Once Were Cops

Twenty-Two

Things had been going so well, I’m Irish, I should have known that shite was coming.

Rodriguez seemed to have his lazy smile in place all the time and I asked,

“What’s with the smile, you know some private joke I don’t?”

He was chewing on that damn stick as usual and he said,

“Lots of jokes you don’t get, boss.”

The fuckhead, one of these days, I’d see about cashing in his chips, I smiled back, asked,

“Try me?”

He moved off from the wall in that languid way he had, said,

“Naw, it’s more like a black thing, you dig?”

It had been his idea to recruit cops from different precincts, unofficially of course, get a network in place, throw some payola their way and cover our arses. I got a call from a guy down in the Seventh, name of Jay, took me a moment to figure out who he was and as I did, he said,

“Houston, we got a problem.”

Jesus... cops.

I said,

“Spit it out.”

He told me about a journalist who was reinvestigating the strangling and the whole Kebar scenario, claimed he was doing a book. I wasn’t concerned, journalists came at this every so often, I’d meet with them, give them my neon charm and apparently access to all areas, get their endorsement, truth is, I kind of enjoyed it, fucking with these hotshots. Jay said,

“This guy used to be on the job, was my partner for a time.”

Now, I relaxed, ex-cop, perfect, I said,

“No biggie, what’s your problem?”

He paused, then:

“He’s Nora’s brother.”

Took me a moment to get it, then kept my voice level and asked,

“So?”

“He wants to meet with you, I thought you should be prepared.”

I glanced up at Rodriguez, who was definitely interested, then said,

“I’d be glad to meet with him, any relation of Nora’s... makes him, like, family.”

Yeah, like dead family.

Then Jay said,

“He won’t know you know who he is.”

I focused, then said:

“Thanks, Jay, and we may have something real sweet coming your way.”

He protested,

“There’s no need, boss, I just wanted to keep you in the frame.”

Dumb fuck, like there was a cop on the planet didn’t want something, I said,

“Consider it an early Christmas bonus.”

And hung up.

I outlined the call to Rodriguez, who mulled it over, then said,

“Let him come on in, see what he’s got.”

I said,

“Why the hell not.”

Rodriguez took off to do some background on the journalist, one of his real talents is finding dirt.

The journalist’s call came in just before noon and he sounded affable, laid-back, shooting me the line about his book, and would it be possible to have a meet, get my take on the whole saga?

Jesus, he was full of it.

I was equally smarmy and said,

“I’m always available to the press and hey, I’m having lunch in an Irish pub on Park Avenue and Thirty-eighth... you want to join me, we could do a relaxed interview, you guys like the odd brew, am I right?”

That would be terrific, he agreed.

I was tempted to wear the dress blues but opted for the casual look, show I was an easygoing guy, wore a heavy parka over an old sports jacket, chinos and Timberland boots to navigate the footpaths. I buzzed Rodriguez, told him to drop by around one thirty, get a feel for the guy.

On my way out, I met the chief, O’Brien, and man, how the balance of power had changed.

I’d been the new kid, him the old wise rabbi, laying down the rules. When all the stuff had gone down, he lost the plot, too much happening for him to grab hold of. He knew he’d been sandbagged, fucked over, used and abused, and he didn’t know then, that was only the opening act.

Suddenly, I was golden and he was plain confused. Rodriguez found out that O’Brien had a wee fondness for young girls so we set him up with a twelve-year-old, sure, she looked more but we got the pictures and I laid them on his desk one bright Monday morning, said,

“She’s twelve.”

His face had been ravaged, and he looked at me with fear and loathing, asked,

“What’s the deal?”

And I leaned over, finally getting to patronize the fuck the way he’d done to me, said,

“Old man, don’t fuck with me, you’ll be fine.”

As I went to leave he asked,

“That’s it, you’ve nothing else to say?”

And I gave him my best charismatic smile, said,

“Don’t dip it in young honey.”

Now, as we met, he avoided my eyes, said,

“Detective O’Shea.”

I reached in my pockets, took out some tickets, said,

“My dry cleaning, I forgot to collect it, be a sweetheart will you?”

My mobile, sorry, cell, rang as I went to call a cab, I could have pulled a car from the pool but if I was going to have a brew?... I answered... Rodriguez, who asked,

“You good to go?”

“Sure.”

Then he surprised me with:

“Are you nervous, this guy has a hard-on cos of his sister?”

I laughed, told the truth.

“I don’t do nerves.”

A pause, then:

“Probably best not to run that quote by the journalist.”

I got to the pub and Mick, the owner, all glad handshakes and shite, I’d gotten him out of some serious stuff with health inspectors and plus, having a cop frequent your joint was damn fine protection so he led me to the best table, at the back and secluded, asked,

“And you’ll be having a drink to start?”

“Pint of Harp, I’m waiting on someone and we’ll order the grub when he gets here.”

He was hovering, what?... Like I was going to tell him who I was expecting? He said,

“We’ve some grand fresh salmon just in and if I might recommend...”

I gave him the look, said,

“The Harp?”

“Oh right, I’ll send the girl right over with a pint fresh off the barrel.”

He had a daughter, Molly or one of those real Irish names, she had that neck I liked and

I’d been thinking...

Been a while since...

Then the Pogues came on the speakers and for some odd reason, I remembered the Dylan CD I’d bought... for Lucia or Nora? Fuck, I couldn’t recall. This had been happening to me more often, I got like a blank in my mind, couldn’t pin down details which is one of the reasons I’ve been writing stuff down... called it my glitch, a breakdown in transmission. I wasn’t too worried, when you’d come as far as I had in such a short space of time, there was going to be fallout... right?

I’d have liked to have known though which of them had me Miraculous Medal.

The only thing that truly bothered me was Nora, I’d liked her, really felt there was a chance I might move past all this darkness, and killing her, I never planned that and truth was, I couldn’t recall one single detail of it but that sometimes happened.

A waitress in her twenties came with the Harp, said,

“That will do you good.”

A pint of carbonated crap, whatever else it would do, good wasn’t going to be part of it.

A different song had hit the speakers and she asked,

“Like it?”

It sounded familiar, sort of, I said,

“I dunno.”

She said, triumphantly,

“It’s Bono with Green Day.”

The fuck he wanted to do that for?

I said,

“Different.”

She was still hovering and I asked, with just a hint of edge,

“Was there something else?”

She didn’t like it and I felt better.

I saw a guy weave through the tables, dressed for serious weather, and he spotted me, came over, pulled off his heavy gloves, asked,

“Lieutenant O’Shea?”

Got my rank wrong but I let it slide, said, taking his hand,

“Call me Shea... it’s Joe... right?’

I indicated for him to sit, asked what he’d drink.

“Sparkling water.”

I needled a bit, asked,

“Nothing stronger?”

He shook his head and I got the water for him, said,

“Us Micks, we find it hard to pay for water.”

He was pulling out a tape recorder and asked,

“You mind?”

I was still in my Mr. Nice Guy phase, said,

“Long as you don’t mind Green Day on there.”

I suggested we get the food ordered and then we could eat and talk. I ordered a steak, mashed spuds, and he went for a lightly grilled cheese sandwich. We bullshitted about the weather till the food came and then he hit the start button, said,

“Okay.”

First five minutes, he asked about my career and my meteoric rise, I played the humility card and his sandwich lay untouched, I’d gotten half of my steak put away, I fucking love meat.

Then he got sharper, asked,

“It must have been a rough time for you then, losing your girl, your partner?”

I pushed my plate away, as if I’d lost my appetite, said,

“It’s beyond comprehension, even now.”

He used a knife to cut his sandwich but still didn’t eat, then hit with:

“You didn’t attend the funeral, your girl’s I mean?”

I stared at him, asked,

“How do you know that?”

He made a show of rummaging through a battered notebook, then said,

“Yeah, says here, you were on... lemme see, on vacation, in Florida?”

I drained my pint, decided to up the ante, said,

“I was hurting, they gave me compassionate leave and seeing... as you call her, my girl... being put in the ground, I couldn’t face it but what’s your point, why is it relevant to... a story about my partner?”

He was going to try subtle hardball, well, fuck, back at you.

He said,

“Just trying to get an all-around picture of the whole event.”

I pushed a bit more, said,

“You once were a cop?”

He was taken aback, said,

“Yes, for about eight months.”

I debated my next question, then went for it.

“Couldn’t cut it, huh?”

And saw the flash, and Jesus, for one brief moment, it was like Nora, the same eyes, before he could respond, I said,

“You remind me of someone, we ever meet before?”

He shook his head, he seemed to have lost his gangbanger tone and said simply,

“I’d remember.”

The owner came over, asked if everything was satisfactory, eyeing the untouched sandwich, and Joe said,

“An espresso would be good.”

I said,

“Me too.”

Then I leaned back, said,

“You haven’t asked me about my partner, wasn’t that the focus of the... book?”

He rallied and asked me some general stuff and we breezed through that, then he said,

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll type up what I’ve got, let you have a look, see if it sounds right, how would that be?”

I said,

“Sure.”

His whole attitude had altered, a barely suppressed rage was building in him so I thought I’d see if I could bring it out to play, I said,

“Off the record Joe, Nora, my girl...?”

I let the name sting him, then:

“I found out after, she was giving it away all over Brooklyn, a tramp in fact... or as one of the guys said... a cut above a ten-dollar whore.”

He looked lashed and I indicated his sandwich, asked,

“You lost your appetite?”

His notebook had been put aside and his fists were clenched, he said,

“I think we’re more or less done.”

He was on the brink so I upped the ante, said,

“I can get a doggie bag, you could have it later, you know, when you’re typing up your notes.”

He looked at me then, and pure hatred blazed from his eyes, he took out his wallet.

And I went,

“My treat, let the NYPD treat one of its former officers.”

He threw a bundle of bills on the table, said,

“I don’t think so.”

He stood up, I didn’t and I said,

“You’ll lemme see those notes, right?”

He nodded, then reached in his jacket and for a crazy moment, I wondered if he had a piece.

He withdrew a small paper bag, chucked it on the table, said,

“Thought you might be needing this.”

And he was gone.

I waited a moment, then opened the bag and out spilled:

A green rosary.