Once Were Cops Read Free Page B

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, T’m a winner.”

    Kebar leaned across the desk, deliberately
    knocking the ONCE WERE COPS
    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.
    -Ed Lynskey, convicted murderer
    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