Once Were Cops (9 page)

was okay, they’d some serious fucking to do with

him.

Rodriguez was contemplating another jelly

doughnut, those suckers were good but he was

piling on the pounds and had to watch it. He

looked at McCarthy, who, per usual, seemed on the

verge of a coronary, the guy was always so … het

up. He pushed the doughnut aside, got a match in

his mouth, asked,

“Ray, ask you something?”

McCarthy was surprised, Rodriguez was Mr.

Cool, hardly ever spoke, especially in

interrogations, just leaned against the wall,

chewing on a match, watching. McCarthy said,

“Sure.”

Rodriguez took his time, nothing was ever rushed

with this guy, he asked,

“Why are you so stuck on this case, Kebar, the kid?

I mean, we have a shitpile of backlog stuff yet you

seem to think these are the only ones that matter,

like it’s personal.”

McCarthy felt his temper flare but reined it in,

said,

“It is fucking personal, this Kebar, he thinks he’s

some kind of cowboy, and the kid, he’s got a mouth

on him, I aim to shut it the fuck up.”

A sergeant looked in, said, “Your boy is here.”

McCarthy said, “Let’s bring him to the morgue

first, you think?” Rodriguez said, “Youse de boss

man.” Always riled McCarthy when he went street.

Kebar was in full uniform, his expression neutral,

asked,

“The fuck you want now, don’t you parasites ever

do any real work?” McCarthy smiled, said, “We

need you to view a John Doe.” Kebar asked, “I

have a choice?” McCarthy said, “This way. We’ll

even give you a ride.”

THE MORGUE WAS COLD WITH THAT

ANTISEPTIC SMELL that made you want to gag,

a stretcher was in the center of the room, covered

with a sheet, McCarthy pulled it off in one sweep

and Kebar pulled back. A charred husk of what

might have once been human was curled up on the

stretcher. Kebar sneered,

“Crispy critter … how the fuck am I supposed to

know who the hell it is?”

Rodriguez spoke, startling them, said,

“We’ve saved you the problem, his dental records

identify him as an informant named Lonnie … your

informant, we believe.”

Kebar was stunned but kept his face in gear, the

world kept tilting out of focus, he said,

“You already know, why’d you bring me here?”

McCarthy got right in his face, said,

“See, here’s the thing, tough guy, ol’ Lonnie was

last seen getting into your car, and hey, next time he

shows, he’s French fries.”

Kebar snarled,

“Get outa my face and use your fucking head,

would I waste my own informant?”

Rodriguez said,

“You might if he didn’t give you what you wanted,

and we know you’re … upset, at… what happened

to your sister.”

Kebar whirled on him, his fists in balls, and

McCarthy said, “I hear she fought like a wild thing

when the perp was riding her.”

And he was flat on his back, a pile driver of a

punch from Kebar, Rodriguez had his gun against

Kebar’s neck, said,

“Back off… now.”

Kebar did, reluctantly, said,

“Pulling guns on your own, that where you guys

have got to?”

He looked down at McCarthy, who was trying to

sit up, spat in his face, said,

“You ever talk about my sister like that, I’ll

fucking kill you.”

McCarthy got shakily to his feet, said,

“Assaulting an officer and making death threats, I

could lock you up right now.” Kebar sneered, “So,

go ahead.” McCarthy shook his head, said, “Give

us Morronni, I’ll see you do only one to five.”

Kebar laughed. “Fuck you.” McCarthy said,

“Okay, mister, play hardball but you might

consider you’re taking the Irish kid with you, now

get the fuck out of here, start packing for the pen.”

Kebar turned without a word and left. Rodriguez

said, “Your jaw is swelling, better get an ice

pack.”

McCarthy rubbed his face, the pain was kicking in,

and he said,

“The bastard is out of control, just where we want

him.”

And he smiled, despite his swelling jaw, he

thought his answer was good.

He liked that.

It was … cool.

I BORROWED NORA’S CAR, A BATTERED

PONTIAC AND

what a hoor to maneuver. I’d learned to drive on a

stick shift and this automatic gig, though obviously

easier, took some getting used to.

And …

New Yorkers, not the most patient bunch, you learn

as you go. I’d taken to following Kebar, if he was

taking down the guy who attacked Lucia, I wanted

to be there, Jesus, I had to know what he knew …

had to. But screwing with McCarthy was part of it.

And Lucia … she was the true reason.

Word was she wasn’t coming back from the

catatonia she’d retreated into and that made me so

hot, being interrupted … how do they say …

midmaneuver … just when I was in the zone, lost

in the ice palace.

Four nights I followed him, trying to be real

careful. He’d, as he’d taught me … ream me a new

one if he caught me.

He’d drive to a dive on Eighth and then just sit,

watching, I knew he was memorizing the players,

the times they came and went, and getting a feel for

the terrain.

Who polices the police? - Village Volce journalist

He was going and soon, I could sense it.

And me … I knew Lucia had saved me from you

know … doing something to Nora.

By the FOURTH NIGHT, I WAS DOZING,

DESPITE THE FLASK OF coffee I’d been sipping

from, and too, Nora and I had an active night

previously. I was resting my head on the wheel

when a gun barrel pushed into the back of my neck.

My first thought was … Gino … and I was gone.

Then Kebar’s voice: “Not too hot on this

surveillance gig, are you, kid?” He withdrew the

gun, asked,

“The fuck you think you’re doing, IA put you up to

this, that it?”

I said, “Us Micks don’t rat out anyone except our

own people.” I heard him sigh, then he said,

“Come on, I’ll buy you a brew.”

We got out of the car and I clocked he was wearing

all black, combat pants, leather jacket, and

sneakers. He’d shaved his head, added to the air of

menace. We headed two blocks back, went into a

bar that was marginally a cut above the dive on

Eighth. The bar guy looked like a hardarse, asked,

“Get you officers?” Kebar ignored the officers

jibe, said, “Maker’s Mark, two, and two Bud.” He

put a twenty on the counter, the guy said, “On me,

guys.” Kebar waited till we got our drinks, said, “I

want something from you, I’ll ask, got it?” He did.

Kebar left the change on the counter and we took a

table, he raised his shot, said,

“Here’s to you, you dumb Mick.”

Then we got to work on the Bud and he reached in

his jacket, took out a bundle, handed it over, said,

“Don’t unwrap it here.”

I took it, felt heavy, and stashed it in my pocket. He

said,

“It’s a Ruger, takes a full clip and is real fine for

up close and personal.”

Then he looked at me, surprise on his face, said,

“You weren’t carrying, were you?”

I shook my head, Nora had asked me not to carry

my police issue with me. He said,

“Christ, you are a dumb schmuck, what if

something went down this evening, were you going

to follow me in and use, what… offensive

language?”

I had no idea and told him so. He stared at me and

then gave a full laugh, not the bitter one he usually

paraded but one of genuine amusement, said,

“You freaking kill me, kid, I dunno, are you just

flat out stoopid or one of the hombres with the

biggest cojones I’ve ever met?” Before I could

answer, he said, “Listen up, buddy …”

Buddy!

“I’m going down, between IA, Morronni, the filth

who hurt Lucia, there ain’t no way I’m walking,

and you have a real future, I ‘predate your support

but it’s best if you just take off.” I said, “Same

again.” Went to the bar and the bar guy said, “Your

partner is one mean dude, yeah?” I put a twenty on

the counter and he pushed it away, said,

“Get with the game.”

I thought, fuckit, put the twenty back in my wallet,

brought the drinks back.

Kebar was staring at me and I went,

“What?” His eyes were granite and he accused:

“You didn’t pay, did you?” Jesus. I said,

“Big deal, the guy wants to stand us a drink, what’s

the harm?”

He lashed out, gripped my wrist like a vise,

snarled,

“Today he had you for chump change, but he has

you, and next thing, the bloodsuckers own your ass,

now get back up there, give him the goddamn

money.”

Fuck.

I did.

The bar guy smirked, said,

“I had you pegged for having balls, guess I was

wrong.”

Humiliated in about three different ways, I went

back and drained my bourbon. Kebar said,

“You want to kill some mother now? … Right… .

Welcome to my world.”

I stood up, said,

“You know, I was just trying to help you, but you

know what, all the damn lectures, the little

homilies, I’m sick to death of them, you have a

good one.”

And I stormed out of there.

Could be my imagination but I swear I heard the

bar guy chuckle.

Lucky I wasn’t meeting Nora, the rage, it triggered

the urge and then … that frigging zoning … and …

stuff happened.

WAS SHOOTING THE SHIT WITH ONE OF

THE UNIFORMS, leaning against our cars, grande

Starbucks with an extra shot of espresso, my hand

leaning casually on the butt of my gun, my radio

squawking, I was finally able to figure out what the

hell the spew of data meant, it was like learning a

new language but one day it just begins to make

sense and you can filter out what is relevant and

what is fluff. I felt like a cop, NYPD BLUE … and

feck, I loved it.

Back home, being a Guard, sipping tepid tea,

twirling your lousy baton, mostly you felt…

useless.

Watching the party girls, skirts up to their arse, and

then, corner of my eye, I’d see a swan do that

graceful glide along the basin, such beautiful necks

those creatures have. But this, this was the deal.

The cop, looking at my hand resting on my gun,

asked, “How’s that working for you?” Cops will

talk hardware all day.

I said it had a nice light weight but the trigger was

sometimes liable to fold in on itself.

He nodded, said,

“See, yer Glock, the department insisted we had to

keep up with the crims and carry that, but I tell you,

you’re chasing a perp on foot, the freaking thing

sometimes goes off, blow your foot or worse your

balls off, me, I carry a little extra.”

Pulled up his pants and strapped to his foot, a

Browning.

He drained his coffee, said,

“Our last mayor, the guys loved him, he was a no-

shit guy, told the dopers, fuck you, fuck your rights,

and got the streets clean, he’d have made one great

pres but you know what, ain’t going to happen.”

Before I could hear more, I was summoned by

O’Brien, who accused: “Goofing off?” Then

added, “You’re wanted upstairs.” I figured, IA

again. Figured wrong. O’Brien stopped outside the

conference room, asked, “You familiar with a task

force?” “Sure.”

He knocked on the door and we went in. A long

wooden table, lots of brass sitting round, all with

stony expressions, O’Brien said, “This is Officer

O’Shea.” A tall gaunt man, in civvies, at the top of

the table, said, “O’Shea, I’m Special Agent Peters,

head of this task force.”

I was standing at attention, learned back in Ireland,

you face the top guys, act submissive. He said,

“Stand at ease, Officer.” I did. He indicated a thick

file, asked,

“You know anything about a strangler, traveling in

Brooklyn?”

“No, sir.”

He looked round at the assembled faces, then:

“Good, we’re trying to keep a lid on it, prevent

panic, three women to date have been strangled in

Brooklyn, all in their late twenties.” He let me

digest that and I asked, “How does this concern me

… sir?” He bit his lower lip, then:

“Well, you’re a Mick, and the killer, he’s using

rosary beads to strangle the women, green beads I

might add.” I said, “I didn’t do it, I don’t even have

a beads.” He glared at me, snapped, “Is that an

attempt at humor, O’Shea?” “No, sir.” He said,

“Reason we asked you here is, you’re fresh off the

boat, full of all the Mick Catholic mumbo jumbo,

and we wondered if you had any input, insights

into this?” The snide dismissal of my faith rankled

but I kept a lid on it, said, “I’d need to think about

it… sir.” He was already dismissing me, I’d been

useless, said, “You do that, don’t strain yourself.”

O’Brien indicated I was to leave and he followed

me out. I said,

“I think that went well.”