Bronx Noir

The cop, on his knees, had been slowly working his way up, but when he started to stand she fired the gun over his head. The muzzle flash lit Ernie K.’s face, showing it a sudden pale gray. But the sound, the shocking blast and its echo, caused the three of us to come off the ground. They had to hear it in downtown Yonkers. Ernie K. went to his knees, then lay flat out. We could see him trembling.

“What is my last name?” she screamed.

It was then that B.O. decided to be a hero. He stood up, yelling, “He’s a cop! You can’t shoot a cop!”

They both looked up.

“Witness, they’re witnesses,” the naked mounted cop said.

“I’ll goddamn shoot anyone I please,” Bridget said.

“But not a cop,” B.O. insisted.

“Run for help,” Ernie K. said. “Say it’s a ten-thirteen.”

B.O. turned to run. He knew the location of all the police call boxes in the park.

“Fahey,” Lefty said. “Her name is Bridget Fahey.”

And there it was, out there for all to know. B.O. stopped cold.

“Mr. Trainor is right,” Bridget said. “And this conceited, arrogant police officer knows the Fahey name all too well, do you not? All too well.”

Bridget circled Ernie K. Dust rose from her feet as she shuffled to put her back to us. Out of modesty, or a better shooting angle. I didn’t know which.

“You shoot me and these kids will tell,” he said. “Every cop in this country will hunt you down.”

“You exaggerate your popularity,” she said.

“You can’t shoot a cop,” B.O. said.

“Even one who had sex with a sixteen-year-old?” Bridget said. She said it to us. “A sixteen-year-old who happens to be my sister.”

Bridget Fahey only had one sixteen-year-old sister: Margaret Mary. The same Margaret Mary who wore the pin of the Blessed Virgin on her school uniform. The same Margaret Mary who B.O. claimed as the love of his life. I felt my mouth go dry.

“Shoot him,” Lefty said. “She has to shoot him, B.O.”

“No,” B.O. moaned, and then he babbled something and stumbled backward, banging off Van Cortlandt tombstones. He started to run, with his hands over his face. His knee cracked into a rock and he went down. Lefty and I went after him. I picked up his glasses and yelled for him to wait, but he was gone, moving fast. Lefty and I were faster, but we couldn’t catch him. The second shot brought us off the ground again, and probably on record pace. Then we saw B.O. make a right on the cowpath and we sprinted hard. Lefty finally brought him down with an open-field tackle.

B.O. was gasping, and crying, and trying to say something about hating us. I handed him his glasses and he smacked them away. But he should have put them on to see the naked redhead galloping toward us across the open field. Bridget came right at us, her hair flying in the wind. She brought Connie to a halt, then she tossed her purse to the ground. The bag was no longer floppy, but full and round. It hit with a thud.

“She cut his head off,” B.O. said.

“Oh, stop it, all of you,” she said, as she dismounted. She hadn’t had time to dress.

Lefty pulled B.O. to his feet. We were only about fifty yards from the traffic moving on Broadway. Bridget stood in front of us, and we all stared at the ground. I focused on her painted toenails. Either dark green or black.

“I didn’t shoot him,” she said. “God knows I wanted to. But it would only make things worse.”

“If Ernie ain’t dead,” Lefty said, “he’s going to make us pay for this.”

“He’ll do nothing of the kind,” she said. “He doesn’t want anyone to know a thing about this. He’ll make up some story. Like he went in the lake to save someone, and someone stole his horse.”

“We’ll tell them the truth,” B.O. said.

“He’ll say we’re the ones who stole his horse,” Lefty said, “and we’re lying to protect ourselves.”

“My dad will believe me.”

“Your dad will never know, Brendan,” she said. “This has to remain our secret.”

“How do you know my name?” B.O. said.

“I know all of you. I know Mr. Trainor, and you, quiet man,” she said, nodding to me. “But I know you best, Brendan. For all you might think ill of me now, I’m close to my sisters. And I will do all that is necessary to protect them. Understand me?”

“He should be arrested,” B.O. said. “It’s rape. It’s statutory rape. Ask my father.”

Bridget sighed heavily. I heard the old Yonkers bus, the Bernacchia line, chugging home. I wondered if they could see us out in the open field. Or would they even believe their eyes.

“Look at me,” she said. “All of you. Look at my face.”

That wasn’t going to be easy. I knew that if I looked up my eyes would be uncontrollable, caroming around in their sockets like loose pinballs. It hurt, but I looked up, and I’d never seen so many freckles in my life. Freckles everywhere. Everywhere.

“I want you to listen carefully to me,” she said. “Especially you, Brendan.”

“He should pay for what he did,” B.O. said.

“We cannot have him arrested,” she said. “And after I leave here, none of us will ever speak of this again.” She took B.O.s hand. “I truly hate to tell you this, but Margaret Mary didn’t want to leave you this summer. She had to go away.”