Once Were Cops (6 page)

Kebar asked, “What are you thinking?” Shea didn’t

look at him, said,

“I’m real sorry about your sister, but it doesn’t

change the facts.”

“The facts?”

“You’re a cop on the take, you’re no longer fit to

wear the uniform, my uniform was dirty, but you,

your whole existence is rotten.”

And he was gone.

KEBAR TOOK SOME SICK DAYS SO I WAS

ASSIGNED TO A desk till he returned. My mind

was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Sure, I

thought about his sister, I’d never seen a neck so

fucking virgin, so fucking pure, and here’s an odd

thing, I know fuck all about James Joyce, like most

Irish people. Not that we’d ever admit it, we claim

him as our great writer, but read him?

Nope.

My mother still clung to the notion that he wrote

dirty books.

But I do know the intense pain of his life was his

beloved daughter being confined to a mental

hospital.

Her name: Lucia. Riddle me that.

And more, meeting the bar person, Nora, Joyce’s

wife was Nora.

What did it all mean? Fucked if I knew. A week

behind a desk, and I was stir-crazy.

I loved the streets and maybe Kebar would resign

and I could get a new partner, new start.

That Nora was occupying me thoughts a lot and

okay … I was zoning a bit, more so than I’d ever

before and the beads … gleaming … waiting …

and no longer asking … demanding.

So I headed back there one evening and she

smiled, said, “Jameson, Coors back.” I said, “Can

I run a tab?’ She was smiling broadly and I went,

“I lo “What?” >ve your accent. I heard, yeah, the

word … love. Lame… right. I downed the

Jameson and she asked, “Where’s your partner?” I

said, “He’d got some sick time coming.” Her face

showing concern, she asked, “Is he sick?” I

thought, “He sure is going to be.” I said, “Naw,

just skiving off.” She looked at her watch, said,

“It’s my break, you want to join me at the staff

table while I grab a sandwich?”

Sure.

A sandwich in Ireland is dead bread, with a mangy

slice of lettuce and some cut of synthetic meat, but

here, shite, a triple decker of goodies and huge

plates of chips… sorry, fries.

She ate like a navvy, with gusto and not caring

about mayo leaking down her chin, Jesus, I loved

that. I kept me eyes off her neck, the time would

come. She indicated her plate, said, “Dig in.”

Not when I’m drinking, get a nice buzz building

and screw it up with food, no way. I asked, “Nora

… you’re not Jewish, I’d say?” That marvelous

laugh again and she said, “Third-generation Mick.”

And before I could respond, she said,

“I grew up in a house with Irish music playing …

all the freaking day, and on the walls, harps,

bodhrans, pictures of the pope, John F. Kennedy,

and of course a massive portrait of the Sacred

Heart.” I laughed, could be any home in old

Galway. She said, “Tell you the truth, I’m sick of

the whole patriotic gig.” I couldn’t resist, said,

“Ah, you turncoat.” She stared at me, asked, “So,

you’re a cop, you like that?” I told the truth.

“I love it.”

The bar was filling up and she said,

“Gotta go earn the bucks, hey, you want to take me

out on Friday night?”

I did.

I left the bar, floating on air, the Jameson had

something to do with it but Jesus, I liked how near

she was to answering the call of the beads, but

riding point was the other side of me, could she be

the one who would so occupy me that the beads

would be … just a beads, no light, no shimmer, no

… translucence?

Right there and then, I thought nothing could burst

me balloon of well-being.

I was wrong.

Got back to me apartment, the door off the hinges,

had been kicked in.

I pulled out my police issue, had taken to carrying

it since meeting the wiseguys.

Entered slowly, the place was destroyed, my few

possessions torn and scattered on the floor, a huge

turd in the middle of the room and urine all over

the place.

The worst, my uniform, hanging on the door, they’d

taken a knife to it, shredded it. The gun in my hand

was drenched in sweat and I had to ease the trigger

back, slowly. Then I saw the note on the table. It

was in red marker, read: TIS A PITY. I muttered,

“Bollix can’t spell.”

They’d missed the beads, stupid fucks, with all that

came after, that would have proved their case …

dumb bastards.

The wiseguys, taking the war to me and letting me

know I was … touchable.

I said aloud,

“Fuck you, Kebar, look at the shite you’ve got me

in.”

And then I giggled, thinking of all the plans I’d

made and if only they’d found the beads, I yelled

aloud,

“Yah stupid fucks, if only you had any idea.”

I cleaned up as best as I could and finally headed

for the camp bed, pulled back the blanket and there

was the photo, me shaking hands with Morronni,

the envelope of bills spilling out.

What they call a damning indictment.

Man, they thought they were setting me up … if

only they had one iota of how they were actually

helping me.

Odd thing, I dreamt of that swan in Galway, the

way it

struggled, and the sounds it made and how I’d tried

to hush it, telling it I loved it.

ONE VITAL LESSON YOU LEARN AS A

GUARD IS … THEY threaten you, you either run

like a bastard, or … you get right back in their

face. Immediately. Brutally. Biblically. And I

wanted to. Shite on my floor, me beloved uniform

in tatters. Fuck that.

You go after the messenger first, the fuckhead who

left the calling card, like that song … First, we

take Manhattan.

Then you let that simmer and in jig time, you take

after the head honcho.

Gino, I remember Morronni calling his rent-a-thug

that.

And how hard would it be to find that piece of

lowlife?

You’re in the NYPD … you have access, and if not

to all areas, certainly where the bottom feeders

dwell.

At the station I got on the computer, and he had a

rap sheet as long as an Irish story, all intimidation

gigs. This guy liked to terrorize people.

Okay.

He played pool in a dive in the Village three nights

a week.

I fingered the green rosary, thinking … buddy, this

beads is gonna put you away … for ever.

Time to introduce him to our national sport.

Hurling.

A blend of hockey and homicide.

I put the hurley in a carryall, me police issue in the

waistband of me jeans, and I was good to go.

I’d let meself get into the zone.

You replay the guy trashing your home, violating

your gear, and imagine him doing it with a smirk.

You’ve entered the zone.

I’d scored some stuff from Jimmy the pizza guy and

crunched a speed tab, washed it down with a shot

of Jay, and headed out.

The dive was certainly that.

In the middle of a fairly prosperous part of the

Village, it stood out like a Brit at an Irish wedding,

defiant and sneering.

I went in, lots of bikers, lots of attitude, the bar

guy, big and I bet with a baseball bat under the

counter, snarled, “Get you?” “Coors.” Eyeballing

me but I let that slide, he wasn’t my interest.

I put a couple of bucks on the counter, moved off to

the side.

The pool table was hopping, lots of action, money

laid on the side, and there he was.

Gino.

Living it up.

You want to get a guy’s attention, take his knees

out first with a hurley.

—Irish Guard on policing methods DRESSED IN

WHAT WE CALL A WAISTCOAT AND FOR

inexplicable reasons the Yanks call a vest. A very

shiny number and tight trousers, I could see the

piece against his backbone, the butt of it outlined

against his vest when he bent to take a shot.

Let them know he was carrying.

His face was covered in sweat and he was

downing shooters like a good un. He’d need to piss

… right. He did. Shouting to his opponent,

“Gotta take a goddamn leak, be right back to hand

you your ass.” And he pushed his way to the

restroom.

I followed.

He was in one of the stalls and I locked the door,

got out the hurley, he was grunting like a pig and

finally sighed, came out, saw me, went, “The fuck

…” Took his legs out with the hurley. Swoosh. I

love that sound, clean, efficient, and highly

effective.

He was on his knees in the piss on the floor,

moaning, and I gave him another wallop to the side

of the head, not to knock him out but to focus him.

Then I stood over him, the hurley resting lightly on

my shoulder.

He looked up, muttered, “You’re fucking dead,

pal.” Wallop. Left shoulder, spread it around. I

said,

“This is the lesson of the ash, what our hurleys are

made from, and the lesson teaches next time, it’s

your head only that gets the walloping.” I asked,

“Where’s the photo?” He dredged up some

phlegm, spat it at me feet, I said, “That is a really

disgusting habit.” Gave him a tap on the nose,

broke it, said, “Have some fucking finesse.”

I reached down, shoved him against the wall, got

his wallet out and said,

“Pay for the damage to my place.”

Must have been four, five hundred bucks, I took it

all, flicked the wallet in the toilet, said,

“Next time you come after me, bring more than a

note.”

And put his lights out.

Back in the bar, I drained the Coors and the bar

guy asked, “Another?” I shook me head, said,

“Your restroom, it’s got shite all over the floor.”

Got out of there fast.

I hailed a cab, went uptown and found a flash-

looking bar, went in, ordered a double Jay, and

when it came, I had to wait a full five minutes for

me hands to stop shaking before I could lift it.

It had been a while since I played hurling.

But you never quite lose the talent, and to hear that

whoosh of the bat, it was like the darkest music.

KEBAR HAD BEEN ON A SIX-DAY BENDER,

YOUR NO-HOLDS- barred, out-and-out blitz.

Two-fisted drinking, with serious intent. You name

it, he sank it, Dewar’s, Stoli, tequila … hello …

tequila? … Wild Turkey, Early Times and early it

wasn’t, gallons of brews, from Shiner to Sam

Adams, an equal opportunity imbiber.

Food, right… if you count Kentucky Fried Chicken,

Burger King Whoppers, pizza, Chinese, and

whatever clogs your arteries, gives you the

cholesterol jibbies, he had it.

And course, you have a hard-on for the world, and

you drink like that, trouble is gonna come down the

pike with a vengeance and that’s what he wanted.

To crack skulls, lash out, annihilate every fucker

who even glanced at him.

And they did.

Paid the price.

Kebar was a big Springsteen fan, “The Price You

Pay” unreeling in his head like a dodgy old 45.

And get this, when you have the out-on-the-

precipice dementia, there’s going to be oddities

thrown into the maelstrom.

Emily Dickinson, not the first name you’d have put

in this cauldron but logic hadn’t a whole lot of

validity in this gig And … in German.

He had no idea how that happened but he had a

battered copy of her Guten Morgen, Mitternacht.

And add to the mystery, he could quote from it,

where’d that come from?

Fuck knows.

As he brought the bar down on some skel’s head,

he in canted: “Tod macht die Saiten krumm—

Night meine Schuld.” “… Death twists the strings

— ‘Twasn’t my fault.” And his mantra:

uEinfremder Stamm, allein—”

… Wrecked, solitary, here— He fucking loved

that.

When he would finally stagger back to his crap

one-room apartment in Queens, he’d throw up the

food he’d bought, pour a lethal shot of Stoli,

thinking,

“Mellow on down.”

He’d drag his battered suitcase from under the bed,

flip it open, and his stone face would nearly smile.

His pride and joy.

Weapons.

Glock, Beretta, snub-nosed .22, and the beauty, the

Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum.

Serious firepower.

He loved that elephant, the wood grip, the sheer

weight in your hand, you hit a freak with that, he

wasn’t never getting up again.

He’d put Bruce on the turntable, “Thunder Road,”

“State Trooper,” “Stolen Car,” and he was wired.

The Magnum in his right hand, the thought of eating

the barrel occurring more and more.

One squeeze, no more crap.

Late on a Friday, Deadwood on the box, he had the

piece to his mouth when his door received a bang.

Holding the weapon loosely by his side, he opened

it.

Morronni, a box of pizza and a bottle of merlot,

said,

“Beware of goons bearing gifts, right?” He glanced

down at the Magnum, asked, “You expecting