“Ah, Mr. B, I wonder if I might have a word?”
“Make it a quick one.”
Kemmel indicated his office and Kebar followed him in, noticed a percolator on the shelf, hot coffee simmering, didn’t ask, went and poured himself a mug. Kemmel, in his best therapeutic tone, asked,
“Need a doughnut, bagel, to go with that?”
Kebar said,
“I need anything, you’ll know, what’s eating you this time?”
Kemmel sat on the side of his desk, keeping it informal, carefully adjusted the crease in his pants, and Kebar, to his fascination, noticed the prick’s socks were held up by straps.
Jesus.
Kemmel cleared his throat. Kebar usually reached for his piece when a guy did that, meant he was about to make a play.
Kemmel said,
“We try to keep our patients as content as we can and not to unduly alarm them if that’s possible.”
Kebar was familiar with shit sandwiches, first the savory then the crap, he waited.
Kemmel continued, his voice faltering a little,
“So, you visiting, and don’t get me wrong, we love to see how often you do, but um... would it be possible for you to... ahem, leave the uniform at home... gun belts... they, uh, upset the status quo.”
Kebar stood up, said,
“No.”
Walked out.
He could hear Lucia laughing as he approached the room, knocked and went in. Shea was actually smiling and Lucia was clapping her hands in delight.
Kebar asked,
“How you guys getting along?”
Lucia crooned,
“He’s lovely and such a good sport.”
Kebar gave her a hug, said,
“We got to roll, hon, but I’ll be back later.”
She smiled, asked,
“And will you bring Shea?”
Kebar looked at him. Shea said,
“I’d be honored to come.”
She threw her arms round him, said,
“I’m going to marry you when I grow up.”
Shea had to bite down not to put his hands on her neck.
A vulnerable cop is a dead cop.
Eight
They didn’t speak till they got to the car, Shea looked up at the building, asked,
“How long has she been here?”
Kebar stopped, then,
“Too long.”
They’d been cruising for about ten minutes when Kebar said,
“Now you know.”
Shea didn’t answer.
They got through their shift, a relatively quiet day, rounding up hookers, busting the balls of some street dealers, penny ante stuff.
The end of the shift, Kebar asked,
“What are you thinking?”
Shea didn’t look at him, said,
“I’m real sorry about your sister, but it doesn’t change the facts.”
“The facts?”
“You’re a cop on the take, you’re no longer fit to wear the uniform, my uniform was dirty, but you, your whole existence is rotten.”
And he was gone.
Kebar took some sick days so I was assigned to a desk till he returned. My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Sure, I thought about his sister, I’d never seen a neck so fucking virgin, so fucking pure, and here’s an odd thing, I know fuck all about James Joyce, like most Irish people. Not that we’d ever admit it, we claim him as our great writer, but read him?
Nope.
My mother still clung to the notion that he wrote dirty books.
But I do know the intense pain of his life was his beloved daughter being confined to a mental hospital.
Her name:
Lucia.
Riddle me that.
And more, meeting the bar person, Nora, Joyce’s wife was Nora.
What did it all mean?
Fucked if I knew.
A week behind a desk, and I was stir-crazy.
I loved the streets and maybe Kebar would resign and I could get a new partner, new start.
That Nora was occupying me thoughts a lot and okay... I was zoning a bit, more so than I’d ever before and the beads... gleaming... waiting... and no longer asking... demanding.
So I headed back there one evening and she smiled, said,
“Jameson, Coors back.”
I said,
“Can I run a tab?’
She was smiling broadly and I went,
“What?”
“I love your accent.”
I heard, yeah, the word... love.
Lame... right.
I downed the Jameson and she asked,
“Where’s your partner?”
I said,
“He’d got some sick time coming.”
Her face showing concern, she asked,
“Is he sick?”
I thought, “He sure is going to be.”
I said,
“Naw, just skiving off.”
She looked at her watch, said,
“It’s my break, you want to join me at the staff table while I grab a sandwich?”
Sure.
A sandwich in Ireland is dead bread, with a mangy slice of lettuce and some cut of synthetic meat, but here, shite, a triple decker of goodies and huge plates of chips... sorry, fries.
She ate like a navvy, with gusto and not caring about mayo leaking down her chin, Jesus, I loved that.
I kept me eyes off her neck, the time would come.
She indicated her plate, said,
“Dig in.”
Not when I’m drinking, get a nice buzz building and screw it up with food, no way.
I asked,
“Nora... you’re not Jewish, I’d say?”
That marvelous laugh again and she said,
“Third-generation Mick.”
And before I could respond, she said,
“I grew up in a house with Irish music playing... all the freaking day, and on the walls, harps, bodhrans, pictures of the pope, John F. Kennedy, and of course a massive portrait of the Sacred Heart.”
I laughed, could be any home in old Galway.
She said,
“Tell you the truth, I’m sick of the whole patriotic gig.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Ah, you turncoat.”
She stared at me, asked,
“So, you’re a cop, you like that?”
I told the truth.
“I love it.”
The bar was filling up and she said,
“Gotta go earn the bucks, hey, you want to take me out on Friday night?”
I did.
I left the bar, floating on air, the Jameson had something to do with it but Jesus, I liked how near she was to answering the call of the beads, but riding point was the other side of me, could she be the one who would so occupy me that the beads would be... just a beads, no light, no shimmer, no... translucence?
Right there and then, I thought nothing could burst me balloon of well-being.
I was wrong.
Got back to me apartment, the door off the hinges, had been kicked in.
I pulled out my police issue, had taken to carrying it since meeting the wiseguys.
Entered slowly, the place was destroyed, my few possessions torn and scattered on the floor, a huge turd in the middle of the room and urine all over the place.
The worst, my uniform, hanging on the door, they’d taken a knife to it, shredded it. The gun in my hand was drenched in sweat and I had to ease the trigger back, slowly.
Then I saw the note on the table.
It was in red marker, read:
TIS A PITY.
I muttered,
“Bollix can’t spell.”
They’d missed the beads, stupid fucks, with all that came after, that would have proved their case... dumb bastards.
The wiseguys, taking the war to me and letting me know I was... touchable.
I said aloud,
“Fuck you, Kebar, look at the shite you’ve got me in.”