Ken Bruen - Merrick

She smiled, showing beautiful teeth, said

‘Don’t the Irish have a way with words.’

I muttered

‘So I’ve heard.’

And she laughed. I stood, said

‘It’s been…………..fraught, you’ve taken the piss, see you around.’

She grabbed my arm.

Nobody puts a hand on me, without lethal due cause. She said

‘I’m hungry, you want to go grab a bite?’

I still couldn’t get me fecking brain in gear and she said

‘Ok, just follow me, you can do that, right?’

I could, badly.

And we were outa there.

The large man had watched Ryan on the girders. Fuck, he was agile, like a

frigging Indian.

Now Merrick he could handle. Ex cops were so predictable but this guy, anyone

who could fly across the sky like that?

You had to wonder?

But the woman, now that more like it, let her get in the picture and he could write

the scene any way but loose and even then.

Only two ways to fuck the Irish, booze and that they did just fine them selves

and………a woman. They were suckers for the ladies.

Went to Tad’s Steak House. She choose it. I asked

‘You eat meat?’

Got the look, then

‘You think I’m vegan?’

We were just being seated and I said

‘Tell you the truth, you’re a pain in the arse.’

She laughed out loud. The kind of laugh you’d marry a woman for, no worries

about her mascara or how she looks, just out and plain merriment.

We got some brews in, and yes, she drank from the bottle, like I said, the type you

should marry. My ex drank sherry and was…………vegan.

We ordered the porterhouse steaks, mashed potatoes, no starter. Sat back and

surveyed each other.

She was still amused, then

‘What do you know about Indians?’

She was fucking with me…….ok, I could do that, said

‘John Wayne killed a shit load of them.’

She looked like she could kill me.

Said

‘And you love the stereo- type, what a dick.’

I took a sip from my brew, said

‘And you’re so fooking judgmental, my favorite movies are

Thunderheart

Chato’s land

Ulzana’s Raid

Dances with Wolves.

She went to say something and I snapped

‘Did I say I was finished? You might be a noble Indian but you could learn some

fooking manners, I read ‘Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, love Graham

Greene, the Indian actor, not the writer and lest you forget, I’m Irish, we had

some shite come down the pike on us over the years so don’t go Whining Indian

on me.’

She leaned over, took my hand, said

‘See, I knew you could talk.’

You just couldn’t fooking win with her, I stopped trying, the food came, giving

me a respite.

She ate without inhibition and that was a joy to behold. She stopped mid bite,

asked

‘Why are you staring at me?’

I was going to bullshit but changed to

‘I like watching your face.’

She wiped her mouth, said

‘Good, then you have a shot.’

‘What?’

‘At getting me in the sack.’

I was signaling for more brews, paused, said

‘Jaysus, you’re awfully fooking sure of yer own self.’

She leaned over, took some of mashed potato, a very intimate act if you’re Irish,

she said

‘I’ve been a long…………..long time alone, The Shaman told me a man from

over the Atlantic would steal my heart.’

‘What, you think it’s me?’

Now she gave me the full intensity of those brown eyes, said

‘You should be so lucky.’

At last.

Worthy opponents.

I couldn’t have wished for a more delicious scenario.

A Jew!

Failed cop, half assed PI, bar owner and an overpowering sense of his own

strength.

And true icing on the cake.

A Mick.

Now if he could just get his supplier to calm down, he was mouthing off about

low profile’s, beneath radar!

As if

As if genius could be hidden?

The Irish…….ah……….

Fresh off the boat, gung ho, full of all the low cunning of his race.

And richness indeed, The Gods of Boy love truly smile on me, the dumb Irish

hooked up with a Red Indian.

……………………… how sweet it is.

How blind these Guardians of morals are. All they need to do, is look a little

further, and there I be, in translucence.

I throw them a morsel, the loser Gacy, and oh boredom, they go off on a serial

killer quest. But I’ll keep them a time longer on this track, for utter amusement.

Keeping it local as it were, Noo Yawk, let’s give them a good ol boy from the

town they prowl.

I reached out and touched the dumb Mick, time to ration the load, throw a scare

into the kike.

Something to keep him………………barking.

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.

The day of the hurling match, I was alight. Going to show me mate our National