Free Once Were Cops by Ken Bruen Page B

have a
    good one.”
    And I stormed out of there.
    Could be my imagination but I swear I heard the
    bar guy chuckle.
    Lucky I wasn’t meeting Nora, the rage, it triggered
    the urge and then … that frigging zoning … and …
    stuff happened.
    WAS SHOOTING THE SHIT WITH ONE OF
    THE UNIFORMS, leaning against our cars, grande
    Starbucks with an extra shot of espresso, my hand
    leaning casually on the butt of my gun, my radio
    squawking, I was finally able to figure out what the
    hell the spew of data meant, it was like learning a
    new language but one day it just begins to make
    sense and you can filter out what is relevant and
    what is fluff. I felt like a cop, NYPD BLUE … and
    feck, I loved it.
    Back home, being a Guard, sipping tepid tea,
    twirling your lousy baton, mostly you felt…
    useless.
    Watching the party girls, skirts up to their arse, and
    then, corner of my eye, I’d see a swan do that
    graceful glide along the basin, such beautiful necks
    those creatures have. But this, this was the deal.
    The cop, looking at my hand resting on my gun,
    asked, “How’s that working for you?” Cops will
    talk hardware all day.
    I said it had a nice light weight but the trigger was
    sometimes liable to fold in on itself.
    He nodded, said,
    “See, yer Glock, the department insisted we had to
    keep up with the crims and carry that, but I tell you,
    you’re chasing a perp on foot, the freaking thing
    sometimes goes off, blow your foot or worse your
    balls off, me, I carry a little extra.”
    Pulled up his pants and strapped to his foot, a
    Browning.
    He drained his coffee, said,
    “Our last mayor, the guys loved him, he was a no-
    shit guy, told the dopers, fuck you, fuck your rights,
    and got the streets clean, he’d have made one great
    pres but you know what, ain’t going to happen.”
    Before I could hear more, I was summoned by
    O’Brien, who accused: “Goofing off?” Then
    added, “You’re wanted upstairs.” I figured, IA
    again. Figured wrong. O’Brien stopped outside the
    conference room, asked, “You familiar with a task
    force?” “Sure.”
    He knocked on the door and we went in. A long
    wooden table, lots of brass sitting round, all with
    stony expressions, O’Brien said, “This is Officer
    O’Shea.” A tall gaunt man, in civvies, at the top of
    the table, said, “O’Shea, I’m Special Agent Peters,
    head of this task force.”
    I was standing at attention, learned back in Ireland,
    you face the top guys, act submissive. He said,
    “Stand at ease, Officer.” I did. He indicated a thick
    file, asked,
    “You know anything about a strangler, traveling in
    Brooklyn?”
    “No, sir.”
    He looked round at the assembled faces, then:
    “Good, we’re trying to keep a lid on it, prevent
    panic, three women to date have been strangled in
    Brooklyn, all in their late twenties.” He let me
    digest that and I asked, “How does this concern me
    … sir?” He bit his lower lip, then:
    “Well, you’re a Mick, and the killer, he’s using
    rosary beads to strangle the women, green beads I
    might add.” I said, “I didn’t do it, I don’t even have
    a beads.” He glared at me, snapped, “Is that an
    attempt at humor, O’Shea?” “No, sir.” He said,
    “Reason we asked you here is, you’re fresh off the
    boat, full of all the Mick Catholic mumbo jumbo,
    and we wondered if you had any input, insights
    into this?” The snide dismissal of my faith rankled
    but I kept a lid on it, said, “I’d need to think about
    it… sir.” He was already dismissing me, I’d been
    useless, said, “You do that, don’t strain yourself.”
    O’Brien indicated I was to leave and he followed
    me out. I said,
    “I think that went well.”
    He stared at me, said,
    “You fucked up good, here was a chance to move
    on up and what… you get smartass … Jesus H.”
    And he strode off. I tried, “Sir, I’ll work on it.”
    Without breaking stride, he said, “I won’t hold my
    breath.”
    I’d fucked up,