“No thanks, I’m the help... that’s what you said... right?”
And he was gone.
Kebar felt let down, like he’d failed the kid.
What was for damn sure was, the kid hadn’t failed him.
He got together the biggest and hardest men in the force and ordered them to go out and batter the living shite out of every ned.
Five
When I got to New York, it was everything I’d hoped for and more, loud, crazy, fierce, and I loved it.
I got lucky, an Irish guy who lived in Brooklyn was heading home and I got his place.
It was small but hey, I didn’t have a whole lot of stuff.
A few shirts, jeans, one battered leather jacket, me Claddagh ring, heart turned out, and the beads, naturally.
You put them up against the window, the light gleamed, and I’d zone, mesmerized by the effect, seeing white slender beautiful necks, like the swans in the Claddagh basin.
The first time I took one of those animals, I nearly got caught but came out of the zone in time to get away.
When I was leaving Galway, my mother said,
“Son, I haven’t been the best mother and I know you have some problems that need help but I got you this to show I do love you.”
The Claddagh ring, one of the real old ones, it fit perfectly and I wore it all the time, heart turned out...
Meant I was on the hunt and I was.
A Miraculous Medal, never leave an Irish home without one, and two bottles of Jameson.
Oh yeah, hurley, got some funny looks from the Homeland Security guys but explained it was our national game and they let it slide.
The apartment had all I needed, hot plate, kettle, bed, and a shower.
Truth is, you couldn’t swing a cat in it but I hate cats so...
Allowed meself a week to get orientated, that is, hit the bars, the Irish ones, get hooked up, get connected, and so, had me a beat-up Chevy in two days and then reported for duty.
The Mick ace helped, big time, and before I could say... muthafuckah, I was in.
I’m not going to be modest here, I’d done me training in Templemore and despite what the Yanks thought, it was tough, so the four weeks of orientation I had to do at the academy weren’t really anything new, save for the pistol training.
You make some buddies, kiss arse big time, and keep your head down.
I kept me nose clean, in every sense, and did nowt for that month but focus on doing real good.
Only lost one rosary beads that whole time, well, lost is the wrong term, used it, more like.
I don’t remember it too well save for it was the first time I left a beads behind, seemed to belong on her neck.
I continued to do real good in training.
And they like the Micks.
The powers that still be.
I used every suck-up going and in jig time I was assigned to a precinct.
I was dead freaking delighted with meself.
The commanding officer, a Mick, thank Christ, was happy to have as he called it:
“A real fucking Mick, off the boat,” in his squad.
That morning, when I put on me uniform, and that sucker weighted, Jesus on a bike, did it ever, I put my cap on last and in the half mirror, left by the last tenant, I checked meself, had to crouch down which took from the whole effect but still, I saw the real deal looking back at me.
NYPD BLUE.
ME!
And my police issue on my hip, made me feel like a fucking player.
I was delighted with meself.
I’d done it, made me dream come true, I was the thin blue line, I was the man, I was so delirious, I nearly had a shot of Jameson.
Then, another Americanism I was to learn, things went south.
My commander told me I was being paired with a real pain in the ass and gave me a thumbnail sketch of some guy called Kebar. I asked,
“Why?”
Thinking, “You’re Irish, why are you not giving me some slack?”
And he sighed, said,
“He’s a real good cop, a massive pain in the butt, but if you can hang in there, you’ll learn stuff real fast, we can’t afford to have one of our visiting Guards get lost.”
I felt me temper rise, gritted,
“I’m a real fast learner.”
He gave me a full-capped smile, said,
“See, that’s the spirit, why I know you were the right guy to partner up with him, but trust me, he’ll bust your balls nine ways to Sunday.”
He sure did.
A surly bollix, he treated me like shite, in every way he could.
Even pushed me down in the dirt, no kidding, to get me good and dirty.
I bit down, took all his crap, and then I got him up against the car, told him who I was.
And Jesus, the same day, we were on a domestic, I got to use me gun, took out a guy with a shotgun, a rush like with the beads but too fast, no time to savor, to linger.
Saved the sour bastard’s arse.
Pure dumb luck.
I was numb, never shot no one before and it was a trip, but after, I just went into the cold place.
They took my ice reaction as major cool, one man’s trauma is another’s rep.
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,