Once Were Cops by Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online

no way. I asked, “Nora
    … you’re not Jewish, I’d say?” That marvelous
    laugh again and she said, “Third-generation Mick.”
    And before I could respond, she said,
    “I grew up in a house with Irish music playing …
    all the freaking day, and on the walls, harps,
    bodhrans, pictures of the pope, John F. Kennedy,
    and of course a massive portrait of the Sacred
    Heart.” I laughed, could be any home in old
    Galway. She said, “Tell you the truth, I’m sick of
    the whole patriotic gig.” I couldn’t resist, said,
    “Ah, you turncoat.” She stared at me, asked, “So,
    you’re a cop, you like that?” I told the truth.
    “I love it.”
    The bar was filling up and she said,
    “Gotta go earn the bucks, hey, you want to take me
    out on Friday night?”
    I did.
    I left the bar, floating on air, the Jameson had
    something to do with it but Jesus, I liked how near
    she was to answering the call of the beads, but
    riding point was the other side of me, could she be
    the one who would so occupy me that the beads
    would be … just a beads, no light, no shimmer, no
    … translucence?
    Right there and then, I thought nothing could burst
    me balloon of well-being.
    I was wrong.
    Got back to me apartment, the door off the hinges,
    had been kicked in.
    I pulled out my police issue, had taken to carrying
    it since meeting the wiseguys.
    Entered slowly, the place was destroyed, my few
    possessions torn and scattered on the floor, a huge
    turd in the middle of the room and urine all over
    the place.
    The worst, my uniform, hanging on the door, they’d
    taken a knife to it, shredded it. The gun in my hand
    was drenched in sweat and I had to ease the trigger
    back, slowly. Then I saw the note on the table. It
    was in red marker, read: TIS A PITY. I muttered,
    “Bollix can’t spell.”
    They’d missed the beads, stupid fucks, with all that
    came after, that would have proved their case …
    dumb bastards.
    The wiseguys, taking the war to me and letting me
    know I was … touchable.
    I said aloud,
    “Fuck you, Kebar, look at the shite you’ve got me
    in.”
    And then I giggled, thinking of all the plans I’d
    made and if only they’d found the beads, I yelled
    aloud,
    “Yah stupid fucks, if only you had any idea.”
    I cleaned up as best as I could and finally headed
    for the camp bed, pulled back the blanket and there
    was the photo, me shaking hands with Morronni,
    the envelope of bills spilling out.
    What they call a damning indictment.
    Man, they thought they were setting me up … if
    only they had one iota of how they were actually
    helping me.
    Odd thing, I dreamt of that swan in Galway, the
    way it
    struggled, and the sounds it made and how I’d tried
    to hush it, telling it I loved it.
    ONE VITAL LESSON YOU LEARN AS A
    GUARD IS … THEY threaten you, you either run
    like a bastard, or … you get right back in their
    face. Immediately. Brutally. Biblically. And I
    wanted to. Shite on my floor, me beloved uniform
    in tatters. Fuck that.
    You go after the messenger first, the fuckhead who
    left the calling card, like that song … First, we
    take Manhattan.
    Then you let that simmer and in jig time, you take
    after the head honcho.
    Gino, I remember Morronni calling his rent-a-thug
    that.
    And how hard would it be to find that piece of
    lowlife?
    You’re in the NYPD … you have access, and if not
    to all areas, certainly where the bottom feeders
    dwell.
    At the station I got on the computer, and he had a
    rap sheet as long as an Irish story, all intimidation
    gigs. This guy liked to terrorize people.
    Okay.
    He played pool in a dive in the Village three nights
    a week.
    I fingered the green rosary, thinking … buddy, this
    beads is gonna put you away … for ever.
    Time to introduce him to our national sport.
    Hurling.
    A blend of hockey and homicide.
    I put the hurley in a carryall, me police issue in the
    waistband of me jeans, and I was good to go.
    I’d let meself get into the zone.
    You replay the guy