Free Irish Eyes by Mary Kay Andrews Page A

weren’t allowedto arrest white citizens or even shower in the same precinct with white officers. But three generations of Hunseckers had made a career of policing, and C.W.’s own career had been pretty impressive until the shooting.
    “Hey,” I said. “Look at the African American Patrolmen’s Association. I don’t see any white names on their roster. Does that mean they’re racist? Come on, C.W., I can’t believe there’s anything sinister about a bunch of dumb micks who wanna dress up in kilts and pretend to be leprechauns every March seventeenth. What’s the harm?”
    C. W. chewed his gum agitatedly. “I hear things, okay?”
    “What kind of things?” I asked, wanting to defuse his anger. “Boylan’s the one who put the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder?”
    “Funny,” he said. “But I can’t believe you didn’t recognize Kehoe’s name. Think—you don’t remember hearing about a Michael Kehoe a few years back? When the issue was discrimination? Only he charged that it was reverse discrimination?”
    I glanced back at the waiting room. One of the men was standing up, reading notices on a bulletin board. He was tall, with thinning blond hair and a high forehead and pants that rode low on bony hips. That Michael Kehoe?
    “Okay, I remember,” I said. “Didn’t he used to be a priest before he went into law enforcement?”
    “Not quite a priest,” Hunsecker said. “What do you call them before they graduate from priest school?”
    “A seminarian.”
    “Yeah. A seminarian. His summer assignment was to assist as a chaplain in the DeKalb Sheriff’s Office. But he liked cop work so much he quit the priesthood and went to the academy instead,” Hunsecker said. “He was supposedly in line to be assistant chief deputy, but then he got passed over for the job—by a black guy.”
    “And Kehoe sued for reverse discrimination and won.”
    “Won big,” Hunsecker said bitterly. “The court ordered the sheriff to make him assistant chief deputy. The other guy, Oscar Braymore, got shoved into some nothing job in warrants. He quit the department; last I heard, he’s selling usedcars. But Kehoe? He got his back pay plus damages of, what I heard, nearly a million dollars.”
    “He’s a rich man, then,” I said, not taking my eyes off Kehoe. “What’s he want with some dipshit sheriff’s job?”
    “Revenge,” Hunsecker said. “Wants to stick it in everybody’s face. He was a white man and he was wronged and he made ‘em pay. Besides, he claims the lawyers got most of the money.”
    “He must be real popular over at the S.O.,” I speculated.
    “They made him assistant chief deputy of nothing,” Hunsecker said with some satisfaction. “He pushes paper, punches the clock, spends most of his time organizing these Shamrock clowns.”
    “So Kehoe’s a jerk and Boylan’s a bigot,” I said. “I’ll give you that. What kinds of things are you hearing? You never heard anything bad about Bucky, right? You know he wasn’t like them.”
    Hunsecker’s face softened. “Deavers. Damn. I don’t want to believe anything bad about him. I saw that thing in the
Constitution
this morning. About internal affairs investigating. Then I see Boylan and Kehoe in there, weeping and wailing, it makes me wonder, that’s all.”
    “Wonder what?”
    “Nothing,” C.W. said. “Let’s get out of here. The doctors won’t tell us nothing, anyhow, and I’m thinking a chili dog might taste good about now.”
    I knew what he was thinking about. “Nickells lets you eat that stuff?”
    “How’s she gonna know unless you rat me out?”
    “Okay,” I said. “My van’s in the garage. I’ll fly if you’ll buy.”
    “Deal,” he said.
    The Varsity sits high atop North Avenue overlooking Interstate 75 and the nearby Georgia Tech campus like an aging fifties battleship. It’s probably the last place left in Atlanta with curb service.
    I pulled into a slot on the top deck, gave the carhop our order: three