Free Once Were Cops by Ken Bruen Page A

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    one if he caught me.
    He’d drive to a dive on Eighth and then just sit,
    watching, I knew he was memorizing the players,
    the times they came and went, and getting a feel for
    the terrain.
    Who polices the police? - Village Volce journalist
    He was going and soon, I could sense it.
    And me … I knew Lucia had saved me from you
    know … doing something to Nora.

    By the FOURTH NIGHT, I WAS DOZING,
    DESPITE THE FLASK OF coffee I’d been sipping
    from, and too, Nora and I had an active night
    previously. I was resting my head on the wheel
    when a gun barrel pushed into the back of my neck.
    My first thought was … Gino … and I was gone.
    Then Kebar’s voice: “Not too hot on this
    surveillance gig, are you, kid?” He withdrew the
    gun, asked,
    “The fuck you think you’re doing, IA put you up to
    this, that it?”
    I said, “Us Micks don’t rat out anyone except our
    own people.” I heard him sigh, then he said,
    “Come on, I’ll buy you a brew.”
    We got out of the car and I clocked he was wearing
    all black, combat pants, leather jacket, and
    sneakers. He’d shaved his head, added to the air of
    menace. We headed two blocks back, went into a
    bar that was marginally a cut above the dive on
    Eighth. The bar guy looked like a hardarse, asked,
    “Get you officers?” Kebar ignored the officers
    jibe, said, “Maker’s Mark, two, and two Bud.” He
    put a twenty on the counter, the guy said, “On me,
    guys.” Kebar waited till we got our drinks, said, “I
    want something from you, I’ll ask, got it?” He did.
    Kebar left the change on the counter and we took a
    table, he raised his shot, said,
    “Here’s to you, you dumb Mick.”

    Then we got to work on the Bud and he reached in
    his jacket, took out a bundle, handed it over, said,
    “Don’t unwrap it here.”
    I took it, felt heavy, and stashed it in my pocket. He
    said,
    “It’s a Ruger, takes a full clip and is real fine for
    up close and personal.”
    Then he looked at me, surprise on his face, said,

    “You weren’t carrying, were you?”
    I shook my head, Nora had asked me not to carry
    my police issue with me. He said,
    “Christ, you are a dumb schmuck, what if
    something went down this evening, were you going
    to follow me in and use, what… offensive
    language?”
    I had no idea and told him so. He stared at me and
    then gave a full laugh, not the bitter one he usually
    paraded but one of genuine amusement, said,
    “You freaking kill me, kid, I dunno, are you just
    flat out stoopid or one of the hombres with the
    biggest cojones I’ve ever met?” Before I could
    answer, he said, “Listen up, buddy …”
    Buddy!
    “I’m going down, between IA, Morronni, the filth
    who hurt Lucia, there ain’t no way I’m walking,
    and you have a real future, I ‘predate your support
    but it’s best if you just take off.” I said, “Same
    again.” Went to the bar and the bar guy said, “Your
    partner is one mean dude, yeah?” I put a twenty on
    the counter and he pushed it away, said,
    “Get with the game.”
    I thought, fuckit, put the twenty back in my wallet,
    brought the drinks back.
    Kebar was staring at me and I went,
    “What?” His eyes were granite and he accused:
    “You didn’t pay, did you?” Jesus. I said,
    “Big deal, the guy wants to stand us a drink, what’s
    the harm?”
    He lashed out, gripped my wrist like a vise,
    snarled,
    “Today he had you for chump change, but he has
    you, and next thing, the bloodsuckers own your ass,
    now get back up there, give him the goddamn
    money.”
    Fuck.
    I did.
    The bar guy smirked, said,
    “I had you pegged for having balls, guess I was
    wrong.”
    Humiliated in about three different ways, I went
    back and drained my bourbon. Kebar said,
    “You want to kill some mother now? … Right… .
    Welcome to my world.”
    I stood up, said,
    “You know, I was just trying to help you, but you
    know what, all the damn lectures, the little
    homilies, I’m sick to death of them, you