack named Swierzcynski,

approached Kebar, asked,

“Got a moment, K?”

Kebar, who should have been a sergeant long ago

‘cept for his attitude, snapped,

“Make it quick.”

The sergeant sighed, hard to help this schmuck but

he tried, said, “You need to watch your back.”

Kebar stopped, turned, asked, “What’s that mean?”

The sergeant checked they couldn’t be heard, said,

“IA is sniffing around you.” Kebar shrugged it off,

said, “Fuck ‘em, they got nothing on me.”

The sergeant, knowing he was going way out there,

said,

“You got a sister?”

Kebar was stunned, he’d kept her real hidden,

asked, “How do you know?”

The sergeant gave a rueful smile, said,

“I hear stuff and the word is, she’s in a real fancy

home …”

Pause. “A very expensive one.” Kebar was

thinking, “Fuck fuck fuck.” But he said nothing and

the sergeant added, “Word is they’re using the kid

to bring you down.” Kebar couldn’t help it,

splurted, “That kid saved my ass.” The sergeant

shook his head, said, “That’s why he’s perfect to

take you down, you trust him.” Kebar gave a

grudging thanks and the sergeant said, “Not too

many good ones left.” Kebar got out of there quick,

thinking, “Damn kid, he wouldn’t turn, would he?”

He had to hustle to get to see Lucia before he met

with the kid. The drive out to Long Island was the

usual fucking nightmare, and he got there running

way late so he’d have to cut his time with his sister

short. Thus preoccupied, he never clocked the tail

on his ass. And if he had, he’d have been sure it

was Internal Affairs. He’d have been wrong.

As he went in, the Chevy pulled in a few spaces

behind his car. The driver sighed, “How long will

the prick be, liked, visiting?” Morronni, on his cell

phone in the backseat, said, “I’m told he’s meeting

the Irish guy …”

He checked his gold Rolex, he knew the time to the

second but he liked to flash the bling, said,

“At eight, so he’s gonna have to cut the time with

the spastic short.” The driver, not really giving a

fuck, asked, “That what she is, huh?” Morronni

said,

“The fuck do I know, some kind of retard is all,

what’s it matter?”

It didn’t.

Kebar hated to cut her time, but maybe she

wouldn’t notice, he’d brought her Hershey’s

Kisses. Her ritual was always the same, she’d

count them out.

“One for Daddy, one for Mamma, one for Konny,”

her childhood name for him, “and one for little old

me.”

Fuck, to see your beautiful thirty-five-year-old

sister do that, when she should be married with

two kids and a halfway decent husband, it