Out on Long Island, it cost a bundle to keep her there.
Kebar poured every nickel into her upkeep.
He was losing the battle.
The thought of her being put into one of the state institutions filled him with dread.
She’d been there already, courtesy of her parents, and suffered serious setbacks on every level.
Soon as Kebar could, he got her out of there, and into the new home.
The freight was killing him, he didn’t go to ball games, or buy new clothes, every damn dime went to her.
It wasn’t enough.
Enter the wiseguys.
A particular slice of sleaze named Morronni, feeling Kebar out and finally putting it to him:
“You need some serious wedge and we can give it to you.”
How the fucks knew about Lucia, he didn’t even ask, that was their gig, secrets.
He wanted to get his K-bar, ram it down the cocksucker’s throat, but it was a week when he couldn’t make the payments for Lucia so he asked,
“What’ve I gotta do?”
His heart in ribbons, he hated dirty cops with a vengeance and here he was, joining the ranks of the damned.
Morronni smiled, said,
“Hey, no big thing, you let us know when the cops are gonna make a bust, whose phones are tapped, small stuff, you know, nuttin to get in a sweat about.”
Yeah.
Lure you in.
They did.
And progressed.
Bigger stuff.
The money was on a par.
He was able to guarantee six months ahead for Lucia.
The proprietor of the home, a sleek suit named Kemmel, said,
“Mr. Browski, we don’t usually take large sums of cash. Checks, credit cards, they are the norm.”
Kebar gave him his street look, the one that had serious skels looking away, said,
“Money is money, you telling me you can’t do off the books, you want me to get the health department out here, give your place the once-over?”
No.
He took the money.
And in a sly tone asked,
“You need a receipt?”
Kebar wasn’t used to being threatened, least not by pricks in suits, unless they were pimps, and certainly never twice.
Kemmel was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, smirk in place, not a single paper on the desk, a framed photo of his shiny wife and shinier kids facing out to the world, proclaiming,
“See, I’m a winner.”
Kebar leaned across the desk, deliberately knocking the frame aside, grabbed Kemmel by his tie, pulled him back across the desk, asked,
“You like fucking with me, that it?”
Kemmel, who’d never been manhandled in his life, was terrified, could smell garlic on the cop’s breath, managed to croak,
“I think we might have hit a wrong note.”
Kebar put his thumb up against Kemmel’s right eye, said,
“One tiny push, and you’ll see things in a whole different light.”
Then he let him go, stood up, asked,
“You were saying?”
Kemmel, struggling for his dignity, adjusting his tie, said,
“No problem, Mr. B, I’ll see to your... um... arrangement... personally.”
Kebar edged the frame with his worn cowboy boots, his one indulgence, bought in the Village and custom-made, said,
“Real nice family, tell you what, I’ll drive by, time to time, keep an eye on them, call it a personal arrangement.”
The difference between a cop and a thug is one wears a uniform... sometimes.
Four
Next day at work, Kebar was leaning against the car, hoping the kid would be late.
He wasn’t.
And the uniform, still mud encased.
Kebar asked,
“How’d the roster sergeant like your uniform?”
The kid said,
“He gave me a bollicking.”
Kebar liked the term, had a nice ferocity about it, said,
“Tore you a new one, did he?”
The kid went,
“Tore what?”
Kebar laughed, he was going to have to teach him American as well as everything else, said,
“Asshole, we say, he tore me a new one, means you got reamed.”
If the kid appreciated the lesson, he didn’t show it.
Kebar was enjoying himself, it had been a long time since he enjoyed being buddied up.
He turned toward his door and he got an almighty push in the back, jammed him against the roof and then his arm was twisted up his back, the kid’s arm round his windpipe, he heard,
“Let me teach you something, smartarse, the Guards, no matter what you think of them, they never forget... ever... and you ever push me in the fucking back again, you better be ready to back it up.”
Then he let go.
Kebar was stunned, no one’d had the balls to come at him like that in a long time and he debated reaching for his bar, then began to laugh, said,
“You’re a piece of work, you know that, let’s roll.”
The day’s surprises weren’t over yet. They answered a call to a domestic, and Kebar said,
“Don’t get between the couple, nine times out of ten, you subdue the man, the freaking broad will gut you.”
The kid said,
“Believe it or not, we have wife beaters in Ireland.”
Kebar took a quick look at the kid, he was wearing a real serious expression, and Kebar asked,
“What you’d do, call the priest?”
Without changing his look the kid said,
“Often, ’tis the priest doing the beating.”
Kebar liked that a lot, he was warming all the time to the punk, despite his best efforts.
They got to the scene, and Kebar led the way, his hand on his holster. The door of the apartment was open and a skinny white guy was whacking a woman like his life depended on it.
Kebar said,
“You want to stop doing that, sir?”
He didn’t.
Said,
“Fuck off, pig, family business.”
Kebar shrugged his sleeve, the bar sliding down, and he moved forward, missed seeing a side door open and a shotgun pointing out.
Two shots nearly deafened him and a body tumbled out, a guy moaning, he’d been hit in the shoulder and leg. Kebar looked at the kid, his smoking gun still leveled. Kebar moved to the guy on the floor, kicked the shotgun away, said,
“Move and you’re fucking dead.”
The guy who’d been beating on his wife shouted,
“You shot my brother, you cocksucker.”
Kebar took him out with the bar and then the woman started so she joined the bodies on the floor.
The kid still had the gun pointed.
Kebar said,
“You can put it down now.”
The kid’s eyes were clear and he nodded, said,
“Guess we better call it in.”
They did.
Kebar moved to the kid, said,
“I owe you.”
The kid gave him a look, said,
“Just backup, that’s all, what is it you guys say? No biggie.”
The brass arrived and reassured Shea it was a good shoot and even though Internal Affairs would be talking to him he had nothing to worry about, they actually clapped him on the back, said,
“You did real fine.”
Outside, as they got into the prowl, Kebar said,
“Pretty fancy shooting.”
The kid shrugged.
“I was aiming for what I figured was his head, need some practice I suppose.”
They got out of there and back to the station house, Kebar broke his rule, asked,
“Can I buy you a brew, shit, lots of brews and what’s that stuff you Micks like... Jameson?”
Shea stood for a moment, looking at the ground, then: