Ken Bruen

Merrick

…….LET ME INTRODUCE MYSELF

..

………….I’M A MAN………………

I kill children

Whoa…..hold the phones there pal

Don’t get your knickers in a twist and start rounding up the lynch mob

I love kids, I mean, I really do

Boys, between five and six……ah, bliss

You think they don’t love me back

Oh they do

That whimpering they make after, that’s like………purring

Had one cherub, after a particular strenuous workout, he licked my hand

See

Society is all bent out of freaking shape

They hunt us down, treat us like animals and why, because they cant make that

transcendence, that leap to pure love

And back up compadre, before you start trotting out clichés, an abused child, I object to

the term abused by the way but to stay in your narrow frame of reference, the gospel

is………..an abused child becomes an abuser

Horseshit

Kiss my middle aged spreading ass

It doesn’t happen

Why?

Fucks sake, focus, pay attention, you might learn something

Mine and yes, once I have them, they are my property, they wont become abusers

I guarantee it

You smirk

They don’t………..

Because I kill them

Every gorgons angelic one of them

How many now

Come on………….you’re counting

Count on this

I’m coming for your little darling

Soon

After I’ve imitated them into man love, what on earth can top that so I save them the

search, let them go out…………..on a high

A celestial choir of them, beaming down on me

The disfigurement, bothers you……….yeah?

Call it window dressing

Keep the cops busy

Let them think there’s a psycho out there

Me, I’m the sanest guy you’ll ever meet

That is the scary bit

Get over it

Whoops, gotta hustle, I hear my latest acquisition in the basement, pleading his little

heart out, he wants it, and he sure is going to get it

……………………diary page from The child/man love annals

THE POWER OF TWO.

I’d been a year in New York before I ran into Merrick

I’d left Ireland under the fooking proverbial cloud, though cloud is putting it mildly

I’ve been a Garda siochana….translate as literally, Guardian of The Peace

Oh yeah

Stationed in Donegal, real close to bandit country, Peace Summit me arse

The Boyos were still operating in Armagh and that was just a spit from where I was

stationed

I was born and reared in Galway and so, I was stationed far from me home

In jig time, I lost

Me wife

Me career

Me confidence

The scandal surrounding the local Guards and their framing of a local publican had blown

up nationwide

Till then, I swear to god, The Guards had a fine rep. Liked by the general populace and

how many countries does that occur in

Yeah, count em?

I wasn’t great at me job but I liked it a lot

I was young enough then to think I might be effective

Dream on yah ejit

I know about the frame and Hands up, I wasn’t actively involved but I did know about it

and I did………………nothing

and yeah, I took a handout. I’m not proud of it and sure paid the freight.

That is what they call, silent affirmation

See the learned vocabulary I have, been poring over the Reader’s Digest in an attempt to

increase me word power

The only word that describes what went down isn’t in the digest

Clusterfuck

The fall out was biblical

Top officers were up on charges but yeah, they’d get severe reprimands and be allowed to

retire with their pensions intact

Us grunts got shafted, big time

Fired and no pension

One of me mates hanged himself

Couldn’t take the shame

Me, I legged it

To Amer-i-kay

New start

Lived in a shitty hole in Brooklyn and got a job in construction

Hard graft

But it stopped me thinking and The Mick Mafia got me a Union card

I was drinking.

A lot,

Out of self pity, loneliness and rage, the lethal Irish trinity

I’m not going to suggest that meeting Merrick saved me but it sure changed me life

Thank fook

I missed me wife

Badly

I’d loved her

Oh sweet Jesus, did I ever

She dumped me when I got canned

She re-married a lawyer and has a child on the way

That shrives me heart

Still

And I guess, always will

Mores the frigging Irish-ed pity

Ah fookit

Moving on

Not cos I wanted to but had to

One fierce cold Feb night, I was a t a loss as usual and decided to go and sing some jars,

Hadn’t been out for brews for a time and I’d build up a thirst, headed for a bar in

Brooklyn that had a jukebox, played the hit of the eighties

Sounded good

There was a biting cold and a wind chill factor to freeze your nuts off

The bar was warm, with even a real fire, logs blazing and the place was hopping, Bowie

in the juke with All the Young dudes

The bar man looked like a real dangerous bollix

Big, with a completely shaved head, arms on him that testified to real graft and he looked

mean, he was wearing a T-shirt that read

“Gun church.”

I managed to grab a stool at the counter and he stood before me, wiping down the place

in front of me, growled

“Get yah?’

Sounded like a grizzly with a bad hangover, I said

“Jameson, coors back

He smiled, no warmth in it but a sort of knowing, said

“Mick huh?”

I nodded and he pushed

“You running a tab?”

Sure

He brought the drinks and I asked

“Get you one?’

He studied me for a minute then said

“Yeah, I’ll join you.”

To my amazement, he put out a meaty hand, said

“I’m Merrick.”

I was surprised, his tone was warmer, I took his grip, and we shook

He said

“Working hands, you on construction?’

“Yeah.”

He raised his bottle of Sam Adams, no glass, said

“Mozoltof.”

I said

“Slainte.”

He leaned over, asked

“Run that by me again

I did

He savored the word, like he was tasting it then gave a nigh perfect rendition

He asked

“You got a name or I have to like drag every piece of information outa you?’

I said

“Tommy, Tommy Ryan.”

He laughed, said

“Well, you ain’t Jewish, am I right?’

Before I could respond, he held up his bottle like a hurly, said

“Best warn you buddy, I am………. so answer real slow.”

“Some of me best mates are of that persuasion.”

Which was a lie but what the fook

It’s one of those lines I’ve always loathed, like, Gee, what a fookin liberal you are

Christ on a bike

Lame

He was massaging his neck, like it hurt, I asked

“That hurt?”

He was taken aback, as if he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, said

“I play baskets, did my neck in, that damn S.J….she gets me every time and Fusilli, never

can quite out run him, so today, I got a cortisone shot and lemme tell you buddy, them

suckers hurt.”

Buddy?

I offered

“Buy you a jar?’

Took him a moment then he smiled

That smile took fifteen years off him, he looked almost like a nice guy

Almost

I didn’t think smiling was something he did a whole lot of, he said

“A jar?’

“Yeah, oh sorry, it means a brew.’

He reached for a bottle on the shelf, Wild Turkey, poured a shot with a practiced ease,

said

“I’m not taking advantage, I’ll charge you the price of a bud.”

I said

“I got paid yesterday so never no mind.”

He clinked my glass to his shot one, said

“L’chaim.”

What can you say, I said it

“Back at you.”

He let the turkey wield it’s magic, said

“Way better than the goddamn cortisone and a damn sight faster.”

I sunk my Jay, let it warm my gut

It did

Why I drink it

Without asking he grabbed the Jameson bottle, poured me a lethal dollop, and then

looked at me, asked

“You ever in law enforcement?”

He was sharp

I’m Irish, we answer a question with another, keeps them off balance

“Why do you ask that?’

He used the cloth to wipe up the spillage from my very full glass, said

“You’ve got cop eyes.”

Then added

“Reason I know is, every morning I shave, I see the same eyes.”

My shot at a question

“Why’d you quit?’

He let out a long sigh, a sadness flitting across his face and then it was gone, he said

“My partner got shot, he’s in a wheelchair, I lost my taste for the job after that.”

The bar got real busy after and I had a few more brews, a nice buzz building..

Thin Lizzy came on the juke box, followed by

Rory Gallagher

U2

De Danann

I looked over at Merrick and he gave me the thumbs up

I was warming to the guy

I don’t do friends

IN A LATE STYLE OF FIRE.

Not easily or often but this guy, he had some moves

End of the evening, he was stacking chairs and a heavy guy who’d been acting the bollix

all night swayed over towards Merrick, I could see the bottle held down by his side.

I moved quickly, took his knees out from behind and for the hell of it, gave him a wallop

on the upside of his dumb arse head

Merrick whirled around, looked at the heap at his feet, saw the bottle and went

“Phew, the fuck would have cracked my skull.”

He gave me an appraising grin, said

“Guess I owe you one buddy.’

I went American, badly I’ll admit, said

“No biggie.”

He laughed, asked

“You wanna go see The Jets choke yet again tomorrow evening, I have some tickets, the

way they been playing, you couldn’t give the damn things away.”

I knew the Yankee’s, and that was about it, said

“Sure.”

That’s how we became friends

He lived on Long Island with his wife, two great kids

The Jets finally won a game and he bought a bottle of Jameson, said

“You and me bro, we’re going to get shitfaced.”

No argument there

Went to my hole in the wall in Brooklyn

He stared at the 1916 Proclamation on the wall, intoned the lines aloud, he had the perfect

voice for it, I put The Pogues on my cheap music set and we got stuck into the Jay

He looked round the sparse room, said

“Pretty basic buddy.”

Got that right

He was considering something, had been all evening, call it cop instinct and finally he got

to it, said

“Time was, I used to work as a P.I…….Me and a buddy named Moe Prager, then I

bought the bar and sort of drifted out of the business

He sipped the Jay then

“Moe got hurt a while back and asked me to follow up on a case he was on, a vile nasty

piece of work……….

He took a deep breath then produced a sheet of paper, handed it over, said

“This is a page from a……………….well, you’ll see”

The very first line chilled me

I kill children

“Fook”

I said

Handed it back to him, my stomach in turmoil, Merrick said

“I’m gonna go after this sick bastard and thing is, I wonder if you’d be willing to tag

along?’

Looking back, how easy it would have been to say no, and Jesus, all the carnage that

might have been averted

I said

“Count me in

‘FRIENDS ARE GIVEN

NOT

EARNED.’

Merrick and I were chewing down on some Hot Dogs, washed down with Bud, after The

Jets had yet again been handed their ass.

That expression made me smile and Merrick, snapped

‘Us losing, that amuses you?’

Phew, he had an edge. You never knew when it might show. I said

‘Jesus, take a fooking breath, I’m not your enemy, I was tickled by the expression.’

He reined it in, then let out a tight breath, said

‘Sorry buddy, I’m wound tight as a freaking Sunday Rabbi.’

Like I was supposed to know what fook that meant?

Went with

‘Anything I can help with?’

He took a sharp bite out of the dog, looked at it, said

‘Jesus, the fuck I’m eating.’

Slung it in a perfect arc into a litter bin. He washed it down with the Bud, reached in the

cooler, pulled out two, twisted the caps, handed one over, said

‘Slainte.’

We’d been hanging out for almost two months now, cementing a solid friendship with

sports, music, the brews. We shared a bond in that neither of us were, exactly team

players, we didn’t need a chorus of disapproval to know who we were. An unlikely

friendship in just about every way but it seemed to be cooking. The case, the one he’d

originally mentioned had never been mooted since.

Being Irish, one thing you know, bad shite isn’t going away, you just have to wait and

sure as Mass, it will come slithering down the path.

It was about to.

He drained the brew, the guy could drink for Ireland and he asked

‘Remember the case I mentioned, the child stuff?’

Like you could forget such a blasphemy, I said

‘Yes.’

He took another kid.’

Jesus wept.

He reached in his cargo pants, took out a sheet of paper, handed it over, didn’t look at me.

I read

…………………….Yo, Jewish

…………………Taking over your deadbeat partner’s case?

…………………..Felications.

………………….Here is a head start for you.

And chuckle, the kid gave me some serious head, I digress, on West 59th, Corner of 7th

and 8th, an old brownstone, second floor, kiddies delight.

Isn’t this fun kike?

One more sweet fang to savor then I’ll have me one of yours, the boy, twelve? little out

of my age group so I’ll do him quick.

Here’s a clue yah dumb Shamus……..clowns to the right……………..

Xxxxxxxxxx

…………………………Two much.

My stomach lurched. I asked

‘You call the cops?’

‘NOTHING SCARIER THAN

A CLOWN

AFTER DARK.’

JOHN WAYNE GACY.

‘They blew me off.’

I asked

‘What’s with the two?’

Merrick rubbed his neck, trying to work out the ache there, said

‘Just him fucking with us, let us think he has an ally, maybe.’

I was spooked, Jesus, big time. But I reined it in, asked

‘So, we going to take a look?’

He was twisting the empty Bud like he could tear it’s head off, said

‘This is heavy shit now Tommy, won’t reflect on you or our friendship if you buck.’

I stood up, said

‘Let’s roll.’

Merrick had a beautiful 59 Camaro. Restored it lovingly his own self and added a supped

motor to the horsepower already under the hood.

We took off from the stadium like some meth bats outa meatloaf’s hell. Going over the

Jersey Turnpike, Merrick asked

‘You carrying?’

‘Just attitude.’

He nodded at the glove compartment, and I flipped it, A Glock 9 and a Browning Auto.

He said

‘Prime em.’

I did.

As we hit Manhattan, he asked

‘Why’d you leave the cops?’

Cut to the chase, said

‘I was on the take.’

He nodded, no judgment. Then,

‘You ever shoot anyone?’

Oh shite.

Tell the truth or string him along. I went with the truth

‘I used to be with the Boyos, back when Bloody Sunday happened.’

He nodded, no need for any more.

My turn, asked

‘You?’

‘On the job, shot a person of interest.’

‘Was he, of interest?’

He sighed, deep and yearning

‘To his family, to us, he was the wrong guy.’

We were at the Brownstone so I was saved any dumb comment. Merrick put the Glock in

his waistband, I put the Browning in the pocket of my Yankee’s jacket.

Asked

‘How do you want to play this?’

He nearly smiled, said

‘Careful.’

The building was boarded up, Merrick pulled the boards off, and we went in. Smell of

urine and curry, stale nicotine.

Swept the ground floor, Merrick whispered

‘Clear, going up.

I followed and at the base of the second floor, a figure came out of the shadows, laid

Merrick flat with a baseball bat.

Turned to me, said

‘I got three hundred bucks to do that, you want some of this ass-wipe.?’

I backed off, something in his tone, saying he was too lippy to be alone and a second

figure came rushing out of the darkness with a knife. I shot him in the balls. I was aiming

for his knee, I think. The first guy, shrieked

‘The fuck is with you man, why’d you have to go and do that/’

I shot him in the shoulder.

He was about to start screaming so I kicked him in the head and he shut the

fook up.

The dead child was on the third floor.

Spread-eagled, blood all over and a note pinned to his school blazer, reading

‘How sweet it is.’

………………………….GACY BY TWO.

I admit I lost it, went back down to the second floor, shot the first bollix in the face, then

hauled the second to his feet, said

‘See that piece of shite, you’re next, now tell me who hired you?’

Merrick had come around, grabbed me by the waist, soothed

‘Jesus, easy cowboy, ok?’

Gently took the Browning from my bloodied fingers, the blood from the child. Merrick

said

‘You got to go with the flow Irish, keep a lid on it.’

I said, keeping a lid on it,

‘;Have a look on the next floor.’

He tapped my face, added

‘You have a temper, need to chill, know what I’m saying?’

I repeated

‘Go to the third floor.’

He looked at the guy at my feet, said

‘Hang in there pal, my running buddy is a hot head, I’ll be right back and we’ll talk.’

The second guy sneered at me, said

‘You’re the hired help, that it, you Irish bogtrotter.’

I let it slide, knowing the third floor would be all the reply I needed.

Heard an anguished wail, like all the children in hell were chanting then rapid footsteps

and Merrick was pushing past me, leveled the Glock at the guy, emptied the mag in his

chest.

Guess Merrick hadn’t chilled.

GHOSTS MUST DO AGAIN.

In a diner on the lower East Side, a large man, pushed away his bacon and egg’s over

easy plate. Damn phone call had totaled his appetite. Even the coffee got a sour taste

He muttered

‘Fucking psycho scumbag, Jesus, H, he had to leave a note?’

He knew, sooner or later he’d have to cut the whack job loose but the money, ahh, how

sweet it was. He’d been eyeing a place down in Boca, shitload of money but with this

earner, he’d been getting real close to putting a sizable down payment on it. Get out of

the sewer of the city. So, he pointed him in the direction of some kids, c’mon, they were

dead already, with crack Mom’s deadbeat father’s. They were on a fast rail to nowhere

any way. He was really just putting them out of their misery. And the psycho treated

them good, right, before………..he did……….whatever he did.

He didn’t really try to square it, to rationalize it, it was…………….what it was. Shit

happens. And if he could turn a buck outa it, who the fuck gave a big one?

The nutter, posing at being infamous serial killers, the fuck was with that? Had told him

‘Drop that shit, you’re gonna get attention and we

don’t…………….want……….attention. The guy whining

‘I wanna play.’

Leaving a twenty on the table, he figured, on second thought

‘It would be a goddamn pleasure to put two in the jerk off’s head but not yet, needed just

one more serious payment.

‘THIS IS BLOOD. THE ROOM IS HUGE AND THERE’S ROOM FOR PLENTY OF

HEALTHY CHILDREN.

TOM PICCIRILLI

‘A CHOIR OF ILL CHILDREN.’

We got out of there fast. Merrick pausing at a phone, called 911, told them the location.

Back in The Camano and we driving in silence towards East 45th. I didn’t ask.

Merrick

pulled into a vacant spot, said

‘Let’s get shit faced.’

No argument there. A small bar nestling amid the flash hotels, we went in, dark lighting,

nicotine in the air. I looked at Merrick, he said

‘A cop owns it.’

We got a booth in the back, they had an actual juke box, playing ‘Take a Walk On the

Wild Side’.

Burly guy approached, exclaimed

‘Merrick, you son of a bitch, what brings you to town?’

Merrick smiled, no humor though, said

‘Showing my Irish buddy the dives of the city.’

The guy laughed, showing a wonderful display of teeth, and they’d have been more

dazzling if they’d been his own, he pushed out a huge hand, said

‘Charlie, my mother was from the county Mayo.’

I said

‘Tommy and mayo are shite hurlers.’

He paused then slapped me on the shoulder, nearly putting me through the booth, said

‘I like him Merrick, he’s got a mouth.’

Then

‘What’ll I get ye?’

Merrick, no hesitation

‘Two Jameson, Bud back.’

We waited till we got the drinks, Merrick dropped his shot glass in the glass of Bud.

Boilermaker.

Me, can’t. Not with the Jay.

We got on the other side of those and I was about to signal another, Merrick said

‘No need, Charlie will keep em coming.’

Worked for me.

Truth time.

I asked

‘You want to tell me what the fook is going on, how this homicidal bollix knows you,

how to pull your strings?’

The booze or the evening had produced a light sheen of perspiration on his bald head, he

ran his hand over it, said

‘Moe, my partner, he was on a definite track of this crazy fuck, then’

He paused

Sighed, said

‘He got run over on Broadway and 42nd.’ Hit and run they said, he’s been in a coma

since. I vowed to continue his investigation and here we are. The sicko obviously knows

who I am and one thing Moe had said, the guy likes to play.’

I digested this, then

‘What’s The Gacy reference?’

In my head, I was beginning to really think the sickout had a partner and I dreaded to say

it………but……….I felt the second guy might be a cop.

‘One of the kids who lived, if you could call what is left of the mite living, said a clown

offered him Hershey bars.’

I said

‘But Gacy killed young males, not children.’

Merrick drained his glass, said

‘I said he was crazy, I didn’t say he was consistent.’

I could feel the drinks, sneaking up on me, not out of the game but a nice buzz. I checked

for quarters, stood up, asked

‘Any preference?’

Took him a minute to realize I meant the Juke, said

‘See if they got any Stones, The Exile On Main St album, I want some dirty rock.’

They didn’t but I choose Rory Gallaher, maybe not dirty but pure rock. Added

U2

Tom Russel

The Saw Doctors

Van The Man

The Chieftains.

When I got back, a basket of chicken wings was on the table with thick slices of soda

bread. Merrick said

‘Soak up the booze.’

If you’d told me I’d be able to eat, but booze doesn’t know from sorrow, so I ate. The

dead child was present at the table, but for now, we acted like Time Out. The horrors on

hold.

Merrick sat back, wiping the grease from his chin, said

‘Few things to touch wings with the false appetite of booze.’

Charley approached, a bottle in his meaty hand, said

’50 year old Black Bush, treat with due reverence.’

We tried.

Sipped and then Merrick asked

‘You were a Guard?’

I muttered

‘Once were Cops.’

He nodded then

‘But you guys, you’re unarmed, right? I mean, fuck, what’s with that gig?’

I said

‘Off duty, we like to, am………..chat to bad guys with hurley’s.’

Led me into trying to explain the National Game to him, finally summed with

‘Think baseball crossed with homicide.’

He laughed, said

‘Sure would like to see that.’

I said

‘Really?’

‘Course, you come to Shea Stadium, I want to know about your guys game.’

I said

‘Next Sunday, Galway are playing Cork in an exhibition game, you want to come?’

‘Fuck yes.’

Merrick looked at his watch, said

‘Shit, I’ve got to get home, my wife will have a damn fit, and I have to open the bar my

own self.’

I reached for my wallet. And Charley was there, said

‘Don’t even think of it buddy.’

I protested,

‘But fook on a bike, I need to do something.’

A twinkle in his eye, he said

‘Sure would love to see one of them there hurling games.’

THE URGENCY OF SHADOWS.

We shared a cab to the West 59th Street Bridge. Merrick said

‘We’re getting out.’

We did.

He watched the taillights of the Yellow cab disappear then reached in his jacket,

pulled out the guns, said

‘Gotta toss em.’

Shite, I hate to waste a perfectly good weapon. But my time on The Falls, I knew

a hot piece could get you ten in the cage. I nodded.

He flung them hard and wide. They seemed to circle above the dark water for a

moment, like birds of ill prey. Then they hit with a small splash.

Merrick looked at me, said

‘Ryan, you did real good, you had my back.’

I shrugged it off, with

‘Ary, t’was nothing.’

Another cab was coming along and he hailed it, said

‘I’ll drop you in Brooklyn, then head on home.’

As we hit The Borough, Merrick said

‘I grew up here, me, Gabriel Cohen, lot’s of god guys, we walked The Perfect

Square.’

He was musing on that, then

‘You don’t give a lot away Ryan.’

True.

I said

‘Give it time.’

The cab pulled over and Merrick said

‘I got it.’

I asked

‘We good for the match on Sunday?’

He smiled, and thing is, for such a big guy, hard ass written all over his lived in

face, when he smiled, he lit up, like a five year old kid. He said

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Irish guys pounding each other with sticks,

what’s not to love?’

I watched the cab pull away, thought about secrets. You tell me a guy is an open

book, I’ll tell you he’s full of shite. Or, he just hasn’t had the world beat the living

be-Jaysus outa him enough. And it will.

One of my secrets, I drew out the pack of Lucky Strike, my Zippo, had the logo

………………………….Tower

Fired up.

Americans, love their guns, love their cars but mention a cig, they go downright

fundamental. Do I think it’s hypocritical, no……..just a bloody pain in the arse.

Got inside, put my key in the cheap as shit lock, I’d nothing to steal and turned on

the light. Knew there’d been somebody in my apartment, if 2 rooms constitute

such. Reached inside my old combat jacket, my own insurance, pulled out the Sig

Sauer, racked the slide, moved to the one other room, the bedroom. My instincts

were screaming like a damn banshee but they were the same one’s that kept me

out of Long Kesh. I nudged the bedroom door, the Sig aimed.

On my bed, laid out like a corpse, was a clown suit.

It HAD the desired effect, scared the be-Jaysus out of me. Worse, When my body

stopped pumping adrenaline, I ventured a little closer to the thing, reminded me of

the suits laid out for the dead back home, just before the wake began.

Nearly missed it.

In the top loophole, a four leaf shamrock.

I get spooked, I get movie literate, dunno why, escapism I suppose. I thought of

The Untouchables, and Ness, realizing, he was

………………….Touchable.

SHARDS IN DESPERANCE.

The next week, I was on the girders, up ninety floors, walking the metal like an

Michael Flatley. Only The American Indians really have the hook on that work

and get the big bucks for it. Me, I volunteered when their crew was one short,

he’d fallen the previous Friday. Their foreman, a Comanche, how do I know,

because he told me every fooking time he could, asked

‘Whitey, you think you can handle the clouds.’

I gave him the Galway granite stare, said

‘Let’s see.’

I had a flair for it as I didn’t care. Since I lost my wife and daughter, I really

didn’t give much of a fook for anything. It didn’t make me reckless, just less

pressurized about where I landed. You have a guy who lost everything, what the

Sweet Jesus is going to scare him.

Apart from clowns?

End of the day, the foreman offered me to come have some brews with his crew.

Sure.

A tavern on the lower East Side. Drinking with a bunch of Indians, I thought

‘Yah never know.’

The foreman, named, I kid thee not, Crow, bought me a Lone Star longneck,

cracked his bottle against mine, said

‘You did good, real good.’

I said

‘I like the heights.’

He liked that, pushed

‘Why?’

Told the truth

‘It’s clean.’

He took a long chug from his brew, said

‘It’s serious money doing this kind of work, you could be very rich in a short

time………………….if you don’t…………fall.’

I savored my own brew, said

‘I don’t fall.’

He was intrigued, asked

‘What makes you so sure?’

I looked right into his dark eyes, said

‘Back home, the tinkers, told me, I’d die in the water, didn’t see any water where

we’re working.’

He bought me another brew, said

‘Come, I’d like you meet someone.’

Led me over to table, awash in long necks, packs of cigs, and in the middle, one

of the most striking women I’ve ever laid eyes on. Crow said

‘This is my sister Shona.’

He clapped his hands and all the crew at the table fooked off, leaving me with

Shona. My brain went into meltdown, I had nothing. She said

‘Sit down and stop drooling.’

I sat down, the drooling, well, I was working on it. She said

‘The crazy Mick who walks the high rise like an Indian.’

Lamely I ventured

‘That’s me.’

She smiled, showing beautiful teeth, said

‘Don’t the Irish have a way with words.’

I muttered

‘So I’ve heard.’

And she laughed. I stood, said

‘It’s been…………..fraught, you’ve taken the piss, see you around.’

She grabbed my arm.

Nobody puts a hand on me, without lethal due cause. She said

‘I’m hungry, you want to go grab a bite?’

I still couldn’t get me fecking brain in gear and she said

‘Ok, just follow me, you can do that, right?’

I could, badly.

And we were outa there.

The large man had watched Ryan on the girders. Fuck, he was agile, like a

frigging Indian.

Now Merrick he could handle. Ex cops were so predictable but this guy, anyone

who could fly across the sky like that?

You had to wonder?

But the woman, now that more like it, let her get in the picture and he could write

the scene any way but loose and even then.

Only two ways to fuck the Irish, booze and that they did just fine them selves

and………a woman. They were suckers for the ladies.

Went to Tad’s Steak House. She choose it. I asked

‘You eat meat?’

Got the look, then

‘You think I’m vegan?’

We were just being seated and I said

‘Tell you the truth, you’re a pain in the arse.’

She laughed out loud. The kind of laugh you’d marry a woman for, no worries

about her mascara or how she looks, just out and plain merriment.

We got some brews in, and yes, she drank from the bottle, like I said, the type you

should marry. My ex drank sherry and was…………vegan.

We ordered the porterhouse steaks, mashed potatoes, no starter. Sat back and

surveyed each other.

She was still amused, then

‘What do you know about Indians?’

She was fucking with me…….ok, I could do that, said

‘John Wayne killed a shit load of them.’

She looked like she could kill me.

Said

‘And you love the stereo- type, what a dick.’

I took a sip from my brew, said

‘And you’re so fooking judgmental, my favorite movies are

Thunderheart

Chato’s land

Ulzana’s Raid

Dances with Wolves.

She went to say something and I snapped

‘Did I say I was finished? You might be a noble Indian but you could learn some

fooking manners, I read ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, love Graham

Greene, the Indian actor, not the writer and lest you forget, I’m Irish, we had

some shite come down the pike on us over the years so don’t go Whining Indian

on me.’

She leaned over, took my hand, said

‘See, I knew you could talk.’

You just couldn’t fooking win with her, I stopped trying, the food came, giving

me a respite.

She ate without inhibition and that was a joy to behold. She stopped mid bite,

asked

‘Why are you staring at me?’

I was going to bullshit but changed to

‘I like watching your face.’

She wiped her mouth, said

‘Good, then you have a shot.’

‘What?’

‘At getting me in the sack.’

I was signaling for more brews, paused, said

‘Jaysus, you’re awfully fooking sure of yer own self.’

She leaned over, took some of mashed potato, a very intimate act if you’re Irish,

she said

‘I’ve been a long…………..long time alone, The Shaman told me a man from

over the Atlantic would steal my heart.’

‘What, you think it’s me?’

Now she gave me the full intensity of those brown eyes, said

‘You should be so lucky.’

GACY’S JOURNAL.

At last.

Worthy opponents.

I couldn’t have wished for a more delicious scenario.

A Jew!

Failed cop, half assed PI, bar owner and an overpowering sense of his own

strength.

And true icing on the cake.

A Mick.

Now if he could just get his supplier to calm down, he was mouthing off about

low profile’s, beneath radar!

As if

As if genius could be hidden?

The Irish…….ah……….

Fresh off the boat, gung ho, full of all the low cunning of his race.

And richness indeed, The Gods of Boy love truly smile on me, the dumb Irish

hooked up with a Red Indian.

………………………how sweet it is.

How blind these Guardians of morals are. All they need to do, is look a little

further, and there I be, in translucence.

I throw them a morsel, the loser Gacy, and oh boredom, they go off on a serial

killer quest. But I’ll keep them a time longer on this track, for utter amusement.

Keeping it local as it were, Noo Yawk, let’s give them a good ol boy from the

town they prowl.

I reached out and touched the dumb Mick, time to ration the load, throw a scare

into the kike.

Something to keep him………………barking.

LONG ISLAND IDYLL.

Merrick was up early, the lawn needed trimming and he was fucked if he’d pay

some guy to do a half ass job and bill him for a full day.

Growing up in Brooklyn, he’d never expected to own a home on the island. That

was for rich dudes. After he got invalidated off the force, he’d hooked up with

Moe, used his cop skills to build up their PI agency, enough so he could put down

the deposit on the bar. Moe had helped, then, Moe always did, help that is.

The bar was work, real graft but began to turn a profit and the property became

available on Long Island. His wife, a care worker, persuaded that with their

combined salaries, they could get it.

They did.

Lot’s of sleepless nights over mortgages but finally, they were within five years of

owning outright.

And………………two kids in college.

He stopped the mower, stared at his home, could smell the toast and bacon frying

and thought

‘You did ok Rabbi.’

Merrick didn’t do friends real good, you were a cop, you were too cynical to

believe in it. But first Moe, now this stoner Irish guy.

…………………….who smoked.

Merrick didn’t let on he knew but when your parents died of lung cancer, you

fucking knew.

Ryan was a stand up guy, no doubt, even if half of what he said went over

Merrick’s head. He just liked the guy. He hadn’t told him all of Moe’s

investigation. Still holding some stuff back.

Cos like, you never knew.

Moe had narrowed the search for the child killer to three definite potentials.

Merrick had ruled one out as the guy was doing ten to life in Attica. The

remaining two.

Well, he’d need Ryan’s help in tracking them down and seeing if they were the

skel. He was about to jolt the mower up for the last inning’s when he heard a soul

scrunching scream. Judy!

He ran like a demon to the house, his heart pounding, found her in the hall, her

hands covered in blood, she gasped

‘Upstairs.’

He checked her, it wasn’t her blood. Grabbed his Louisville Slugger from the

hatstand, took the stairs, three a t a time.

The bedroom.

He paused, raised the bat, kicked the door wide open.

Their beloved Labrador, James Dean, was spread on the bed, it’s entrails spilling

out on the carpet, it’s head positioned on the pillow, a note in it’s pathetic mouth,

he snatched it, rage spilling from him, read

…………………….the dog made me do it.

………………AND A WORLD SO FULL OF WEEPING

THAT

………………FEW

……….CAN UNDERSTAND.

The day of the hurling match, I was alight. Going to show me mate our National

Game. Jaysus, I felt fierce proud. Us Irish don’t really do pride, not so you’d

notice and you’d say, fook all to be proud of. But whatever morsel we had, the

Brits kicked the living shit out of it. So a chance to show my friend one of our

rare achievements, It felt good.

And Galway playing mayo, old rivalries, no matter what continent it was on. Met

Merrick at The Stadium, he was dressed in chino’s, a T-shirt that read

……….Fifth of………….

The rest was washed away. He had Ray bans so I couldn’t see his eyes but he

wasn’t as the yuppies say, a happy camper. I could sense it. When you feel good your

own self, you are especially attuned to the nuances of discontent. I asked

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing, looking forward to the game is all.’

Right.

I said

‘Got a small surprise.’

He could give a fook, his whole body language screamed,…enough with

surprises. He tried though, said

‘Great.’

Meaning, I’d rather shove hot pokers up me arse.

I took him inside the stadium, flashed my laminated pass, led him down into the

bowels of the stadium, to the dressing rooms. Knocked on a door, opened by the

manager of The Galway Team, who said

‘Jesus, Ryan, they let you out.’

I introduced him to the team, and the captain, one of the best around, handed

Merrick a hurley, said

‘Take a swing of that big fellow.’

He did, liked it and had the flow.

He was handing it back when the captain said

‘Turn it over.’

On the other side was the signatures of the team.

He was moved, said

‘Thank you, I’m…..moved.’

Being Galwegian, the captain, said

‘You might want to give it back it they hammer the be-Jaysus out of us.’

And we had the best seats too.

I put my holdall at our feet, unzipped it, took out two cold one’s

‘Slainte.’

He was looking at me with a new eye, asked

‘How’d you pull that off?’

I said

‘I got some moves.’

He whistled, said

‘Ain’t that the truth.’

The game was one of the great one’s, sometimes you get lucky. Merrick was stunned by

the sheer speed of the game and the skill necessary to run up a field, the ball, balanced

precariously on the tip of the hurley, he asked

‘The fuck do they do that?’

I said

‘Practice.’

He was fascinated by the shape of the ball, I said

‘It’s a sliothar.’

There is no real translation for that, save a baseball that has lost the run of it’s self.

Galway won by two points but it was close, so tight that Merrick was up and screaming

‘Pass the fucking ball Cunningham.’

I think he got the gist of the game.

After, we headed for Frankie and Johnny’s, the steak place by Penn Station. Yeah, the

one used in the movie. Merrick was aflame, said

‘Jesus buddy, I loved that, got me an appetite too and hey, this is on me, capiche?’

Sure.

We ordered some Philly steak sandwiches, like I knew what the fook they were, and got

the brews while we waited for the grub.

Merrick had pushed the shades atop of his bald dome, sighed, said

‘Some shit came down the pike buddy.’

Told me.

I let it sink in, then said

‘Son of Sam.’

‘What?’

‘This lunatic is playing with serial killer references, Son Of Sam, he said his dog told him

to kill people.’

Merrick thought about it, said

‘Fuck, you might be right, how’d you know about Son Of Sam?’

‘Movies, most all I know is from them, Summer of Sam, Spike lee?’

Our food arrived and Merrick asked

‘You’re all lit up buddy, gotta be more than the game?’

I paused then figured, why not, told him of Shona.

He put down his fork, raised his bottle touched mine said

‘L’chaim.’

After the meal, we sat back, sipping on expresso with a hint of cognac in there.

Merrick said

‘I have two leads.’

I said

‘Ok.’

He reached in his chino’s, took out a slim notebook, flicked through it, then

‘The first, James P. Mallin, an accountant, single, aged forty, no priors, lives in Queen’s.

Moe had put a star beside his name, meaning he was due to interview the guy. Second up, is

Bob Temar, a dentist, again, single and no priors, aged forty five, lives in Tribeca,

business must be good I’m guessing.’

I said

‘Marathon Man’

I’d lost him, he said

‘You’ve lost me.’

’William Goldman, made into a movie with Hoffman, Laurence Oliver.’

He was surprised, said

‘I thought you didn’t read.’

I don’t, my ex was a huge fan of mystery, I suppose no bigger mystery to her than why

she married me.’

I let the bitterness leak all over my tone.

Merrick ambushed me, asked

‘What was her name?’

‘Why?’

“Because it’s important to you.’

Fook.

I said

‘Roisin.’

‘And your daughter?

I needed a smoke, said

‘Got to make a piss.’

Got outside, fumbled for my cigs, my Zippo, my throat choked. Jesus, I had as they say,

compartmentalized

My feelings, especially about Siobhan, that’s Joan in English and in the heart, all the woe

I know. She was six now, six years without her Dad. My last call to Roisin, to see if they

needed any money, she’d told me Sioban called the new husband……….Dad.

I bit down and swallowed hard.

Crushed the cig under my converse sneaker, turned to see Merrick, he touched my

shoulder, said

‘The tab is paid, wanna grab a night cap.’

I did.

He took me to The Mansefield Hotel, up on 54th, across the road from The Algonquin.

Even I’d heard of Dorothy Parker. The bar there was lined with books and we ordered

some Sam Adams, I said

‘Flash place.’

He smiled, said

‘You believe it, an Irish guy introduced this place to me.’

So you have to ask

‘A friend?’

He shook his head, said

‘The guy was a writer, they don’t really do friends I hear.’

Thought about it, said

‘Writers are no mystery if you know you are just part of the plot.’

Too deep for me. I raised the beer, asked

‘This is good, right?’

He nodded, said

‘They might have cursed us with The Red Sox but they make decent beer.’

‘IF NIETZSCHE IS CORRCT THAT TO SHAME A MAN IS TO KILL HIM.

— CAMUS.

Merrick And I decided to walk to the subway, then he’d catch the train to Long

Island. We were back to talking about Gacy or who-the fook-ever he was. We

decided to pay a visit to one of the suspects the next day, and Merrick mused

‘Which one first?’

I said

‘Let’s flip a coin.’

We did and the dentist in Tribeca was first up.

He nodded, said

‘The Dice man.’

I went

‘Who?’

He swore, said

‘Luke Reinhart, buddy, we’ve got to get you reading some books.’

I let that linger then

‘’Don’t sweat the small fings George.’

‘What?’

‘Michael Caine to Bob Hoskins in ‘Mona Lisa. We’ve got to get you watching

some movies mate.’

I could see the small smile touch his lips.

The walk was bracing, the night air clearing away some of the booze fumes.

Merrick asked me

‘So, when we pay our guy a visit, you want to be good or bad cop.?’

I didn’t answer for a time and he said

‘Come on, you guys worked that gig in The Guards?’

I said it was a little different. He pushed me so I said

‘Ok, there was the bad cop and there was the complete bollix.’

He laughed out loud.

He felt my sudden alertness, looked ahead, saw what I’d seen two beats before,

three guys, heading our way, fast and lethal. Merrick went

‘Uh-oh.’

The lead thug said

‘You ladies want to hand over your wallets.’

Merrick sighed, asked

‘You dumb fuck, can’t you see I’m carrying a weapon?’

The guy looked at his buddies, sneered

‘Yo, homes, you see this muttahfuck carrying anything more than a big stick?’

They laughed, the crystal meth one, high, like a hyena in grief, and merciless.

Then he reached in his windbreaker, pulled out a magnum, it looked big, ugly in

the light from the street, he said

‘Now me sweetcakes, I got me a serious piece of iron here.’

He guffawed again, and his crew joined in, major mistake, checking to see his

buddies appreciation. I saw Merrick take the moment to adopt the hitters slide

stance, balanced on his right foot, swung the hurley with all his force. I heard

bone crack and the magnum went sailing into the New York skyline. The guy

screamed

‘Goddamn son of a bitch, you gone broke my arm.’

He stared in disbelief at his shattered limb, a piece of white bone, visible. He

shouted at his crew

‘Take that asshole down homes, gut him like a bitch.’

One stepped forward with a long knife. Merrick balanced again but I stopped his

arm, asked

‘May I?’

The second guy had learned his knife skills from the movies, ie, all flash and no

skill. I let him lunge, even gave him a second feint, then kicked him in the balls,

using my knee to shatter his nose as he went down. The third guy was uncertain

what to do. The odds were not exactly shaping up. While he dithered, Merrick

said

‘For fuck’s sake, make up your goddamn mind.’

Took him out with a neat clip to the side of the head.

He wasn’t even out of breath, said

‘Christ, I needed that.’

He hefted the hurley in his large hands, said

‘This sucker has a fine balance.’

I said

‘Made from the ash.’

He laughed, went

‘Like I know what the hell that means.’

When we parted at the station, Merrick seemed like he might even hug me but I

blocked that, said

‘Whoa big guy, us Irish, we’re too macho for that shite.’

He laughed, clean and hard, asked

‘Where’d you learn to handle a knife guy?’

‘Bad neighborhood.’

‘Patrolled it, yeah?’’

‘Nope, we called it home.’

Not for the first time, he seemed about to say more but settled with

‘You’re a piece of work, you know that but I had me a fine full day.’

I agreed, said

‘And Galway won.’

Looked at his Hurley, added

‘Twice.’

SON OF SAM.

He stared at himself in the full length mirror, seeing what he had projected, a man of

Power

Wealth

And

Fame

Thank you the Rolling Stones.

He’d quickly tired of Berkovitz, Son of a Damn idiot more like. Had toyed with

the idea of

a……….The Zodiac.

b……….The green River Killer.

As a, had never been caught and b…………well, let’s say, the Jury was out still

on that baby.

The new name came.

Alton D. Brown.

He laughed out loud.

An amalgamation of Alton Coleman and Debra D. Brown. See how smart those Private

Dicks were.

And give a bit of showtime to those neglected folks. The duo, were believed to be guilty

of at least eight murders but then, who’s keeping score. Plus, abductions, beatings,

robbery thefts, sexual assaults of every hue. He shouted

‘My kind of party animals.’

He loved Brown’s un-repentant stance, in court she hollered

‘I killed the bitch and I don’t give a damn, I had fun out of it.’

Ah sweet thing, you had to love her.

As she awaited execution she wrote

‘I’m a more kind, understandable, lovable person than people think I am.’

‘Ditto.’

He exclaimed.

Struck him, he might just use the initials, be part of the zeitgeist where you were fucked

unless you were a an initial

See

BLT

IRS

IRA

LOL

AND HIS FAVOURITE

DOA.

Plus, you got the added bonus of sounding like a Syndrome, which were hot shit now, so

ADB…………………..oh yeah, that was serious virus, lethal you might say.

He sighed, enough fun, he had a lot of work to do and first, was dump the latest wunder-

kind in the East River.

‘I WAS BORN WHERE THERE NO ENCLOSURES AND

EVERYTHING DREW A FREE BREATH. I WANT TO DIE THERE AND NOT

WITHIN WALLS.

TEN BEARS, COMANCHE, AT MIDICINE LODGE, 1867.

‘Thank you for the lovely roses.’

Shona said.

We were in at the restaurant in Central Park, enjoying late Winter sun, I was a-glow, as

we’d made love the evening before and Jesus Wept, it was brilliant.

Roses, the fook do I know from roses, asked

‘What?’

‘This morning, after you left, I was lying in bed, replaying…………um………you know,

stuff……

Gave a wicked smile

………….’And the flowers came, with a note, signed, ADB, I thought you’d tell me what

it stood for?’

I said

‘Wasn’t me alanna.’

Alanna…………what is that?’

I was trying to figure out the initials, stopped said

‘Alanna, it’s a term of deep endearment back home.’

Her smile was something to memorize, she asked

‘And is it, deep?’

We’d finished brunch and I was waiting for the cheque, only Americans could come up

with a full meal betwixt break fast and lunch. I said

‘Oh yeah,’

Meant it.

But she was a woman and what do they do?

Probe

Question

Push

She did

With

‘Why do you still wear your wedding band?’

Holy fook, you have a moment, intimate almost and a woman, she’d dissect it to frigging

death, till it loses all of it’s original meaning. I had already told her about the Cladding

wedding ring, the two hearts and how the really old one’s had a gold ring welded to the

original heart N’ Hand ring.

I said

‘The ring was my mother’s, passed down from nigh three generations of Claddagh

women.’

She liked it.

Took my hand, then using her left one, she slid the colored wrist band she always wore,

slipped it onto my wrist, said

‘Comanche.’

From fooking urban cowboy to Indian, you go to guess, God is taking the piss.

I said

‘Gur a mhile maith agat.’

Before she could ask, I added

‘Thank you in Irish.’

She liked it, a lot, asked

‘You want to hear some Comanche?’

I said

‘Weren’t those shrieks last night, a war cry?’

And she was about to be offended, but went with a lush vibrant laughter then nearly

marred it with

‘You have cop eyes.’

It was open air so I could smoke and simmer.

Lit a Lucky, exhaled slowly and she said

‘I’ve offended you.’

She had.

But what the fook, I lied, said

‘Just I don’t know what that shite means?’

She was still holding my hand, her band on my wrist catching the late evening sundown,

casting shadows that suddenly seemed ominous or maybe I just needed a Jameson, fast.

She squeezed my hand, said

‘Ryan, everything is not a threat, I meant, you are always vigilant, checking out every

exit, watching every person’s move.’

I tried to ease down a notch, said

‘Is bronach an athas ar fad.’

She looked at me so I translated

‘Happiness is my deepest sorrow.’

Might not always make sense but it was always, for me, true, more’s the fookin Irish-ed

pity.

She had called it right on one thing, I was afraid, afraid of the one thing I truly didn’t want

……………..to fall in love.

WITH A MERCY THAT OUTRIDES ALL OF WATER.

Merrick picked me up outside my apartment on our day of visiting the first suspect, he

was driving, I fookin kid you not, a pick up. I got in the shotgun seat, said

‘Jesus, if Hank Williams is playing, then I’m living the American dream.’

He’d been to Starbucks, handed me a piping hot latte, grande, asked

‘No sugar, right?’

I was surprised, said

‘You’ve a good memory.’

‘Naw, just a cop too long.’

A Gypsy cab came out of Flatbush, cutting us off with but a heartbeat to spare. Merrick

screeched on the brakes, and my coffee spilled on to my jeans, burning like a bastard. I

muttered

‘Oh motherfucking fuck.’

Merrick looked at me, asked

‘That’s Irish?’

I dabbed at the spreading stain, said

‘Tony Soprano.’

He watched the Gypsy cab disappear then wrote down the license plate. I asked

‘You going to see him later?’

He tossed the number in the back, said

‘I’d like to but no, one of my buddies on the Force, he’ll ream him a new one.’

I took a sip of what remained of my coffee, asked

‘A new what?

He laughed, said

‘I keep forgetting you don’t speak American, it means, ream him a new asshole.’

I said

‘Jesus, I thought we were bad.’

He asked

‘You good to go or want to go back, change your jeans?’

The stain wasn’t too bad, I hoped so I said

‘No, we believe it’s unlucky to turn back on a journey.’

He was maneuvering the tunnel into Manhattan, reaching for the toll, said

‘Didn’t figure you for superstitious.’

I nearly laughed, my race?…………said

‘It’s just we hedge our bets.’

He flicked the radio on, got a rock channel, we heard Don Henley

…………………The Innocence.

Killer.

I said

‘You’re always asking me about the Irish and yet, despite you saying I’m closed, you

give me fook all of your heritage.’

He seemed to be laughing at some inner joke, said

‘Maybe if you asked now and again, you’d get an answer.’

So I asked

‘What’s it like to be Jewish?’

He was gritting his teeth, at my question or the tailgating, I dunno…then

“ We used to be persecuted, but now.’

I waited and got…nothing

Asked

‘Now?’

He smiled

‘We’re hedging our bets.’

Out of nowhere, he asked

‘What about your old man, what was he like, A Guard too?’

I laughed, out loud, Jesus, said

‘Him, a Guard, what a fecking joke, like he had the balls to ever put himself on any firing

line. My mother said on the day we buried the spineless prick, she said

………………………….he never said anything bad about anybody.

Merrick was confused, asked

‘But that’s a good thing, yeah?’

I drained the coffee, wish I had more it, with a double shot of Jay, said

‘Made him a cute hoor is what oh and before you ask, a cute hoor is a sly bollix is what.’

Christ, was I hyperventilating, where’d that come from?’

Merrick said

‘Good you have a handle on it though.’

‘Don’t stop believing’ was blasting from the radio, he reached to turn it down, I asked

‘Don’t’

We waited for the song to reel on then I asked

‘So, who’s up to today?’

He said

‘Tribeca, the dentist..’

I asked him about the initials, the one’s Shona received. He shook his head, said

‘Naw, I got nuttin.’

Then

‘Why?’

Told him.

Took him a moment, he went

‘Whoa, hold the goddamn phones, they were with the flowers that Shona got, Holy shit,

you sent flowers,

you?’

I murmured

‘It wasn’t me.’

He was on it, loving it, went

‘Jesus H……the damn Fenian is a romantic and oh Mi God, you scored you did, didn’t

you?’

I was caught between delight and serious annoyance, not a comfortable place, said

‘Ok, calm down a fookin minute, let’s get back to those initials’

Nope.

The bad bollix wasn’t letting go, chanced at glance at my wrist, said

‘And you got the Indian band, man, you are so fucked.’

We were coming into Manhattan, he said

‘Buddy, I was going to keep this for later but this is big news and I swear to fuck, I’m

delighted, a miserable son of a bitch like you, grabbing him one of our very own

American princes.’

I was really tired of this and was about to launch when he reached in the back of the

truck, pulled out a long parcel, said

‘Enjoy bro.’

I thought, if this is a rifle, I may well have to shoot the bastard. Tore the wrapping off

To reveal

A baseball bat

Merrick said

‘The Louisville Slugger, the real deal.’

Nigh overwhelmed, I resorted to banter, asked

‘Did you get the Yankee’s to sign it?’

Given his loathing of said team, he mock reached, asked

‘You wanna test it out, now.’

Still moved and not knowing how to just say

‘Thank you.’

I stayed in flip territory, asked

‘Can I bring it with us to meet the dentist?’

He reached for it, tossed it in the back, said

‘This is by the book.’

He was getting out and I said

‘I’d be good, honest Injun.’

He wiped his bald dome, said

‘Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘RED MOON RISING. A WOLF IN THE PINES.

NICK TOSCHES.

‘IN THE HANDS OF DANTE.’

We got out of the pick up, getting looks from the Tribecans, amid the Porsches,

Lamborghini’s, we were a little….out of place?

Fook em.

I

asked Merrick

‘This fellah’s name again?’

‘Bob Temar’

Looked at me, snapped

‘You need to keep up to speed hot shot.’

Regretted leaving the slugger behind. I asked

‘And we’re getting to see this high flier, how?’

‘I lied, said we were cops.’

Ol Bob’s office’s/surgery, were discretely opulent. Glass front, nothing showy, his name,

Robert Temar, on a simple brass plate, and a whole shit load of letters after it. I said

‘A player, right?

Merrick was checking the frontage, answered

‘Oh yeah, a heavy hitter, cash wise.’

We went in, a quiet crowd of people in the waiting room, thumbing through the very

latest People, Entertainment Weekly, probably checking to see if they featured. The

receptionist was a ringer for Lindsay Lohan, her rehab stint perhaps. She looked at us,

knew we weren’t……..players. Said in a frozen Margarita tone

‘”Yes.’

The assembly looked up, her tone signaling

‘Intruders.’

As in……….the hired help are in the front office.

I said

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Bob is expecting us.’

Trying to keep the fury out of my tone.

Merrick whispered

‘Jesus, shut the fuck up, I’ll l do the talking.’

Merrick led the way down a deep carpeted hall, knocked on a door, heard

‘Enter.’

Bob was from Central Casting via Stanley Tucci, if you’re going to be bald, go the Tucci

route. Bob had.

Beautiful grey suit, that kind that sneered at you

‘Loser.’

His perfect tan, grey tinted glassed to accessorize his suit, tall, over Six.two, with a build

that he spent a whole shit load of time in the Tribeca gym, they probably had frequent

flier miles.

Bad mouth though, no amount of bucks could hide the mean downturn. He said, in a

cultured tone, a guy who never had to raise his voice, it got done, why you had the mega

bucks

‘Ah, the gentlemen from the NYPD, may I see some credentials?’

He was good, had the shit down.

Merrick gave him his winning smile, said, warmly

‘We’re no longer with The Department, we’re private.’

Bob looked like someone had given him an enema, snapped

‘Then you’re here under false pretensions, perhaps I should give a call to The Police

Commissioner, former patient of mine, reason he has that winning smile.’

Merrick was all balm, said

‘No Need Doctor, I mean, we’re investigating a child murder, how would it look if The

Daily News had a story that the top dentist in Manhattan lawyered up over this?’

Bob smiled, a predatory one, mind fucking, this guy invented the game, said

‘Ah, the feeble threats. I’m disappointed but to get you out of here, what did you want to

know?’

Merrick slapped two photo’s of the dead kids on the pristine mahogany desk, asked

‘Ever see those children before.’

Bob smiled, a mirthless thing that made your blood blow colder, he said

‘Really, Morton, if I were the…..how do you term it in police parlance?….the

perpetrator, would I say………….Yes, I know them or deny any knowledge?’

Merrick was losing it, I could see it in the rise of his shoulders, he said, gritted teeth

‘It’s Merrick, so you haven’t seen them?’

‘No.’

Merrick grabbed the pictures, said

‘Thank you for your time, sorry to bother you.’

Bob was looking at me, a light in his eyes, asked

‘Your partner, he’s a mute, he isn’t allowed to speak?’

I moved forward, pushing Merrick’s restraining arm aside, said

‘You can glance at two murdered kids and adopt t a fookin sardonic tone? ‘

His smile widened, he said

‘Irish and with the usual foul tongue, you’re a long way from home Paddy.’

I put my index finger on the lapel of his gorgeous suit, said

‘You know what that means?’

The smile never wavered, he said

‘That a Mick could never hope to aspire to it?’

I gave him one of my own smiles, said

‘’Touchable.’

Outside, Merrick was fit to be tied, he was so angry, I said

‘It went well, you think?’

He exploded

‘You dumb fucking..Paddy, what do you think you’re playing at, didn’t I tell you, TELL

you to keep your dumbass trap the hell shut? But no, Mr. Fucking Wise guy has to go

running his mouth, blowing the whole deal to shit and shingle,

I asked

‘What did you call me?’

He paused’

‘Jesus H, you deaf as well as pig Irish stubborn, I called you a dumb fucking Paddy.’

I said, real quiet

‘Thought so.’

And swinging with my right, I knocked him clean off his feet, said

‘You’re fooking lucky I don’t have me hurly.’

Turned on me heel, hailed a passing Gypsy cab, got the fook outa there.

The driver, looking in his mirror, seeing Merrick on his ass on the pavement, asked

‘What happened to that guy?’

I said

‘He had some teeth

trouble.’

‘STONE FOX.’

On W31 st, between Broadway and 6th Avenue is O’Reilly’s, a pub restaurant, was where

I’d taken Shona. It was her birthday so I took her to an Irish place.

I hadn’t yet found a

Comanche joint but if I did.

She looked terrific, wearing a fringed Suede Jacket, faded blue jeans, tight white-T.

Seeing her, I said

‘Jesus.’

She smiled, asked

‘That’s good, right?’

Usually, I have cop habits, check the exits, see who’s lurking in the corners, you get the

drift.

I was so smitten, I never did and so, didn’t see the large built man, in the corner, sucking

on a Corona.

The waitress was from Puerto Rico, it being an Irish pub. A very friendly girl, asked us if

we’d like a drink before dinner, I said

‘’It’s my girl’s birthday, what do you think?’

Shona mock reprimanded

‘Why’d you tell them?’

The girl disappeared and re-appeared with a bottle of Champagne, said

‘Del Corazon.’

It was getting more Irish by the minute.

Once the stuff was opened, we clinked glasses and I said

‘La brea agus bheannacht leat.’

Her eyes were dancing in her head, she asked

‘Translate please.’

‘May you have a beautiful and blessed day.’

Thank you’

We ordered beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables. Shona put her glass down, asked

‘Promise you won’t be angry with me?’

‘What did you do?’

I thought it was some kidding around.

She wasn’t.

Said

‘Merrick phoned me.’

Fook on a bike.

The champagne seemed to be gone flat, I said

‘How would he get your number?’

She smiled, said

‘He’s a cop.’

‘Was.’

I tried to keep my face in neutral, asked

‘What’d he want?’

‘To apologize, said you wouldn’t answer his calls.’

True.

She looked pleadingly at me, asked

‘Will you talk to him?’

I was fooked if I’d let the evening slide down the shitter, said

‘Sure.’

She was relieved, said

‘He’s outside.’

Ah Jesus. I snapped

‘”What, now?’

She nodded.

I stood up, said

‘Won’t be long.’

And there he was, dressed for the cold in a lumber jacket, heavy scarf and his eyes

displaying a shiner. I pulled out my cigs, lit up, asked

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m sorry buddy, I was out of line.I shoot my mouth off some times, I’m truly sorry.’

Held out his hand, asked

‘Shake?’

I tossed the cig, took his hand, said

‘Ok.’

He searched my face, asked

‘We good?’

‘Yeah.’

He let out a deep breath, said

‘I can’t promise I won’t run my mouth again but I swear, I won’t make any….remarks

on your country.’

I’m not in the punishment business unless you’ve been married to me, said

‘Tis done, we’re moving on.’

He reached in his jacket, pulled out a small package, said

‘For your girl’s birthday.’

I was surprised, said

‘Thanks.’

Then asked

‘You want to come in, grab a brew, a steak?’

He nearly laughed, said

‘On her birthday, then she might deck me.’

I nodded and he asked

‘In the morning, you good to go for the other suspect?’

I said

‘Yeah and I’ll try to keep me mouth shut.’

And he was gone.

I went back inside to arrive as our food was set on the table, gave Shona her gift. She said

‘What a sweet thing to do.’

It was a token for fifty bucks to Borders. I pulled out my own, handed it over, said

‘Shite, it’s the same thing.’

Had her going for a moment, she opened it, the Claddagh Heart Pendant catching the

light.

The food was great and yet again, just to watch her relish her meal was a joy. I asked

‘Tell me about The Comanche?’

I was expecting an argument but, no, she launched

‘When the Comanche soldiers came back from Vietnam, no one spat at them or called

them names. They were seen as returning warriors, celebrated with feasts and dances,

which could be why they had little or no, Post traumatic syndrome.’

Christ, I never even knew they served in Vietnam.

Sensing the down turn in the mood of the conversation, she added

‘Plus, Comanche’s followed The Grateful Dead for years.’

I laughed, the image was so damn appealing. I said

‘And Jerry Garcia died.’

She smiled, said

‘Not to The Comanche.’

The whole of the staff suddenly appeared, carrying a large birthday cake, ablaze with

candles and fook, they sang, Happy Birthday.’

I swear to God, she blushed or maybe it was the booze.

I said

‘Make a wish.’

She stared at me for a long moment, said in a very quiet voice

‘I did, the very first moment I saw you.’

Do you ask?

Do you fook.

The man in the corner, had followed each move of the evening, even able to follow

outside, hanging in the shadows, seeing Merrick, seeing all and thinking

………………………….thinking fucking lethal

‘Merrick, how sweet it is and will be.’

When we finally got out of there, Shona was building a nice buzz, she said

‘I wish this day would just go and on.’

She insisted we go to my place, despite me protesting it was crap. She said

‘But your crap.’

Like I could answer that.

After we’d made love and were lying, catching our breath, she intoned

‘Stone Fox nodded to the boy, cradling his rifle close, then the town watched in silence as

little Willy, carrying searchlight, walked the last ten feet………….across the final line.’

I asked,

‘What?’

‘Children’s book, by John Reynolds Gardner, about Stone Fox, a famous reclusive sled

racer.’

Added

………………….And Indian, I grew up on that book, did you have a book Ryan, when

you were little?’

Yeah, Dracula.

Said

‘Moby Dick.’

‘That’s not a children’s book?’

‘It had a big fish, that was childish enough for us.’

I was only half kidding.

‘’I HAVE PERSONAL PROBLEMS.’

SAID BOBBY FISCHER, AS HE SCORED

CHECKMATE.

Merrick picked me up the next morning, just after ten, Shona was still sleeping, and I’d

time to pick up coffee’s from the Deli on the corner.

They were getting to know me there, called me Irish. That we don’t mind, it’s what we

are but Paddy, you’re fooked and gone. Merrick had a stripped down Chevy, looked old,

looked like him. I got in, handed over the coffee and he went

‘What, no Danish?’

I said

‘Yeah, you’re welcome.’

He sipped it, said

‘Black and sweet.’

‘Like your soul.’

I said,

asked

‘What’s with the Chevy?’

‘Belongs to my boy, he’s at Art College, it needed a tune up so I took care of that.’

Night before, just as Shona was about to drift off, she asked

‘What do you guys talk about?’

The correct answer, or the one you give if you want to keep her is

‘You sweetheart.’

Women have deep, lay it all out there sharing. Guys?

like fook.

We talk sports

And

Sports.

Mostly.

We don’t EVER, use words like

Share

Bonding

And

Dr Phil

Is the great white dope.

Spain had taken The World Cup during the summer and I said to Merrick that the USA

were definitely getting their act together with soccer, their goalie, Howard had even been

with Man United. Serious fooking kudos. Merrick said

‘You guys are really into soccer, right?’

‘Shite yeah, I’d a few Euro on Argentina but they phoned in their crucial game.’

Then, Jesus, I was off and running, rapping intense about the beauty of Barcelona,

Torres

………when he cut me off

‘’Whoa buddy, I said I was mildly interested but a lecture, did I sign on?’

I did what any decent Irish guy would so

Sulked.

It was quite a drive to Queens so he glanced at me, said

‘Jeez, Ryan, come on, I didn’t mean that, tell me about Mara donna, wasn’t he the

manager of Argentina.?

I finished my coffee, thinking a Danish would have been good, but a smoke, that would

have been classic, like after love making but smoke in an American’s car?

Get outa here.

I said

‘He’s a flawed genius who has now become a genius who is flawed.’

Merrick laughed, said

‘Like I’ve one freaking notion what that means.’

Well, I tried and sometimes, trying is ultimately, trying.

That I kept to me own self.

I asked

‘So this guy?’

Merrick was watching of the exit, said

‘James P. Malone, an accountant, and like I said, no priors, no wife, no nada.’

He added

‘He lives and works in Ditmars Boulevard, it’s a predominantly Greek outpost and if

you’re real good this time out, I’ll treat you to Baklava and an espresso at Karyotins,

worth

the trip to Queens alone.’

We were cruising through Steinway, East of Astoria. I asked

‘Steinway, like in piano?’

‘Yup, he bought up the district for homes for his workers.’

He took his right hand off the wheel, pointed towards the bay, said

‘Off shore is Rikers, the most overcrowded joint in the city.’

We pulled up on 31st St, just a spit from Malone’s place. Merrick was about to launch, I

said

‘I got it, shut the fook up.’

He nearly smiled.

Malone’s building was neat, clean, discrete. A small wooden shingle advertising his

accountancy business.

We went in, a large open space, almost ten people working at PC.s, and a sing that led to

reception. This was a different set up to our Tribeca gig, the woman here was close to

seventy, no Lindsay Logan. I kind of liked the Tribeca mode. She looked up, rasped,

testifying to a life of nicotine,

‘Help you?’

Her tone, weary, like she gave a rat’s ass if she could or not, help us that is. She’d seen

some crap, and didn’t look like she was expecting to win the numbers anytime soon.

Her name plate read, M.Trenton.

Merrick said

‘Madam, we’ve an appointment with Mr. Malone.’

She looked up, Madam?……….took a moment, then

‘Oh the cop, yeah, go right in?’

We were about to when she asked

‘And who’s the hot babe with you?’

I loved her already.

Merrick, not so much..

Malone was the poster boy for accountancy, wearing glasses, a muted suit, hair done in a

comb over, the saddest sight on the planet, and a desk, not mahogany, but serviceable

steel, an air of bewildered wonder about him, he said

‘Officer Merrick and your partner, how can I be of help?’

Merrick didn’t correct him, said

‘Thank you for your time Mr. Malone, we’re investigating some child disappearances and

wonder if you might have ever seen these kids?’

No indignation form him……..no

‘What the fook you asking me about horrendous crimes for?’

Mr. Citizen,

if we’d said

‘We’re taking you in.’

He’d probably have put on the cuff’s his own self to accommodate us.

That was just horseshit to me, the guy was fookin with us on a whole different level or,

he was as dumb as he wanted us to think.

He looked, intently at the photo’s, said

‘Oh my Lord, no, sorry, I wish I could help.’

I was about to launch but Merrick stepped on my foot, hard. Said

‘Mr. Malone, thank you, wish all our inquires were met with so much candor.’

Outside, we got in the car, took the scenic route into the city, by the ugly airport.

Ten minutes in to the drive, I said‘

‘No baklava then, guess I didn’t do so good.’

He didn’t answer then suddenly swerved across two lanes of traffic, horns blaring, and

tire’s screeching, managed, barely to pull onto the verge. Turned off the engine, said

‘I owe you something’

Leaned over and smacked me right in the mouth, cracking my front tooth, muttered

“Now, we’ve even, you asked about Jewish people, now you know, we bide our sweet

fucking time.’

I watched the blood from my split lip roll down my off white shirt, didn’t make any move

to staunch it.

He said

‘Ryan, you had that coming, Ok? were doing good in there, but you, you wanted to step

all over the guy, scare the hell out of him, what’s your problem haven’t you got any cop

instincts?’

I pulled my door open, he shouted

‘Aw, come on.’

I reached in my waistband, pulled out my piece, leaned in the window, asked

‘And you, bollix, wanted to know about my background, open your fookin mouth, go on,

do it and see how cop!..………..I am?

He tried

‘Ryan’

I pulled the slide

He nodded, put the car in gear, burned rubber out of there.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, the gun hanging loosely in my hand, asked me own

self

‘Would you, would you have shot the prick?’

Said

‘I’ve got a personality problem.

Added

‘Checkmate.’

I’d read somewhere that Bobby Fischer was accused of being anti-Semitic.

Yeah?

‘MAN, IF BE INSUFFICIENTLY OR ILL-EDUCATED

HE

IS

THE MOST SAVAGE OF CREATURES.

PLATO…….(yeah, that guy).

The heavy chess tournament award flew across the room, shattering the full length

mirror. The man known formerly as

Gacy

Initials

Et Al

Was so angry he could fucking spit.

A lot.

He was wearing his Yoga gear, wanted to rip it to shreds.

Peace……………

Fucking A Mister.

The rage was building even more as he couldn’t see himself in the shattered mirror,

hissed

‘Unbreakable, crap goddamn movie and crappier mirror.’

Turned to his bureau, the drawers not opening fast enough, so he yanked the bastards out

full, watched his carefully arranged underwear, arranged by day and color, fly all over the

room. Found the Heckler And Koch, aimed it at the mirror, wanted to weep at how he

was going to have to know what underwear to put on tomorrow. He checked the clip, way

to go, full and put a round in the dying glass, hissed

Yeah, who’s fucking sorry now?’

Spun around, muttered

‘Creep up on me muthahfuckah, how’d you like these cojones.’

Put two shells into the empty space.

One of the bullets ricocheted off the wall and came real close to taking his insane head

off. Got his attention, he whispered

‘Death by cop, by stealth.’

Heard the term………….unraveling, he knew it well from the serial killer books he’d

read and worse, how the schmucks got caught. Went to the bathroom off the room,

opened the medicine cabinet, grabbed the bottle of Vic Odin, dry swallowed two.

Asked

‘Do the trick?’

Nope.

Kay……………

Got out the heavy duty babies, meant to be for an emergency and what the fuck was this,

pray tell?

Stopped, had he uttered that aloud?

Like a cartoon character, he put his hand over his mouth, then back to the cabinet, time to

get down, and got the Ocycodeine. Then holding three of these lethal suckers, went back

into the room, headed for the drinks cabinet, selected the Johnny Walker Blue, poured a

healthy measure into a tumbler made of Irish crystal, toasted

‘Oblivion, take me thus.’

The pills washed down with the blue. Now, all he had to do was wait, be chill and wait

for the answer.

After five minutes was able to sit down, feel the booze warm his stomach and then the

jolt as some of the Med’s kicked in.

Took a deep, albeit ragged breath, felt his mind go into the icy region and then was able

to say, without too much bile

‘They….

……………..they

…………………….came to my fucking place of work, put down two pictures of my

beloved, and……..

He could barely say it

Question ME!.

He’d wanted to throw up when they appeared but felt he covered it well but then, who

knew?

You deal with fucking morons, they might get lucky and they’d only to get lucky ONCE.

The big guy, Merrick, all bluster and hard ass but the Irishman, a worry. He looked at you

with those killer eyes and you know, you knew, fess up, he was a crazy, he was Crystal

meth in human form. You took your attention offa him, hello fifty years in the slammer,

if………….and big if, the madman didn’t gut you first.

Lessons to be taught

Harsh

Brutal

Merciless

……if he was to distract the duo. Only one way, the dope told him, no argument.

Shoot one.

‘BUDDIES DON’T SHOOT EACH OTHER

DO……….(anxious tone)

THEY?’

DAVID THOMPSON, MURDER BY THE BOOK.

I was back in Brooklyn, Van Morrison with Astral Weeks on the stereo, not an

Mp3

Or any of the new fangled shite

On a sound system that the brothers would have been proud of. You can’t appreciate

music with things stuck in your ears.

Play it loud and aggressive.

Annoy the neighbors.

The whole point of stereo.

Just ask the black cats what the boom boxes are really all about.

My neighbors were a pair of stoner dudes, worthy of a Don Winslow novel, no I hadn’t

begun to read, they told me! And when I played, especially Thin Lizzy, loud and defiant,

they begged

‘Louder dude.’

Stoner’s, like I said.

Madam George was on and that bring s me as close to tears as any Oprah show. The

dreaded memory began to un-reel, I opened the seal on The Wild Turkey, the deli didn’t

stock Jay.

Yet.

Took a hit, good, lit a cig, and tried to let the lyrics blot out the awful mind replay.

Eddie and I, two kids from the Republic,Eddie from Dublin, with that indefinable accent,

you didn’t know was he

a…………….cultured

b……………………….had notions

c…………..just a cunt

not many of us with the Boyo’s then,

after Bloody Sunday,

well, they came in droves.

‘Field of Dreams’, build the stadium and they will come, well, the Brits built a blood

stadium that they’d never quite play ball in again.

We earned our respect in the real testing ground.

South Armagh.

Bandit country.

Arm elite Armageddon.

Taking heavy hits every fookin day, got so you didn’t even talk to the new guys no more,

they’d be dead in two days. The SAS had us on the run, a turkey shoot but as they had no

respect for us, they got smug and we got back, viciously. Began to hit them literally at

home and I’m not real proud of that.

Different time.

We were finally sent to Belfast, the big number. Street to street, rooftop to alley, hit, run

hit again.

I was barely twenty and hadn’t one night ‘s sleep in a year.

Even the brass saw how beat we were and gave us two days Rn R in a safe house off the

Falls. We had crates of bottled Guinness, Fenian music, a stash of Poitin. We made

serious inroads on all of it. Even had some girls come round, look after our food,

washing…………..and stuff. Molly, red haired, Jesus wept, she adored Van the man,

used to have me listen to The Philosopher’s Stone, over and over till she was convinced I

got it. She was the very best of Irish women

Smart

Defiant

And ferociously loyal.

Said to me

‘Ryan, I’m your bulletproof vest.’

I was eating the stew she’d made and it was fierce good, full of spuds, meat, cabbage and

that heavy gravy, I looked up to tell her I might love…., I knew she figured I was going

to say ’Stew’ but she never got to find out, I never got to tell her.

A bullet took most of her head off, her blood and brains blending with the beautiful red

hair. I dropped the bowl as a mortar took out most of the top floor. Eddie was on his

belly, crawling towards the back door, his girl splattered over the far wall. I don’t

remember her name and I feel real bad about that.

I got my pistol out of my waistband as a borage of machine gun fire racked across the

room. Made it as far as Eddie, saw his face had a curious expression, shock I figured. He

said

‘Ryan, it doesn’t have to end like this?’

The fook was he talking about.

Added

‘They’ll let you live.’

My mind recoiled.

We were only just getting used to the term Supergrass, where the Brit’s grabbed our best,

turned them, and used them to decimate our ranks. He reached out his hand, I spat

‘You fookin can’t betray your country, Jesus Fookin wept, what else is there?’

I swear by all that’s Holy or otherwise that he smiled, said real quiet

‘I’m not.’

He was a fookin Brit, explained the dodgy accent and him being fookin useless at

hurling.

‘You’ll get a new identity, some nice money and all you have to do is tell them what they

already know.’

I managed to rise on to one knee, looked out the searchlights sweeping the house, the

street, and for a moment, it almost looked like white light, biotical sheen. Eddie pushed,

said what was to become my mantra of destruction

‘C’mon Paddy, it’s over.’

I got out of there, but I’m not really sure I ever truly left.

I was trying to compose a list of all time great buddy/road movies. For Merrick.

He’d be back.

Right?

Jaysus, if a friendship can’t survive a simple gun threat, is it really a bond?

Merrick loved poetry and my only knowledge was

…………….the poetry of cordite.

Definite in it’s relentless rhythm.

I had

Scarecrow, Hackman and Pacino……….didn’t they fall the fook out a time or two?

Freebie and The Bean, Caan and Arkin, and by Christ, they spent most of the movie

wailing the be-jaysus out of each other.

Butch and Sundance of course and they sure picked pieces of each other’s verbal hide.

48 Hours………..mmph…….I think it goes on the list, they certainly had enough

testosterone to merit.

Thunderbolt and Lightning, Jeff Bridges and Clint. A classic of friction.

A rapid knocking on my door halted my list, I figured it was a stoner asking why Lizzie

weren’t loud roaring, Whiskey In The Jar.

Figured wrong.

It was Shona.

A very distraught one, shouting

‘Why don’t you pick up your goddamn phone?’

Fook this, I asked

‘Am, what happened to hello?’

She brushed past me, turned to glare, said

‘Merrick’s been shot.’

I nearly said

‘I didn’t do it.’

In light of the last time I’d seen him, and my gun in his face, I bit down, hard. Asked

‘What?’

Her hands on her hips, the female in total exasperation at the male of the species, she said

‘His wife called me, they couldn’t get you,

She glanced at the bottle of Bourbon, the sound system, added

‘Because, guess what? Ryan is partying down. You bastard, your buddy is shot and

you’re having some fun time?’

She said a whole load of other shite, the way women do, they catch you on one fook up,

by Jesus, the whole kit and caboodle is comi.ng to show.

I did the smart thing, looked contrite like I could else? And when she wound down, got

the details, sketch as they were. Merrick was at Cedar Sinai, undergoing emergency

surgery.

And that was all she really knew.

She said

“I brought my car.’

Hello?

She had a car?

A Lincoln Convertible no less. You’d think…………The Lincoln lawyer, if you knew

your mystery.

‘WHICH WAY I FLEE IS HELL

MYSELF AM HELL.’

PARADISE LOST

MILTON.

She drove well, with a controlled ferocity, I had a hundred questions but my verdict

hadn’t come in yet so I said fook all.

Up on ER, we met Judy, Merrick’s wife, who said

‘Ryan?’

I waited for abuse but worse got

‘Oh Steve loves you.’

Steve?

Stephen Merrick, didn’t ring but I kept that to meself.

Merrick had taken a shot in his back, under the lower lung and was still in surgery, I

asked Judy

‘Can you remember anything about what happened/’

I was tentative, fearful of the wrath of The Comanche’s. She said

‘He came back early, from being with you, then said he’d work on our son’s car in the

yard. He’d been about there a while and I was going to call him for a beer, he loves his

cold beer after working up a sweat, when I heard a barrage of shots.’

Whoa, barrage?

She got there before me, said

‘Lieutenant Jordan,’

Indicating a short heavy set dude in the corner of the ER. He threw me a look of what

can only be termed, distaste.

Jesus, wait till he met me!

Judy continued

‘Say’s that six shost in all were probably fired, and only one hit.’

I thought

‘Moving car and handgun.’

It’s a bitch to nail a target with a handgun at the best of times but in a moving car, you

just empty your load and hope for luck.

Things got worse, Judy took my hand, said

‘Mr. Ryan, your friendship has really made a difference to Steve, he had been so down,

with Moe in a coma and all.’

Shona stared at me, willing me to step on it. I didn’t. Irish might mean green but it

doesn’t mean stupid, ask Bob Geldof.

I asked if could get her some coffee, some food, Jesus, anything to move me from the

spotlight.

Shona had her arm round her shoulder, I mean, come on, how do women get away with

this, they seem to be able do shit we’d get crucified for?

Judy said

‘Some coffee would be nice, keep me awake.’

I looked at Shona who said

‘No thank you?’

I went to get the coffee and with luck, a cig pit stop. The vending machine was on the

floor beneath and a sign that read………Smoking Room.

Alle-fooking-luia.

There is a nicotine God.

With a sense of humor. The sign led to the an outside wall.

Ok, I could roll.

A large man was coming towards me, he looked familiar, he smiled, said

‘You don’t remember me?’

Am…………

He laughed

‘You tinker, forgot me already, I’m Charley?……I own the bar, my Mum’s from Mayo?’

‘Oh right, sorry, I’m a bit preoccupied.’

He looked solemn, said

‘Steve will be fine, you’ll see, the guy is like a buffalo and hey, don’t be a stranger, come

down, buy your Indian girl some dinner, in my place, I’ll treat her right.’

Got outside

Got fired up and the door opened, I glanced up, a guy in a grey suit, came out, a crumpled

off the rack suit and I knew

‘Cop’

Nodded at him.

He took out a battered pack of un-filtered Pall Mall, and I offered my Zippo. He took it,

fired away.

I waited and sure enough, he said

‘Ryan, right?’

He put out his hand and I took it, he had one of those steel grips but let go without

damage, said

‘I used to walk the beat, with Merrick, back in the day.’

Ok.

More waiting as he got to make a smoke ring and maybe, the point then

‘Steve got pensioned out after his partner’s, lost his taste for the street I’m thinking and

me, I got moved to computer crimes.’

Waiting.

‘The point being, I’m shit hot with encrytology, numbers, data, anagrams

A beat

“And initials.

Gotcha.

“Steve ran some initials by me a few days ago, I never got to show him, simple really as

he’d told me they were in the serial ballpark, and you being his buddy, I figured, you’d

like, you might like to know.’

He told me, explaining,

‘A serial tag team, of real sweethearts, and the guy, he liked to send roses to his dead

victims homes,…………………………..

after they discovered the body.’

Shona, the roses.

He added

‘Sick huh?’

He flipped his cig butt high and far in to the Manhattan night, then reached in his jacket,

Said

‘I’ve been doing this a time, you know, and my instincts have never let me down.’

I asked

‘And they’re saying…………what?’

‘The psycho is practically telling you, a tag team……….he’s not on his own, he’s got a

partner.’

Like I’d said from the fookin beginning.

‘You need anything, give me a call.’

I read his card

………………………Serg. L. Boxer

………………………..computer Crimes.

And a choice of three numbers.

I said

‘Thank you.’

‘No big thing.’

‘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.’

I’d been sitting in Herald Square. Drinking a Starbucks Latte Grande, followed it with a

cig. I swear to God, as I cranked the Zippo, I looked round furtively, checking for The

Nicotine Nazi’s. Three obese people went by. I muttered

‘See, eat yourself to death. The American Bill of Rights.’

In Ireland, during our nigh ten years of Economic prosperity, we’d developed the obese

Problem. Not too surprising, a country starved for five hundred years, then rushed to

the other end of the scale. Fast food joints almost outnumbering the number of pubs, well

almost. Certainly outnumbering the number of priests, an endangered species. I could

hear Roisin, my ex wife screech

‘Anorexia, in my day, we called it poverty.’

Not your emphatic lady.

I’d heard that Herald Square was a stone replay of the feud between The Herald and The

Tribune. Like I knew what the fook that meant? The barista in Starbucks, notice the

barista, the guy said that’s what he was.

Ok, just gimme the bloody coffee.

But he was not to be stemmed, I think the tip encouraged him, he pointed to The Square,

said it used to The Tenderloin Area. Now it was just sad. The dancing, brothel’s,

dangerous tavern’s long gone. Replaced by a dull shabbiness. A gone to shite blot on the

landscape.

Macy’s, in view, trying to look like it was on another block. Me, I think I’d have fit in

better with the edgy times rather than just plain decrepit.

I hailed a cab, headed for the hospital. Had gotten a call from Shona, Merrick had come

out of surgery, was doing well and sitting up in bed.

His cop buddies had wrangled him a private room. With the cost of Health care in The

States, it was like getting the mini lottery. Required serious clout or juice as they’d say. I

looked at the gifts id gotten him, thought……shabby, bit like The Square.

I met his wife outside the room, she looked knackered. Dark circles under her eyes, like a

Galway bad tide.

She glanced at the bag in my hand, asked

‘For Steve?’

Jesus, I’d never get used to his name. I said, going full Irish, which happens when I’m

nervous,

‘Tis nothing, nothing at all.’

She gave me a hug.

Said

‘You are such a great friend.’

File that under

Delete.

Merrick was sitting up in bed, IV tubes a riot. He looked tired and I hoped to fook, not

beaten.I asked

‘How’s it going mate?’

‘Could be worse.’

I handed over the bag, he took it, asked

‘Ryan, you going soft?’

I defended

‘The book was something I had for years.’

True, belonged to my mother in fact.

I pulled up a chair, and he tore open the bag, spilling the contents on his bed. He picked

up the collection of Yeats, checked it, said

‘Fuck, it’s a first edition.’’

Then a large bottle of Sprite. He stared, asked

‘No grapes?’

And held up the sprite, an incredulous gleam in his eyes, went

‘You brought me a fucking bottle of pop?’

Pop, soda, back home, we call them minerals. Pop is for absent fathers.

I said

‘You suspicious bollix, it’s not sprite.’

He took the cap off, hope alight, smelled, went

‘Jameson?’

I nodded, said

‘Mixed with the sprite, God forgive me for the desecration.’

and blessed me own self.

Then he surprised me,the ultra cautious Merrick, took a slug, gasped

‘Oy veh, it is.’

He offered it, I said

‘No, I have to go to a funeral.’

I told him about Cloud Dancer, my voice trembled a little but I made it. Cleared my

throat, asked

‘Do they, you know, Indians? Have like your ordinary funeral?’

He nearly smiled, said

‘I don’t know, there are no ordinary funerals, especially if you’re the guy being buried. I

never had any Indian friends, mine…………they’re all Brooklyn cowboys.’

Sensing my distress, that was the reason I guess we were friends, he changed tack

completely, asked

‘Ryan, you have any heroes?’

Then before I could respond, he looked at the Yeats, said

‘The Centre cannot hold.’

Did he mean, The World Trade Centre?

As an outsider, I knew not to mention it to New Yorkers unless they brought it up. But he

was into his own hero, said

‘Back in 2003, a young kid, twenty, was drafted to the Majors. At 5.9, for football, he

was small, but he won their respect with his raw courage and his fearless tackles. He was

offered a new contract, by The Cardinals, 3.2 Million. Instead, he volunteered for Iraq.

Not just the regular Army, The Rangers, the elite. Say, 400 go into the Ranger training

course, all but maybe fifty wash out. He did his tour, came back and The NFL were

alight. A bona fide hero, with movie star looks, he could have been the next Jimmy

Caan.’

He stopped, took a slug out of the sprite, said

‘You know Caan wasn’t really Italian.’

I sighed, another icon bites the pseudo dust.

He shook his head, physically re-grouping himself, continued

‘Sorry, I digress. The kid, he re-enlists. You fucking believe the balls on this guy? For

Afghanistan! and his brother comes along too. He was killed a short time after. The team,

in respect, retired his number, 40.

He was done, silent. Was I expected to reciprocate? I had nothing. I don’t do heroes.

Went with

‘Hell of a story.’

Piss lame, I know.

He said

‘There’s a kicker.’

Ok, I waited.

‘A month after his funeral, The Goddamn Justice Department admitted………….he’d

been killed…………….by

………………………………………..friendly

………………………………………………………..fire.’

Oh fuck.

Now I truly had nothing.

The nurse came, with a tray of medications. But first, she had to fluff the pillows,

essential one in the Nurses manual, fluff the freaking pillows at all times, especially if the

patient just got off to sleep.

Shot me a look.

I wanted to try out my American, go

‘What am I, chopped liver?’

But let it slide.

I leaned over Merrick, took his meaty hand in mine, said

‘I’ll be back soon.’

He seemed to have already drifted off.

I go to the door, heard

‘Bring grapes.

‘DON’T BACK US INTO A CORNER. I’M TALKING JUST

ABOUT THE MEN, WOMEN ARE FIGHTERS TOO.’

CROW.

COMANCHE CHIEF.

Cloud Dancers funeral was held, if that’s the right word, in a large loft in Greenwich

Village. Shona gave me the directions, said she had to be there with the women to

prepare the food.

How do you dress? If you’re a white eyes.

With care I guess.

I wore dark chino’s, white shirt, black tie. If it were an Irish wedding, you’d bring a Mass

card and a bottle/flask. I stuffed cash in an envelope. If the kid had family?

I got there to discover they had already had the burial and Crow, taking me aside, said

‘No offence but you’re an outsider.’

Like being Irish was carte blanche to life?

Jesus, not even in Ireland.

The loft was massive, on one side, the women were lined, wearing traditional costume.

The men wore the gear too. I felt like I was in the movie ‘Soldier Blue.’

Shona came and held my hand, said

‘After, we’ll go somewhere.’

Returned to the women. Fook, there a mountain of food. Crow, who seemed to have

been

designated my mentor, said

‘I will explain the food later, we don’t want you eating raw liver by mistake.’

He nearly smiled, continued

‘Cloud Dancing is buried in the Wichita Mountains, among his ancestors, the caves there

hold our spirits.’

A young Indian approached, offered Crow something, he took it, asked

‘Like some Peyote?’

He explained it was made from cactus, and had powerful halogens. I said

‘Maybe later.’

Crow called to one of the women and she appeared a moment later with a long neck and a

tumbler of Bourbon. I started to get on the other side of that as the feast began, I kid you

not, a steady drumming started and some of the women began to dance.

The sound of

rattles, the drum beating seemed to be monotonous first and I thought, worse than Musak.

Then they added the chanting.

I’d barely

Registered that you know? But it started to sound different, meaningful.

The bourbon helped and shite, if I’d had the peyote, I’d have been out on the floor with

the

dancers, doing a very poor, Irish jig.

Crow had a gourd rattle and was steadily rattling it in time to the drums, almost without

knowing it.

The food was laid out on long wooden tables,

Boiled meat

Corn

Macaroni cheese

The afore mentioned raw liver.

To honor the buffalo said Crow.

Every time I drained my glass, it was instantly replaced by another. No complaints from

me and The Texas Long necks were sliding down real easy.

Crow said, listening to the drum

‘The dance is low energy movement, for the powwow, it will continue for up to twelve

Hours’.

He laughed out loud, at my expression of horror, I didn’t know that at an Indian

ceremony, laughter, crude jokes are not only tolerated but encouraged. A shout of

celebration against death.

Assured me

‘Shona will rescue you before then.’

No wonder I felt at home and I did.

Crow said

‘Our last ceremony was something, we had it in the baseball court, outdoors, where the

spirit belongs but the cops busted us.’

I remembered to pass over the envelope. Crow asked

‘You know about giveaways, to give something to honor a family?’

Nope.

But I got the drift.

He looked in the envelope, back home, that would be regarded as rude but for the

Indians, pure curiosity.

He gasped, said

‘This is a month’s wages, you risked your life for this?’

I said, truthfully

‘I liked the kid, a lot.’

He touched my shoulder, said

‘Ryan, for a white eyes, you have many Indian traits.’

Didn’t elaborate.

‘Come.’

Led me over to a large coal brazier, I wondered about the Fire department. Crow handed

me a plastic bag, said

‘Dried cedar sprigs, sprinkle them on the coals.’

A woman behind him handed him a fan, he put it in my hands, said

‘Eagle wing, wave it over the coals.’

Fook, I did.

Crow spoke some words as I did so. I should have felt like a horse’s arse but it seemed

right. He threw a pair of moccasin’s on the coals, said

‘Cloud Dancer will not be barefoot because you give him those.’

Okay?

A little later, Crow handed me a huge steak sandwich, fries on the side, laughed, said

‘It’s not Buffalo, it’s to soak up the booze.’

I said

‘I’d have eaten Buffalo.’

He gave me a long look, said

‘That I true believe my friend.’

I’ve no idea when Shona came, took my hand, said

‘There is a room below the loft.’

I said, no idea what this meant

‘There is?’

She laughed, those Indians sure laughed a lot, said

‘We need to make love, to celebrate Cloud’s Dancer arrival among his tribe.’

Worked for me.

…………………………FRIENDLY FIRE.

In The Bronx, above a dry cleansers, the hot dog vendor was trying to explain to his

Russian backers, what went down, the encounter with the large man. The most vital

talking he’d ever do. Fail to convince them and he was sauerkraut. A friend had told him

‘Borrow twenty five grand, the vig will be about two hundred a week. But in six months,

you’ll be free and clear, own the business yourself. The Russians will provide the cart,

get the meat etc. cheap. Never ask…………….never what’s in the meat and don’t eat the

things, ever. Oh, do not fuck with those guys, give them their money every week, they

will protect you but screw with them, you’re dead. Nobody, not even Russians fuck with

……The Russians.’

And he’d been right on target, even ahead. Until………….

One Russian stood behind him, Mr. Silent, he never spoke, just looked at you with cold

eyes. The other, in front, classic interrogation technique. He had a scar, like lightning

running all length of his face, on the right side. It looked like it had been high lit by blue

ink. Not re-assuring, such a memorable scar would have made most people in his

business worry about ID. That he knew this would never happen was too frightening to

contemplate. He led the vendor through the events again. Then pushed,

……………………………the man was there

…………………every day?

Why? To what? Stare at the sky. The workers in the sky./

Why?

You don’t

………………………………………….know?

He described the man again and again. Scarface, stepped back, grabbed a bottle of Stoic

from the table, drank from the neck, then handed the bottle across the vendor to Mr.

Silent.

The vendor could have done with a heavy slug of it himself. He wasn’t offered. Sweat

was cascading down his face, though the room was icy. Scarface rattled off a volley of

Russian to the other.

Who grunted.

The vendor didn’t know had a death sentence been passed. Scar face bent down, stared

into his face for over two minutes. The vendor was afraid to speak. He’d learned to only

answer questions, never volunteer them. Amazing how one solid punch to the back of the

head brought you up to speed on the etiquette of torture.

Finally, the deathly stare was over. Scar face stood up. Wrote something on a piece of

paper.

Said

‘You can go.’

The vendor wanted to ask if he was to continue business and realized, of course. They

wanted paying. Scarface pushed the note at him said

‘New place to sell, until we say.’

He got to his feet, his legs literally shaking. He made it to the door. Scar face, said

‘You need drink?’

Tossed the bottle at him and he never knew, how in hell he caught it. He was on the street

in ten seconds, trying to put distance between them. Not that you ever could witht hose

animals. He needed that drink so bad, raised the bottle, it was empty. A sound carried

from the room he’d been in, a low growling, laced with violence, it could almost have

been laughter.

‘SHROUDS HAVE NO SECRETS.’

RABBI DAVID WOLPE.

I don’t know was it luck, or coincidence but I was back in my so called apartment when

the phone rang. The elusive answer still biting on the fringes of my mind.

Answered

‘Yeah?’

‘Ryan, it’s Boxer.’

Took me a moment, then I said

‘Sergeant, how you doing?’

Jesus, I sounded like Joey from Friends.

He said

‘Good. The luck of the Irish, your query on the credit card gig, who sent the flowers, we

got a hit.’

Holy fook.

I said

‘Holy fook.’

He laughed, said

‘Thanks would have worked as well.’

Then he got focused, said

‘The credit card is issued to a Mr.’s Trent. Mean anything to you?’

Thought……come on, Jesus, come on…………..bingo.

‘Yes, Sweet Jesus, yes. Thank you.’

I could hear him laughing, he said

‘We stand to serve.’

‘I owe you, big time.’

‘That you do………….boyo, A bottle of Jameson would do nicely.’

‘Done deal and thanks, honest to God.’

Rang off.

Mr.’s Trent, the elderly secretary for James Malone, the accountant in Queens. I could

have sworn it would have been the dentist.

Never-no fookin-mind, we had the bollix, how could he have been so arrogant as to get

his secretary to send the roses to Shona. I’d add a kick in the balls to his tab when we

charged the fooker.

I immediately rang Merrick at the hospital.

He was on the point of being discharged. Said

‘You just got me buddy.’

I said, trying to sound laid back, said

‘Break out that Brooklyn Beer.’

‘What?’

The excitement beginning to leak in to my tone, I said

‘We’ve cracked it mate, it’s done, our first case together, it’s solved.’

He was silent then

‘Holy fuck, you serious.’

Told him.

He said

‘I’d have figured the dentist.’

I asked

‘So, when do we go, pick up the arse hole?’

Merrick said

‘Whoa, take that chill pill buddy, I’m just getting out of hospital, I need to get home, see

my wife, rest and…………….’

Jesus.

I said

‘Ok, right, sorry, so when?’

Trying to keep the awful impatience out of my voice, I was getting a bad feeling. He

sighed, said

‘Tomorrow, he’s not going anywhere, ok? You did great. Take Shona out, grab a brew,

and CALM DOWN.’

What?

Did he just fookin shout?

I asked

‘You pissed because I cracked it? That it?’

A pause

Then

‘Grow up Ryan, you can’t go rushing off like some crazy BASTARD, I’ll meet you

tomorrow, round noon, the guy is going nowhere. You did good but you need to learn a

little discretion.’

I took a real deep breath then

‘Thanks Dad.’

Slammed the phone down.

I was so angry, I could spit.

I did what you do.

Treated meself to a 7-course meal.

Irish style.

Six pack and a potato.

Replaced the potato with a bottle of Jameson.

In my shithole apartment, seething, so close to out right violence, I had to bite down.

I’d gone out, got supplies.

Returning to my apartment, on the way up, carrying the booze, I met one of the stoner

dudes, who lived below me. The weather was on the turn, already seriously cold. He was

dressed in I shit thee not, a Hawaiian garish shirt that Magnum PI would have been proud

of.

Shorts, to the knee of his blinding white skinny legs. Didn’t he ever see the sun?’

Sorry, the dope those guys took, it was always sunny.

But he was more on planet earth than I’d expected, asked

‘Yo, my man, you hanging cool?’

Went the joker from ’Dark Knight’

‘Why so serious?

It’s almost impossible not to start conversing in stoner with those guys. I said

‘Bad fookin vibes bro.’

And went on to my apartment.

I’d just put Rory Gallagher on the speaker, from the days of his first group, Taste, and the

burning tracks beginning to lacerate. A knock on the door, I thought

‘The fook?’

Opened

To the stoner, carrying a paper bag, he said

‘Got some gear here bro, help you past the downer.’

I took it, said

‘Thank you, truly, you ever need anything?’

He grinned, looking like a kid allowed to play at being a grown up, said

‘Dude, play Lizzie, The Boys Are Back In Town’. Play it loud, for Phil Lyn not.’

I asked

‘Ever hear Luke Kelly sing, Dirty Old Town, it’s like………………..awesome.’

Like I said

Stoner.

He turned to go, then had a thought, acted on it, asked

‘Dude, you got really, a Sioux girlfriend?’

I nearly smiled, went with, said

‘Comanche.’

He was delighted, said

‘Word.’

‘THE BAD BOY GIG.’

Merrick came out of the hospital, like a demented bull. He’d managed to persuade his

wife that he needed some quiet time, walk The Jersey Shore, just to be grateful he was

ok.

What a crock he thought, I never walked the damn shore in my life and didn’t see it

happening anytime soon. Mostly, he wanted two things.

A drink.

To crack Ryan’s fool head.

Maybe three as he’d like to repeat Number two, a lot.Only one place really to go, once

a cop, you got hit, you went to a cop bar. Civilians, even his poor wife, they didn’t

really get it. Why should they, they didn’t live in the expectation of a bullet. Hailed a cab,

headed for Charley’s bar.

He tipped the driver a few bucks and the guy said

‘Have a good one.’

He sure as hell meant to try.

He’d no sooner walked in the door than Charlie was over, going

‘Hey hey, the hero arrives.’

And maneuvered Merrick to a corner booth, said

‘Sit your good self down, take a load off and I’ll go get us some righteous drinks.’

Merrick felt he’d arrived in safe harbor. Leaned his head back against the leather

upholstery, let his breath out. Never realized he’d been holding it so long. Maybe since he

got shot.

Charley was back, Bottle of Jameson and two pints of ice cold beer. Merrick said

‘Fuck, that looks good.’

Charley said

‘Knock the head off the brew.’

He did and then Charley unscrewed the cap on the Jay, poured a serious amount in to the

glass, said

‘Instant boilermaker.’

He did the same for his own then raised the new drink, said

‘To long life.’

‘Amen.’

Charley was a barman, had been a cop, knew the value of the first sacred silence, as you

paid homage to the drinks. When they’d gotten on the other side of that, least quarter of

the way, Charley asked

‘Where’s the Irish whiz kid?’

Merrick sighed and Charley went

‘Oh?’

Merrick launched, the Jameson aiding the flow of his bile. Put it all out there except the

part about the credit card. He didn’t want the kid to look that smart so never mentioned

Mr’s.Trent, then when he wound down, had a moment’s doubt, asked

‘Charley, this is all between us, right?’

Charley gave him a playful punch to the shoulder, said

‘Like Church.’

Fresh round of drinks and Charley said

‘Twenty years on the job, I never got shot, yah believe it?’

Merrick, bitterly said

‘Yeah? Don’t go starting now.’

Charley hesitated and Merrick caught it, said

‘Go on buddy, it’s ok, you can ask?’

Charley lifted his glass, took a hefty swallow, then

‘I always wondered about it, you know? You have to, everyday you’re out there, chances

are. Mostly I hoped, Jesus, I hope I don’t take it in the balls.’

Merrick laughed, the Jay hitting, said

‘That would not be good.’

They had a comfortable silence for a bit then Merrick said, knowing he was answering

the real question,

‘It’s like getting hit by a two by four, knocks you on your ass, you can’t breath and

you’re thinking, Motherfuck, I got shot.’

Charley asked

‘So, you going to wrap this up, the case I mean, seems solid?’

Merrick made a decision that would haunt him all his days. Could call it the booze, anger,

post traumatic stress. But the truth was, he wanted to be back in the driver seat, he would

decide when they moved on the perp.

He said

‘I’m going to wait two days, let Ryan stew and make sure we’ve got it right. Don’t want

to go gung ho and then get our asses handed to us.’

Charley asked

‘You still following The Jets?’

Merrick mock sighed, said

‘Now that is really green frustration.’

And they got into sports.

The bar got busy, Charley had to go and Merrick waved him away, said

‘Go, earn, shalom.’

Merrick finally got out of there, no sign of Charley to say Thank you, the tab had of

course been paid, he’d left a fifty tip on the table and got a cab to take him home.

He was tired but feeling good, even felt less resentful to Ryan.

The guy would learn.

And who better to teach him?

You got it.

…………………………LOOSE LIPS

…………………..SINK SHIPS.

The large man had been busy, very.

Sat back now, savoring his first Seven ‘n Seven of the evening

Jesus H……………what a blast.

First, meet with the psycho, and being real careful. The fuck was in meltdown, who knew

when’d go seriously postal? The large man could see it in his eyes, the fevered glint,

some psychotic shit waiting to be fused. He met with him in Queens, business closed for

the day, the large man had his Nine in his jacket right hand pocket, one crazy flicker from

the crazy, he’d blow his shit to kingdom come. He kept in macho pose, no choice, said

‘Give me the fucking money.’

Got it.

Tried not to show his joy at the what might be the clincher on Boca. Kept his face in cold

neutral, demanded

‘The Heckler and Koch?’

Tricky moment.

The psycho was having some conflicting thoughts. Time to ride roughshod, he said

‘Don’t be fucking stupid, I have to have the gun that matches the slug they took out of

Merrick, then put it in the hand of the dentist in Tribeca, with a typed note of remorse and

believe this shitkicker, we are seriously on the clock. You want to continue enjoying your

………..interests? Then be smart.’

Got the gun.

Had to cross town, in traffic for Chris sakes, meet with the dentist, and blow the bastard’s

brain to fuck and gone.

Not that he found that difficult, who wouldn’t want to waste a freaking dentist, give it to

the son of a bitch in the teeth, no, the worry was being seen and his luck held. He’d hate

to have had to waste the Barbie doll Receptionist. He might yet have plans for her.

Then a call to 911 and let justice roll.

He laughed out loud.

Sometimes, it was just too fucking easy.

‘LIGHTS OUT’

JASON STARR.

I was grabbing a coffee, bagel with lox, before I took the elevator up to the ninety-th

floor.

Trying not to ask myself

‘Nervous

Apprehensive

Scared?’

Jesus. Stop already.

Put on my helmet, got up there. There was a wind, that high? There is always a wind. But

nothing like…………..

Shook myself, knew, you cannot be thinking.

A new guy, asked

‘Need the harness?’

Tempted.

No.

Swung out there, high and wide, like a dancer.

Ok.

Slight sheen of perspiration on my forehead, blame the coffee.

Got out on the steel beam, swinging a little precariously, got my boots squared on the

next beam

Froze.

Fucking froze.

I don’t remember getting down. Crow had come up, and gone out to get me himself.

I was on the ground, in Crow’s porto-kabin, He’d given me a hot drink, laced with sugar.

Put a blanket round me, then sat opposite. He asked

‘How you doing buddy?’

I’d stopped shivering, said

‘The last thing I remember is smelling Irish stew?’

He stared, asked

‘Food?

‘No, it’s a stress gig.’

I reached for my cigs, got one in my mouth but my hands trembled and took the Zippo,

fired me up, looked at it, said

‘Nice.’

‘It’s yours.’

Indians love gifts, Shona had told me.

I asked

‘What happened to me?’

He asked

‘Were you thinking?’

‘Yes.’

He sat back, said

‘You’re done brother.’

Added

‘You know Ryan, start to think about it, it’s gone.’

I said

‘Aw fook.’

He stood up, said

‘You’re alive bro, a lot of dancers never…………………come down.’

I asked

‘Will I be able to go back, up there, you know, after a time?’

He looked at me, then

‘You have lot’s of work on the ground, I don’t want to lose you. My sister would kill

me.’

All I could hear was Merrick’s voice, when describing The Ranger’s Elite Force and the

one’s who

‘Washed out.’

Crow said

‘As your chief, I’m telling you to take off, have a few days to chill.’

I nodded, said

‘Thanks, a lot.’

He shrugged it off.

Later I would hear that he’d gone out on the girders, took me in. His first time in the sky

for eight years, when his best friend had fallen.

Shona took me to her home. An apartment in The West Village. I was zoning in and out,

as if a high fever was trying to build and break simultaneously. The apartment was

comfort in action. Indian woven throw rugs on the wooden floors. I always loved that,

you could crack the heels of your boots on them, feel as if you were really there. Not

grounding you so much as establishing you.

And sculpture’s, I know shit from shinola about that but these, of wood, of stone, even of

cacti, were haunting. Figures of warriors, Indians on horseback, they seemed to be alive.

I slumped down on the couch, Shona brought me a tall iced glass of water. I was wearing

my Levi white shirt, one that had cost me close to fifty bucks.

An Irish guy will blow fifty on a round of drink, no problem but on a shirt, you kidding?

I’d had this shirt for nigh ten years.

You ask……….what’s in a shirt?

History.

It has been so often in the wash, it was threadbare and all the more assuring for that. I

know, you love a shirt, you are a sad fookin excuse for a life.

I loved the shirt, so shoot me.

Sweat was pouring out of every pore, my hair, was drenched in it. Like I’d just come out

of the shower.

Shona said

‘My love, you are burning up’

Helped me to her bed and that’s all she wrote.

Two days.

The stress in ferocious assault

……………….twisting

………………………..burning

………………………………..lashing

…………………………………………and

…………………………………………………lacerating.

I vaguely remember coming to, Shona feeding me some liquid, then out again, the smell

of Irish stew near suffocating me.

And it broke.

Two and a half days in.

I sat up, felt my hair, dry.

Shona, her face, a portrait of worry, said

‘You’re back.’

I tried to stand, managed it after a few false starts and said

‘You believe it mo croi (my heart), I’m hungry.’

And was.

Starving.

As we sat down over scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, Shona went to the fridge, brought

back a Shiner Bok,………..Texas best, said

‘You’re eating, you’re entitled.’

I said

‘A man could love a woman for that.’

She feigned surprise, asked

‘You mean, you’re not crazy about me already?’

I raised my bottle, said

‘Is tu an cailin is fear.’

……………………………..you are the best woman.’

She asked

‘Who is Eddie?’

Jesus.

I asked

‘What?’

‘ You called his name over and over.’

The fooking subconscious, wreathed in guilt, will rat you out every time, a supergrass of

the damn soul.

I nearly told her.

Nearly.

Bit down.

A history of Irish violence?

No.

She got a playful smile, asked

‘Remember anything?’

I was weak but still clued in enough to say

‘Only that you never left my side.’

Right answer.

She beamed then with eyes dancing in her head, said

‘You proposed.’

Yeah, right.

I could play, took the Irish route, asked

‘And……………..did you accept?’

She laughed, said

‘Oh, you’re back alright.’

And did I love her?

Take a wild Comanche guess.

She stood up, went to the bedroom, came back with a Gap bag, handed it over, said

‘And no, I didn’t leave you, I called Crow, had him go get this.’

I opened the bag, you guessed it

Brand new Levi shirt, white as hope.

‘THEY’VE GOT US, HE THOUGHT, WE’RE DEAD, OH SHIT.

ALMOST AT ONCE, HE THOUGHT, MAYBE NOT.’

JACK KETCHUM

‘OFF SEASON.’

I got back to my apartment, very conscious of the time factor. My time out, Merrick’s

fookin sulk time, all in all, I figured, we were nearly four days behind the edge we’d

nearly had.

I was playing The Saw Doctors, from Tuam, just outside Galway, and cross me

bedraggled heart, the favorite band of no less than…………….Jodie Foster.

And me.

Train…………their latest single was dynamite.

Rock, longing and loss, what better metaphor for the Irish psyche.

Paranoia, a lingering echo of the stress that nearly wiped me, was biting at my heels. I

had the Sig Sauer on the table, beside the six pack of Guinness. Knock on the door.

I moved up close, asked

‘Who is it?’

A pause.

Then

‘Ryan, it’s Merrick.’

I opened, and there he was, in his resplendent contrition, said

‘I screwed up big time Ryan, yet again, I’m sorry.’

I waved him in, said

‘Jesus wept, you going to spend your life apologizing, let it go, ok?’

He saw the gun on the table, asked

‘You were expecting me?’

I pulled a Guinness from the pack, said

‘Enough, alright, we have a psycho to catch and I think we’re already seriously out of

time.

He sat, took a hit of The Guinness, said

‘Fuck Ryan, it’s warm.’

Caught the look from me and added

‘Which is exactly how I…..am………….like it.’

And we had a moment then it passed.

He reached in his seriously battered leather jacket, took out a small package, said

‘You gave me your Mother’s Yeats so, this is I hope, as significant, you catch the drift.’

I opened it.

The American Flag came out.

He explained

‘Betsy Ross was a daughter of The American Revolution and sewed the first flag. The

stars in a circle represent the thirteen American colonies. The stars now represent each

state and the stripes each original colony. My wife, Judy, is related, on her father’s side to

Betsy Ross. Judy, on her Mom’s side, is part, I swear on the flag, part Chippewa Indian.

You can’t get more American than that.’

Shona might argue that toss.

I said

‘I can’t……..take this.’

‘Judy sent it, and I as Rabbi, confirm you as an American of the soul.’

How could you stay mad at the guy?

I said

‘Thank you…………………absolutely.’

I managed to pin it on the wall, then stood back, said

‘Cross me heart Merrick, I’m delighted to any part of America.’

Meant it, Ireland, in her wild wisdom had rendered outcast so, The USA was sheltering

me, giving me work, treating me like I mattered.

Who you going to plead allegiance to?

‘MONEY CAN MAKE AN ENEMY OF ANYONE’, DOROTHY SAID.

‘EVEN SOMEONE YOU’VE KNOWN ALL YOUR LIFE.’

‘SOULTOWN’

MERCEDES LAMBERT.

Merrick’s mobile shrilled. He answered, listened, his face a mixture of incredulity,

confusion, anger. He asked

‘You sure?’

Then listened, said

‘Thanks for the heads up Loot.’

He clicked off, looked at me with, was it apprehension.

I went

‘What?’

‘The case has been closed….solved,what the fuck ever.’

‘You’re kidding, how?’

‘That was Lieut. Jordan, they went to Tribeca, this morning, found Bob Temple dead,

suicide apparently, with a Heckler and Koch, the gun used on me, he left a note, saying

he was no longer able to live with his actions, they’re waiting on ballistics but the Loot is

pretty sure it will match the slug they dug out of me………….so, case closed. Oh yeah,

they found……….trophies, you know.’

‘Trophies?’

He near shouted

‘’You fucking know, do I have to goddamn spell it out for you, from the children.’

I was afraid that’s what it meant, said

‘It’s a set up.’

‘What?

‘Jesus Merrick, wake up, the flowers to Shona, came from Mr.’s Trent, who works for the

accountant.’

I poured a Guinness, focused

Merrick went to say something, I snapped

‘Shut the fook up, I’m nearly there.’

Ran it all over in my mind, the thought niggling on the edges of my sub consciousness

came crashing clear, I thought, fook, this perp is smart, real smart but…………’

Then something else struck me, why now, why did the guy feel the need to tie up loose

ends, unless he was spooked, unless he’d heard something, fook, fook, fook.’

I asked

‘Did you talk to anyone, say the case was near to closure, anyone at all?’

His face showed the guilt, he looked away, I ventured

‘Let me guess, I’m pretty sure I know, the same guy said to me in the

hospital…………….come to dinner, bring your Indian girlfriend.’

I was cruising, flying, ideas, racing through my mind, I said

‘Remember way back, I said, there were two and one might be a cop? Serg. Boxer said to

me he felt there were two and……one could be a cop………..or………ex-cop,

somebody you’d feel comfortable talking to?’

His body literally sagged in on itself, he sat down, realization crushing him, put his head

in his hands, said

‘Oh VI, Charlie,Jesus wept and I never told him about the credit card or the flowers, or

Mr.’s. Trent. Oh my Lord, Ryan, I’m so sorry.’

I desperately wanted to, as he once explained to me……………..ream him a new one.

But that could come later, right now, we had to snare the slimy clever bastard. I said

‘Get a grip, we can trap him but it means you have to go and meet him, act like you’re

confused, tell him about Mr’s Trent and how you and I are going to see her the next day,

try to figure it out. He’ll have to act, and fast. Clear up the whole mess and we follow

him, take him in the act of trying for Mr.’s Trent.’

I added his own word

‘Capiche?’

He shook his head, said

‘Sit with him have a brew and act like everything is hunky dory, he’ll smell a rat.’

I grabbed him by both his shoulders, said

‘You screwed it up, now you put it right, act…………you cam fookin act, right?’

He nodded miserably.

I let out my breath, said

‘Ok, I’m going to Queens, be in place. When he leaves, give him five minutes, then

follow him. He’ll go to Queens but we don’t want him killing anyone else.’

A thought occurred to him, he said

‘This means….the accountant is the other killer, the serial wanna-be, what about him?’

I asked

‘Ever hear of two birds with one stone?’

His last effort

‘Shouldn’t we hand it all over to NYPD?’

‘Right, and by the time they get their arse in gear, if they buy it, don’t forget, they’ve a

closed case, Charlie will have killed the freak and Mr.’s Trent and high the fookin-tailed

it outa Dodge.’

He smiled.

My patience was ragged to put it mildly and I went

‘What, I say something funny?’

He waved it away, said

‘Just………..you sounded like an American just then.’

I grabbed the Sig from the table, said

‘Tool up yer own self, right?’

He said

‘After I got shot, I got my Dad’s Pump shotgun from the attic.’

I said

‘The Getaway.’

‘What?

‘Steve mc Queen in Sam Peckinpah’s movie, put the Pump into iconic territory.’

He stood, said

‘Jesus, you and the freaking movies.’

Then he had a thought, asked

‘Did Steve Mc Queen survive, in the movie I mean?’

‘Rent it, find out for yourself.’

‘MEETING WITH…….TREACHOROUS MEN.’

Merrick was nervous. Had bought a bottle of Black Bush mill’s as cover. Ryan had told

him it was the cream de la crème of Irish whiskeys. Of course Ryan hadn’t described it

thus, he’d said

‘It’s the bollocks!’

That shit cost.

A lot.

He got to Charlie’s and yup, there was the man, working the place, glad-handing and

schmoozing like he’d won the lottery. That helped Merrick to get into character.

Charlie saw him smile broadened, approached, asked

‘Bro, to what do we owe the pleasure so soon?’

Merrick’s paranoia but was there just a slight edge on the……so soon?

He thought

‘Never no fucking mind, I’ll put that edge into orbit….bro.’

He handed over the Black and Charlie whistled, went

‘Wow, are we celebrating?’

Merrick let a slightly confused look appear, said

‘We should be, I need your cop instinct’s a minute.’

Charlie was all eagerness to help.

But first

……………….sit

Chill

…………………………….break the seal on the Bush mills.

Did.

Got behind a shot or two of that amber gold then Charlie asked

‘What’s breaking buddy?’

Merrick told him the case had been solved, and Charlie, raising his glass in anticipatory

toast, asked

‘But that’s good, right?’

Merrick explained in detail about the roses, the credit card, Mr.’s Trent, took a moment,

said

‘Ryan I are going to take a trip to Queen’s tomorrow, check it out.’

Charlie put his glass, untouched on the table, asked

‘Is that wise, I mean, why not hand the whole crap shoot to the cops?’

Merrick smiled, said

‘My sentiments exactly but Ryan, you know, he’s got his idea the accountant might be

the real killer.’

Charlie said

‘Yeah, I can see where’s he coming from, so, tomorrow then.’

Merrick said

‘I’d have gone today but the kid, he’s tied up so we go tomorrow.’

Charlie raised his glass now, said

‘Good luck with that buddy.’

And ten minutes later, said

‘Oh crap, I got to go bro, a damn delivery held up in The Bronx, you believe that shit?’

They said warm goodbye’s and Charlie said

‘And thanks for the bottle, sure appreciate that.’

Merrick sat for a while, contemplating another drink. But he couldn’t. Then something

struck him. Way back, when Charlie had been setting up his joint, he’d been searching

for a good chef. Figuring a dinner menu was the real goal mine, drinks sure but the food

was the real goldmine.

He’d asked Merrick who knew a guy from his Synagogue. The fuck was his name?

Jacob……………..Jacob……yes, Hoffer. They’d used to kid him about Jimmy Hoffa,

saying the feds should check his Ravioli for Hoffa. Jacob had said to Merrick

‘ A kosher joke, ok but Hoffa, I mean, do I look like a Wop?’

No.

Charlie had left the Bush Mills on the table. Some hurry. Irish guy to leave that. He

grabbed the bottle, headed for the kitchen. No one stopped him, a guy who the boss

regularly drank with?

Get outa here.

The kitchen was closing down, rush hour done.Save for a dish washing guy

and………..bingo…….Jacob. It’s an unfortunate cliché that chef’s are drunks. Jacob just

liked to drink while he was working and so he worked a lot.

Not so much Kitchen Confidential as Kitchen homicidal.

Merrick went

‘Shalom.’

Jacob turned, his chefs hat, askew, which could be good news as it meant he was half in

the bag, not so good if he was past that stage. Jacob had a temper. He shouted

‘Merrick, you very bad Jew.’

Promising.

That from anyone else, Merrick would have handed them their teeth.

Merrick plopped the bottle on the counter, said

‘ For you Rabbi.’

Jacob, immediately noticed the bottle had a few belts out if it, asked

‘You bring me seconds,

Looked to the heavens, continued

‘This guy!’

And hugged Merrick.

Merrick tried not to look at his watch, he didn’t want to leave Ryan hanging with two bad

guys. Poured a lethal wallop and handed it to Jacob who exclaimed

‘You trying to get me drunk?’

Merrick held up the palms of his hands, went

‘As if.’

Jacob raised his glass, said

‘L,chaim.’

Knocked it back.

Merrick thought

‘Fuck, he’ll fall on his ass.’

Nope.

Got loquacious.

Started

‘This job, I tell you Steve, The Mick is so far behind in his arrears, he’s going to have to

do a runner.’

The guy washing the dishes had stopped, his ears primed and Jacob picked up a skillet,

threw it at him, shouted

‘Get the fuck out of my kitchen you snooping raghead.’

Merrick prompted

‘You’re kidding?’

‘On the star of David, he is leaking money but it’s like he don’t give a fuck, you know

what I’m saying, they’re going to shut it down around his Mich head and he could care?’

Merrick had what he wanted, said

‘Got to go the rest room.’

Jacob was on the turn, the aggressive drunk emerging, shouted

‘Go go, everybody so damn busy.’

Thought he had to call Ryan but the dumb fuck, he’d no mobile.

Jesus.

He was running.

IT IS BETTER TO BE A LIVE JACKAL THAN A DEAD LION-FOR JACKALS,

NOT MEN.

SIDNEY HOOK.

I was stuck on the Queensbury Bridge.

Jesus wept. Gridlock. Time eating away.

By now, Charlie might already be on his way to the accountant and Mr.’s Trent. By the time I finally got there, I was shit out of luck and time. Could feel it in my bones. Very bad feeling.

I parked down a bit from the Accountant’s Office. Got out, The Sig in the pocket of my old combat jacket, yeah, from the old days, figuring, I never got killed it. Ok, you do what you can and pull in every superstition you got. I’d have prayed but that was an aspiration too far.

God and I parted ways when Molly got her head blown off.

No sign of Merrick’s car.

When in doubt, go in the back.

I did, hearing nothing, not a sound.

I moved through the building, gun out, ready. To the office, the door closed. Bit down, flet one bead of perspiration drip down my forehead, it was so quiet, I swore I could hear it plink on the floor. Opened the door real easy to….

The accountant, sitting having a drink, Charlie, a gun at Mr.’s Trent’s head. She was tied and bound to a chair, her eyes terrorized in her head. Charlie said

‘Ryan, the fuck kept you?’

‘Gridlock.’

He nodded

‘Ah, the bridge, it’s a bitch this time of evening.’

…………………..but here we are. Jesus, my manners, must be the high drama of this day, let me introduce Bob, you met before but now, see the real Bob.’

Bob looked way over any edge he’d ever clung to, a cleaver in his hand.

He stood up.

I said

‘The Simpson’s.’

He stopped

I explained

‘Freakshow Bob, voiced by Kelsey Grammer.’

Charlie said

‘Drop the piece Ryan or you know the tired drill, the lady get’s it, yada yada.’

I dropped it.

Bob advanced.

Charlie said

‘See, you still get to solve the case, sort of. Bob there, he carves you into pieces, Merrick arrives, shoots him and alas, Bob get’s a shot off, killing our hero Merrick. Sloppy, but you know, I’m making this shit up as I go along. Now, what movie is that from, guess it and you get…………am, let’s see, four minutes extra.’

‘I said

‘Easy, Indiana Jones but Bob, yo psycho, you getting mail?’

Bob was as close to drooling as you get, hesitated

And I asked

‘You stupid bollix, what part of your smart arse buddy’s plan didn’t you get?’

Charlie hissed

‘Don’t listen to him, he’s trying to mess with your head.’

I laughed, dragged it up from my gut, said

‘Bob, he said, you get fucked, you heard him.’

Bob was literally disintegrating, I jeered

‘Do the math.’

He swirled and a blast took his head off.

Merrick stepped into the room, the pump leveled at Charlie, who laughed, then

‘Ah, party pooper. Just when we were having fun. What now wise guy?’

Merrick glanced at me, I nodded ok and he said

‘I don’t suppose you’ll let her go?’

Charlie seemed totally unfazed, said

‘I could try to shoot you but then the other would take me out. So………………….I’m

going to take Mr.’s Trent with me, drive off and if you don’t follow, I’ll release her in a

half hour.’

There seemed little choice. We moved out in a group, and finally Charlie said

‘This is my ride, now if you gents would just step inside, I can go on my way and this

lovely lady can go free.’

I was raising the Sig along my left side, Merrick whispered

‘No.’

Charlie said

‘Listen to your buddy Ryan, you might get a shot off but if you miss and I’m a moving

target.’

I lowered the gun.

And he was gone.

After five minutes Merrick said

‘Fuck this, let’s go.’

We raced to his car and within ten minutes, we found her body by the side of the road.

Shot in the face.

And Charlie,

He’d disappeared, it seemed off the face of the earth.

We figured another car, or whatever.

He was in the wind.

Two days later, we were gathered in Merrick’s bar, Shona at my side, Merrick, wearing a

sweat shirt that had the logo

……………………………………Black Cat.

I didn’t ask.

I was afraid he’d tell me.

Merrick said

‘The loot has a nationwide APB on Charlie, where can he go, sooner or later they’ll get

him.’

Neither of us bought that, it was more for Shona. The guy had prepared his escape a long

time ago. He was dust, a ghost, lost in some shadows of foreboding.

Merrick looked a bit nervous, I said

‘Spit it out, what’s eating you?’

He looked at Shona, said

‘You hear this guy, speaking American?’

She said

‘Trust me, he’s all Irish.

Merrick said

‘Don’t go off on me, ok?’

I waited

He swallowed, then

‘We’ve been offered a new case, Serge. Boxer passed it along, you interested?’

I looked at Shona, she said

‘Of course, what else he’s going to do, mope around the house, getting on my nerves.’

Merrick smiled, asked

‘So, anyone up for a movie?’

‘YOU CANNOT FUCK EVERYBODY AND THE ONLY WAY IT WOULD WORK IS

IF YOU COULD FUCK EVERYBODY.

HARRY CREWS.

In the Catskill’s, in winter, it’s quiet, you can pick your choice of cabins to rent. Charlie,

a bag of groceries tucked in his arm, the Beretta in the right pocket of his heavy duty

parka, smiled. His beard had come full in, grey, giving him that distinguished look. And

his shaven head, oh Sweet Mother, to shave off all that thick hair?

But what you gonna do?

In the spring, the heat would be off, the heat would be on, weather wise and he could

move to Boca.

The deal done and sealed.

So, a few months to eat, drink some beers, down some hot Jameson, how was he hurting.

Already, in the local Tavern, the proprietress given him that come on look. No sweat,

he’d get to her, thought

‘How sweet it is.’

Managed to get his key in the lock of the cabin, without dropping the grocery bag, got in

tried to balance for the light switch when wham, like he was hit by a fucking mule.

Out.

Came to, naked, tied to the basic wooden kitchen chair, two huge guys looking at him

with almost disinterest.

One had, what?…………a lightening scar on his face, the fuck was with that?

The other was juicing up a power drill.

Scar face moved up

Asked

‘How you like your hot dog?’

Content

Ken Bruen
Merrick