Once Were Cops (14 page)

“Sorry I took up your time.”

There’s always something good about seeing a

copper go down. The trouble is it doesn’t happen

often enough.

-Mad Frankie Fraser

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.”

WHAT A TRIP.

The past eighteen months have been a fucking

roller coaster like I couldn’t have planned. Oh

yeah, I planned and in ferocious detail. Bring ‘em

all down. And I did.

That shrink, back home, he’d said to me,

“I want you to act like you’re a decent upright

citizen and we can literally change your behavior

and the mind might well follow.”

Didn’t I do all that good shite in the first part of

this, wasn’t I like a good guy?

Okay, I wasn’t completely coplike, like certain

things that might be … not kosher … putting the

blame on that bollix Fernandez, and I have to say,

that Lucia, she sure fought back.

When I went to the hospital after, put my medal

round her neck, I was so zoned and had the green

beads in my

pocket, was going to strangle her right there in the

bed but that bloody nurse was watching me.

But it worked out, kept Kebar off balance and

nobody, no-fucking-body pushes me in the dirt, I

knew I’d kill him right then but a little agony along

the road seemed right.

When we went to off Fernandez, Kebar took me by

surprise, I had him figured too dumb, he’d said

before we left,

“… I know who you really are, kid … what you

are and the girls … the beads … I searched your

place, found them green mothers but I can get you

help, we’ll do this thing now, and after, I’m going

to bring you in, make sure you get the very best

treatment.” Stupid bastard. Like that was going to

happen. I think he cut me some slack because I was

good to Lucia.

I wanted him to know that and whispered it in his

ear … I was the one who did your sister… his

howl of sheer agony before I pulled the trigger, ah,

memories.

Then like freaking dominoes: Gino. Morronni.

McCarthy. Brought them all down.

McCarthy’s sidekick, that black guy who was

always smiling, he was a whole lot sharper, he

came to see me after I screwed McCarthy, said,

“Nice work, kid.”

Before I could argue, he laid it out, most of what

I’d achieved … I waited, then asked, “You going

anywhere with this?” And that smile again. He

said,

“I want back in the real force, I was never cut out

for this IA snake stuff and you, you’re untouchable,

you can make it happen.”

I looked at him, debated, then asked,

“Why should I bring you along?”

He put a toothpick in his mouth, I wondered how it

would look in his right eye, and he said,

“This way, I don’t blow the whistle on you, and

with my knowledge from IA we can go all the

way.”

I took the risk, mainly because I like that rush, to

be out there, on the precipice, it’s the business and

what an asset he turned out to be.

Using his inside info and my status as hero cop, we

were two steps from running the department.

As for my little peccadillo, he only once ever

referred to it, said, “Drop the green beads, you

need a new act.” Cold.

Fucker could have been my psychic twin.

McCarthy I’d planted dope on, and the day he was

marched out, lucky not to be doing jail time, he

strode straight up to me, hissed,

“Oh you’re good, better than I ever expected but

mark this you sick fuck, I’m going to nail you.” My

new black bro, leaning against the wall, said to

him, “Don’t bang the door on your way out.” Gotta

love that mad iceman.

Then the trip to Ireland, took him with me, couldn’t

let that sharp fuck out of my sight and I said as we

arrived at Shannon,

“You’re gonna love the black stuff.” The dreamy

smile as he answered, “So the babes keep telling

me, white bitches that is.”

Then to Galway and a hero’s reception, the mayor

even gave me a civic gig and I went into shy gee-

shucks humble mode.

Fuckers bought it.

Managed a sideshow to Sligo and had me some

there, used a silk scarf… Okay, okay, it was green.

Old habits die hard, like that bitch did, die hard.

The shrinks, they want to put deep significance on

the green.

Here’s why:

I like the color.

What did you expect, some childhood shite where I

was mistreated with something green?

Cop on.

Went to see my politico who’d gotten the green

card for me, I had made sure my personal file from

Temple more was sealed.

A minor incident with a woman Guard and why I’d

been keen to get to America.

He was seated behind the large desk as usual but

apart from a new potbelly, he seemed the same,

then I detected something else… fear.

Oh how sweet it is.

He was scared of me.

Back in New York, I began to build on my rep,

with my black angel at me back, we carved out a

power base that few were willing to fuck with.

The task force on the strangler had been disbanded.

Case closed. Oh Jesus, that makes me want to

laugh out loud, and that prick who headed it up,

he’d been giving me the cold eye, I knew he was

far from finished with me. I had a little chat with

my black dude, laid it out, and he said in that

sleepy way he had,

“Sounds like it’s time for him to retire, let him go

out in a blaze of glory.” I liked it, a lot, asked,

“What had you in mind?” The slow smile, then:

“Best you don’t know … boss.”

He let a trace of sarcasm leak all over boss and I

was cool with that, let him have his mindfuck,

when the time came, I’d show him serious

mindfucking.

Gee, guess what, a week later, the task force

leader got sideswiped, and was invalided out. The

profiler they’d had, I went to see him as he was

cleaning out his desk, asked,

“Mind if I pick your brain a bit?”

I’d brought two cups of Starbucks, gave him my

best choirboy smile. Jackson was his name and he

had those eyes that reveal nothing, my kind of guy,

he flipped a thick book into a cardboard box, said,

“Sure, what do you want to know?”

I had to tread carefully, this guy was a pro, so I

said, “I’m hoping to someday apply for Quantico

and I’m fascinated by what makes up a crazy like

the strangler.”

He sat in the swivel chair behind the desk, took a

sip of the coffee, said, “Perfect, how’d you know

exactly what I like?” Loaded … right? I said,

“Lucky guess.” He considered that, then:

“Lucky… maybe, I have you down as a guy who

knows every move way in advance, but a guess… .

no, guessing is not your MO.”

I didn’t like the MO crack but winged it, asked,

‘So?’

He put his hands behind his head, Mr. Laid Back,

said,

“Gino … the guy they put away for this, he doesn’t

fit the profile I’d drawn up, the guy I outlined is a

sexual sociopath, completely lacking in empathy,

or indeed any of what we call human emotions, but

like all sociopaths, you’ll find he’s utterly

charming, on the way up in … whatever career

he’s chosen … and very very dangerous … he’ll

kill again … and again, he’s unable not to.”

He was watching me closely. Maybe he might have

to have a little drive-by his own self. I asked,

“But what spurs him on, why is he for example …

using … rosary beads?” Jackson smiled, said,

“You tell me.” Jesus. I reined in, asked, “What?”

He said,

“You want to get into this field, now’s your

chance, give it a shot.” Minefield. I said, “Some

religious nut, ex-priest maybe.” His eyes closed

for a minute, then he said,

“Hmmm … I’d hazard a guess it’s something deep

buried in his childhood, a childhood trauma,

connected to the rosary, and his rage, suppressed

for so long, uses the symbol of his … hurt.”

I couldn’t let that sexual sociopath slur go, I knew I

should steer clear but fuck, I asked, “You’re sure

he’s a sexual … whatever you called him, couldn’t

he just be one highly intelligent individual…

playing with the cops?”

He stood up, said,

“You know better than that, and the one thing I

know for sure, this guy, he’s a deviant, a predator

of the worst sexual type.”

The fuck was playing with me, I’d swear it, but I’d

lost the control, and that never … fucking never …

happens, so I said, “Thanks for the help.” I was at

the door when he said, “You didn’t touch your

coffee.” I paused, said, “I guessed wrong on my

own taste.” I might be wrong but I think he

sniggered, he said,

“Shea, you don’t mind if I call you that? … The

one thing you’re sure of is exactly what you like.”

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.”

: hi 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