Once Were Cops (15 page)

mind, he got that and more surliness from the

bartender, brought it back, put it down on the table,

McCarthy motioned for him to sit, he did.

The bourbon had brought McCarthy back to

temporary life, he said,

“You were on the job?”

Joe nearly laughed, they always could tell, he

asked back,

“You’re using the past tense, why d’you think I’m

still not a cop?” McCarthy sighed, the glass nearly

empty already, said, “You have the eyes but not the

edge, least not anymore.” Joe was going to say,

“That’s a fucking bit rich from a has-been, staring

into a whiskey glass.”

Went with:

“I’m doing a book on the case. Any insights you

might have?”

McCarthy shot back,

“No you’re not, doing a book, this is some

personal gig, I spent ten years in IA and one thing I

know is a goddamn lie when I hear it.”

Joe figured the easy way wasn’t going to work, the

guy was beyond bitter so hard-ass would be the

only route, he asked,

“Why’d you quit?”

McCarthy made a sound that was between a groan

and a snigger, said,

“They got me out, well, Shea, the fucking golden

boy and my own backup guy, dumb fuck I was, I

never saw them coming, but I’ll tell you something,

my partner, Rodriguez, it’s my feeling he never left

IA. He’s up close and personal with Shea but my

gut tells me, he is still IA. I thought I’d be able to

get Shea, but like I said, I never saw him coming.”

Then he looked at Joe, said quietly, “And neither

will you.” Joe said, “You don’t know me.”

McCarthy began to roll the empty shot glass, said,

“I know them.”

Joe figured he wasn’t going to get any useful

information and got ready to leave, he put a twenty

on the table, said,

“Have another on me.” McCarthy ignored the bill,

asked, “You got any friends still on the force?”

Joe debated, then told him of his ex-partner, Jay,

and he could see McCarthy rummage through

whatever mental faculties he still had, then:

“Yeah, I know the guy, one of Shea’s crew.” Joe

was stunned, protested, said, “Uh-oh, not Jay,

you’re way off the beam there, buddy.”

McCarthy gave a grim smile, said,

“Try finding any of the young Turks not in Shea’s

pocket, now that would be a short book.” He

stared into space for a minute, then warned, “Be

smart, drop it, you’re no match for these guys.” Joe

stood up, said, “I’m a little surprised at a guy like

you.”

McCarthy came a little back to life, looked up, and

Joe said,

“You were the head honcho in Internal Affairs and

you just packed up your tent, went and hid in a

goddamn bottle of bourbon, thought you guys were

supposed to be relentless, what the fuck happened

to you?”

McCarthy said,

“They let me live.”

JOE WAS RATTLED BY THE WHOLE

MAGNITUDE OF WHAT he hoped to achieve,

bring down a hero cop, and to keep his mind from

freaking out, he indulged in a fantasy, about the

nurse, Maria, here’s how he saw it go down.

He’d ring the hospital where Lucia was and ask if

he could speak with Maria, he wasn’t sure exactly

what good this was doing him, this pie in the sky

scenario but it felt good, she’d come on the line

and he’d explain who he was, she’d say, “I

remember you, the tourist to New York.” But say it

with warmth, and encouraged, he’d ask, “Might I

take you to dinner?”

Couldn’t believe he was asking, and if only in

reality he could do that. He imagined she’d laugh

and he’d like that laugh, it would come from deep

within, he could almost see her face, she’d say,

“Not so much a tourist now I think, I would love

to.”

He’d arrange to meet her in midtown and they’d

have a drink then do dinner, she’d say that would

be lovely.

Lovely… if only, and he realized he was

projecting his sister’s personality on the nurse.

His hands were sweating, it had been a long time

since he’d asked anyone out and certainly since

Nora’s death, it had never even crossed his mind.

He did know this whole mad fantasy wasn’t really

helping.

And then the guilt, the fuck was he doing, even

thinking of dating? He was supposed to be tracking

a killer and then he thought,

“I’m even more stressed than I thought.”

Instead of making the dream happen, he finally

rented a car, a Pontiac, he’d always wanted one of

those.

The rest of the day, he was edgy, veering between

excitement and he had to admit, fear.

He studied his notes on Shea, work always calmed

him. Finally, he went out, hit a local bar, stopped

the useless daydreams.

THE MEETING WITH MCCARTHY HAD

DEPRESSED JOE more than he liked to admit.

After, he headed back to his place, he was bone

weary, information overload, he hadn’t liked

McCarthy but he sure hated to see a man’s spirit

crushed. He was bothered too by the implication

that Jay was in Shea’s pocket… could that be true?

Joe was no longer a cop, and it did make horrible

sense that Jay was going to lean toward cops, not

civilians.

He knew he should eat something but he was wired

and needed to just climb down a notch from the

fevered speculations of his mind.

A little weed would do that but reading always

helped too.

His staples, the books that had influenced him

most, were sitting on his shelf, dog-eared,

underlined, held together by tape. Michael Herr …

Dispatches. Pete Dexter … The Paperboy. Michael

Connelly … Crime Beat.

He opened the Herr at random and hit on the

disappearance of Sean Flynn, Errol’s son … it

saddened him so.

He closed the book and figured he’d done most of

his groundwork, time to confront the beast, see if

he could meet with Shea.

All he’d heard, read, researched on the guy and

still, he didn’t really have a handle on him, the guy

was like a ghost, there was a ton of data but no

substance.

He’d call, give the line about the book
etc.
and see if the guy would meet him.

If he was, as seemed to be the scenario, a

narcissistic personality, he wouldn’t be able to

turn down the chance to talk about himself, and if

Jay had tipped him off, then they’d have

themselves a hell of a mental game of chess.

Joe moved to his narrow bed, lay down, thought

about Nora, and his heart burned in his chest, if

that smooth son of a bitch had strangled her, by

Christ, Joe would bring him down.

It was no longer anything about a story, or a book,

it was purely personal.

And the black guy, who’d deserted McCarthy,

hooked up with Shea, now there was one

fascinating character.

il.hifli

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7

Shake hands with the devil. COULD A GUY BE

THAT RUTHLESS, THAT CALCULATING?

Everything in Joe’s experience told him that here

was the real dangerous one, the guy who smiled

and you took your eyes off him.

Death row had currently three of these smiling

charmers, and the one thing they all had in

common, they managed to somehow get behind

you, you never actually got to meet them head-on,

and that was the biggest mistake of all, letting them

out of your line of vision.

Joe set his cheap alarm clock, be up early and on

the phone, he felt that rush of adrenaline that said,

“We’re racing to the conclusion.”

He wondered if he still had what it took for the

game, McCarthy’s gibe that he’d lost his edge

rattled. He’d know soon enough.

His dreams were troubled, Shea in a Nam jacket,

the music of Hendrix blasting behind him, and a

black figure, in the smoke, never quite emerging

but oozing malice and menace … Nora was right

there, saying in Irish, Sin sceal eile … that’s

another story.

He was up way before the alarm, felt the cold seep

through his bones and figured he’d been too long in

Miami. He wondered anew how he’d tramped

those same streets for eight months, he brewed

some coffee, at least the damn sparse room had

that, and grabbed a fast, tepid shower, then dressed

for warmth. Poured his coffee into a mug that held

the logo:

CHRISTIANS ARE DOING IT FOR

THEMSELVES.

He muttered … duh?

He sat, sipped at the steaming coffee and took a

bite out of a stale doughnut, cop legacy.

Read through most of his notes and then the doubt

surfaced, as it always did, was he up to it?

How would it be if he got face-to-face with Shea

… the guy who’d more than likely strangled his

sister … and his hands began to shake?

He said,

“Fucking marvelous.”

Shea, to see a tremble in his hands, that would be

just hunky dory. He suddenly remembered a visit to

a death row inmate, some five years back, the guy

had been convicted of murdering three children in

a horrendous fashion and was due to be executed

in two weeks. Joe had been corresponding with

him for over a year, doing a series of articles on

the last weeks of death row inmates. The guy,

named Sutton, had finally agreed to see him.

Joe, a prison pro by then, had brought along the

requisite candies, smokes, and gum, those guys

loved to chew.

Sutton had been led into the room in manacles, the

orange jumpsuit and two guards along. Took him a

moment to get seated due to the chains, then he

stared at Joe, asked, “How yah doing?” Joe was

thrown, rallied. “Um, pretty good.” And barely

stopped short of asking him how he was doing.

Jesus. Joe pushed the goodies over and Sutton

nodded, said, “These homies gonna be firing me up

in a few weeks.”

Joe could never be sure but it seemed as if a smile

passed between the guards. He took out his

recorder, asked if Sutton minded and as long as he

lived, he’d never forget the smile on Sutton’s face

as he said, in a very friendly tone,

“Do whatever you gotta do, bro, but trust me on

this, you ain’t never gonna forget this here …

chat.”

Joe, going by his usual rote, asked, “How’s the

clemency plea progressing?” Sutton, a smile

curling on his lip, said,

“You been misinformed, hoss, else you ain’t done

your damn homework.”

Joe, flustered, angry too, had he screwed up?

Tried:

“They’ve turned it down?”

And Sutton let out a thin laugh, not like any laugh

Joe had ever heard, more like a thin dribble of

hysteria, said, “I didn’t apply for no clemency,

hoss.” And Joe, like an idiot echo, went, “You

didn’t?’

Sutton, with some difficulty, turned around in his

seat, looked at the guards as if to say,

“You believe this shit?”

Then back to Joe, said,

“I done killed those kids, why in tarnation I be

seeking mercy?”

Joe, accustomed to pleas of innocence, angry

rebuttals, said,

“You don’t deny it?” And got that horrible

mockery of laughter again, Sutton said,

“Damn straight, not only did I kill ‘em, I enjoyed it

and gimme a shot, I’d be out there, doing ‘em all

over again … Fire me up another smoke, hoss.”

Joe had forgotten all his journalistic distance, his

honed skills, simply asked,

“You … enjoyed … hurting … children?”

Sutton stared at him, then said,

“You better get a grip, hoss, you hope to stay in

this line of business, it’s who I am, what I am … I

fess up … but you, mistah … who are you?”

Then Sutton shouted to the guards,

“Git me the hell outa here, this guy is some kind of

amateur night and I’m missing American Idol.”

One of the guards whispered to Joe as they left,

“You sure you’re cut out for this line of work?”

Joe learned from that, learned well, cut yourself

off from the task in hand, it’s a job, you’re a pro

and do it… professionally.

When Sutton was executed, Joe drank three shots

of Jameson to mark each of the three children and

said as toast to Sutton,

“May you roast in hell.”

And meant it.

The private terror of the liberal spirit is invariably

suicide, not murder.

-Norman Mailer

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