Once Were Cops (3 page)

“What’ve I gotta do?”

His heart in ribbons, he hated dirty cops with a

vengeance and here he was, joining the ranks of the

damned.

Morronni smiled, said,

“Hey, no big thing, you let us know when the cops

are gonna make a bust, whose phones are tapped,

small stuff, you know, nuttin to get in a sweat

about.” Yeah. Lure you in. They did. And

progressed. Bigger stuff. The money was on a par.

He was able to guarantee six months ahead for

Lucia.

The proprietor of the home, a sleek suit named

Kemmel, said,

“Mr. Browski, we don’t usually take large sums of

cash. Checks, credit cards, they are the norm.”

Kebar gave him his street look, the one that had

serious skels looking away, said,

“Money is money, you telling me you can’t do off

the books, you want me to get the health department

out here, give your place the once-over?” No. He

took the money. And in a sly tone asked, “You

need a receipt?”

Kebar wasn’t used to being threatened, least not by

pricks in suits, unless they were pimps, and

certainly never twice.

Kemmel was sitting behind a large mahogany desk,

smirk in place, not a single paper on the desk, a

framed photo of his shiny wife and shinier kids

facing out to the world, proclaiming,

“See, T’m a winner.”

Kebar leaned across the desk, deliberately

knocking the ONCE WERE COPS

frame aside, grabbed Kemmel by his tie, pulled

him back across the desk, asked,

“You like fucking with me, that it?”

Kemmel, who’d never been manhandled in his life,

was terrified, could smell garlic on the cop’s

breath, managed to croak,

“I think we might have hit a wrong note.”

Kebar put his thumb up against Kemmel’s right

eye, said,

“One tiny push, and you’ll see things in a whole

different light.” Then he let him go, stood up,

asked, “You were saying?” Kemmel, struggling for

his dignity, adjusting his tie, said,

“No problem, Mr. B, I’ll see to your … um …

arrangement … personally.”

Kebar edged the frame with his worn cowboy

boots, his one indulgence, bought in the Village

and custom made, said,

“Real nice family, tell you what, I’ll drive by, time

to time, keep an eye on them, call it a personal

arrangement.” The difference between a cop and a

thug is one wears a uniform … sometimes.

-Ed Lynskey, convicted murderer

FOUR

NEXT DAY AT WORK, KEBAR WAS

LEANING AGAINST THE car, hoping the kid

would be late. He wasn’t. And the uniform, still

mud encased. Kebar asked, “How’d the roster

sergeant like your uniform?” The kid said, “He

gave me a bollicking.” Kebar liked the term, had a

nice ferocity about it, said, “Tore you a new one,

did he?” The kid went,

“Tore what?”

Kebar laughed, he was going to have to teach him

American as well as everything else, said,

“Asshole, we say, he tore me a new one, means

you got reamed.”

If the kid appreciated the lesson, he didn’t show it.

Kebar was enjoying himself, it had been a long

time since he enjoyed being buddied up.

He turned toward his door and he got an almighty

push in the back, jammed him against the roof and

then his arm was twisted up his back, the kid’s arm

round his windpipe, he heard,

“Let me teach you something, smartarse, the

Guards, no matter what you think of them, they

never forget… ever … and you ever push me in the

fucking back again, you better be ready to back it

up.”

Then he let go.

Kebar was stunned, no one’d had the balls to come

at him like that in a long time and he debated

reaching for his bar, then began to laugh, said,

“You’re a piece of work, you know that, let’s

roll.”

The day’s surprises weren’t over yet. They

answered a call to a domestic, and Kebar said,

Don’t get between the couple, nine times out of ten,

you subdue the man, the freaking broad will gut

you.” The kid said,

“Believe it or not, we have wife beaters in

Ireland.”

Kebar took a quick look at the kid, he was wearing

a real serious expression, and Kebar asked, “What

you’d do, call the priest?” Without changing his

look the kid said, “Often, ‘tis the priest doing the

beating.”

Kebar liked that a lot, he was warming all the time

to the punk, despite his best efforts.

They got to the scene, and Kebar led the way, his

hand on his holster. The door of the apartment was

open and a skinny white guy was whacking a

woman like his life depended on it.

Kebar said, “You want to stop doing that, sir?” He

didn’t. Said, “Fuck off, pig, family business.”

Kebar shrugged his sleeve, the bar sliding down,

and he moved forward, missed seeing a side door

open and a shotgun pointing out.

Two shots nearly deafened him and a body

tumbled out, a guy moaning, he’d been hit in the

shoulder and leg. Kebar looked at the kid, his

smoking gun still leveled. Kebar moved to the guy

on the floor, kicked the shotgun away, said, “Move

and you’re fucking dead.” The guy who’d been

beating on his wife shouted, “You shot my brother,

you cocksucker.”

Kebar took him out with the bar and then the

woman started so she joined the bodies on the

floor. The kid still had the gun pointed. Kebar said,

“You can put it down now.” The kid’s eyes were

clear and he nodded, said, “Guess we better call it

in.” They did. Kebar moved to the kid, said, “I

owe you.” The kid gave him a look, said, “Just

backup, that’s all, what is it you guys say? No

biggie.”

The brass arrived and reassured Shea it was a

good shoot and even though Internal Affairs would

be talking to him he had nothing to worry about,

they actually clapped him on the back, said, “You

did real fine.” Outside, as they got into the prowl,

Kebar said, “Pretty fancy shooting.” The kid

shrugged.

“I was aiming for what I figured was his head,

need some practice I suppose.”

They got out of there and back to the station house,

Kebar broke his rule, asked,

“Can I buy you a brew, shit, lots of brews and

what’s that stuff you Micks like …Jameson?”

Shea stood for a moment, looking at the ground,

then:

“No thanks, I’m the help … that’s what you said …

right?” And he was gone. Kebar felt let down, like

he’d failed the kid. What was for damn sure was,

the kid hadn’t failed him. He got together the

biggest and hardest men in the force and ordered

them to go out and batter the living shite out of

every ned.

— Glasgow cop on his boss, Chief Percy Sillitoe

FIVE

WHEN I GOT TO NEW YORK, IT WAS

EVERYTHING I’D HOPED for and more, loud,

crazy, fierce, and I loved it.

I got lucky, an Irish guy who lived in Brooklyn was

heading home and I got his place.

It was small but hey, I didn’t have a whole lot of

stuff.

A few shirts, jeans, one battered leather jacket, me

Claddagh ring, heart turned out, and the beads,

naturally.

You put them up against the window, the light

gleamed, and I’d zone, mesmerized by the effect,

seeing white slender beautiful necks, like the

swans in the Claddagh basin.

The first time I took one of those animals, I nearly

got caught but came out of the zone in time to get

away.

When I was leaving Galway, my mother said,

“Son, I haven’t been the best mother and I know

you have some problems that need help but I got

you this to show I do love you.”

The Claddagh ring, one of the real old ones, it fit

perfectly and I wore it all the time, heart turned

out…

Meant I was on the hunt and I was.

A Miraculous Medal, never leave an Irish home

without one, and two bottles of Jameson.

Oh yeah, hurley, got some funny looks from the

Homeland Security guys but explained it was our

national game and they let it slide.

The apartment had all I needed, hot plate, kettle,

bed, and a shower.

Truth is, you couldn’t swing a cat in it but I hate

cats so …

Allowed meself a week to get orientated, that is,

hit the bars, the Irish ones, get hooked up, get

connected, and so, had me a beat-up Chevy in two

days and then reported for duty.

The Mick ace helped, big time, and before I could

say … muthafuckah, I was in.

I’m not going to be modest here, I’d done me

training in Templemore and despite what the

Yanks thought, it was tough, so the four weeks of

orientation I had to do at the academy weren’t

really anything new, save for the pistol training.

You make some buddies, kiss arse big time, and

keep your head down.

I kept me nose clean, in every sense, and did nowt

for that month but focus on doing real good.

Only lost one rosary beads that whole time, well,

lost is the wrong term, used it, more like.

I don’t remember it too well save for it was the

first time I left a beads behind, seemed to belong

on her neck. I continued to do real good in training.

And they like the Micks. The powers that still be.

I used every suck-up going and in jig time I was

assigned to a precinct.

I was dead freaking delighted with meself.

The commanding officer, a Mick, thank Christ, was

happy to have as he called it:

“A real fucking Mick, off the boat,” in his squad.

That morning, when I put on me uniform, and that

sucker weighted, Jesus on a bike, did it ever, I put

my cap on last and in the half mirror, left by the

last tenant, I checked meself, had to crouch down

which took from the whole effect but still, I saw

the real deal looking back at me.

NYPD BLUE.

ME! And my police issue on my hip, made me feel

like a fucking player.

I was delighted with meself.

I’d done it, made me dream come true, I was the

thin blue line, I was the man, I was so delirious, I

nearly had a shot of Jameson.

Then, another Americanism I was to learn, things

went south.

My commander told me I was being paired with a

real pain in the ass and gave me a thumbnail sketch

of some guy called Kebar. I asked,

“Why?”

Thinking, “You’re Irish, why are you not giving me

some slack?”

And he sighed, said,

“He’s a real good cop, a massive pain in the butt,

but if you can hang in there, you’ll learn stuff real

fast, we can’t afford to have one of our visiting

Guards get lost.” I felt me temper rise, gritted, “I’m

a real fast learner.” He gave me a full-capped

smile, said,

“See, that’s the spirit, why I know you were the

right guy to partner up with him, but trust me, he’ll

bust your balls nine ways to Sunday.”

He sure did.

A surly bollix, he treated me like shite, in every

way he could.

Even pushed me down in the dirt, no kidding, to get

me good and dirty.

I bit down, took all his crap, and then I got him up

against the car, told him who I was.

And Jesus, the same day, we were on a domestic, I

got to use me gun, took out a guy with a shotgun, a

rush like with the beads but too fast, no time to

savor, to linger.

Saved the sour bastard’s arse.

Pure dumb luck.

I was numb, never shot no one before and it was a

trip, but after, I just went into the cold place.

They took my ice reaction as major cool, one

man’s trauma is another’s rep. was in.

Saved a fellow cop, doesn’t get any better.

And I blew it off, as if it was no big deal, and that

impressed them even more. Then Internal Affairs.

Fucking gobshites, we have our own version back

home. A sleazy level above rodents.

And the nearest thing to informers we’ve got in an

official capacity. In Ireland, informers are beyond

garbage, sold us out to the Brits every fecking time

and just because they wore the same uniform, they

were still the scum of the earth, selling out their

own.

I was in a room with two of the creeps.

One big guy, said his name was McCarthy, like I

was supposed to be grateful he had an Irish name,

all I saw was a bum whose job was to screw his

own kind. He was all friendly but I wasn’t buying

it. He started, “Matt, you mind if I call you Matt?”

I gave him my stonewall look and he said,

“Matt it is, now, we have what certainly seems to

be a good shooting, but how about you walk us

through it, cover all the bases.”

The other guy, a black dude, was leaning against

the wall, chewing on a matchstick, his eyes fixed

on me, least that’s what I first thought, then

realized he was fixated on me ring. I said,

“We answered a domestic call, we got there, my

partner tried to separate a husband who was

walloping his missus and then I saw a shotgun