“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.
If the blue menaces are ever going to catch me, they had better get off their fat butts and do something.
Six
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.