Merrick (7 page)

‘NOT ALL POTATOES ARE RIGHT FOR ALL DISHES.’

HESTON BLUMEENTHAL ON THE HUMBLE SPUD.

I got back to ER, saw The Lieut. Heading for me. I thought

‘Uh….oh.’

He had a deep gravely voice, the one’s ex-smokers have and aren’t no chickens on the

whole damn planet more self righteous than ex-smokers. He sneered

‘Get your fix , did you?’

‘Yes, Thank you.’

He moved close, way too near, asked

‘Is that a tone sonny, cos, you don’t want to have no fucking tone with me kid.’

Ah sweet Jesus and His Mother, a hard arse, a fookin Nazi of procedure, and they leave

you but two ways to go.

a………….shoot the fooker right away.

b…………………let him rant, shoot him later when you have your gun.

He pulled out a battered notebook, the prick’s always have them, usually spiraled, said

‘Thomas Ryan, late of The Garda Siochana, I got it right so far?’

He raised up on that last letter like a hyena eating a lion’s leftovers, and the guy would

always be eating from the doggy bag.

I nodded, without my gun………see above, B.

He leered

‘That’s like…..Rent a Cop, without arms, am I right?

I was tired, fighting on so many fronts and this bollix with a badge was starting to piss

me off, I know, know I should have said nowt but……………

I said

‘You’re right, as I’m sure you always are. Right?’

Oddest thing, when I’m right on the precipice of confrontation these past few years, I

smell Irish stew. It makes me…………..reckless.

He reeled back a second, not expecting an answer of that kind, so soon, then right in my

face, his breath reeking of garlic and sweet wine.

I added

‘Tip to the wise partner, lay off the garlic, guy with your blood pressure, you’ll never see

forty.’

Apoplexy……………what a great word, does what it say’s on the package.

Learned it from me Readers Digest Condensed edition of ……’A Word a Day.’

Hadn’t expected to view it up close and Technicolor,

He grabbed my shirt, tearing off the buttons, spittle in my face and suddenly, Judy was

Pulling him away, going

‘What on God’s earth, that’s my husband’s friend, you should be ashamed of yourself

Lieu tent!’

He looked round, the whole of the ER staring at him, he tried

‘I….am……….sorry Madam, the heat of a fellow officer down, you know?’

Shona was on him

‘And what, you think you can abuse people’s civil rights because you are upset?’

He had nothing.

Me, I had the front seat.

He backed away, throwing the evil eye at me, I added kerosene and to gain brownie

points with the ladies, said

‘I forgive you Sergeant.’

Thus demoting the fook and putting the boot in.

Would he let that shite go?

Would he fook?

Least next time, I’d be expecting him.

I said to Shona

“Thank you.’

She smiled, maybe I wasn’t completely in the shitter and then a thought hit me, fook, I

asked

‘The flowers, the roses, you remember any address, I mean, where they were sent from?’

Shot in the dark, usually these outlet’s delivered, they got in some promo too.

She said

‘Sure.’

Jesus.

Waited.

‘Blooms, on Fifth Avenue, who could forget?, they’re like the most exclusive florists in

Manhattan.’

I hugged her, said

‘Alanna, gotta go, you did brilliant.

I was running out of there and by just moments, caught Serge Boxer as he was putting his

car in gear, he rolled down the window, asked

‘Merrick’s Ok?’

‘Yes, I mean, I think so, sorry I gave you a fright but you said………if there was

anything?’

‘I meant it.’

I had a pen, thank fook, jotted down Shona’s name, address, asked

‘She got roses from Blooms, on Fifth Avenue, maybe paid for by credit card, could you

take a look?

He smiled, said

‘Sure, only dope dealers pay by cash anymore so chance’s are?’’

I said

“ I owe you.’

‘Wait till we see if I get a hit,….. and your number?’

Gave it to him, he asked

‘No cell phone?’

‘Am……….no.’

‘No wonder you had to go private.’

‘THE HOTTEST PLACES IN HELL ARE RESERVED FOR THOSE WHO IN TIMES

OF GREAT MORAL CRISES MAINTAIN THEIR NEUTRALITY.

DANTE ALIGHIERI.

( AUTHOR OF , THE DIVINE COMEDY.)

The large man was seriously pissed. Jesus H. Christ, had he to cover every angle, every

damn hole himself?

Rang the psycho, and his fingers jabbing the cell with anger.

Heard

‘Hello?’

Jesus, the guy sounded normal, he launched

‘You’ve really fucked up, shut the fuck up, we’re going to give them the other guy.’

He heard the astonishment

‘What other guy?’

‘The investigation by those two freaking amateurs turned up two probable, LISTEN,

don’t interrupt unless you want to spend the next forty years on Rikers, whatever piece

you used on Merrick, I need it, they’ll pull the slug out of his miserable hide and I want it

to match the gun they find on our guy. So you keep real low, don’t do anything without

consulting me and maybe, I can make this go away, they’ll have their prep and we can go

back to business as usual, yeah, and oh, I’ll need paying, cover up isn’t cheap so bring a

serious wedge with the gun.’

He cut the connection.

If………..big if………….he could manage this, and the dust settled, he’d go one final

payment with the shithead, promise him, twin boys or such, then put the bastard in The

East River, let him be with his
boys

Permanently.

…………………….CLOUD DANCER.

I was back at work. Much as I wished to be pursuing the investigation, I had to have cash.

I felt deep in my soul, something had broken and we were right on the verge of cracking

it. But I couldn’t yet find the answer. It was there, niggling at the edges of my mind.

And, something had been said at the hospital, fook it what? Something that was of major

significance but I couldn’t access it…………….yet.

Crow, my foreman, brother of Shona gave me a knowing smile, said

‘Big job today my friend, we have to put…………

He pointed

The gaping vacancy at the top of the ninety story building,

‘A full two floors on today. It’s delicate and risky but I have my nephew, Cloud, with

you, he is an artist.’

I nearly laughed, asked

“I’m to call him Cloud?’

‘No, call him Brad.’

A heavy wind was coming in and normally, such a job would be called off but there was

Deadline, and cash call’s the ultimate tune.

For the first time, when I got up there, and heard that sucker howl, I briefly considered

the safety harness.

But….

One, it marked you as White…………..afraid.

Two……………..it impeded you and cut your work pace by half.

No harness.

Cloud was maybe twenty, terrific looking kid, like Johnny Depp way back. And worse,

he was a good guy, knew he was the best at what he did but didn’t Lord it. I asked

“Brad, you good to go?’

Gave me a radiant smile answered

‘Bring it on white eyes.’

Despite the wind, we got a rhythm going, like pure music, not me, I was just following

the kid but he was a sight to see. Like such heights were made for him, he danced, I

swear to God, he danced from girder to girder like it was fun. Maybe it was, for him.

We were getting the job almost done , late afternoon, and Brad was soaring, doing stuff

that if it weren’t so damn artistic, it would have been reckless.

And, you can’t figure every contingency. A girder, I’d have sworn I’d locked, cut loose,

went shooting out across the Manhattan sky like a stealth missile. I screamed the warning

but the wind was so fierce, it took my words and scattered them like wasted prayers on

the pavement, ninety floors below. The steel girder hit him full ferocity on the back of his

head and he never made a sound, just dropped like the smallest sigh.

I stood, dumbstruck.

‘LET HE WHO IS WITHOUT SIN

CAST THE FIRST STONE,’

JOHN WAYNE GACY.

The large man had just got a hot dog, Diet Pepsi. The vendor appeared to speak no

English. He took the ten dollar bill, put it in his soiled apron, and no change appeared.

The large guy nearly smiled, he so loved confrontation. Street one’s were the best. Inflict

damage, be three blocks away before the skelly hit the pavement.

He leaned over, began to shovel a dollop of sauerkraut. The vendor reached out his hand,

going

‘No, is my job.’

The guy shot out his hand, grasped the vendor’s wrist like a vice, squeezed hard. The

vendor, horrified………..Had he heard bone break? Muttered

‘Ok, ok, help yourself.’

His English returning? The guy released him, said in a very quiet tone,

‘Return my money, you thieving fuck.’

The vendor put his other hand in the apron, pulled out a splash of notes, ten’s twenties, a

fifty. The guy took the fifty. The vendor cried

‘Is no right. You gave me ten dollar!’

The man smiled, all ice and emptiness, said

‘Coppin a plea but are you calling me a liar Mohammed?’

He decided , no.

The large man asked

‘Little more ketchup there, yah think?’

Got it.

The guy bit down on the dog, leaned right in the vendor’s face as ketchup leaked from

his mouth, asked

‘The fuck is this, Real dog?’

Then laughed, displaying sauerkraut, meat, awash in his mouth,. Patted the vendor almost

gently on the cheek, said

‘Lighten up buddy, just kidding.’

He took another bite, snapped

‘Napkin?’

Got it.

Them dumped the mangled remains of his food on the cart, said

‘See you tomorrow.’

Moved away, hesitated, as if something had occurred to him. The vendor was gazing in

distress at his cart, plus the fifty that went south.

The large guy stepped back, looked contrite, went

‘Oh My Gad, a tip! I forgot, what must you think of me?’

The vendor was afraid to meet his eyes, something dead was in them, dead a long time.

But a tip?

His fifty back?

He raised his eyes to the guy’s, the dead thing in there was laughing

The guy said

‘Here it is…………………………………

Don’t

Fuck

With

New

Yorkers.’

And was gone.

The vendor felt a cold that was no relation to the weather. He began to push his cart

away.

Away?

Maybe the UK?

At least they had free medical cover.

But first, he’d have to answer to his sponsors.

The Russian’s.

The large man wondered why it was he felt compelled to come by every day, watch the

Irish guy do his gig. He wasn’t really certain why. Was it he just liked to keep tabs on

this wild card fuck? Or something in watching those guys, fly across the sky that awoke

a long vanished sense of yearning. And too, somewhere deep down, long buried so long,

a freedom those cats displayed.

He shook himself, physically shedding all those crazy idea’s, he was…………..what he

was, fuckit.

He was crushing the Pepsi can, not even realizing it when something on his peripheral

vision pulled his eyes skywards.

Jesus H.

Something was hurling down from there, something substantial.

The winds had looked dog rough up there and he figured a girder?

Nope.

Holy shit.

A goddamn person!

The body hit the sidewalk, narrowly missing two Hasidic Jews. He heard that horrendous

squelch.

The freaking Irish, had to be. Indian’s didn’t fall. No fucking way.

And you had to figure the Irish guy had a hangover, when the sweet fuck didn’t they?

He’d seen his share of jumpers and ID was a bitch. No point in moseying over there, it

would tell him nothing but that it was all she wrote. If it was the Irish, then one less

problem. Kind of a shame though, he enjoyed mind fucking him.

He damn straight hated them, hated that Irish blood was part of his DNA. Being Irish, do

him a fucking favor.

What?......like using obscenities, drinking lights out and

planting bombs was an achievement?.

Truth to tell, it wasn’t just the Irish, he hated every muthahfuckah who crept over the

planet, getting in his way.

He walked to the next street, his Studebaker parked in a No Park Zone. He looked round,

then removed the ‘Park Permit’ from the shield. Got in, let out a long sigh

Mohammed

The acidic download of the Hot dog

Had given him a hard on thirst.

Maybe he’d cruise a gay bar, big fuck like him had the pillow biters frothing at the

mouth, got his drinks free and if he’d the time, kick the crap out of some faggot.

He always had the inclination.

See the movie

Service to Society 11.

Boyz in the Hood?

He’d flush em down the goddamn crapper.

Memo to himself

‘Chill big fellah.’

Couple or three Seven and Seven’s, he’d be good to go. Meet with the psycho, and man,

wasn’t it the truth?

‘Never have enough drinks on board for dealing with a stone psycho.’

He smiled, almost beatifically.

‘You can see it creeping, across the meadow before it hits you.

So cold and abrupt.

Like a friend.’

Colin Whitehead.

‘The Colossus of New York.’