‘SHROUDS HAVE NO SECRETS.’
I don’t know was it luck, or coincidence but I was back in my so called apartment when
the phone rang. The elusive answer still biting on the fringes of my mind.
Answered
‘Yeah?’
‘Ryan, it’s Boxer.’
Took me a moment, then I said
‘Sergeant, how you doing?’
Jesus, I sounded like Joey from Friends.
He said
‘Good. The luck of the Irish, your query on the credit card gig, who sent the flowers, we
got a hit.’
Holy fook.
I said
‘Holy fook.’
He laughed, said
‘Thanks would have worked as well.’
Then he got focused, said
‘The credit card is issued to a Mr.’s Trent. Mean anything to you?’
Thought……come on, Jesus, come on…………..bingo.
‘Yes, Sweet Jesus, yes. Thank you.’
I could hear him laughing, he said
‘We stand to serve.’
‘I owe you, big time.’
‘That you do………….boyo, A bottle of Jameson would do nicely.’
‘Done deal and thanks, honest to God.’
Rang off.
Mr.’s Trent, the elderly secretary for James Malone, the accountant in Queens. I could
have sworn it would have been the dentist.
Never-no fookin-mind, we had the bollix, how could he have been so arrogant as to get
his secretary to send the roses to Shona. I’d add a kick in the balls to his tab when we
charged the fooker.
I immediately rang Merrick at the hospital.
He was on the point of being discharged. Said
‘You just got me buddy.’
I said, trying to sound laid back, said
‘Break out that Brooklyn Beer.’
‘What?’
The excitement beginning to leak in to my tone, I said
‘We’ve cracked it mate, it’s done, our first case together, it’s solved.’
He was silent then
‘Holy fuck, you serious.’
Told him.
He said
‘I’d have figured the dentist.’
I asked
‘So, when do we go, pick up the arse hole?’
Merrick said
‘Whoa, take that chill pill buddy, I’m just getting out of hospital, I need to get home, see
my wife, rest and…………….’
Jesus.
I said
‘Ok, right, sorry, so when?’
Trying to keep the awful impatience out of my voice, I was getting a bad feeling. He
sighed, said
‘Tomorrow, he’s not going anywhere, ok? You did great. Take Shona out, grab a brew,
and CALM DOWN.’
What?
Did he just fookin shout?
I asked
‘You pissed because I cracked it? That it?’
A pause
Then
‘Grow up Ryan, you can’t go rushing off like some crazy BASTARD, I’ll meet you
tomorrow, round noon, the guy is going nowhere. You did good but you need to learn a
little discretion.’
I took a real deep breath then
‘Thanks Dad.’
Slammed the phone down.
I was so angry, I could spit.
I did what you do.
Treated meself to a 7-course meal.
Irish style.
Six pack and a potato.
Replaced the potato with a bottle of Jameson.
In my shithole apartment, seething, so close to out right violence, I had to bite down.
I’d gone out, got supplies.
Returning to my apartment, on the way up, carrying the booze, I met one of the stoner
dudes, who lived below me. The weather was on the turn, already seriously cold. He was
dressed in I shit thee not, a Hawaiian garish shirt that Magnum PI would have been proud
of.
Shorts, to the knee of his blinding white skinny legs. Didn’t he ever see the sun?’
Sorry, the dope those guys took, it was always sunny.
But he was more on planet earth than I’d expected, asked
‘Yo, my man, you hanging cool?’
Went the joker from ’Dark Knight’
‘Why so serious?
It’s almost impossible not to start conversing in stoner with those guys. I said
‘Bad fookin vibes bro.’
And went on to my apartment.
I’d just put Rory Gallagher on the speaker, from the days of his first group, Taste, and the
burning tracks beginning to lacerate. A knock on the door, I thought
‘The fook?’
Opened
To the stoner, carrying a paper bag, he said
‘Got some gear here bro, help you past the downer.’
I took it, said
‘Thank you, truly, you ever need anything?’
He grinned, looking like a kid allowed to play at being a grown up, said
‘Dude, play Lizzie, The Boys Are Back In Town’. Play it loud, for Phil Lyn not.’
I asked
‘Ever hear Luke Kelly sing, Dirty Old Town, it’s like………………..awesome.’
Like I said
Stoner.
He turned to go, then had a thought, acted on it, asked
‘Dude, you got really, a Sioux girlfriend?’
I nearly smiled, went with, said
‘Comanche.’
He was delighted, said
‘Word.’
‘THE BAD BOY GIG.’
Merrick came out of the hospital, like a demented bull. He’d managed to persuade his
wife that he needed some quiet time, walk The Jersey Shore, just to be grateful he was
ok.
What a crock he thought, I never walked the damn shore in my life and didn’t see it
happening anytime soon. Mostly, he wanted two things.
A drink.
To crack Ryan’s fool head.
Maybe three as he’d like to repeat Number two, a lot.Only one place really to go, once
a cop, you got hit, you went to a cop bar. Civilians, even his poor wife, they didn’t
really get it. Why should they, they didn’t live in the expectation of a bullet. Hailed a cab,
headed for Charley’s bar.
He tipped the driver a few bucks and the guy said
‘Have a good one.’
He sure as hell meant to try.
He’d no sooner walked in the door than Charlie was over, going
‘Hey hey, the hero arrives.’
And maneuvered Merrick to a corner booth, said
‘Sit your good self down, take a load off and I’ll go get us some righteous drinks.’
Merrick felt he’d arrived in safe harbor. Leaned his head back against the leather
upholstery, let his breath out. Never realized he’d been holding it so long. Maybe since he
got shot.
Charley was back, Bottle of Jameson and two pints of ice cold beer. Merrick said
‘Fuck, that looks good.’
Charley said
‘Knock the head off the brew.’
He did and then Charley unscrewed the cap on the Jay, poured a serious amount in to the
glass, said
‘Instant boilermaker.’
He did the same for his own then raised the new drink, said
‘To long life.’
‘Amen.’
Charley was a barman, had been a cop, knew the value of the first sacred silence, as you
paid homage to the drinks. When they’d gotten on the other side of that, least quarter of
the way, Charley asked
‘Where’s the Irish whiz kid?’
Merrick sighed and Charley went
‘Oh?’
Merrick launched, the Jameson aiding the flow of his bile. Put it all out there except the
part about the credit card. He didn’t want the kid to look that smart so never mentioned