LONG ISLAND IDYLL.
Merrick was up early, the lawn needed trimming and he was fucked if he’d pay
some guy to do a half ass job and bill him for a full day.
Growing up in Brooklyn, he’d never expected to own a home on the island. That
was for rich dudes. After he got invalidated off the force, he’d hooked up with
Moe, used his cop skills to build up their PI agency, enough so he could put down
the deposit on the bar. Moe had helped, then, Moe always did, help that is.
The bar was work, real graft but began to turn a profit and the property became
available on Long Island. His wife, a care worker, persuaded that with their
combined salaries, they could get it.
They did.
Lot’s of sleepless nights over mortgages but finally, they were within five years of
owning outright.
And………………two kids in college.
He stopped the mower, stared at his home, could smell the toast and bacon frying
and thought
‘You did ok Rabbi.’
Merrick didn’t do friends real good, you were a cop, you were too cynical to
believe in it. But first Moe, now this stoner Irish guy.
…………………….who smoked.
Merrick didn’t let on he knew but when your parents died of lung cancer, you
fucking knew.
Ryan was a stand up guy, no doubt, even if half of what he said went over
Merrick’s head. He just liked the guy. He hadn’t told him all of Moe’s
investigation. Still holding some stuff back.
Cos like, you never knew.
Moe had narrowed the search for the child killer to three definite potentials.
Merrick had ruled one out as the guy was doing ten to life in Attica. The
remaining two.
Well, he’d need Ryan’s help in tracking them down and seeing if they were the
skel. He was about to jolt the mower up for the last inning’s when he heard a soul
scrunching scream. Judy!
He ran like a demon to the house, his heart pounding, found her in the hall, her
hands covered in blood, she gasped
‘Upstairs.’
He checked her, it wasn’t her blood. Grabbed his Louisville Slugger from the
hatstand, took the stairs, three a t a time.
The bedroom.
He paused, raised the bat, kicked the door wide open.
Their beloved Labrador, James Dean, was spread on the bed, it’s entrails spilling
out on the carpet, it’s head positioned on the pillow, a note in it’s pathetic mouth,
he snatched it, rage spilling from him, read
…………………….the dog made me do it.
………………AND A WORLD SO FULL OF WEEPING
THAT
………………FEW
……….CAN UNDERSTAND.
The day of the hurling match, I was alight. Going to show me mate our National
Game. Jaysus, I felt fierce proud. Us Irish don’t really do pride, not so you’d
notice and you’d say, fook all to be proud of. But whatever morsel we had, the
Brits kicked the living shit out of it. So a chance to show my friend one of our
rare achievements, It felt good.
And Galway playing mayo, old rivalries, no matter what continent it was on. Met
Merrick at The Stadium, he was dressed in chino’s, a T-shirt that read
……….Fifth of………….
The rest was washed away. He had Ray bans so I couldn’t see his eyes but he
wasn’t as the yuppies say, a happy camper. I could sense it. When you feel good your
own self, you are especially attuned to the nuances of discontent. I asked
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing, looking forward to the game is all.’
Right.
I said
‘Got a small surprise.’
He could give a fook, his whole body language screamed,…enough with
surprises. He tried though, said
‘Great.’
Meaning, I’d rather shove hot pokers up me arse.
I took him inside the stadium, flashed my laminated pass, led him down into the
bowels of the stadium, to the dressing rooms. Knocked on a door, opened by the
manager of The Galway Team, who said
‘Jesus, Ryan, they let you out.’
I introduced him to the team, and the captain, one of the best around, handed
Merrick a hurley, said
‘Take a swing of that big fellow.’
He did, liked it and had the flow.
He was handing it back when the captain said
‘Turn it over.’
On the other side was the signatures of the team.
He was moved, said
‘Thank you, I’m…..moved.’
Being Galwegian, the captain, said
‘You might want to give it back it they hammer the be-Jaysus out of us.’
And we had the best seats too.
I put my holdall at our feet, unzipped it, took out two cold one’s
‘Slainte.’
He was looking at me with a new eye, asked
‘How’d you pull that off?’
I said
‘I got some moves.’
He whistled, said
‘Ain’t that the truth.’
The game was one of the great one’s, sometimes you get lucky. Merrick was stunned by
the sheer speed of the game and the skill necessary to run up a field, the ball, balanced
precariously on the tip of the hurley, he asked
‘The fuck do they do that?’
I said
‘Practice.’
He was fascinated by the shape of the ball, I said
‘It’s a sliothar.’
There is no real translation for that, save a baseball that has lost the run of it’s self.
Galway won by two points but it was close, so tight that Merrick was up and screaming
‘Pass the fucking ball Cunningham.’
I think he got the gist of the game.
After, we headed for Frankie and Johnny’s, the steak place by Penn Station. Yeah, the
one used in the movie. Merrick was aflame, said
‘Jesus buddy, I loved that, got me an appetite too and hey, this is on me, capiche?’
Sure.
We ordered some Philly steak sandwiches, like I knew what the fook they were, and got
the brews while we waited for the grub.
Merrick had pushed the shades atop of his bald dome, sighed, said
‘Some shit came down the pike buddy.’
Told me.
I let it sink in, then said
‘Son of Sam.’
‘What?’
‘This lunatic is playing with serial killer references, Son Of Sam, he said his dog told him
to kill people.’
Merrick thought about it, said
‘Fuck, you might be right, how’d you know about Son Of Sam?’
‘Movies, most all I know is from them, Summer of Sam, Spike lee?’
Our food arrived and Merrick asked
‘You’re all lit up buddy, gotta be more than the game?’
I paused then figured, why not, told him of Shona.
He put down his fork, raised his bottle touched mine said
‘L’chaim.’
After the meal, we sat back, sipping on expresso with a hint of cognac in there.
Merrick said
‘I have two leads.’
I said
‘Ok.’
He reached in his chino’s, took out a slim notebook, flicked through it, then
‘The first, James P. Mallin, an accountant, single, aged forty, no priors, lives in Queen’s.
Moe had put a star beside his name, meaning he was due to interview the guy. Second up, is
Bob Temar, a dentist, again, single and no priors, aged forty five, lives in Tribeca,
business must be good I’m guessing.’