“I thought Angie was his partner,” Paulie replied, looking questioningly at Richard.
“Shut up, Paulie,” Richard ordered, watching hungrily as their grandmother came back from the kitchen with a heaping plate of corned beef. Glancing across the table at his young cousin, Max, he continued, “Uncle Mike told us that we’re not supposed to talk about Max’s mother in front of Max, remember?”
“Yes, I am a cop. Wanna see my gun?” Sal cut in, waggling his eyebrows up and down.
“Sal! Really?” Mike said as he came into the dining room just as his partner was about to lean over to lift up his shirt and show the gun on his belt. “They’re just kids.”
“Cooool!” Richard said with a gasp in spite of himself as he caught a glimpse of the gun before Sal dropped his shirt back over it.
“Can I touch it?” Paulie asked, practically crawling over his brother to get to Sal.
“Of course, you can’t, you idiot!” Richard told him, emphasizing his words with several elbow jabs to Paulie’s gut until the younger boy retreated into his seat. “It’s a gun, not a toy!”
“Sitchedoon, everyone. The corned beef is goin’ to be drowned if we don’t get at it!” Mary Margaret corralled Mike, Teaszy, and Alan and herded them into the dining room towards the table. “Katie will be ’round shortly. Here, Sal, if keepin’ your weight up is your goal, you had better start us off.”
“Mom!” Mike admonished as his mother, sitting at one end of the table, passed the heavy plate past Paulie and Richard to Sal.
“Well, let us not mince words, lads. Sal has put on a bit of the chunk since this time last year, I’d have to say.”
“It’s all of those sunflower seeds,” Mike smirked, snagging a few slices of corned beef from the plate as he took it from Sal and held it steady for his sister to serve herself. “And he’s a guest.”
“A guest, me arse, Michael,” Mary Margaret laughed, doling out a dollop of mashed potatoes onto Max’s plate just beyond her own water glass.
“He’s the most permanent thing you’ve had to a partner in yer life. Now, everyone, eat! That’s only cabbage there, Max. Don’t pick it out. And what is that god-awful buzzin’ I’m hearin’?”
“Shit. I mean shoot. I’m sorry. It’s my cell. Excuse me.” Sal shot up from the table and moved into the tiny kitchen, careful not to knock over any of the pots that had been left to cool on the counter.
“Mom, do you have to make such a big deal about how Sal looks every time we come over?” Mike mumbled as he stuffed a mouthful of mashed potato and corned beef into his mouth.
“I think it’s cute,” Teaszy said with a smile. She looked across the table at her husband, who was cutting bits of fat off his meat and pushing them onto the increasing pile on the side of his plate, and her smile faded.
“I’m just tryin’ to help, luv. There’s a perfectly fine young lad without a wife at this late stage of the game, and I’m wonderin’ why. Pass the butter, will you, please, Alan, and, for the love of God, stop pickin’ at the meat. It’s supposed to be fatty! The only thing that comes to mind is that he doesn’t have a mother to give him advice.”
“You call that advice?” Mike asked, talking around another forkful of food he had just shoveled into his mouth.
Mary Margaret looked down at her plate and placed the daintiest bit of potato on her fork. Then she looked in dismay at her son. “It’s all in the name of motherly love. And can you please stop stuffin’ yer gob with the food, Michael? Yer a policeman, not a firefighter.”
“You’ve certainly got that motherly love thing with Sal covered, Mom,” Teaszy laughed, spearing a piece of meat off Mike’s plate and eating it, first ensuring that Alan saw the fat dangling from it.
“Don’t be gettin’ too full of yerself there, missy,” Mary Margaret looked at her daughter. “Wasn’t too long ago that I was proppin’ up yer tender heart!”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Richard gagged, the thought of his mother as anything other than his mother being too much for his eleven-year-old prepubescent ears to hear.
“Me, too,” Paulie echoed, holding his hands around his throat and making choking noises.
“Shut. Up,” Richard snapped.
“Richard, don’t speak to your little brother like that,” Alan said wearily, pushing the now-overflowing pile of corned beef fat off his plate onto the linen tablecloth.
“Jesus, Alan. Do you have to do that?” Teaszy whispered across to him as she looked around the table with embarrassment.
“Gran, what do we have for dessert?” Richard asked, trying his best to distract everyone’s attention from his mother’s angry whispers to his father.
“Wait until you’ve finished yer dinner and I’ll show you,” Mary Margaret replied, more familiar with the tension between her daughter and son-in-law than she would have liked to be.
“Sorry, Mary Margaret, but we—actually, I—have to go,” Sal called into the dining room from the adjoining living room on his way to the front door. “Mike, if you want to stay, I’m just going to be an hour or so. Gonna grab a quick coffee with Ron Roberts.”
“Who?” Mike asked, frowning in puzzlement as he looked over his shoulder at Sal, trying to figure out what was so important that he, of all people, would leave a free dinner— and his partner—behind.
“The traffic cop who stopped us?”
“You got pulled over, Daddy?” Max asked, ears pricked up.
“No. I mean, yes. Kind of. Okay, I guess. An hour, you say?”
“No more than,” Sal promised, hustling out the door like a schoolboy right after the bell rings.
“Yer not leavin’ on account of me sayin’ yer fat, are you? I was only just havin’ a wee joke with you,” Mary Margaret said, as she stood up to see Sal out, wringing her hands in dismay before wiping them on the cooking apron she had forgotten to take off before sitting down for dinner.
“You said I was getting fat?” Sal laughed. “I thought you were saying that I was solid and muscular and— ”
“Oh, be off with ye, then!” Mary Margaret laughed, turning back to the table.
“Sorry. Must be the accent,” Sal shot back, inadvertently slamming the door as he left the house.
*****
“Such a lovely lad, that Sal of yours, Michael,” Mary Margaret began, settling back into her chair while looking at everyone’s plate to assess the success of her meal. “Is there no one we can introduce him to? Such a shame.”
She sighed, then abruptly changed focus and looked at her grandsons.” What are you goin’ out as this year for Halloween, my lambs?”
“I’m gonna be a cowboy,” Max hollered, jumping up in his chair with such exuberance that Mary Margaret had to grab his plate to prevent it from spinning out of control and crashing to the ground.
“Good to know, lad. Now, Michael, am I taking yer lad ‘round again this year or are you doing it?”
“You,” Mike muttered.
“Grand. Next.”
“I’m gonna be a panda bear,” Paulie said, flailing his arms like the air-filled figure often seen in front of gas stations.
“That’s so gay,” Richard declared.
“Richard!” Teaszy scolded. “We do not use that language in this house.”
“Okay. Well, that’s so lame,” Richard corrected himself, rolling his eyes as his little brother continued to flail.
“I think you’ve missed the spirit of what your mother is trying to say, Rich,” Alan advised. “And stop whatever it is you’re doing, Paulie. Panda bears don’t do that, anyway. How about you, Mike? Busy time for you, I bet.”
“Every day is busy for us, Alan,” Mike replied, only answering at all because the man asking the question was married to his sister.
“I was seein’ on the telly just the other night about some posh party that all of the muckity-mucks will be goin’ to tomorrow night,” Mary Margaret interjected.
“Uh huh,” M
ike said, filling his mouth with boiled cabbage.
“Apparently, it’s down by the waterfront at some factory by the old docks, of all places. They’re callin’ it the Burnin’ Schoolhouse Party. I’m sure you must know somethin’ about it, Michael.”
“Nope,” Mike replied, reaching for another helping of potatoes.
“Well, Father Brian was talkin’ about it just this morning after Mass— You know, Michael, it wouldn’t kill you to darken the doors a time or two. I’m just sayin’… But accordin’ to Father Brian,” Mary Margaret continued, looking around at the adults at the table and lowering her voice so the children would not hear her, “word on the street is that this is going to be something else again. He was sayin’ that they’ve got some New Age band coming up from the United States to show off their new record, and some fireworks pyrotechnic guru lad from Europe is flyin’ over sometime today to get the place set up so they can put on a light show that would make Satan’s fires seem dim. I can’t see that as bein’ legal, is it, luv?”
“Can we go see it, Dad?” Richard piped up.
Mary Margaret’s head shot up. She had convinced herself that by lowering her voice, only the grownups would hear her comments, so she was surprised that such was not the case.
“And how would Father Brian know all of this?” Mike asked.
“No,” Alan answered his son brusquely, giving up on the meal and pushing his plate away from himself, inadvertently knocking it loudly against one of the serving dishes.
“Because he was looking for a caterer for the dinner at the Men’s Club annual general meeting,” Mary Margaret began.
“Come on, Dad! You never do anything fun!” Richard shouted.
“That’s because he’s your father,” Teaszy said curtly, looking coldly at her husband. “Fathers are not fun. They are…fathers.”
“I told him,” Mary Margaret continued, “that the Women’s League would do it because we always do. But no, he wouldn’t hear of it. Well, said I, count me out then. So didn’t he go off find this Divine Catering and Events group.”
“Of course, he would.” Mike rolled his eyes.
“Uncle Mike is fun,” Paulie chimed in, a broad smile coming over his face.
“Shut up, idiot!” Richard said, even though he knew Paulie was right. He just resented that his own father spent barely any time with his sons.
“Turns out, don’tcha know, that these Divine Catering people are nothing but a bunch of ill-mannered lads,” Mary Margaret went on, looking over at Richard and then at Teaszy and Alan, “who said they were far too busy looking after this Burning Schoolhouse Party to be bothered with a little church do like our own.”
“I wish you would stop calling your brother an idiot, Richard. It’s not kind and it’s not polite,” Teaszy said. She exhaled loudly, tired of pretending that her family and marriage were in better shape than they actually were.
“I wish my brother would stop being an idiot,” Richard mumbled under his breath.
“In speaking to them,” Mary Margaret leaned forward to speak confidentially, “Father Brian got the distinct impression that they didn’t know anything about catering or events.”
“I heard that,” Paulie called out. “Mom, Richard called me an idiot again.”
“Alan…?” Teaszy prompted.
“So didn’t this get me looking it all up on the computer,” Mary Margaret nodded smugly in recognition of her own ingenuity, “and that’s how I know all I do. Meanwhile, didn’t Father Brian turn around and ask me to get the League to make up the sandwiches? Ach!”
“Richard, stop calling your brother an idiot,” Alan sighed.
“Speaking of the likes, Michael, have you retained that same solicitor for this next round of troubles?” Mary Margaret asked, looking conspicuously over at Max, finally realizing that her lowered voice in no way muted the smallies’ ability to hear her.
“I’d rather not discuss it now, but yes, I have,” Mike replied, wiping his mouth with the napkin he had never removed from his bread plate.
“Good. She was a lovely lass and did herself proud last go-round,” his mother said approvingly. “Paulie, love, don’t be wipin’ the mashed under yer chair like that. If you don’t want any more, just say so.”
“Sorry, Gran. Dad says I have to eat all of this crap even if I don’t like it.”
“Paulie!” Teaszy scolded.
“It’s not the idiot’s fault, Mom. That’s what Dad calls it, don’t you, Dad?” Richard said, looking coldly at his father and giving the first hint of the hormonal defiance beginning to take root in him.
“Stop calling your brother an idiot,” Alan said wearily.
“Never ye mind, luv,” Mary Margaret trilled. “Not everyone appreciates the finer points of Irish cookin’. No worries, though. I’ll pick up a can of tomato sauce and we can have spaghetti next Sunday, if that suits everyone’s fancy.”
“No. This is fine, Mom,” Teaszy soothed, looking disdainfully across the table at her husband, fully aware of how wounded her mother felt from any remark against her Irish heritage.
“Not at all, darlin’. If my cookin’ isn’t up to everyone’s standards,” the older woman advised, her eyes tearing, “then I can easily shift gears. That’s one of me strengths, don’t you know. Just go with the flow, as they say.”
“Jesus, Alan!” Teaszy muttered through gritted teeth.
“I’m just clearin’ the plates now,” Mary Margaret continued. “Which of me grandsons wants extra dessert for helpin’?”
All three boys hopped off their chairs and eagerly followed her.
“Why would you say such a thing, Alan?” Teaszy demanded once the boys were out of earshot.
“What? Is it too much to say that overboiled cabbage, potatoes, and corned beef tastes like crap?”
“In front of the children? Yes.”
“Uh… If you two need me to leave…” Mike offered.
“No, Mike. I’m sorry. We can discuss this later,” Teaszy said. She excused herself to join her mother and the boys in the kitchen, although, Mike noticed, not before glaring at Alan and adding, “At home.”
“Good luck with that, sis.”
“That’s just marriage, Mike. But then again, I guess you wouldn’t know. Your marriage to Angela lasted, what? Just long enough to get her pregnant, or was that why you got married? I don’t recall.”
With that, she left the room.
Mike took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
“I’ve got me Lucky Charms biscuits for dessert, if anyone’s interested,” Mary Margaret said, returning with her three underlings and Teaszy in tow. “I think these will be to yer likin’, Alan. I checked the box. Lucky Charms are made in the US by General Mills. Nothin’ Irish about them.”
Chapter Five
Sunday, October 30th, 2005 - 6:20 p.m.
Sal pulled up as close as he could beside the marked police cruiser that was backed into a spot in the parking lot behind a hole-in-the-wall bar.
“Thanks for the coffee,” he said as Ron Roberts passed the paper cup through his window over to Sal.
“Least I could do after that kerfuffle yesterday.”
“No worries. Shit happens,” Sal replied, snapping open the plastic lid and taking a sip, staring at the brick wall in front of him. “Been a long time since we’ve sat like this, eh?”
“Well, I have to say I am surprised that you went over to the dark side.” Ron smiled as he referred to what was a common police reference to the divide between traffic cops and criminal investigators. Then a man stumbling around the corner towards his car caught his attention.
“Better cars,” Sal joked, making himself comfortable in the driver’s seat of his unmarked car and stuffing a handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“Well, as long as that’s all,” Ron said, watching the man fumble with his car keys. The man dropped them a few times, then looked over and noticed the patrol car.
“Hours suck, though,” Sal said, spitting the shells onto the floor of the car. “But then again, so do yours. Still in minor traffic court all the time?”
“Gotta pay the bills.” Ron looked straight ahead and nodded at the man who smiled back sheepishly before picking his keys up from the ground one last time and stumbling away from his car and back out towards the street. “That partner of yours, though? Seems like a bit of a hothead.”
“Mike? Naw. He’s a pussycat. Just gets a little, uh… focused at times. Kinda like you.” Sal smiled again, tipping a few seeds from the little bag into the palm of his left hand.
“I don’t see any similarities between that cowboy and me.”
“I don’t think he sees any similarities between the two of you, either,” Sal replied, plucking at the seeds and cracking them individually with his teeth. “Luckily, the two of you will never have to work together.”
“Just as well. Doesn’t seem to have much personality,” Ron sniffed.
Sal almost choked on the seeds as he stifled a laugh.
“In any event, I’m sorry I stepped on your toes yesterday.” Ron lifted his coffee cup in a gesture of good will.
“No worries. A kid almost shot us. Mike was almost shot by that undercover cop trying to shoot the kid. A few words were passed. All good. Back on the trail now.” Sal gave up on the singles and upended the rest of the bag of sunflower seeds into his mouth.
“A kid almost shot you? What kid?” Ron’s naturally arched eyebrows rose even higher.
“Right. You were gone by then. Okay, so…” Sal spit out a few shells, and then a few more until his mouth was clear. “After you left, this girl comes flying up to the car window, pointing a gun at us.”
“I hope you shot her?”
“No. Mike—”
“You see, we’re not at all alike. I would have shot her right then and there. And been justified. And that would be the end of it.”
“I know you would have. And so would I, but that’s not how it went. Mike ended up subduing her, which was just as well because she dumped the gun before—”
10-33 Assist PC Page 7
