Once Were Cops (16 page)

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

2”

you will

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.

JOE WAS FURIOUS WITH HIMSELF, HE’D

LET SHEA GET TO him and he’d lost his cool

and the rosary beads, now that was just stupid,

he’d found it in one of those arty stores in the

Village, it felt good but it was dumb. Way fucking

dumb. Talk about blowing your cover. And now,

Shea would come after him. Guaranteed.

The fuck had a way of getting rid of people and

looking good at it.

Joe even glanced over his shoulder, paranoia

growing by the minute. He hailed a cab, the damn

Pontiac he’d rented wouldn’t start that morning,

had the cab take him to Battery Park, cost a bundle

but hey, so it goes.

Cameron, an ex-heist guy, hung out there, and Joe,

Joe had let a beef with him slide and Cameron had

pledged:

“You ever need a favor …”

He needed a gun, that was a favor … right?

Took him a time to locate Cameron but after an

hour, he got him in a coffee shop, and Cam went,

“No shit, the cop, where you been hiding, buddy,

heard you took early retirement.”

Cam looked old, deep lines under his eyes, and his

skin had that gray look of someone who’s either

indoors too much or sick or both.

Joe got an espresso, and they shot the breeze for a

bit till Cam asked,

“So, what do you want, Joe? I’m glad to see you,

well, a bit anyway but you didn’t come all the way

over here to see how I was doing.”

Joe cut to the chase and Cam protested for a while,

not in the biz no more, snow job. Joe stopped him

with: “Cut the crap, you owe me, I’m calling it in.”

Cam sighed and said, “Come on.”