Once Were Cops

Eight

They didn’t speak till they got to the car, Shea looked up at the building, asked,

“How long has she been here?”

Kebar stopped, then,

“Too long.”

They’d been cruising for about ten minutes when Kebar said,

“Now you know.”

Shea didn’t answer.

They got through their shift, a relatively quiet day, rounding up hookers, busting the balls of some street dealers, penny ante stuff.

The end of the shift, 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,

“What?”

“I love 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.