Once Were Cops

Nine

Dressed in what we call a waistcoat and for inex plicable 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—

Nicht meine Schuld.”

“...Death twists the strings—

’Twasn’t my fault.”

And his mantra:

“Ein fremder 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 company or just riled up?”

He moved past Kebar, said,

“Deadwood, love it, since Brian Cox joined, it’s moved up a notch, you think?”

He tossed the box on the table, asked,

“So, you got any wineglasses?”

Kebar got a mug, none too clean, said,

“Knock yourself out.”

Morronni used his silk handkerchief to clean it, poured a measure, looked at the Stoli bottle, said,

“Whatever gets you there, am I right?”

Kebar stayed standing, swaying actually, and asked,

“The fuck you want?”

Morronni pretended offense, then smiled, a predator’s one, said,

“It’s payday, my man.”

Tossed a fat envelope on the counter, said,

“A little extra this time as we have a favor to ask.”

Kebar didn’t touch the thing, asked,

“And that’d be?”

“We got a shipment coming in Friday, need to know if the narcs know.”

Kebar nodded and Morronni asked,

“You’re good to go on that?”

Kebar gave a bitter chuckle, said,

“What you pay me for, right?”

Morroni opened the pizza box, tore off a hefty slice, stuffed his face, then midbite said,

“Slight problem has come up.”

Kebar was having double vision, would he have to shoot the two Morronnis he was seeing, asked,

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Your kid, the Mick cop, he did a real number on my boy Gino.”

Kebar was delighted, Jesus, that kid, said,

“And?”

Morronni was looking in disgust at his white shirt, a dab of sauce had landed there and he seemed pissed, said,

“Fucking hate when that happens, oh yeah, your boy, he’s going to have to make restitution.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Morronni debated another wedge and decided against it, said,

“I’ll think of something.”

Kebar had to know, asked,

“And if he doesn’t?”

Morronni stood up brushing crumbs from his suit, said,

“Then it goes on you.”

Kebar thought of the firepower he had so very close to hand and for one brief mad moment he considered blowing the scumbag to hell and gone, but then what of Lucia?

Morronni, as if he read his thoughts, laughed, said,

“You’d like to lash out, eh, show some muscle, but you know, you ain’t got no fucking juice, pal, you’re a cop on the take, I own your ass, and because of that little stunt, I’ve had to take some... what’s the word, punitive measures, get you back in the game, it hurt me to do it but let it be a lesson to you.”

Kebar went cold, asked in a very quiet tone,

“What measures?”

Morronni was at the door, said,

“And spoil the surprise?”

Then he was gone.

Kebar, despite the amount of booze he’d consumed, had become stone sober, hurting, hungover, but sober.

Time to pull out of the spiral and get his frigging act together, he tore off his reeking clothes, got in the shower and stood under it, ice cold for five minutes.

It was sheer agony but it sure drove the toxins out.

Shivering, from booze and cold, he got his uniform on and was wondering if he could stomach some caffeine when the phone rang, he picked up, a tremor in his hand, went,

“Yeah?”

“Mr. B, it’s Mr. Kemmel, at the nursing home.”

Kebar’s stomach plummeted and he went,

“What’s the matter?”

Pause.

Then:

“There’s been an incident.”

“Stop fucking around, what happened?”

“I think you should get out here, right away.”

Click.

He hung up?

Kebar was going to call the fuck right back but he better move, he threw the phone back in its cradle.

The drive out there was murder, tailgating all the way so he slammed the siren on, his own personal one he had borrowed from Property, and still took him forever to get out there, his mind a mess of snakes and dread.

He finally made it, tore out of the car, ran in and there was Kemmel, a serious expression on his face.

He motioned Kebar to his office and, biting his lower lip, said,

“It’s your sister...”

Kebar grabbed him by the neck of his Hugo Boss shirt, snarled,

“What?”

In a high voice, Kemmel said,

“Someone got in her room, broke both her arms and, it seems, tried to strangle her.”

Kebar let him go, a sob breaking from him, asked,

“Where is she?”

“At the hospital, she’s at the hospital and in deep shock.”

Kebar was in hell, asked,

“Did she say who did it?”

Kemmel was shaking his head, said,

“She’s receded into a catatonic state, she has retreated into someplace safe in her own mind.”

Kebar demanded,

“Aren’t you supposed to mind the patients, isn’t that your fucking job?”

Kemmel reasserted some authority, said,

“It happened in the early hours of the morning, we only have night staff, and believe you me, they’re stretched to the breaking point.”

Kebar got the address of the hospital and started out. Kemmel said,

“Mr. B, in light of this... incident, we may have to review her continuing stay here.”

Kebar kept going, if he’d responded, he wasn’t sure if he could keep himself from beating the schmuck to a pulp.

His uniform got him to see a doctor at the hospital without delay and he was told that she’d suffered a massive beating, her arms broken and her nose, and they were just now checking but they suspected she’d been... raped.

And the marks on her neck, the bruising, huge welts, whoever had done this, he’d gotten off on the strangulation, the doctor telling him this was shocked, nigh shaking.

Kebar felt like he might pass out, asked,

“May I see her?”

The doctor was sympathetic and said,

“This evening would be best, she’s in intensive care now, we want to ensure there is no internal bleeding.”

Back in his car, Kebar remembered Morronni’s words:

“Punishment.”

Lacking anywhere else to go, he went to work.

O’Brien, the CO, had him on the carpet, reamed him a new one, and warned:

“IA is on your ass, and what do you do, you take sick leave without telling anyone, you were... once... a good cop... but I think you better start looking at the security ads, that or Leavenworth, now get out of my sight.”

He passed the kid, who was behind a desk, and tried to greet him but the kid stonewalled.

Kebar got down to the car pool and the guy assigned there smirked, went,

“Back to the Lone Ranger again?”

Kebar didn’t rise to it, got in the prowl, burned rubber outa there.

His mind was hopping with every form of revenge known to man, and his first order of business was to find out who did the number on Lucia. Morronni would have contracted that out, and Kebar knew exactly who to ask.

He drove to Little Italy, went into a barbershop there, and sure enough, a bookie by the name of Lonnie was sitting in a chair, marking up the form sheets, he wasn’t happy to see Kebar, who said,

“Get your ass in gear, we’re taking a little ride.”

Lonnie looked around for help but the other customers were suddenly engrossed in other activities, no one was going to run interference for him with the demented cop. Lonnie made a show of putting the paper aside, sighed, and followed Kebar outside. As they got in the car, Kebar said,

“That sigh you gave, hold the thought, you’re gonna fucking need it.”

Kebar had the radio on, not the police scanner but the C and W channel, they always played Johnny Cash and sure enough, here he was with “The Man Comes Around.”

Listening to Kebar sing along with Cash, that scared the be-Jaysus out of Lonnie more than anything else, and the way he leaned on the line about a guy taking names, something very ominous about that.

Kebar took Lonnie to the same area of ground where he’d sent the kid sprawling in the dirt, pulled up, let his window down, said,

“Good spot to dump a body, you think?”

Lonnie thought,

“Oh sweet fuck.”

Kebar took out his Glock, let it lie loosely in his lap, said,

“I’m going to ask you one time for some information, and if you stall, shoot me a line, I’m going to shoot you in the balls, you real clear on that?”

He was.

Kebar turned the radio off, leaned back, then asked,

“Morronni got some scumbag to do a number on my sister, the full beating and...”

He had to grab a breath, then:

“And... violated her, she’s a little handicapped but she’d have known she was being hurt, now take your time, I want to know who’d be up for that type of... job?”

Lonnie racked his mind for some out, couldn’t find one, said,

“There’s a psycho, a real piece of work, that kind of... stuff, he loves it and if it was a retard—”

He instantly regretted using the word but fuck, he was nervous.

He chanced a look at Kebar, and no reaction save a slight tightening of his mouth. Kebar asked,

“The name and where he hangs?”

“Fernandez, he likes to go to the strip joint on Eighth and Twentieth, he’s a real dangerous mother, does crystal and has a crew of some very deranged bikers.”

Kebar nodded, said,

“Good, you did good, just one thing.”

Then he suddenly whacked Lonnie under his chin, hard and brutal, said,

“Retard, that’s a real ugly word, try and drop it, okay?”

Lonnie was seeing stars and he was fairly certain he’d had some teeth loosened. Kebar put the car in gear, asked,

“Drop you someplace?”

Lonnie, barely able to speak, muttered,

“Any subway station, any one that’s near.”

Five minutes later, he was getting out of the car, blood and sweat running down his face. Kebar said,

“You won’t be tipping off anybody, will you, Lonnie?”

Lonnie swore on his mother’s grave.

Kebar smiled, said,

“Be seeing you.”

Lonnie watched him drive off and hoped Kebar wouldn’t find out his mother was alive and well.