Up in Irish Brooklyn

By Norman Keifetz

A literary detective story about two guys from Irish Brooklyn who meet after returning from the Korean War to live a tale of charm, humor, irony, murder and tragedy, a police procedural full of puzzling twists during a period in the history of the New York Police Department´s recovery from the shame of the Knapp commission report of corruption.

A body is discovered by a vagrant in a park in Irish Brooklyn, shot in the head. Detective Noah Keefe, a tough, determined officer, gets the case and he soon learns that the victim was an honored officer in the Royal Constabulary Belfast, the Northern Island Protestant police, detested by the Irish Republican Army. Have the Catholics and Protestants of Belfast brought their fight to Brooklyn?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796090406

Norman Keifetz

Norman Keifetz has published nine earlier novels, had plays produced, entertained readers of Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock mystery magazines as well as literary quarterlies. He is a surprising writer, a treat for readers who know his work and for those who come upon his writing for the first time. His work has been honored at book festivals in London, New York, Amsterdam and Los Angeles. The author is married to the award winning Mexican poet, Issamary Simmons Benavides. They live in New York and San Miguel Allende, Mexico.

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Copyright © 2020 by Norman Keifetz.

Library of Congress Control Number:            2020903939

ISBN:                    Hardcover                          978-1-7960-9041-3

                              Softcover                            978-1-7960-9039-0

                              eBook                                 978-1-7960-9040-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of the imagination. It is not intended to portray the life or problems of any person living or dead. If there are similarities to real people they are coincidental. The exception is myself who is referred to in the novel only as an artistic invention.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/26/2020

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Contents

Prologue

Tommy and Noah

As Keefe tells it…

Noah and the Horses

The White Horse Tavern episode

A family history

Talk of the Troubles

Then that Saturday at Shea Stadium…

The corpse

The Brits and the State Department

Lunchtime with Tommy

Noah in Hoboken

The elusive Rusty Morgan

The Man in White

Kathy Philbin Returns

Kathy Phibin and Rusty´s brother

Kathy confers with Noah

Noah and Tommy

Kathy Philbin confronts Too-Tall

Noah is troubled

Kathy Confronts Molly O´Neil

Noah Faces his Father

Noah and Kathy

Invitation to Mexico

Tommy has some intelligence

Noah tells Kathy Philbin

Noah goes to the movies

Chief Gavagan wants a word

Come out, Come out, wherever you are

Bobby Berlin has something for Kathy

Noah waits and watches

Brooklyn Navy Yard

Noah Calls Mexico

At Flanagan´s precinct

Tommy calls Noah

Following the footprints

Epilogue

Oh the drums go bang

And the cymbals clang

And the boys they blaze away

MacCarthy puffs the old bassoon

While Doyle the pipes will play. Oh! Hennessy

Tennessy tootles the

Flute, my word tis something grand.

Oh! a credit to Ould Ireland boys, is MacNamarra´s band!

From MacNamara´s Band

Composed by John J. Stamford in 1889.

In public domain

Prologue

The 68th Precinct in Bay Ridge Brooklyn has a crappy reputation. Complaints of the cops being rude, lying, slow to respond and lots of attitude when they do show up. Frequent complaints: Took 3 hours to respond. They hang up without giving any help even before you finish talking, Not New York´s finest by a long shop.

For Noah Keefe, the station´s homicide detective, these were grips he didn´t hear. Rather: The detective was helpful and sympathetic, determined, seemed to know his business, was never without a step well taken.

Not today however. A corpse was found in Leif Ericson Park, practically a stone´s throw from the 68th police station. The 911 came from a dru nken hobo via a woman, one Maggie O’Neal, who had been walking to her job at Bay Ridge TOYOTA, cutting through the park to save time. When the vagrant approached her she backed away.

There a dead guy around the turn.

Dead—?

Yeah, he was shot…in the head.

Maggie kept backing away, her hand covering her mouth.

Call the cops, then— She managed.

He spread his arms, palms up. No geedas, no phone.

The precinct’s not far. Get over there and tell them.

He shook his head. Don´t like cops.

What´s your name?

Rusty.

Rusty, what?

He shrugged.

Okay, Rusty, I´ll call the cops from my office. But don´t leave the park.

Don´t like cops.

Just stay here. She almost shouted.

A perimeter had been established, taped ten feet around when Noah Keefe got the call. A squad car was on the scene, with officers Jimmy Dell and Bobby Link, from the Keefe´s Station lulling about. Forensics from downtown had changed into blue coveralls and were working the corpse while a department photographer was shooting the scene-

When Dell and Link saw Keefe, they beckoned him.

Where´s the guy who found him? Keefe asked.

We locked him in the squad car.

Why?

Wasn´t talking and seemed like a runner.

Take him out and get him a cup of coffee, for christsake. I gonna take a look at the body.

There was a bullet hole in he the middle of his head. With brain tissue spread four feet around. Forensic said he was shot while standing up, fell backwards. Photographer was still shooting the corpse and surrounding field.

Keefe looked at the dead guy, noted that his pants seemed to be made of a shiny serge material of some sort, shoes were black brogues. He wondered if the dead man was European. His skin was pale, hair dirty blond.

Any ID on him? Keefe asked Joe Antonelli, the senior Forensic officer.

Nothing yet. There´s shit on his shoes and none in the immediate surrounding area. The shoes are brand new, seem hardly to have been walked in-

Meaning what?

If he walked here, there should have been traces. And the shoes would show some wear.

So he stepped in shit and was carried here already dead from some place else.

Carried maybe in a car. It rained for the past few days; there are tire tracks. But he was shot here. We found the bullet, the shell casing. Glock 19 until further notice.

Antonelli, take a sample of the pants for the lab, Keefe asked, something odd about them."

Teah, I noticed that. Look like uniform pants. Maybe a doorman´s pants. Shirt is cotton, maybe Egyptian or Chinese. Could even be Irish linen. Ha Ha.

No, Keefe said, the Irish wear sackcloth.

Keefe left them and walked over to the guy who found the victim.

I´m Detective Keefe. I understand you came upon the corpse, Rusty. Is that right?

Rusty nodded.

What´s your family name? I don´t see it in my notes.

Rusty didn´t answer.

Did you hear me? We need the name because at the moment you are the murderer. When we book you we need both names. We have to see if your name pops up in other violent crimes.

I found the guy. I didn´t shoot him. He said defiantly.

"I still need your name. The guys at the station will beat the shit out of you till you tell. If that´s what you want, it´s okay. We´ll move on. How