Once Were Cops

Two

I had a girlfriend, if you didn’t, you didn’t blend, and I knew how to do that. She didn’t have that snow white long neck I adore and I think that’s why I chose her, so she’d be in no danger.

Then I got a call from Kearns and he near shouted,

“It’s done, you’re with the NYPD for one year.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Kearns.”

There was silence and he added,

“I hope they burn you fucking good.”

And slammed the phone down.

I took the girl out for dinner and I think she thought I was going to propose, instead I told her of my year assignment to New York.

She had a mouth on her, went,

“Yah eejit, what do you want to go there for?”

Nearly said,

“To get the hell away from you.”

Went with:

“For us, build us a better life.”

Did she buy that?

Take a wild guess.

Said,

“Sure, we’re the prosperous country now.”

We danced around it for a bit but neither of us really cared, and before I left, she said,

“I’d never have married a Guard anyway.”

I could have said,

“And who was asking?”

She gave me a bottle of aftershave as a going-away present, smelt like piss.

I could say she meant well.

She didn’t.

I was listening to her, the green rosary in me pocket, zoning in and out... my eyes fixed on her neck, she was so blessed it was a mediocre one.

Few days before I left, I ran into this broken-down guy, had been on the force with my father. An alcoholic, he was some kind of half-arsed private investigator, he’d been dry for a few years then hit the bottle with ferocity and by Jaysus, the bottle hit back.

He looked like death warmed up. I lied, went,

“Mr. Taylor, you’re looking well.”

He gave me the look, said,

“You’re full of shite.”

It was in a pub, naturally.

One of the old ones, still unchanged, Garavan’s, on Shop Street. Even had an Irish guy behind the pumps and believe me, the Irish are rarely to be found doing these jobs anymore.

Most likely, you’ll find a woman from Nigeria or some guy from Lithuania behind the counter, and can they pour a pint?

Nope.

They just pour it straight into the glass, no time to sit, or get that creamy head settled.

They know about Bud, Coors, Miller.

Who doesn’t?

Taylor still had the all-weather Guards coat and it was as battered as himself. I asked,

“Aren’t you like, supposed to give that back?”

Not that I gave a feck but... chat, you know.

He sighed, said,

“ ’Tis me only link to what once was...”

I thought that was pathetic, a frigging lousy coat, that’s what he had to show for his life?

No wonder he drank.

I asked,

“Get you something?”

No hesitation.

“Jameson, pint of the black.”

What the hell, I had the same.

We watched the guy build the pints with care and craft and he knew his trade, didn’t bother us with nonsense like asking if we wanted ice in the whiskey.

The nonnationals, they don’t ask, plunk ice in everything, especially their attitude.

We took our drinks to a corner table and he said,

“So you’re going to the States?”

Galway, now a cosmopolitan city but still a village where gossip was concerned. One of the reasons I wanted out.

Before I could answer, he said,

“And let me guess, you want to be on the NYPD?”

He might have been fucked in just about every way there was but he still had that intuition.

I said I might consider it.

He raised his glass, a tremor in his hand, which we both elected to ignore, said,

“Slainte.”

Without hesitation, I threw back,

“Leat fein.” And you.

He shuddered as the whiskey hit his gut and followed it fast with half his pint, get the sucker nailed down.

He wiped the cream from his lip, an old pro, and said,

“You want to carry a gun.”

Jesus, he was good.

I said,

“That’s not the reason I’d sign on.”

He gave a bitter smile, the corners of his mouth turned down. I saw a photo of Beckett in a mag once and fuck, more lines on his face than the ordnance map of the country.

Taylor’s face would have given him a close run.

The lines were imbedded, like with a very sharp knife.

And the ones around his eyes, you just knew laughter certainly hadn’t been responsible.

He said,

“Be sure you don’t let the gun carry you.”

Deep — or pure shite.

I said I’d bear it in mind.

And he said,

“You’re the new Irish, you know that?”

I knew this wasn’t flattery and asked,

“Yeah, what’s that?”

He’d drained his pint, was signaling for another, said,

“Arrogance, confidence, and fuck-all ability.”

Drink that.

As I got up to leave, he said,

“That darkness in you, get some help on it.”

Fucking loser.