“Where do I begin?”

Wasn’t that like a song?

And a pretty fucking bad one.

Like my story.

The old chestnut, and how did what started out so good, go so freaking bad?

The Yanks whine...

“Who you gonna call?”

God?

Do me a favor.

Whatever else is in this narrative, it ain’t Him.

Unless He was seriously fucking with us.

Somebody was.

My name is Matthew Patrick O’Shea.

And you’re thinking,

“Does it come any more Mick?”

Not a lot.

Course, everybody called me Shea.

Has a ring to it and the first thing I did in America, yeah, Shea Stadium.

Predictable.

Sure.

If only I’d stayed thus.

Right at the end, when the shite was coming from every direction, I’d have given a lot for a dose of me own predictability.

I grew up in Galway, the son of a Guard, and it was never for debate but that I’d follow in me old man’s heavy shoes.

I HAVE THIS SPLIT PERSONALITY GIG GOING, TRULY, good cop/bad cop.

You’ll notice the caps there, so you’ll know I told you from the off.

Part of me has always wanted to be a decent human being, and being a cop seemed like a way I could make a difference. People like me, no shit, it’s just the truth and I’ve always known how to get them to do so.

Nothing wrong with that.

Then there’s the zoning, from the time I was a child, I’d go someplace in my mind, a cold place and it’s like seeing the world through a fog or very heavy glass and what I most want is to do damage, biblical damage, it’s beyond rage, more like a controlled fury that oh so careful watches, then strikes. I saw a cobra once on the TV and that hooded head, the poise and then the ferocious strike...

I never saw anything more beautiful in my life and I felt I was inside that hood. My mother used to say,

“Shea lives in another room.”

A room covered in ice and fierceness.

My father said,

“Ah, he’ll grow out if it.”

He was so close... what I did was grow into it. I knew some bad stuff happened when I was zoned but I’d only barely recall it after. There was a priest in our parish, named Brennan, he liked me as I was one hell of a hurler.

Hurling is our national sport, a cross between hockey and murder.

I’d zone in games and some poor bastard would end up with forty stitches in his head.

Fr. Brennan liked to win, and our team never lost because he used to say,

“Let Shea loose.”

He spoke to me one time and asked,

“How does that change happen, is it the adrenaline of the game?”

And I told him of the zoning, he looked worried, then said,

“Don’t ever tell another soul about this, they’d lock you up.”

Then he handed me a green rosary beads, it was a few weeks before Easter and the days were offering up rare moments of sunshine, as I took them. It was a lovely piece, gold cross, emerald beads and silver threads. The sun came flooding through the windows, catching the beads in a shaft of sheer translucence, and I felt a jolt of electricity that nearly knocked me off my feet.

Fr. Brennan said,

“You grip that beads when the shadows invade your mind and pray to our Holy Mother and all the saints to deliver you.”

I did grip the beads like a vise when the shadows came creeping but didn’t ask for help, I wanted something entirely different, a release from the pressure building in my head, and the longing for this sometimes had the beads cutting into the palms of my hands.

I felt like I’d been gloriously crucified.

It was such delicious agony.

I began to collect rosary beads but they had to be green, and I began to watch movies like a person possessed, cop movies especially.

Thing is, I always loved cop movies. Thing was, being a Guard didn’t jell with the cop movies I watched.

I mean, do you really think you’re going to see a movie titled:

The Guards?

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

First, the Guards don’t carry guns. Fuck that.

Right.

Saturday night, you’re facing off against a drunk gang, you think a baton is going to disperse them.

Especially as the bastards were carrying.

And not sticks.

Like fuck.

I did me year.

Pounding the wet miserable streets of Galway, soaked to the skin, freezing me nuts off and thinking,

“Has to be something better than this.”

Then my old man died, he’d been connected, to a politician. He’d gotten a drunk driving gig quashed and did some other stuff too.

The guy, Kearns, at the funeral, said to me,

“Anything you need, you call me.”

I did.

Told him,

“I want a green card.”

He had the eyes of a rat, and the smile of one too, he stretched back in his oh so expensive leather chair, asked,

“And why would you want to go to Amer-i-kay?”

Leaning on the word, playing with it, playing with me.

The bollix.

But I let him screw around, I wanted this and if it meant eating shite, give me the shovel.

He added,

“The whole world wants to come and live here, especially the Yanks, and you, you want to go the other direction?”

Story of my life.

I had me a temper, a bad one, hair trigger me mother said.

Mind you, she said a lot of stuff, most of it garbage.

I said,

“I’m still young, want to travel a bit.”

Biting down on the anger I felt building, trying not to tell him to go shove it. He said,

“Not as easy as it used to be.”

Here we go, so I said,

“My old man, he kept files, I was thinking I should burn them, what do you think?”

Got me green card.

And the green rosary beads.

My mother wept... buckets, course, the half bottle of dry sherry she put away before lunch might have helped.

“And what will you do, amac?” Son.

I gave her me best smile, the one in me first communion photo, said,

“I’ll do the best I can.”

We’d recently had Clinton on a visit and he was especially impressed with our police force, that we didn’t carry guns. He helped put in place an exchange program where twenty Guards would go to America and twenty of their finest would come here. The Guards would be sent all over the States, for that overall view. I knew what I wanted and it wasn’t some backwater down south, I wanted the big one, New York. I went to Kearns again and he sighed, the guy could have sighed for the Olympics, and he snapped,

“What is it this time?”

I told him of the program and how I wanted New York.

He tut-tutted, there really is such a sound and it sounds ridiculous, unless you’re a woman in her late seventies and even then. He said,

“That’s for the best and the brightest.”

I smiled and he said,

“Confident little bollix, aren’t you?”

I gave him my best smile, I’ve practiced it, blends humility with the right amount of attitude. He said,

“I thought we were done with our little arrangements, you have, how shall we say, no further leverage, do you?”

I looked a bit bashful and said,

“I lied.”

Now he was sitting up and I added,

“An underage girl you put the meat to, I have her sworn statement.”

He couldn’t believe it; he’d called in a lot of favors to get this to go away, but I’d pried a copy loose from the officer in charge, a guy who hated Kearns.

He debated on the prospect of telling me to go fuck meself but knew with the election coming up, this story would finish him. He said,

“It’s going to take some time and I’m not sure I can swing it.”

I said,

“I have every confidence in you.”

He was right about one thing, it did take a while, and I walked those streets of Galway, the beads in the top pocket of my tunic. There was a woman, her car had stalled and she called me for assistance, I zoned but I do remember her beautiful neck, the rest is a blur. Those were still early times in my development of the beads and I took them with me when I was done.

Only later did it occur to me that to leave them would be like reverence.

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.

K-BAR: A SHORT STEEL POLE, HIGHLY EFFECTIVE IN SUBDUING CRIMINALS

Kurt Browski, built like a shit brickhouse and just as solid. A cop out of Manhattan South, he was having a bad day.

Much like most days.

His heritage was East European but contained so many strands, not even his parents knew for sure its exact basis.

And cared less.

They wanted the American Dream.

Cash... and cash... and yeah, more of same.

They didn’t get it.

Made them mean.

Very.

His mother was a cleaner and his father had been a construction worker but had settled into a life of booze, sure beat getting up at five o’clock in the morning.

His father beat his mother and they both beat Kurt.

Somehow he, if not survived them, got past them and finished high school, joined the cops.

He wanted to be where you gave payback.

That was how he saw the force, emphasis on force. He was certainly East European in his view of the boys in blue, they had the juice to lean on... whoever-the-fuck they wished.

And he did.

Hard.

His early weapon of choice was a K-bar.

Short, heavy and lethal and you could swing it real easy, plus, they rarely saw it coming.

They were watching your holstered gun and wallop, he slid the bar out of his sleeve and that’s all she wrote.

His rep was built on it and over the years, he became known as Kebar.

Did he care?

Not so’s you’d notice. He didn’t do friends, so what the fuck did he care.

Sometimes though, he longed to go have a few brews with the guys, shoot the shit, chill. He adored country music, that sheer sentimentality was a large part of his nature and he kept it hidden. His fellow officers, they went to the bar, got a few put away, then played country and western till the early hours.

He loved Loretta Lynn, Ol’ Hank of course, and then Gretchen Peters, Emmylou Harris, Iris DeMent, Lucinda Williams, they were his guilty pleasures. All that heartache, it was like they knew him.

His partners in the prowl car rarely lasted long, he took so many chances, they either got hurt real fast or transferred.

And now, you fucking believe it?

They were giving him some snot-nosed kid.

O’Brien, his commanding officer, a Mick, those guys, they still got the top jobs, had summoned him.

Anyone tell you the Micks were a thing of the past in the force... take a look at the roll call.

You think they were letting that lucrative line of not so equal opportunity slip away?

O’Brien didn’t like Kebar, knew the guy was unhinged, but he sure got results and like O’Brien, he adhered to the old idea:

Justice was dispensed in alleys, not courtrooms.

He said to Kebar,

“Have a seat.”

“I’ll stand, sir.”

Naturally.

O’Brien wondered if the guy ever eased up, said,

“Suit yourself.”

He took a good look at Kebar.

The guy was all muscle, rage and bile.

Perfect cop for the times.

His face was a mess of broken nose, busted veins (he liked his vodka, straight), a scar over his left eye: he looked like a pit bull in uniform.

O’Brien said,

“Got you a new partner.”

Kebar growled,

“Don’t need no partner.”

O’Brien smiled.

This is where it was good to be chief, flex that muscle, asked,

“I ask you what you needed?... Did you hear me do that? Yeah, it’s not what you need, mister, it’s what I tell you you’re getting. We have a reciprocal arrangement with the Irish goverment to take twenty of theirs and twenty of ours go over there.”

Kebar had heard all this crap before... yada yada, he sighed, asked,

“Who am I getting?”

O’Brien was looking forward to this, opened a file, took out his glasses, all to annoy the shit out of Kebar, pretended to read:

“Matt O’Shea, did a year on the beat in Galway.”

He paused, then added,

“Galway, that’s in Ireland.”

Kebar would have spit, reined it in a bit, sneered,

“A Mick, no disrespect, sir, but a greenhorn, gonna have to break his cherry for him?”

O’Brien was delighted, better than he’d hoped, he said,

“Actually, he seems a bright kid.”

Kebar was enraged, rasped,

“In Ireland, they don’t even carry freaking guns, they’re like...”

He couldn’t think of a suitable degrading term, settled for,

“Rent-a-cops.”

O’Brien smiled again, he was having a fine morning, said,

“I’ll expect you to treat him properly, that’s all, dismissed.”

Outside the office, Kebar spat, a passing cop was going to say something, saw who it was and kept on moving.

Kebar went down to the car pool, rage simmering in his belly, leaned against his car, got his flask out, drank deep. A young guy, in a sparkling new uniform, approached, put out his hand, asked,

“Officer Browski?”

Kebar stared at him, the new uniform was blinding, the gun belt neon in its newness, the buttons shining on his tunic.

He belched, grunted,

“Who’s asking?”

The kid still had his hand out, his eyes full of gung ho bullshit, said,

“I’m your new partner, Matt O’Shea, they call me...”

Before he could go any further, Kebar said,

“Shut the fuck up, that’s your first lesson, I want to know something, I’ll ask you, can you follow that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir.

Kebar thought it was going to be even worse than he’d imagined.

He asked,

“Can you drive?”

“Of course I...”

“Then get in the fucking car, get us out of here.”

Kebar looked at his sheet, the assignments they’d pulled, and said,

“Head for Brooklyn, can you find that?”

Shea was going to tell him he now lived there but buttoned it, just nodded, thinking,

“Holy fook, I get a psycho on me first day.”

They were passing an area of deserted lots, mud on the ground, no signs of habitation, and Kebar said,

“Pull up here.”

Shea, nervous, before he could stop himself, went,

“Here?”

“Deaf as well?”

He pulled over.

Kebar got out, said,

“You hear of backup, get out of the fucking car.”

Shea got tangled in his safety belt and harness, all the frigging equipment and it weighed a ton, plus, the uniform, Christ, how hot was it? And it itched.

Kebar said,

“Before the weekend, maybe?”

Shea, finally out, waited and Kebar said,

“Go, I’m behind you.”

And for a wild moment, Shea wondered if the mad bastard was going to shoot him. The other cops had already told him of how Kebar’s partners never lasted.

Before he could think beyond this, he got an almighty push in the back, sent him sprawling in the mud, covering his brand-new blues in crap and dirt.

He rolled round, tempted to go for his piece, Kebar was slugging from a flask, said,

“Now that’s more like it, you don’t look like such a freaking virgin. We go into the hood, they see that shiny new blue, we’re meat.”

And then he turned back to the car.

Shea watched his retreating bulk and hated him with a ferocity of pure intent.

As they drove off, Kebar was chuckling and Shea asked,

“You going to share the joke?”

Kebar looked at him, said,

“First day on the job, you’re already a dirty cop.”

They did a full day, settling domestics, leaning on dope dealers, cop stuff, some of it wildly exhilarating and most boring as hell.

And Shea, he never attempted to change his uniform or even brush the mud off it.

Kebar was impressed, he didn’t let on but thought,

“Kid has cojones.”

Even better, he didn’t whine or complain, whatever nasty task Kebar set him, and he sure had some beauts, the kid just went at them, head down, his mouth set in a grim smile.

End of the shift, Kebar was tempted to say,

“You done good.”

Went with:

“Early start tomorrow, don’t be late.”

The kid looked down at his feet, asked,

“You want to grab a cold one?”

And for a moment, Kebar nearly said yes, then reined it in, said,

“I don’t drink with the help.”

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.

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.

I 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 come out a door.”

McCarthy put up his hand to stop me, asked,

“And did you caution him, tell him to drop his weapon, identify yourself as a police officer?”

I glanced at the black guy and was he smiling? I asked,

“You ever hear a shotgun being primed?”

He stared at me, irritation on his face, asked,

“What’s your point?”

I made a click with my tongue, said,

“That’s the sound and it tells you, you have maybe two seconds to identify yourself or... save your partner, what would you do or don’t you get out from behind a desk?”

The black guy chuckled and McCarthy was riled, snapped,

“Hey pal, you’re a goddamn rookie, don’t get mouthy with me, you got that?”

I let that hover for a bit, then said,

“A rookie who saved his partner’s life.”

He changed tactics, became Mr. Cordiality, asked,

“How do you find your partner, busting your balls is he?”

Now I got to smile, said,

“I thought that was your job.”

He let it go, continued,

“How do you feel about cops on the take?”

I didn’t hesitate, said,

“Much the same way I feel about informers, sorry... Internal Affairs.”

He jumped up, leaned right in my face, and if he expected me to flinch, he was wrong.

In Templemore, the first month of Guards enlistment, you have training officers from the Midlands, big country fuckers who play hurling because they love the brutality, they are thick bastards and as tough as granite, and they spend that first month shouting, spittle included, into your face.

You get through that, and learn early... never... ever, wipe the spit off, you can face any fucker roaring into your mouth. He shouted,

“Listen up, Paddy, you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me, and you don’t know it yet but IA might be a bigger part of your life than you ever imagined, that is, if you intend staying on the force.”

He pulled back, well pleased with his threat. I asked,

“Can I ask a question?”

“Knock yourself out, I’m a Mick too, remember?”

“What happened to you calling me Matt?”

He spat on the floor, said,

“Get out of my fucking office.”

I was at the door and I said,

“McCarthy, despite your name, I think you got the wrong country in your heritage.”

He was curious, thinking maybe I was making amends, he asked,

“Yeah, where should I be from?”

I let a beat go, then said,

“Nazi Germany.”

I swear, the black guy winked.

That black guy, whose name was Rodriguez, there was something about him, a familiarity, as if I’d known him before, and it took me a while to figure it out, I was staring in the mirror, a habit I’d become more and more addicted to.

Not out of vanity but there was a little of that, I’m a good-looking guy, so some of that but primarily, to try and see if the two sides of my nature showed, they hadn’t... yet.

After Internal Affairs, when I stared in the mirror, I saw Rodriguez, that was it, he had that same dark shadow on his soul.

An echo in the darkness.

I was pretty pleased with meself but as usual, my frigging mouth had made me a bad enemy.

Riding with Kebar after, the whole dynamic had changed, he no longer gave me grief and Jesus, asked my opinion on stuff, like if we were going into a crack house, he’d go,

“How d’you want to play this... partner?”

Even he seemed stunned by his behavior, as if he’d lost his way and was floundering.

Fuck, I let him flounder.

The bollix had gone out of his way to make me life hell, and now he didn’t know his arse from his elbow, he even forgot one time to slide the bar up his sleeve till I reminded him.

Our luck stayed golden and we brought down a major dope dealer by pure chance, it was a collar that made the front pages of the Daily News.

Kebar said,

“This rate, kid, you’ll make detective in no time.”

And thing is, I felt blessed, bulletproof, no matter what I touched, it panned out. I’m Irish, I should have known better, things go that well, God is seriously screwing with you, seeing just how much you think it is your sheer talent before He fucks you good.

I was learning the lingo, my American coming in daily, still had me brogue of course and it amused the other cops to hear me cuss American with an Irish accent but at least I was getting there.

I noticed they had picked up a few of mine too, even Kebar had started calling creeps “bollix” and I once heard him say...

“Things were fierce.”

Best of all was when we pulled in a vicious hooker who had been slashing johns and he said, as she tried to bite him,

“Fuck on a bike.”

Had him.

A month flew by in a haze, and knocking off work, Kebar asked,

“There’s a bar in Brooklyn, got some great beer, I’d, um...you know, appreciate it if you let me... buy you a few brews.”

I figured he’d done enough penance, said,

“Sounds good.”

His whole face lit up and to see him smile, it was a whole other guy, like he was ten years old.

We arranged to meet at eight o’clock and as I headed for the locker room, he went,

“Shea?”

First time he used me name, and I turned. He said,

“ ’Preciate it.”

I said,

“Whatever.”

I was going to cut him some slack but not get stupid either.

Little did I know.

I got back to my place, I showered, broke out a cold one and rolled a little weed, nothing major, just chill on out, fingered the green rosary, the need was mounting.

This was always the roughest time, as the darkness mounted and demanded its due, the other side of me, the good cop, wanted to be a regular guy and, here’s the joke, to meet a woman who would so consume me that I wouldn’t need the long slender necks of others. The zoning was becoming more powerful and the durations longer, how much of any decency was left was eroding rapidly.

I had the TV on, listened to the news, a hundred Americans killed in Iraq in one month.

Jesus.

I turned it off, sank back in a chair, lit up the spliff, took a long draw of the Miller, hit the radio, a station playing old hits.

“Tainted Love” by Soft Cell, I sang along with the chorus, the weed chilling me way out.

My uniform was hanging on the back of the door, and I gazed at it, still in amazement it was actually mine.

I said,

“Fuck, you son of a gun, you really did it.”

I had bigger plans, no way was I going home after a year, I fully intended being a hero cop and then no way could they send me home, that precinct, it would be mine, I’d already started gleaning information, like that O’Brien liked young girls, I’d gather me ammunition and then when my plans were full crystallized, I’d hit like that cobra.

Back home, the lads would be getting ready to go out for a few pints.

For few, read fifteen.

Jaysus, if they could see me now.

Was this the American Dream?

Fecking would be if I made detective, and the way I was cruising, what could stop me?

Dumb fuck I am, I’m Irish, superstition is our birthright but did I bless meself, touch wood, do any ritual stuff?

Nope.

Bad fuck to it now, would it have changed anything?

Wouldn’t have hurt.

But no, I opened another brew, and here were U2 with still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

I had, hadn’t I?

Damn straight, my accent coming in.

I figured I should eat something and the weed had given me the munchies so I called out for some pizza.

The guy arrived in like jig time and I spotted him a five, he looked at me, said,

“Cop, right?”

I was delighted, asked,

“How’d you know?”

He gave that New Yorker look, said,

“Cop lives in the building, everyone hides their stash.”

Then he wrinkled his nose, smelling the weed, said,

“Evidence, huh?”

I put my fingers to my lips, made the shssssh noise.

He was cool, down with it, said,

“You ever need some decent blow, you gimme a call, my name is Jimmy.”

I asked,

“Jimmy, how come you think I won’t bust your arse?”

“Ass, you’re in America now, and you’re Irish, the Irish don’t give a fuck, see yah.”

And he was gone, whistling what might well have been “Galway Bay” but that was probably the weed.

The pizza was good and I felt wired, good to go, good to... boogie.

I didn’t have a whole lot of clothes so wore a white T... whitish, and black 501s, a pair of knock-off Nikes and me one sports jacket.

Whatever else it said, it sure as shite said, he’s not on the take.

A line that would come back to haunt me.

In my mind, I saw the green rosary... gleaming.

Traffic was light, and he yet again failed to see the Chevy behind. He was pulling into a space near the bar as he saw the kid saunter along.

Watched him for a moment, then opened his glove compartment, took out his Glock, put it in the waistband of his pants, closed his eyes for a moment, then got out, shouted,

“Yo, Shea, wait up... buddy.”

If the kid was pleased to see him, he was hiding it well, just nodded, noncommittal.

They entered the bar without another word.

The place had a pool table, a long wooden bar, and lots of tables at the back. They moved up to the counter.

A tall girl, dark hair, eyes, an almost pretty face, spoiled by a too large nose with a good body, and a name tag... Nora.

Shea thought,

“Jaysus, not a bloody Mick, please?”

And tried not to stare at her neck, that white white flesh, and soft... Jesus.

The last shite he wanted to hear was reminiscences about the old country, the usual blarneyed lies.

She smiled, a good one. Asked,

“Get you gentlemen?”

Kebar said,

“Maker’s Mark, Bud back.”

And she looked to Shea.

He was so relieved to hear her New York accent, he went,

“Got any Jameson?”

She smiled, like... gee, what a surprise, said,

“Sure.”

“Okay, with a Coors.”

She gave him an odd look and he thought,

“What?... Like I’d frigging drink Guinness outside Ireland, yeah, dream on, babe.”

She asked,

“You running a tab?’

Kebar nodded. They took their drinks to a rear table, Kebar raised his shot glass, said,

“Here’s to partners.”

Shea clinked the Jay against it, said,

“Why not.”

They took a swish of their beers, then sat back.

Neither one had a damn word to say.

Shea tried not to think about her neck.

They didn’t speak till they got to the car, Shea looked up at the building, asked,

“How long has she been here?”

Kebar stopped, then,

“Too long.”

They’d been cruising for about ten minutes when Kebar said,

“Now you know.”

Shea didn’t answer.

They got through their shift, a relatively quiet day, rounding up hookers, busting the balls of some street dealers, penny ante stuff.

The end of the shift, Kebar asked,

“What are you thinking?”

Shea didn’t look at him, said,

“I’m real sorry about your sister, but it doesn’t change the facts.”

“The facts?”

“You’re a cop on the take, you’re no longer fit to wear the uniform, my uniform was dirty, but you, your whole existence is rotten.”

And he was gone.

Dressed in what we call a waistcoat and for inex plicable reasons the Yanks call a vest. A very shiny number and tight trousers, I could see the piece against his backbone, the butt of it outlined against his vest when he bent to take a shot.

Let them know he was carrying.

His face was covered in sweat and he was downing shooters like a good un.

He’d need to piss... right.

He did.

Shouting to his opponent,

“Gotta take a goddamn leak, be right back to hand you your ass.”

And he pushed his way to the restroom.

I followed.

He was in one of the stalls and I locked the door, got out the hurley, he was grunting like a pig and finally sighed, came out, saw me, went,

“The fuck...”

Took his legs out with the hurley.

Swoosh.

I love that sound, clean, efficient, and highly effective.

He was on his knees in the piss on the floor, moaning, and I gave him another wallop to the side of the head, not to knock him out but to focus him.

Then I stood over him, the hurley resting lightly on my shoulder.

He looked up, muttered,

“You’re fucking dead, pal.”

Wallop.

Left shoulder, spread it around.

I said,

“This is the lesson of the ash, what our hurleys are made from, and the lesson teaches next time, it’s your head only that gets the walloping.”

I asked,

“Where’s the photo?”

He dredged up some phlegm, spat it at me feet, I said,

“That is a really disgusting habit.”

Gave him a tap on the nose, broke it, said,

“Have some fucking finesse.”

I reached down, shoved him against the wall, got his wallet out and said,

“Pay for the damage to my place.”

Must have been four, five hundred bucks, I took it all, flicked the wallet in the toilet, said,

“Next time you come after me, bring more than a note.”

And put his lights out.

Back in the bar, I drained the Coors and the bar guy asked,

“Another?”

I shook me head, said,

“Your restroom, it’s got shite all over the floor.”

Got out of there fast.

I hailed a cab, went uptown and found a flash-looking bar, went in, ordered a double Jay, and when it came, I had to wait a full five minutes for me hands to stop shaking before I could lift it.

It had been a while since I played hurling.

But you never quite lose the talent, and to hear that whoosh of the bat, it was like the darkest music.

I’m not going to make excuses here, as the yanks say, it got away from me.

Lucia.

The darkness had been building in my head and I liked Nora, Jesus wept, I never liked no one me whole life and she was me shot at the other life but I was afraid if I didn’t get release soon, I’d go after her. Then I zoned, and I was outside the hospital, I could see meself, walking along the corridors, it was night and the dimmers were on and all I could see was that beautiful white neck, I’m not even sure if I knew who it was it belonged to anymore and a tiny part of me was saying,

“This is a good thing, going to see the poor girl, give her a bit of company.”

And then...

It gets all fuzzy here and next thing I was back in my car, the darkness lifting, and I was thinking of a nice place I might bring Nora for dinner.

I called Nora that evening and we went to the movies and dinner. After, we were back on line, and she said,

“I missed you.”

I was delighted, in a world getting uglier by the minute, she was the only light I could see.

In bed later, she said,

“What’s eating at you?”

I said,

“They want me to give up my partner, sell him out.”

She digested that, asked,

“You have a choice?”

“Nope.”

Then:

“So will you sell him out?”

“Like fuck.”

She said,

“I could fall in love with you.”

Wasn’t as scary as I would have thought, in fact, I liked it.

A lot.

We were spending so much time with each other, Nora began hinting about us maybe living together.

I had to think about that. I’d never been in love in me life, had no idea what it was, but with Nora, I felt, when I was with her, better than who I really was and enjoyed things I never thought I’d enjoy, watching her eat, her laugh, ah Jesus, she had a great laugh, one of those reach-from-the-very-bottom-of-the-soul ones and didn’t care how she looked when she was doing it.

I managed to keep that swan... and Lucia... compartmentalized... great term that, I learned it from Dr. Phil... me... meant you could, you know, do stuff... and carry on... regardless.

Her eyes all scrunched up, her face in spasms of delight, I could have watched that all the day long.

And she had an edge, I don’t think I could ever have fallen for someone who was just... nice.

I don’t do nice.

She could flay the skin off your back with her tongue and didn’t allow me to bullshit or try me usual shenanigans.

A Friday night, we’d had a particularly great night, good food, great pub on West Forty-ninth Street, and just reveling in each other’s company.

I took off me Claddagh band and offered it to her.

Her eyes were lit up like Christmas, she took it in her hand, stared at it, asked,

“Are you sure?”

I nodded.

She put it on, the heart turned inwards, means you’re spoken for and we both knew the significance of that.

She put her hands to her neck, unclasped a chain holding a Miraculous Medal.

And believe me, it doesn’t get any more Mick than that.

I protested,

“You don’t have to give me something in return.”

Got the look and she asked,

“Did I say I felt I had to give you something, did you hear me say that?”

No.

Like I said, a mouth on her, she put the chain around my neck, said,

“ ’Twas blessed by the pope.”

When I’m confused, which is rarely, I get flip, protect me-self, and nearly said,

“The pope of Greenwich Village?”

Thank Christ I didn’t.

With a grave expression she said,

“Our Lady will keep you safe out there on the streets.”

I hoped the Lady was paying attention.

Much as I loved Nora’s neck, and Jesus, I did, somewhere in me, I thought... no... not her, she might be me salvation.

She wasn’t.

Fourth night, I was dozing, despite the flask of coffee I’d been sipping from, and too, Nora and I had an active night previously. I was resting my head on the wheel when a gun barrel pushed into the back of my neck.

My first thought was... Gino... and I was gone.

Then Kebar’s voice:

“Not too hot on this surveillance gig, are you, kid?”

He withdrew the gun, asked,

“The fuck you think you’re doing, IA put you up to this, that it?”

I said,

“Us Micks don’t rat out anyone except our own people.”

I heard him sigh, then he said,

“Come on, I’ll buy you a brew.”

We got out of the car and I clocked he was wearing all black, combat pants, leather jacket, and sneakers. He’d shaved his head, added to the air of menace. We headed two blocks back, went into a bar that was marginally a cut above the dive on Eighth. The bar guy looked like a hardarse, asked,

“Get you officers?”

Kebar ignored the officers jibe, said,

“Maker’s Mark, two, and two Bud.”

He put a twenty on the counter, the guy said,

“On me, guys.”

Kebar waited till we got our drinks, said,

“I want something from you, I’ll ask, got it?”

He did.

Kebar left the change on the counter and we took a table, he raised his shot, said,

“Here’s to you, you dumb Mick.”

Then we got to work on the Bud and he reached in his jacket, took out a bundle, handed it over, said,

“Don’t unwrap it here.”

I took it, felt heavy, and stashed it in my pocket. He said,

“It’s a Ruger, takes a full clip and is real fine for up close and personal.”

Then he looked at me, surprise on his face, said,

“You weren’t carrying, were you?”

I shook my head, Nora had asked me not to carry my police issue with me. He said,

“Christ, you are a dumb schmuck, what if something went down this evening, were you going to follow me in and use, what... offensive language?”

I had no idea and told him so. He stared at me and then gave a full laugh, not the bitter one he usually paraded but one of genuine amusement, said,

“You freaking kill me, kid, I dunno, are you just flat out stoopid or one of the hombres with the biggest cojones I’ve ever met?”

Before I could answer, he said,

“Listen up, buddy...”

Buddy!

“I’m going down, between IA, Morronni, the filth who hurt Lucia, there ain’t no way I’m walking, and you have a real future, I ’preciate your support but it’s best if you just take off.”

I said,

“Same again.”

Went to the bar and the bar guy said,

“Your partner is one mean dude, yeah?”

I put a twenty on the counter and he pushed it away, said,

“Get with the game.”

I thought, fuckit, put the twenty back in my wallet, brought the drinks back.

Kebar was staring at me and I went,

“What?”

His eyes were granite and he accused:

“You didn’t pay, did you?”

Jesus.

I said,

“Big deal, the guy wants to stand us a drink, what’s the harm?”

He lashed out, gripped my wrist like a vise, snarled,

“Today he had you for chump change, but he has you, and next thing, the bloodsuckers own your ass, now get back up there, give him the goddamn money.”

Fuck.

I did.

The bar guy smirked, said,

“I had you pegged for having balls, guess I was wrong.”

Humiliated in about three different ways, I went back and drained my bourbon. Kebar said,

“You want to kill some mother now?... Right... Welcome to my world.”

I stood up, said,

“You know, I was just trying to help you, but you know what, all the damn lectures, the little homilies, I’m sick to death of them, you have a good one.”

And I stormed out of there.

Could be my imagination but I swear I heard the bar guy chuckle.

Lucky I wasn’t meeting Nora, the rage, it triggered the urge and then... that frigging zoning... and... stuff happened.

Just when you’ve settled into a routine, albeit a hated one, the powers that be shake it up, shake you up.

O’Brien summoned me to his office and without any preamble said,

“You’re back on patrol.”

I was delighted, said,

“That’s great, thank you... sir.”

He gave a nasty chuckle, said,

“Don’t thank me yet, you’re back with Kebar.”

I tried to roll with that, said,

“We’ve worked fairly good together, got some decent collars.”

He looked at me, like, was I really that thick? Said,

“Jesus H, how dumb are you? The order came from on high and trust me, they aren’t doing you no favors, Kebar is fucked, he’s as good as gone and looks like they’re bringing you down with him.”

I had no answer to that and he barked,

“Get your ass in gear.”

Kebar was leaning against the car, his head fresh shaved again, he said,

“Dead men walking.”

He got behind the wheel and I waited till we pulled out before I asked,

“The fuck’s that mean?”

He had two Starbucks foam cups on the dash, indicated I should take one and said,

“They’re giving us enough rope to hang ourselves, we’re history.”

I was seriously pissed at how everyone was just wiping me off the board and asked,

“So what do we do?”

He swerved past a stalled cab, growled,

“We do our job, is what we do.”

He flicked a file at me, said,

“Take a look.”

It was on a guy named Crosby, a child molester, had taken two falls and was out again. I asked,

“And?”

Kebar checked his rearview mirror, said,

“He’s been hanging around a schoolyard on the Lower East Side, getting ready to snatch another kid, they let this piece of garbage walk after two years, you believe it?”

I closed the file, the pictures of the kids he’d hurt were gruesome, I asked,

“What are we going to do?”

Kebar smiled, said,

“Gonna have a wee chat with him, isn’t that what you Micks do... chat?”

We got to the playground and sure enough, sitting on a bench near the school was a lone figure, huddled in an army coat. Kebar said,

“He’ll have a camera in that coat and candies.”

I had to know, asked,

“How are we going to handle this?”

Kebar, sliding out of the car, said,

“Head-on, like a collision.”

Casey watched us coming, his eyes considering flight, but he opted for defiance.

Bad idea.

Kebar said,

“They let you out, huh?”

He didn’t look like a monster, but then they rarely do. He was slightly built, more like a lower-level clerk than the freak who’d done what I’d seen in the file.

He looked at Kebar, said,

“I’m cured, took the therapy in the joint and I’m all well now.”

Kebar sat beside him, his body relaxed, no aggression showing, said,

“That so, then... how come you’re hanging around a schoolyard, huh, academic interest?”

Casey was staring at me, trying to gauge how much of a threat I might be, then said,

“Just proving to myself I’m cured, that I can come here and not be tempted to... you know?”

Kebar looked at me, said,

“He means, he won’t have to grab a kid and stick his dong in them, or what was your special gig, oh right, making a five-year-old suck your shlong?”

Casey looked offended, said,

“No need for such abusive... language, I was sick then.”

Kebar was almost smiling, real bad omen, and said,

“And the kids you fucked, you think they’re all better now?”

Casey hung his head, said,

“I suffer deeply for who I was then.”

Kebar reached in his jacket, took out the Glock, let it lie loosely in his lap, said,

“This here, it’s a hell of a piece.”

And Casey got smartass, jibed,

“You gonna shoot me, Officer?”

The mockery in his voice showed me the face he kept hidden most of the time.

Kebar said,

“You ever hear of a guy getting shot in the ankle? See, the beauty of that is, how could it be planned? Who shoots someone in the ankle? And guess what, the ankle never sets properly, you get to hobble for the rest of your miserable life.”

Casey was openly defiant now, looked at me, asked,

“This guy for real?”

Kebar shot him in the ankle, stood up, said,

“Better call the paramedics, ol’ Casey won’t be attending school today, tell you what, buddy, I’ll write you a sick note.”

Looked at me, said,

“Let’s roll, partner, our work here is done.”

We got back in the car and I said,

“Interesting approach.”

Kebar put the car in drive, said,

“My aim was off, I think I blasted his heel.”

I didn’t know what to say and Kebar laughed, said,

“Shitheel... huh?”

I was still high from the shooting of Casey when Kebar said,

“Man, I’m hungry, let’s go grab breakfast.”

Like, I could eat?... You betcha.

We went to a diner on West Thirty-eighth and Eighth.

The waitress, who’d never see fifty again, greeted Kebar with effusivness, said,

“Hey, hon, where’ve you been?’

He smiled, said,

“Keeping the filth off the streets.”

She smiled in return, said,

“My hero.”

I let that slide.

She asked,

“So, what can I get you keepers of the peace?”

Kebar ordered:

Two eggs over easy.

Toast, rye bread.

Link sausages.

Mushrooms and tomatoes.

OJ.

And me:

The same, the shooting, it wasn’t a buzz like the necks, but fuck, cops can’t be choosers, I was cranked on the violence.

She gave me a look, then went to fill it.

Her neck was old, I hate that.

Kebar asked,

“Pedophile gave you your appetite?”

I wished I smoked, I’d have blown a cloud in his fucking face.

He changed direction, said,

“Lucia, you know, the damnedest thing, she has... had... like you saw, the mind of a child but one time, she heard Dylan sing ‘Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands,’ man, she freaking played the song to death, that’s how I see her, like that song, guess she won’t be hearing it no more.”

Dylan had come to Galway when I was a Guard, and I pulled crowd control.

Beautiful sunny July day and no trouble.

What I remember is this wizened gnome, crunched in on himself, singing in a croaked twisted voice.

The crowd loved him, he was sixty and he had a charisma, small as he was, a kind of radiance, and after, when we were escorting him to his car, he mumbled something that only later I realized was... thanks.

You know, that impressed me more than his whole concert.

Our food arrived and we attacked it like it was our last meal.

My coffee was bitter and seemed right.

I said,

“There’s going to be a shitstorm about you shooting that guy.”

He was mopping up the egg yolk with the toast, didn’t look up, said,

“I’m going down, we both know that, so these last days I have, I’m going to get biblical on every sleazebag I can.”

I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice, asked,

“And I’m going to be with you, right, buddy?”

He reached in his wallet, laid out some bills and a very generous tip for the waitress, said,

“Tell you, kid, I don’t give a fuck what you do, long as you don’t get in my way.”

We were outside and I had to ask,

“That means what exactly?”

He got in the car, said,

“Means, shit or get off the pot.”

Cryptic, huh?

We took down a middle-ranking dealer in the Village, without violence, the guy knew who Kebar was, he wasn’t going to give any lip.

Rest of the day, we issued some parking violations, adrenaline hovering above us like bad prayer.

End of the shift, I let out my breath and Kebar said,

“I get some very mixed vibes offa you, kid.”

And I thought,

“If you could have seen me riding your retard sister...”

Before we could get into it, we saw McCarthy, the black guy, and three other cops approach.

McCarthy was smiling, said,

“You really screwed up this time, mister, the guy you shot, he lodged a complaint, get out of the car, slowly, you’re under arrest.”

Kebar got out and they read him his rights, he never looked at me, and they handcuffed him, I protested, went,

“Christ’s sake, that necessary?”

McCarthy said,

“Shut your fucking mouth, be thankful you’re not joining him.”

The black cop stayed as they led him away, and I asked him,

“What am I supposed to do?”

He was chewing his stick, spat it out of the side of his mouth, said,

“Get the fuck out of here.”

On the way back to Brooklyn, I stopped in a music store, bought a Dylan album, and on my third beer, I listened to “Sad-Eyed Lady.”

Could only listen to a few minutes before I had to take it off, maybe if I’d had a few belts of Jameson, I’d have listened to it all, but on three lousy Millers, no way.

Reminded me of Galway, the croaks of that first one pleading with me, the rosary already in me hands.

I went to see Lucia, I didn’t want to go, tried to rationalize why it would be a bad idea and then just the hell went, thinking, if she woke, Jesus, she might remember.

The nurse on duty was a dote and said,

“She hasn’t had any visitors, we thought her brother would be by.”

I didn’t say he was currently in lockup and asked how she was doing.

The nurse looked serious, said,

“She was pretty tore up, her arms broken as well as... well, other violations, and she has remained comatose, the doctors don’t hold out much hope.”

I was turning to go, relieved that it seemed I wouldn’t be actually seeing her, when the nurse said,

“Would you like to visit?”

Fuck... no.

I said,

“Yes.”

She was in a private room which was costing Kebar or Morronni a whole lot of cash. I was shocked when I saw her, she was attached to a myriad of tubes, her face still had the marks of bruising and her arms were in plaster. Her face looked ruined, as if she were already dead.

How far in the zone had I been? She’d looked gorgeous that night...

The nurse pulled up a chair, said,

“If you sit with her, it would be... nice.”

I was thinking, rage engulfing me,

“What the fuck difference does it make?”

And as if she read my mind, she said,

“We don’t know, of course, but if you spoke to her, she might be able to hear you.”

Jesus.

And left me with her.

Self-conscious, feeling like a horse’s arse, I faltered:

“Um, Lucia, I... how are you, fuck, Jesus, sorry, for cursing, I um... oh right, I brought you Bob Dylan...”

And because I was afraid to stop, I rambled on about my day, not mentioning her brother shooting a child molester but just stuff about coffee, the city, and then about Ireland and how one day she must come visit... and then I zoned, I think I told her what a sweet fuck she’d been...

When I looked at my watch, an hour had passed. I stood up, my shirt drenched in sweat, went over to her and bent down, put a kiss on her forehead, then I was about to leave when I stopped, reached inside my shirt, unclasped the Miraculous Medal and put it around her neck, looked around and fuck, the nurse was standing there, I couldn’t finish... shite.

I couldn’t help thinking as I got out of there,

“Why do people keep interrupting me with her, the night I’d been there, an orderly had looked in, shouted, The hell are you doing?”

I still don’t know how I got out of there without being recognized and I gave God a bollicking.

At home they believe if you berate God, He’ll seriously come after you and with intent.

In this case, they were right on the goddamned money.

I was still on patrol but with a new partner, an old hand name of Gillespie, who cautioned:

“I’m different from your previous partner, you hear me?”

Like I was deaf?

I said,

“Gotcha.”

He went on to explain how his twenty was nearly in and he didn’t need any heroics or as he put it... showboating.

I thought,

“Yellow prick.”

And that’s how we played it, by the book, boring as hell and I nearly missed my desk gig.

Nora and I were getting closer, I was able to talk to her like I think I never spoke to anyone me whole life. When I told her about Lucia, she cried and offered to go visit. She wore my Claddagh ring with obvious delight, the heart turned inwards. We’d be out having a meal or a drink and I’d notice her turning her hand, letting the light bounce off the gold. It made me... happy?

Kebar made bail but was suspended from duty, pending an investigation and possibly a trial.

Nora and I met him for a drink and he seemed even more ferocious than ever, his skull now completely shaven and a dark slant to his features, like someone with a terminal illness but who was going out with a roar.

We were in a nice bar on the West Side, the sorta shithole where they call you sir with a built-in smirk. Nora had picked it, said they did lovely food and wouldn’t it be nice to go to a smart place.

Right.

The basic truth about cops is this:

You think they ever want to attend Shakespeare in the Park?... Give them a diner on the Lower East Side and a battered copy of McBain, they’re as content as a cop is ever gonna be.

It’s called knowing your limitations or simply being true to themselves.

You know you’re a cop when someone says... the park... you think... muggers.

Nora excused herself, went to the ladies’ room, and Kebar said,

“Real nice girl, you done good.”

I looked at him, the dark circles under his eyes, and asked,

“How you holding up?”

He smiled, a smile that was full of weary bitterness, said,

“This bullshit charge is going away, I had a friend of mine talk to our child molester and he realizes he was mistaken, but what can I tell you, they’re making me jump through the hoops, fuck ’em.”

He looked round, signaled a passing waitress, ordered a double Wild Turkey, looked at me and I shook my head. He said,

“I went by the hospital, saw Lucia had a nice medal around her neck...”

Then he stopped, bit his lip, said,

“Thanks, buddy.”

I went American, said,

“No biggie.”

He didn’t look at me, said,

“Is to me.”

Morronni was seriously pissed.

Gino, standing before him, was nervous, very.

He hadn’t seen the boss this enraged for a long time and he was drinking neat bourbon, a very bad sign, meant medieval shit was coming down the pike and soon.

He stared at Gino, asked,

“The fuck were you thinking, you stupid prick?”

Gino, at a loss, asked,

“What’d I do?”

Morronni was on his feet, swaying, neat bourbon on an empty stomach and a batch of rage will sway the best or worst of ’em, he spat,

“Do... fucking do, you offed the young Mick’s broad, I said we’d refocus him but I didn’t fucking mean for him to go ballistic and he will.”

Gino crossed his heart, swore on his mother’s grave, he hadn’t touched her.

Morronni paused, then,

“Would that psycho Fernandez have done it?”

Gino, relieved to be off the hook, said,

“He’s capable of anything.”

Morronni fumed, then:

“Him and Kebar, they’re gonna make a move real soon, are we ready?”

Gino, on safer ground, said,

“We have a full crew all over the club, Kebar comes in, he’ll be hit from four different angles, he’s history.”

Morronni said,

“Make sure they’re ready to go, those cops, they’re gonna come real soon.”

Gino smiled, said,

“They’ll never know what hit them.”

Morronni, back to biz, asked,

“I don’t suppose Kebar told us where the cops are going to be when we make the shipment?”

Gino said,

“I think Kebar has outlived his usefulness.”

Morronni said,

“Bring him down hard, you hear?”

Gino heard, loud and deadly.

Further down the street, McCarthy was briefing his troops, going,

“The kid has suffered a major loss so he’s definitely going to back Kebar, they’ll make their move real soon, they go in the club, let them get started and we’ll go in, pick up the pieces, get most of Morronni’s crew too.”

His black partner was thinking,

“Pieces... bodies more like.”

Joe Mulloy was

Once

...a

...cop.

In New York.

He’d done eight rough months on the streets and it bruised him in ways he still hadn’t fully come to terms with.

Staring down a guy, flying on angel dust, he had an epiphany.

His thirst for investigation was of the written kind.

He wanted to write and use words to track down the dirt.

And he wrote a semifictional account of his time, he’d had a wonderful Rilke title for the book but the publishers told him to get real.

And it appeared as:

Cop Out.

Jesus.

Sold modestly, Publishers Weekly said it had promise.

Translate as... Don’t give up the day job.

He was still earning back the advance.

But it did lead to an offer on a small paper outside Fort Lauderdale and he honed and perfected his craft which led to a bigger paper and finally, to being an investigative reporter.

Made him a great journalist, killed his marriage.

Brooke saying,

“You’re like a dog with a bone, when you’re on a story, nothing else matters.”

’Tis sad ’tis true.

She married a dentist two months later.

And then his beloved adored sister was murdered in New York.

A victim of the strangler.

Nora had been all lit up before this, in her weekly call, she had said,

“Met Mr. Right, not only is he a cop, he’s Irish.”

He’d never heard her so hopeful.

And best, the evening she rang to say the guy had given her his gold Claddagh ring.

Irish women see that as:

Signed.

Sealed.

Delivered.

Then she was strangled.

He was bereft, hit the bottle for a bit then got himself in some sort of shape and went up there for the funeral.

And that’s how it began.

The Mr. Right never showed for the funeral.

The fuck was with that?

Something odd.

The guy was an Officer O’Shea and lo and behold, he was the one who cracked the strangler case.

Hello.

How convenient.

And digging more, Shea’s partner was killed in a very dubious drug bust.

When Joe tried to get in touch with Shea, he learned he was on vacation.

Vacation?

His partner is killed, his girl is strangled, and he takes a holiday?

Hero cop.

The blues joined ranks, closed out questions, especially from a goddamned reporter.

And... Mr. Right got his gold shield.

Nora got a cold grave, his partner got the same, and Shea got to make detective.

Joe went back to his job and began to dig.

Eighteen months of solid research and he had some names to work with.

Gino.

Morronni.

Fernandez.

And a total blackout from the NYPD.

He wrote to Gino, said he was doing a book on the Brooklyn strangler and would Gino like to give his version?

A guy doing three life sentences, he’ll talk to anyone.

Joe traveled up to the max security pen, brought lots of cigs and candies.

He’d been to the joint before and knew what passed for currency there.

He was put in a small room and they brought Gino in, manacled from head to toe, in a green prison uniform.

Joe said,

“Thanks for taking the time.”

Gino looked like death warmed over, the prison pallor accentuated by a yellow sheen to his face.

He said,

“Buddy, all I got is time and not even much of that, I’m sick.”

Joe shoved the carton across the table and a disposable lighter, the guard moved over, checked the carton and then let them be.

Gino peered at the candies, asked,

“Got any Hershey’s Kisses there?”

No.

Joe said,

“Next time.”

And Gino gave a smile that might have actually been tinged with sadness if he could for a moment let the tough guy persona ease.

Joe asked if he could tape the interview and Gino shrugged, hard ass back in place, asked,

“Whatcha wanna know, bud?”

Joe looked at his notes and then:

“You always claimed you weren’t the strangler, any way of backing that up?”

Gino said,

“There was an incriminating photo of the kid taking kickback from Mr. Morronni.”

Joe noted how even though Gino was never getting out of prison, Morronni was still mister. He asked,

“The kid?”

Gino looked enraged, said,

“Young Irish cop, I trashed his place, sliced up his uniform, and he had a hard-on for me, when the cops hit my place, the photo was gone and under my mattress, the gun that killed the kid’s partner and the rosary beads... fuck’s sake, I haven’t said a prayer since I was ten years old and I ain’t going to lie to you, I hurt people but never... never a broad.”

Joe digested this, then asked,

“Any idea of who the strangler was?”

Gino said,

“The kid, he was Irish, he offed his partner, and set me up for the gig, you ever meet this kid?”

Joe shook his head. Gino said,

“Got them brooding Irish looks going for him and a kind of slow burn, but you don’t get it at first, he seems harmless but then you think, there is something real cold about the dude.”

“What about Morronni, Mr. Morronni, what did he think?”

Gino sighed, said,

“It was him put it together about the kid, all the kid’s problems went away, everyone got wiped and he got to be a hero, very slick, I tell you, bud, I’ve met some real predators, some stone killers, and none of them, none of them had the iciness this kid has.”

The guard moved, said,

“Time’s up.”

Joe stood, said,

“I’ll be back soon, with the Hershey’s Kisses.”

Gino laughed, said,

“Better be real soon.”

Before he left, Joe went to see the warden, thanked him for his cooperation, and asked,

“Gino seemed sick, is it just jail time?”

The warden looked at Joe, then said,

“Lung cancer, he’s got maybe a month.”

Joe involuntarily muttered,

“Jesus.”

The warden said,

“I don’t think Jesus has much to do with it.”

There wasnt, least not any that would last.

Peters put it down, said,

“The whole case stunk to high heaven but we could go with hero cop or...”

Joe decided to go for broke, asked,

“Gut feeling, did Gino strangle the Irish girl?”

Peters gave him an odd look, said,

“No, not his MO... but if my instincts are right, you’re going after Shea, be real careful, this guy is three steps ahead of everybody else and worse, he likes to play.”

Joe stood up, thanked him for his time, and they shook hands, Peters didn’t let go, stared at Joe, said,

“This isn’t about a book, this is personal, you mentioned the Irish girl, you looked like you were gonna lose it.”

Joe thought what the hell, he liked the guy, said,

“She was my sister.”

Peters nodded, then:

“You better work on your act, buddy, Shea sees what I just saw, you’re fucked, nine ways to an Irish Sunday and believe me, this guy has antennas like I never encountered.”

Joe was at the door and Peters said,

“Give me your phone contacts, I know a Guard in Ireland and discreetly I may be able to find out about the girl in Sligo, you’re betting she was strangled with something green.”

Joe gave him his card and said,

“Why the green?”

Peters snorted,

“Maybe he’s patriotic.”

Neither of them smiled.

Joe said,

“You’ve been a great help.”

Peters laid out both hands, palms up, said, “Once

...were

...cops. Right?”

Joe took a leave of absence from his job and packed a few belongings, got a flight to Newark.

He was letting his cop experience and his journalist instincts lead him and they urged:

“Go see the sister, Lucia.”

It seemed like a wild goose chase but it was just these out-of-left-field notions that had given him his biggest scoops.

He’d booked a small room in the Village on the Internet for a month. If he hadn’t gotten anywhere then, well... fuck.

Jay grabbed his arm again, said,

“Whoa, slow down, hothead, did I say I wouldn’t help you, you hear me say that? Let’s get the fuck outa here, go and have some dinner and lemme hear what you’re planning.”

They went to a diner around the corner, you got a cop bar, you got a nearby diner, coincidence?

Sure.

They ordered up a mess of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, toast, and of course coffee.

Jay said,

“You’re gonna go after a star like Shea, you got to procede with caution, he gets a sniff of you, you’re gone.”

Joe eased on down from his rage and even ate the food with an appetite, Jay asked,

“You still listening to Van the Man?”

Joe smiled, Christ, he’d forgotten that... Astral Weeks, he’d played that like a zillion times and he remembered how much Nora loved Enya, now that he didn’t get, all that airy fairy shit and celestial longing, the fuck was with that?

But thank God, he’d never said it to her, just acted like he was a devotee, we always lie to those we love.

Guess it’s why it’s called... an act of love.

Act as if...

They pushed their plates aside and Jay said,

“You want to get the dirt on the golden boy, track down a guy named McCarthy, he used to head up Internal Affairs and had a serious hard-on for Shea. Then Shea’s star rocketed and word is, Shea got McCarthy smeared, the guy is working as a private dick now, his partner, a black guy, get this... he went to work with Shea, so much for loyalty.”

Joe didn’t mention he was already planning on McCarthy, said that was a great lead.

Jay yawned, said,

“Bro, I’m beat, gotta get some shuteye, here’s my cell number, stay in touch and hey, be careful out there.”

They’d been major fans of Hill Street Blues.

Outside, they did a brief hug, nothing too intimate but warm enough.

Jay watched Joe trundle off in search of the train and then he got on his cell, rang Shea, said,

“Houston, we got a problem.”

Joe had no trouble finding McCarthy, his office where he operated as a private investigator was in the yellow pages, the address on the Lower East Side.

Joe took a cab and the building was run-down, with other listings for Realtors, a tanning studio, and pet grooming.

All the winners.

He went up two flights of stairs, the elevator was out of order, and McCarthy’s office was closed. Joe knocked a few times and an adjoining door opened and a tired-looking guy in shirtsleeves asked,

“You looking for Mac?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

The guy gave Joe the once-over and asked,

“You’re not collecting rent or shit?”

Joe indicated his working gear, said,

“I look like a guy who collects rent?”

A shrug, then the guy said,

“Mac will be in his real office, the tavern two blocks down, called Happy Times.”

Then he gave a bitter laugh, said,

“Whatever else, happy it fuckin ain’t.”

Joe said,

“Thanks for your help.”

The guy stared at him, said,

“For what, I never saw you, got it?”

He got it.

Then got out of there.

The Happy Tavern looked like the last stop before the street, welfare people being the main clientele and a real nasty piece of work riding the pump, Joe ordered a draft, thinking coffee wouldn’t be a wise choice, and the guy spilled most of it on the counter, said,

“Five bucks.”

Joe put the five on the counter, added a buck and the guy grunted, said,

“Last of the big freaking spenders.”

Joe took the brew, looked around, noticed a man near the window, a shot glass empty in front of him and the sports page open, he had a stub of a pencil and was marking the page with a halfhearted focus. Joe approached, asked,

“Mr. McCarthy?”

The guy looked up, his eyes fucked from booze and desperation, he croaked, his voice a ragged choke,

“Who’s asking?”

Joe needed his attention, said in a low voice,

“A guy who might be able to get Shea.”

And it seemed as if the guy’s eyes actually cleared a little, he said,

“Get me a bourbon, we’ll talk.”

Joe didn’t ask if he had any particular brand in 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.”

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 scéal 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:

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.

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.

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.”

Led him a block away to where his battered Chevy was parked and said,

“Don’t suppose you can fix my parking tickets?”

Got the look and laughed, said,

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

They got in the front and from under the seat, Cam produced a McDonald’s bag, opened it, the smell of fries and burgers emanating, took out a Glock, and a clip of ammo, said,

“Just like you guys carry on the job.”

Joe took it, asked,

“Is it clean?”

Cam laughed, said,

“We at McDonald’s pride ourselves on our hygiene.”

Joe reached for his wallet and Cam said,

“Give me a hundred bucks and we’re even.”

As Joe got out of the car, Cam said,

“No offense but don’t come down here no more, cops aren’t real popular.”

Joe said,

“Ex-cop.”

He was closing the door when Cam added,

“Once a cop...”

It was late when Joe got back to his room, he got inside, turned on the light and nearly had a heart attack.

Sitting on his bed was a black guy, chewing a match, looking relaxed, a lazy smile on his face, Joe had the Glock in his jacket but he hadn’t loaded the sucker.

Fuck.

The guy said,

“Sorry for startling you but we need to talk, I’m Rodriguez.”

Joe was sure this was it, Shea had sent him to do the job, and as if reading his thoughts, the guy said,

“I’m here to help you... help you get Shea.”

I was sitting at me desk, a Starbucks vanilla-flavored latte before me and the frigging beads in me right hand.

Where did he get it?

And, as if on cue, the phone rang, I picked up, heard,

“Lieutenant Shea, we may have a major break in the case.”

The fucking writer.

I kept me voice neutral, asked,

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, Lucia, your partner’s sister, she’s regained consciousness and I’m meeting her tomorrow, she might be able to tell us who attacked her and if it wasn’t that guy... Gino...?”

I tried to stay calm, said,

“Wow, how about if I come along with you tomorrow, make it official?”

“That would be great, around nine o’clock... that suit you?”

“Perfect.”

Click.

Fuck... fuck... Jesus, if she was able to talk... I swept the damn paper cup off me desk... I hate fucking vanilla... then began to calm down, hey, I’d the evening free, and man, I sure wanted another shot at her, and who knew, maybe the stuck-up nurse would be on duty, do her too...

I grabbed my jacket, ran into Rodriguez in the hall, who asked,

“What’s up?”

I said,

“There’s a mess in my office, get it cleaned up.”

Come night, I go to the hospital, wearing doctor’s scrubs, even a stethoscope, and fuck, I was so zoned, pure energy flying me on.

Found her room in jig time and there she was.

Radiant.

In that half light they use in hospitals.

Her white neck... gleaming.

I pulled the blankets back.

Odd?

She looked fairly fucking comatose.

Probably the drugs.

What the fuck ever.

Snapped my medal off her neck and then got out the beads, wrapped it round her gorgeous throat and then... heard the sound of a gun being racked.

Turned to face Rodriguez, the fucking writer behind him, and in the corridor a whole bunch of uniforms, he said,

“Back away real slow, asshole.”

I wasn’t going to let the prick take me beads and moved to get them and was slammed against the wall.

He shot me?

Me?

The blood was gurgling in my throat and I tried to say,

“But I’m a cop...”

The writer was staring at me with pure malevolence and I wanted to tell him,

“I did the others but not Nora... I swear.”

Heard Rodriguez say,

“The fuck is begging for help.”

I didn’t see any of them rush to get it.

The fuck is with that?

Joe was back in Miami a month now and couldn’t settle, dammit all to hell, he had New York back in his blood, despite the cold, the traffic and all the usual stuff.

Plus, he couldn’t get Maria off his mind, he’d given her his cell phone number and she promised to stay in touch. He was glad that his scenario about her might not be that far-fetched after all, just maybe she felt something too.

He was trying to put together a piece on all that had happened when his cell shrilled, he flipped the cover open, said,

“Yeah?”

“Joe, it’s Maria.”

God, he couldn’t believe how happy he was to hear her but before he could say anything, she near screamed, barely containing her hysteria,

“Joe, Dios mio, one of the nurses has been strangled, the police say it is a copycat but he used a green rosary and last night when I got home, on my pillow was a gold ring, it had two hands holding a heart, I am so scared.”

Joe, stunned for a minute, realizing it had to be Nora’s ring, they’d never found it. He said,

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

She asked,

“But your job?”

He nearly smiled, said,

“Screw the job.”