Exceptional Merit (4 page)

This lesson had been learned by a rookie cop years ago, who was sitting in a bar when a perp came in and announced a stick-up.  The rookie, trying to implement the best tactics he knew, didn't react until he was sure the perp wasn't paying attention to him.  He then drew his off-duty revolver from its holster, ready to take appropriate police action.  Before he could even identify himself as a police officer, however, he was shot in the back of the head by the perp's accomplice.  The second gunman had been planted in the bar earlier to look for possible off-duty cops or anyone else who may get in the way of the robbery.

Most cops will never forget that story.  The lesson was extremely costly for the twenty-one year old rookie who paid with his life so others like Keegan could learn to keep their backs to the wall and their eyes to the door.  There is no shortage of tactics learned at the hands of a previous cop’s mistakes.

Keegan had barely sat down when the bartender placed a pint of Guinness stout in front of him.  He studied the crowd.  There were probably less than two dozen people in the entire bar, he calculated.  This was virtually empty for a Thursday night at McBride's. 
The weather must be what was keeping the crowd away
, figured Keegan.

McBride's was divided into two parts, the bar area and the dining room.  The two were separated by a wooden partition standing four feet high.  A mural of Ireland's flag with the words ‘
Ireland unfree shall never be at peace
’ was painted on the bar side of the partition.  Behind the bar, was a glass mirror with a shamrock etched in the all four corners and in the middle, a large leprechaun standing over a pot of gold.  In front of the mirror, lined up perfectly in three tiered rows were the assorted bottles of alcohol readily available for sale.  The bar itself was a dark brown, forgiving to the years of spills and scratches it must have endured.  There were approximately twenty bar stools in front, mostly unoccupied tonight, thought Keegan.  There was about eight feet between the bar and the partition to allow for people to stand and talk on nights busier than tonight.  Above the door leading to the hallway where the restrooms were, flew both an American and an Irish flag.  At each end of the bar was a television broadcasting a sporting event.  The one right over Keegan's head was showing the Ranger-Islander game being played at the Garden.

There was only one bartender working tonight.  His name was Daniel O'Brien, a native of county Antrim, Northern Ireland.  Keegan felt the bartender’s salt and pepper hair and mustache added at least five years to his actual age of thirty-eight.  He was a portly man despite his six foot frame.  Once anyone heard O'Brien speak, there was no doubt he was from Northern Ireland.  Keegan loved his brogue.  It was as strong today as the day he came to New York back in the mid 1970's.

The other half of the bar was the dining area.  There were two steps at each end of the partition, leading to the twenty or so tables in the adjacent room.  The room was carpeted with a dark green and maroon print which was nicely complemented by the cream tablecloths.  Each table had a candle in the center, creating a slight glow in the dimly lit room.  The light brown walls were decorated much the same as many other Irish pubs Keegan had seen over the years.  There were pictures of the Ireland, beer advertisements, an Irish Rugby jersey, pictures of many Irish leaders and rebels and a copy of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic.  In the middle of the room, against the back wall, was the stage where every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night, Tommy McDermott and his band played.

Keegan liked the seat he was in.  He could see everything and everybody in the bar.  He watched as Tommy McDermot
t set up the keyboards and the drums, preparing for another night's work.  McDermott’s long black hair was in a ponytail as he set up, he would undoubtedly set it free once he began to play.  Keegan enjoyed listening to McDermott’s music.  He played a variety of traditional Irish songs as well as many rebel songs.  Keegan figured Tommy has been playing here for about five or six years now; a pretty steady gig for someone not yet thirty years old.

As Keegan scooped up a handful of peanuts and threw them in his mouth, he glanced into the kitchen, seeing a
Hispanic cook.  He shook his head and smiled as he read, ‘
Traditional Irish cuisine
,’ from the menu. 
Imagine that
, thought Keegan,
some South American is going to prepare my Sheppard’s pie and they have the nerve to call it traditional Irish cuisine.

Keegan had finally shaken the chill out of his bones and took his first sip of the Guinness.  A man sitting alone at a table in the dining area had caught his eye.  At first, he thought the man had been staring at him but then he realized the man was watching the hockey game which was being shown on the television overhead.  Still there was something weird about this guy. 
His complexion was too dark for him to be Irish.  Spanish, or maybe Italian
, figured Keegan. He was now the one staring.  The man was about thirty-five years old, had dark hair and wore wire-framed glasses. 
Why is this guy coming to an Irish bar by himself to eat dinner?
  The answer was simple. 
He must've been craving the traditional Irish cuisine they serve here,
he thought, amusing himself as he once again glanced at the cook.

After setting up and tuning their instruments, it was time for the Tommy McDermot
t Band to begin their first set.  “Welcome to a quiet Thursday evening here at McBride's Bar and Grill,” began McDermott.

Keegan turned towards the band with Guinness in hand.  “Tonight I'd like to begin with a song from my hometown of Dublin.  It's called
Dublin in the Rare Ould Times
.”

Keegan applauded as McDermo
tt began singing the ballad.  This had always been one of his favorite Irish songs, so he quietly sang along with McDermott.  The bartender brought Keegan another Guinness just as he had finished the first.  Keegan swallowed another handful of peanuts and raised his glass to the bartender.

“Thank you Dan, you're right on top of things as usual.”

“I hope you wouldn't expect anything less from me, now would ya?” O'Brien joked.  “I'm awfully glad to see ya, Jim.”

“Don't act so surprised, Dan. It is the last Thursday of the month isn't it?”

Keegan's palms began to sweat; he knew when O'Brien told him he was glad to see him that something needed to be done.  His heart started to beat just a little bit faster now.

O’Brien offered a friendly tap on Keegan’s shoulder.  “And sure it is lad, sure it is.”

Keegan, not wanting to appear apprehensive, changed the subject momentarily.  He motioned with his head at a very attractive young waitress, waiting tables in the dining room.  “Hey, Dan, who's the waitress you've got working over there?”

She was about five feet, four inches tall, wearing a black skirt and a white turtle neck sweater which clung to her body in all the right places to accent her flawless figure.  She had strawberry blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

“Ahh, you wouldn't be talking about Nora, now would ya?  Forget about her lad, a man your age could have a heart attack just thinking about a lass like her.”

“Speak for yourself, old man
, “Keegan rebutted the bartender’s comments.  He looked O’Brien dead in the eyes, made a fist and flexed his muscle.  “Go ahead, feel that.  I'm still pumping iron three times a week.”

O’Brien declined the invitation to feel his muscle but wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to further tease Keegan.  “Well now, that's all well and good, because that'll be the only thing you'll be pumping around here.”

Both men laughed at the lewd joke as they continued to leer at the waitress.  O’Brien’s smile faded first.  “Getting back to business, Jim, I'm glad to see you tonight.”

O'Brien reached inside his vest pocket, pulled a white business size envelope and slid it across the bar to Keegan.  Keegan picked up the envelope and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.  O'Brien stepped away momentarily to tend to his customers.

Keegan remained stoic as he accepted the envelope.  “Thank you, Daniel.”

Keegan turned away from the bar as he once again focused in on the music of Tommy McDermo
tt.  “…
and I'll never forget the green grass or the rivers as I keep law and order on the streets of New York
,” sang McDermott.

The Streets of New York
was another one of Keegan's favorites.  The song was about an Irishman whose family was fighting poverty, so they sent him to New York to become a police officer, following in his uncle's footsteps.  He wondered how many past or present cops, aside from his late grandfather, this song could have been written about.  Thousands, he guessed.  McDermott continued, “that song is, as always, dedicated to any members of the N.Y.P.D. that we might have with us tonight.”

“Yeah, that's me!” yelled out one rather inebriated young man sitting at the far end of the bar, clearly trying to impress the young lady he was with.

What an asshole
, thought Keegan.  Keegan figured he must have been out sick the day they told the story of the rookie cop.  Now everybody in the entire bar knows this guy is a cop.  If there was somebody planted in here to do a robbery, this kid would be dead before he would have any idea what had hit him.

He looked down at his watch and decided it was time to leave.  He put a twenty dollar bill on the bar as he said good night to Dan.  He put his hat and coat back on and wondered if it had gotten any colder than it was before.  It couldn't get too much colder, he rationalized.  As he walked towards the door, he put his hand in his pocket, making sure he didn't drop the envelope.  Even though he hadn't opened it yet, Keegan had a pretty good idea what was inside.

Tommy McDermo
tt had ended the music set with
The Streets of New York
.  The sparse crowd had applauded and a few more members of the audience began to leave.  McDermott shouted goodbye to Keegan as he left the bar.  The bar grew quiet as the band took their break in between sets.

The man with the wire-framed glasses asked Nora O'Donnell to bring him his check along with his final beer of the evening.  He closely watched as the stout bartender held a mug in his hand, pouring into it, the draft.  It was almost an art form how he deftly tilted the mug and just at the right time,
he swooped it up in one motion without spilling a drop.

The sound of Nora's spiked heels against the wooden floor echoed throughout the bar.  She stepped down the steps onto the carpeted floor muffling the noise.   She walked over to the man, placed the mug of beer down on a cocktail napkin and then placed the check face down on the table.  “Thank you, come again.”

She sounded rather insincere
, the man thought.  He stared at Nora as she walking away, taking in her figure.

The man then focused his attention on Keegan, who was now exiting the bar.  He watched as Keegan reached his hand into the pocket he had put the envelope.  He hoped he would take the envelope out and open it before he left the bar.  To the man's disappointment, Keegan did not.  He just removed his hand from his pocket and walked out of the bar.

Once Keegan had left, the man picked up the check and examined it, making sure his arithmetic matched the waitresses.  Five dollars for a beer was a bit much, but then again, this was Manhattan, he reasoned.  Picking up the mug by its handle, he chugged half of the beer down in one big gulp.

He then reached down to his side and picked up a book which had concealed a digital camera.  He was amazed at how technology had advanced.  Disguising a camera as a paperback novel was ingenious.  He placed both elbows on the table holding the camera up to eye level.  If anyone had bothered to look in his direction he would appear to be a bookworm, deeply involved in his novel.

He focused the camera in on a close up of Dan O'Brien's face.  He hoped the dim lighting would not interfere in the clarity of the photos.  Of course, he had been assured it would not, but nevertheless, he was troubled that the picture of James Keegan accepting the envelope might not come out.  This entire evening would be a waste of time without that picture.  He snapped the picture of O'Brien and placed the book on the table in front of him.  He wondered the extent of Keegan's involvement.  Was he involved or had the passing of the envelope been an innocent exchange of some sort?  In his gut, he thought it was not innocent.  He hoped he was wrong.

As soon as the man opened the door exiting McBride’s, the wind hit him.  It had to be ten below zero with the wind chill.  He was aware of the coldness of his wire-framed glasses against the bridge of his nose.  The fact that he had left his gloves in the car didn't help matters much.  He kept one hand in his pocket, while the other had to suffer and hold his brief case.  As he walked down Forty Fourth Street, he noticed two men standing off to the side in front of a building.  The man, who was concerned by their presence, took his right hand out of his pocket.  He then loosened the strap of his trench coat, making the nine millimeter handgun worn in a shoulder holster under his sports coat more accessible.  He continued to keep an eye on the men who had paid no attention to him.  After safely passing them, he once again secured the strap to combat the frigid weather.  He wondered if he had been paranoid, or if he was just being careful.  In today's world, there didn't seem to be much of a difference.