Irish Car Bomb

by Steven Henry

  “It’s fine, Malcolm,” she said. “I appreciate it. Guess I’ll see you around.”

  “Until I retire,” he said.

  “Or until I do,” she shot back. “I swear, they’re gonna have to pry your shield out of your cold dead fingers.”

  “Maybe so,” he agreed. “You take it easy, Detective O’Reilly.”

  Chapter 12

  One piece of excellent news was that among the endless forms had been Erin’s application for a take-home vehicle. Normally this would have taken a few days to process, but K-9 cops got special consideration, since their specialized vehicles were by far the best way to transport the animals.

  Distracted by the novelty of driving home, and thinking about her conversation with Sergeant Malcolm, Erin was halfway there before the thought struck her that she should be celebrating. But it was too late to turn around and invite any of her squad-mates out for drinks, and she didn’t feel right calling up any of her old buddies from Queens. She wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, either. She glanced in the rearview mirror at Rolf’s compartment. He was staring out the window, putting noseprints on the glass.

  “Guess it’s just you and me, hey, partner?” she said. The dog, attuned to her attention, perked his ears and looked at her.

  When she arrived at her apartment, she decided to take Rolf for a long walk through the neighborhood. Whatever Webb said, Rolf wasn’t the sort of dog who got food as a reward. He wasn’t a Labrador getting fat off table scraps. He was a working dog, bred for intense drive and focus. His reward for doing good work was to play with his toy, or to get another job to do. The best thing she could do for him was to get him outside after the long afternoon of report-writing and let him run off his energy.

  It felt good to her, too. The evening was cool enough to be comfortable, the air clear. They ranged through their old haunts, walking their beat together, moving at a brisk walk. By the time they got back to the apartment, Rolf’s tongue was hanging out and he was glad to settle in for a rest.

  Erin decided to go out. She could really use a drink, and didn’t want to do it at home. The best way to become an alcoholic, her dad had warned her, was to drink alone. And Rolf didn’t count. She put his food out for him, gave him a good rub behind the ears, and went down to the Priest, her local bar.

  It was middle evening and the bar was crowded. She slipped through the gathered drinkers and caught the bartender’s eye.

  “Hey, Nate,” she said, raising a finger.

  “Evening, Erin,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

  Oh, what the hell, she thought. “Irish car bomb.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Careful where you order that, girl.”

  “Are we in Belfast, Nate? Pour the damn drink.”

  “Coming right up,” he said. He slapped a glass on the bar and began pouring Guinness. “What whiskey?”

  “Do you have Glen D?” she asked, remembering the signature label of the Barley Corner.

  “Don’t know it,” Nate said.

  “Make it Jameson, then.”

  “Now there’s a fine drink to be having,” said an unmistakable Irish brogue from just to her right.

  Erin spun around to look straight into the smiling, sparkle-eyed face of James Corcoran. “What are you doing here?” The words came out without her thinking about them. She winced inwardly at her lack of tact, but his smile didn’t falter.

  “Oh, I’m on a date, love,” he said.

  She glanced past him. “Really? Where is she?”

  “I’m talking to her.”

  Erin couldn’t help smiling. “Do you use that line on every woman you meet in a bar?”

  “Only the ones it’s true about.”

  Nate placed a glass of Guinness on the bar and got ready to drop the bomb shot into it.

  “That one’s on me,” Corky said, flicking a finger upright. “And I’ll have one for myself.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  The bartender got out the ingredients for another car bomb and handed the shot glasses to Erin and Corky. Corky poised his shot glass over his Guinness. “Shall we, love?”

  Erin dropped her bomb in unison with him. The two of them drained the powerful concoctions together. The glasses clanked down to the bar simultaneously.

  Corky shook his head briskly and blinked. “Not bad!” he said.

  Erin felt the whiskey burn in her throat and swallowed a cough. A car bomb was one of the quickest ways to get drunk she knew, and she already felt lightheaded, but her cop instincts were still tingling. “Have you been following me?” she asked.

  “Perish the thought,” Corky said. “I told you what I was doing at our last meeting. I’m not following you. That would be creepy and downright undignified. I’m pursuing you.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well, for starters, you have to know you’re being pursued. And I did warn you.”

  “Okay,” Erin said, leaning an elbow on the bar and facing him directly. “Now I know. What else?”

  “When a lad’s only following someone, he may not be attempting to catch her,” Corky explained. “I’m certainly looking to catch up to you.”

  “And then what?” she asked. “Now that I’m here, and you’re here.”

  “Well, I’d have thought that was obvious,” he said. “Or have I been unclear in my intentions?”

  She snorted. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”

  “It’s been my experience that we’ve no guarantee of any extra time to be walking this earth,” Corky said, and for just an instant his face grew more serious. Then his smile came out again. “Why be wasting what we’ve got?”

  “Mr. Corcoran,” she began.

  “Please, love, Corky.” As he said it, he laid a hand on the back of her own hand, where it rested on the bar.

  “I’m not that kind of girl,” she said, but she liked the feel of his fingers and didn’t move her hand. He had a surprisingly gentle touch, and his confidence was compelling. She found herself wondering how those skillful fingers would feel touching her somewhere more personal, and hoped the thought wasn’t showing in her face. What was the matter with her? It must be the strong drink.

  His forehead crinkled. “Fair enough, love,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll not be wanting anything from you that you’re not willing to give. I’m not that kind of a lad.”

  “What kind of lad are you?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about you, except that you’re Irish and you like to hit on women in bars.”

  “And what is it you’re wanting to know? Should I be having my lawyer about me?”

  Suspicion skated across her consciousness. That was the trouble of being a cop. She couldn’t just turn it off at the end of a shift. He was making a joke, that was all. She laughed. “Corky, this is a conversation, not an interrogation. A lot of guys can’t shut up about themselves. Go on, tell me something about you.”

  He grinned. “Half a moment, love.” He signaled the bartender. “Whiskey for me, straight up, and bring this fine lady whatever happens to be her pleasure.”

  Erin realized his hand was still resting on hers. She wondered why it didn’t bother her. “Guinness,” she said, wanting to keep at least some of her wits about her. If she kept hitting the hard stuff, she’d end up on the floor.

  “Now then,” Corky said. “As you’ve no doubt guessed, I was born in Occupied Ireland, Belfast to be precise.”

  “Occupied?”

  “By the British, of course,” he said. “They claim it’s part of their United bloody Kingdom, but we fine Irish lads dispute the matter. I was raised Catholic, altar-boy in fact.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a religious man,” she admitted.

  “I’m not, particularly,” he said. “But you’ve got to believe in something. And you?”

  “I’m Catholic, yeah,” she said. “Raised in the church.”

  “I’d think police work was the sort of thing to diminish a lass’s faith,” h
e said.

  “I guess you’ve got a choice,” she replied. “We see people at their absolute worst, on the worst days of their lives. That makes some of us a little cynical. But I figure, that’s exactly the sort of things that make faith important.”

  “Good soldier of Saint Michael, is that it?” he asked, naming the patron saint of police officers.

  “Pretty much,” she said. “And what do you do, Corky?”

  “Oh, I’m in the shipping business,” he said. “Moving things from one place to another. You’d be surprised how much money’s in it.”

  “What kind of shipping?” The suspicion flared up again.

  “I work with the Teamsters, negotiating contracts with companies.” He grinned. “They say I’ve a way with people. I can be right persuasive.”

  “Is this where you tell me how rich you are?” She sipped her Guinness.

  He winked. “Only if you like your men to be wealthy.” Then he laughed. “I do well enough. I’ll admit I probably make more than your detective’s salary.”

  “That’s not saying much.”

  “Something I’ve wondered,” he said. “Don’t the higher-ups in your organization worry that paying their coppers so little is an incentive to corruption?”

  “My dad says it keeps the guys who want to make money in the private sector,” Erin said. “It leaves police work to folks who aren’t trying to get rich, but want to make a difference.”

  “So your old man was a copper, too?” Corky asked. “He must be right proud of you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And what about the rest of your family?” he asked. “How many O’Reillys are there, and what do they do with themselves?”

  “I’ve got three brothers,” she said. “Two older, one younger. Sean’s a trauma surgeon, Michael’s in business. Tommy’s… Tommy.”

  “What manner of business does Michael do?”

  “Commodities trading.”

  “Grain futures and the like?”

  “I think so,” she said. “Every time Mike tries to explain what he does, I fall asleep.”

  He laughed. “You’re a lass who likes the action, I take it. No, I don’t think I can see you nine-to-five, riding a desk.”

  “You, neither,” she said.

  He laughed again. “Fair to say. I like to keep on the move.”

  “What brought you over from Ireland?” She finished off her glass of stout and set the empty glass back on the counter.

  “Ah, this is America, land of opportunity, didn’t you know? They’ve a grand statue they set out to welcome me and everything. It’s the old immigrant story, same thing that brought your grandparents over, I’ll warrant.”

  “I see,” she said. “What about your family?”

  “What about them?” His mouth still wore its smile, but his eyes were suddenly wary. His hand tightened on hers ever so slightly.

  Erin hesitated. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. If it’s something you’d rather not talk about…”

  “There was a saying in my old neighborhood,” Corky said. “Everyone always said, there wasn’t a Corcoran who ever amounted to anything. I may be the best of a bad lot.” Then he recovered. “So I came here to make something of myself, where I’d have the chance to do it.”

  “So what else do you do, besides work and buy drinks for women?”

  He winked again. “I don’t mind saying, I’m a right fine dancer. If you’re not too worn out from a day of chasing criminals, would you care to step out on the floor with me?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  “So have I,” he said. “What’s that to do with anything?”

  The hell with it, Erin decided. “Okay, why not.”

  “Grand!” Corky exclaimed. “The night’s young. Not to worry, I’ll have you home before your old man starts to worry.”

  “My old man’s retired and living upstate,” she said. “I haven’t worried about him waiting up for me since high school prom.”

  “You’ll have to tell me that story.”

  “Some other time,” she laughed. “Once the statute of limitations runs out.”

  She slid off the barstool. As she stood up, disengaging her hand from Corky’s, her elbow hooked her empty beer glass toward her. It skidded over the edge of the bar between them.

  Corky’s hand shot out, snatching the glass out of midair before it was halfway to the floor. He set it back on the bar.

  Her mouth hung open. She’d hardly seen his hand move.

  “Reflexes, love,” he said with a shrug and a smile. “I’ve always been good with my hands. Perhaps I can show you some other tricks.”

  “Is everything about you fast?” she asked.

  “I can take my time,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “When it’s called for.”

  Erin was glad she didn’t blush easily. “You talk a good game. Let’s see what you’ve got on the dance floor. You know any good clubs?”

  “I think you know this neighborhood better than I do,” Corky said. “I’ll be delighted to take you wherever you want to go.”

  Outside, in the parking lot, he pointed. “There’s my ride.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “Isn’t that a little… much?”

  Corky’s car was a BMW convertible, bright yellow and spotlessly clean.

  “I’m fond of autos,” he said. “As I told you, I like to keep moving.”

  “Do I even want to know how many times you get pulled over in that thing?”

  He opened the passenger door for her. “Less than you’d think, love. Usually I outrun the coppers.”

  “I can bust you from inside the car, you know,” she said.

  “Handcuffs and everything?” Corky inquired as he got into the driver’s seat. “And there you were, telling me you weren’t that kind of girl.” He started the engine. It caught with a deep, throaty growl. “Now, where are we going?”

  Chapter 13

  Erin directed Corky down 278 over the border into Brooklyn, to a dance club called Bembe. It was small, and even on a weeknight the place was crowded. A line had formed outside, the beat of the music calling to them from halfway down the block. “Can you salsa?” she asked him.

  “Love, I can dance any step you care to request,” he said.

  “This place is cash only,” she said suddenly, remembering. “They’ve got an ATM outside if—”

  He grinned and patted his pocket. “Not to worry, love.”

  When they made their way inside, the air was hot and close from warm, fast-moving bodies. The customers were every shape, size, and color. A DJ with impressive dreadlocks clamped under his headphones had two fingers thrust into the air, eyes closed, moving with the music.

  Erin paused, with a cop’s reflexes, scanning the crowd for potential threats. But Corky took her hand and pulled her forward with that smooth speed she’d seen earlier that evening. He moved with the easy grace of a cat, loose-limbed and suave, and Erin thought he might be the most physically attractive man she’d ever met. Not that he was covered with muscles or sporting movie-star good looks, but his charisma was making her almost dizzy.

  She reminded herself to take it easy. She’d only just met the guy. Her dad had told her that men never respected women who went to bed on a first date. But as they started to dance, moving in rhythm to the hot Latin beat, she found herself wondering how his skin would feel under her hands, how his lips would taste, whether he’d be smooth and cool or fierce and passionate, and…

  He drew her in close, and their bodies were suddenly pressed tight against one another. His green eyes sparkled as he looked into her own, and she knew he could read, or guess, most of what she was thinking.

  The song ended, to cheers from most of the crowd. Erin licked her lips and stepped back. “I need a drink,” she said.

  “Aye, it’s bloody hot in here,” he agreed. A thin film of sweat was on his forehead, but he didn’t seem to be out of breath.
If anything, he was more relaxed than before.

  They went to the bar and ordered rum punch. Corky pronounced it a little weak, but acceptable, and finished his quickly. Erin savored hers, taking smaller sips, and leaned on the bar.

  “So, love, what are we celebrating?” he asked.

  “Do we need a reason?”

  “Simply being out with a fine lass such as yourself is reason enough,” he said. “But I’ve a hunch there’s something more.”

  She nodded. “I closed my first case with Major Crimes.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Really? That’s grand! What manner of miscreant did you haul off to jail?”

  “I didn’t get the chance,” she said. She wondered what she ought to tell him, but this would all be in all the papers tomorrow anyway, so there couldn’t be any harm. “A guy tried to blow up his wife, but screwed it up and took himself out instead. I helped prove it was him.”

  Corky laughed. “Ah, it takes a bit of the sweetness out of victory, finding out the lad was already done for, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. I’ll say,” Erin said ruefully. “Vic thinks there’s something more to it, and I guess I do too. I need to think—”

  “Ah, love, you’re much prettier when you’re smiling,” he said. “Take those wrinkles out of your forehead. They’ll make you old before your time.”

  She smiled. “Anyway, I guess they’ll keep me as a detective. I always thought I could do it, but you’ve gotta find out for yourself, you know?”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” he said with a wink. “You can hear as much as you want about it, but until you do it for yourself, there’s no way to know quite what it’s like.”

  Erin gave him a look. “I was talking about police work.”

  “Of course you were,” he said, his face innocent as the altar boy he claimed to have been.

  “Enough of this,” she said, finishing the last of her punch and pushing away from the bar. “We came here to dance.”

  They danced until exhaustion brought them to a standstill. Corky was right. He seemed to know every dance step known to man, as well as a few he made up on the spot. As they moved together, Erin realized what was so damned attractive about him. He was such a physical being, a man of action. Erin was the same way. So, she thought, was Rolf. No wonder she made such a good K-9 officer.