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 Templemore 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.”
A Private Eye?
Twenty
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,