Irish Eyes by Mary Kay Andrews Read Free Book Online Page B

smeared, my black stockings riddled with runs, and my skirt spattered with Bucky’s blood.
    “Garrity.” It was McNabb’s version of a hug and a slap on the back. Mr. Congeniality, that was McNabb.
    I struggled to remember McNabb’s first name, but I came up empty. McNabb was the only name I knew him by.
    “McNabb. How’s it hanging?”
    “Not too bad,” McNabb said. “At least I don’t got two bullets in my head.”
    I winced, but knew McNabb didn’t mean anything by the remark.
    I opened the pack of Marlboros, fished one out for myself, and offered the pack to McNabb. He took two. Good old McNabb. He lit up, offered me his match, but I shook my head and put the cigarette in the pocket of my shirt. Can’t stand cigarettes, but they’re useful in breaking the ice.
    I thrust my hands into my jacket pocket. “Some bad shit tonight,” I said.
    He nodded. “Real bad. You worked with Deavers, didn’t you?”
    “Yeah. We’re pretty tight.”
    He cocked his head and let twin plumes of smoke drift out of his nostrils. “Thought I heard you’d quit the force. Heard you’d moved out of town.”
    “No. I quit, but I got a P.I. license, and I’m running my own business.” He didn’t need to know it was a cleaning business.
    “How’d you come to be down here tonight?”
    It was a fair question, and I couldn’t expect to get information if I didn’t give it freely. “Deavers and I went to a St. Patrick’s Day party together. He was taking me home, but he wanted to stop at the liquor store first.”
    “You hear anything in there?” He nodded toward the swinging doors that led into the ER.
    “The docs are still working on him,” I said.
    “Gonna need a lot of work, from what I could see,” McNabb said, getting a pinched look.
    “He’s pretty tough,” I said. “I’m praying he makes it.”
    McNabb took another drag on the Marlboro. “If you’re his friend, you better be praying he kicks tonight. ‘Cause if he does live through the night, a gunshot wound like that, that’s a shitload of brain damage. If he lives, he’ll be a vegetable.”
    “God.” I couldn’t let McNabb see me cry. I swallowed hard and blinked back the tears.
    “I liked Deavers,” McNabb said. “He was a decent guy. Not a jerk like a lot of those detectives, think they’re God or something, ‘cause they got a gold shield. Hell, we marched in the parade together this morning. That’s why this doesn’t seem real. I saw him when they brought him in. He was still wearing his tie. I saw that, I felt sick, really sick.”
    “You marched together? Where was that?”
    McNabb looked at me like I was stupid.
    “The parade. You know, St. Patrick’s Day? We marched with the Shamrocks. Must have been two dozen guys. Not bad for an outfit that only got started up last year.”
    “You’re a Shamrock too?”
    “Sure,” McNabb said. “I joined last year. Spent a hundred bucks on the green jacket to wear in the parade. We had a breakfast this morning too. You know, green grits, green beer, like that.”
    “McNabb’s as Irish as pigs and potatoes. Deavers too. Hey, Garrity. You’re Irish, aren’t you? Only you’re not a cop no more, so I guess you wouldn’t be eligible to join.”
    I didn’t know Deavers was particularly Irish. I always just thought of him as an All-American boy. The part that was so surprising was that Deavers had joined this Shamrock outfit. Bucky was a dedicated nonconformist and non-joiner. He’d been the first grown man I knew to have his ear pierced. He was always proud of the fact that he didn’t vote because he didn’t believe in declaring a party affiliation. He used to bitch and moan about the fact that, as a member of the APD, he automatically had Police Benevolent Association dues deducted from his paycheck, even though he didn’t care to belong to the PBA.
    “So Bucky marched in the St. Patrick’s Day parade today?”
    “We all did,” McNabb said. “Boylan made a big deal about how we