Have You Ever Killed a Man?
From patrolling with the L.A.P.D. to homelessness in London
Interview with Dominic (1998), who had a successful career as a soldier, and as a mounted policeman in England, before moving to California and joining the Los Angeles Police Department. Following a series of traumatic incidents, he returned to Ireland, and then went on to London, where he eventually ended up in Arlington House hostel for the homeless.
How could you imagine what I’ve done in my life? It’s unimaginable…
I was born in Kerry, reared in Co. Kildare. My father had a big farm. Oh, I was a FARMING man. There was fourteen in the family, eight boys and six girls. Jerry and Thomas are in Australia, two policemen. Danny is still at home. He has five children. He was an alcoholic, though I don’t know if I should say that, for I think that I drink as much as him. Then I have three brothers out in America. Then I’ve got a sister in Norwich, who has got a hotel, where I go a lot of the time. Mary died — she died in Stirling in Scotland, died of cancer. …Very hard to say where they all are, like. I have a brother in Bath City, in Royal Crescent.
I left Ireland at fourteen years of age, with a man by the name of Jim McGahern. A County Clare man. And I can never forget my mother’s words. I think my mother was in love with him, like.
I heard yer man saying, “ I’ll bring him with me”.
“ You might as well”, she said. And I remember landing at Liverpool, myself and Jim McGahern. I had 2d — two old pennies.
First I was a tea boy, up at a hydro-electric scheme outside Inverary, in Scotland. There were eighty men working in the tunnel. And I made up a big 45 gallon drum of tea — and only two men came out for their breakfast that morning. All the rest was killed.
And I was in stables [working as a stable-lad] for a long time, for Freddie Hanson. Then I joined the army — the Irish Guards. I came out of the army when I was 21, in 1956, and I joined the Gloucestershire Constabulary. I was a mounted policeman in that. I done 14 weeks training in Chant-Marrow, which is just outside Yeovil. Then I was stationed in Stroud, where Colonel Hann was the Chief Constable at that time, and the Assistant Chief was Carter. They phoned up Stanley Dyke-Smythe, who was the Super at that time:
“ Send yer man up to Cheltenham as a mounted policeman”.
But, living among horses, you get fed up with them, don’t you?. So they said to me:
“ Do you want to go into the mounted police? “
“ I would “, sez I, “ but isn’t there an awful lot of men looking to get on it? “.
There was a waiting list THAT LONG.
They said, “no, don’t worry, we want you in the mounted police”.
I was at the 1955 Gold Cup when Gay Donald won it 33–1. I was the escort to the Queen Mother. And I escorted Princess Elizabeth, in the Girl Guides jamboree at Gloucester.
Then, I got fed up with that, and I went away out to America.
Myself and Tommy O’Donnell — he’s in here [Arlington House Hostel] now, too — headed off together. He went to the New York police, and I headed on down the country, and I got into the L.A.P.D., which is the Los Angeles Police Department.
I stayed as a policeman, in California, for 3 years, 9 months. I was a patrolman with another Irishman, O’Callaghan. In the precinct I was in, 52nd Street, there was 18 Irish out of 29 men. My captain was O’Hanaghan and he was a black man. Irish, his name was.
I shot two men. Two black men. [Sobs…Breaks down].
I can show it to you now. There was a bit of a gun battle going on, and I told this black man — Jesus, he was twice the size of me — and I said to him: “ don’t move, or I’ll blow the fucking head straight off ye…”
Next thing was, he turned around. And I blew the head off him. Oh, I killed him, stone dead. I’ll never forgive myself for that [sobs]. It was awful.
Have you ever killed a man?
O’Callaghan and myself, we were known as the two head cases in 52nd street. Sure, we feared no man. Sure, why would I fear anybody? — I was only 27. O’Callaghan was a fine man, and I was heavier than I am now, like 15st. 3lb. Though, they call them in lbs over there. You know the night-stick [the L.A.P.D.’s infamous long and heavy baton], we’d go up, hitting it off the sidewalk, and they’d say: here’s the two paddies coming now…. But that was the craic in those days.
But, the next one [shooting], I thought… It was in Quinn’s bar or O’Hara’s. I forget which. The row started, and in the two of us went, because we were… You know yourself, we had pistols… O Lord God. And I shouted to — his name was Leroy Rudolf — I called him,
“ Leroy “, says I, “ LEAVE IT”.
“ Shut up, you fucking Mick”, he said. And next thing, SNICK, that was it.
Stone dead.
Killed him stone dead.
That was the second man I killed.
Los Angeles — I don’t know what it’s like now, but in 1963–4, it was unbelievable. You had to be stupid, or else some other name for it, or else you wouldn’t stay there. To be a guard there, or a policeman, you had to be really stupid.
First of all, I was on ‘stick’ duty, and then we got a car, and then I went back on stick duty, again, and that’s the time it all happened. It frightens you to know that you can stand there, and kill a man. But you had to. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me. Which he would have.
He had a gun.
And I’ll never forget the words I said to him:
“ Don’t move, or I’ll blow the fucking head off ye “.
And he said: “ No fucking way”.
Christ, it was desperate [sobs]. It really was DESPERATE. And it really saddens me now… I’ve got over it now, but it saddens me to think that a man could do such a thing. Just imagine SHOOTING A MAN.
Which I did. Twice.
Well, that’s the way it was. And you can ask Tommy O’Donnell — he was 25 yrs in the N.Y.P.D. And so was yer man up in the Elmtree Tavern, Patsy Fitzgibbon, ‘Fitzie’. He was in the New York Police Dept for 18 years. We all knew each other. We were all what we called hard men, in those days.
It’s awful when you think about it. Killing a man. It was difficult. I did some awful things.
No, I don’t think the people were particularly crazy in L.A. The thing is, they, the black people, were so put down, y’know. If you went in the ghetto, like downtown, and these poor people just looked at you…
Myself and Paddy used to walk around with these big night-sticks on us — a night-stick is that high, y’know — and they were terrified of us. Just two ordinary Irishmen, walking up and down the road. And they’d be terrified of us, little kids this size, and big men that size — here’s the two Irishmen coming. We were well known. I was — there’s a word for it — HEEDLESS to fear. And I hated people at the same time.
My intentions were: I’m LIVING, you’re fucking DEAD.
And I done it often, I beat them. I don’t think Cassius Clay, or that fella that’s fightin’ now — what d’ye call him… Mike Tyson — I think in those days I’d a beat Tyson. Because I didn’t care about any man. There wasn’t a man I worried about. Jesus, I was desperate.
After the shooting I said to O’Callaghan, sez I, “its getting too fucking STRANGE here. We’ll head out”.
And that’s what happened. We left L.A.
My mammy saw me on the television, that’s how she found out about me. And I rang her up from — where was I that time? Ohio, I think — and I rang her up and she said: “Why don’t you come home? And what about O’Callaghan?” — he was a Mayo man. So, “I tell ye what I’m going to do”, I told her, “ I’m going to come on out of here” [America].
I had about $9,000 in those days. That was a load of money. So the two of us headed back. We landed in Shannon airport, into Limerick, and there was a pub downstairs, and the first thing I ever saw was, there was a row started, and the barman came out with a hurley stick. Sure, didn’t I take the hurley stick off him, and beat shite out of him.
That’s the way it was in my young day. But all I wanted, was to go home.
I’ve no regrets about leaving America. I’ve only one regret: leaving Ireland.
I stayed for in Ireland eight years. I drove a lorry for a company in Mullingar. And I drove for Jerry Daly in Naas, coming over here wi’ beef for Smithfield market. That’s how I landed over here, by the way. Because, I had a Ford 290, Cummins engine, I think it was, and I had broke down outside Crewe, at Sandbatch service station.
I rang the boss up. I had a load of chocolate on, out of Keynsham, to go to Sandy Row in Belfast. A brand new lorry. I said, “ this lorry’s broken down, Tony.”
“ Whatever you do,” he said, “ keep the fucking thing going, because that’s a new contract I’ve got.”
I said, “ it won’t start “.
He said, “go round the corner, that’s where they make the cussin’ wagons”.
So, I went round the corner [to the Ford factory]. That’s where they DO make them, and I told them that this thing won’t start. A bloke come up, and he said, “oh, it’ll take three days to fix that.”
I had a fridge with chocolate on.
“ Jesus Christ,” sez I, “ I can’t wait that long.”
I rang Tony, “ this is going to take three days…”.
And he said, “ keep it going… “.
And I said, “ look Tony, you’ll find the wagon in Sandbatch…”.
That’s how I’m over here in England now. That was 1972. I’m over here, since.
I went to South Wales, and worked there. And then, the next thing was, I got a pub, the ‘Scots Arms’, in Wapping High Street. Right across the road, was a Kilkenny man; he had three or four pubs. So, I bought this pub, anyway, and I had a coupla men, doing a few things for me. I had three lorries at the time. Three 16 ton Dodges. I used to clear off on a Thursday and come back on a Saturday, acting the bollix.
Y’know, you’d never think that you’d ever see another bad day, again. And I was runnin’ around with a woman that time, Norma Kensie; she’d a ball a money, as well.
So, I bought another lorry, and everything went wrong after that. .
I’ll never forget the day I was inside in the ‘Mathan Arms’ pub. A big fella was in there — he used to be in the subs in the war, and he had a steel plate in his head…. I went into the ‘Mathan Arms’, one morning, anyway, and who come in, but big Evans, the farmer… And he looked at me, and said, “ Dominic, you won’t make any money sitting in here.”
And I never heard truer words, in all my life.
I sold one wagon. Then I sold the next wagon, and then the next one. And the man that bought them now, is below in Bristol. I hope he’s still alive. A Mayo man, he drove for me. He came up to the house in Chepstow and he said, “can I buy that wagon off you?”.
“ No,” sez I, “ you can’t buy the wagon”.
And a Sligo man was with him — he’d all the work contracts off the council. He said, “c’mon, we’ll go over to Bristol and we’ll have a few pints.”
So, over we went to Bristol, and he had a Ford Director car at that time, a big posh looking yoke. And he looked at me, and he said,
“ I tell you what I’ll do, Dominic. I’ll give you £800 AND the car, for that lorry …”
Of course, I had my own car. I didn’t want no car. So, we’re drinkin’ away, and drinkin’ away, and the next thing, I said, “ you can have it, John”.
A Mayo man.
So, yer man gave me out the cheque for the lorry. He drove me back to Chepstow. … And y’know, John has got about 59–60 wagons on the road at this very minute.
And I often think now, about Deirdre Maxwell… I met up wi’ this woman; she’d be in the pub on Tuesday night and a Friday. And she said to me, that’s a lovely name, Dominic, isn’t it? So, me ’n’ her were drinking every Tuesday and Friday.
She had a big horse of a husband.
There was an Irish dance going on… We [the Irish building workers/drivers] had caravans [a workers’ camp] behind the bowling green, near the motorway. We were dancing away.
And she said, “ I want to go to bed with you”.
Christ, she was the finest-looking woman. What do ye call that Italian film actress…? Sophia Loren. She had nothing on Deirdre. And I couldn’t understand why she’d like ME.
So, I took her back to the caravan. And she got sick.
“ I’m sorry,” she said, “ I’ll see you tomorrow night, so.”
Next night, she landed [arrived].
“ Which way d’ye want me, Dominic?”, she said.
Sez I, “ you’re no good standing there wi’ clothes on ye, anyway…”.
Well, we phoned each other, every day in the week. It was something FANTASTIC, like. Honest to God. Unbelievable. But…. [Shrugs shoulders, sadly].
The best of all craic was in Coventry. The ‘Dog’ Murphy, myself and McCaffrey were down about twelve foot, digging. And the ‘Dog’ Murphy was the subby. And he looked down the hole. It was a wet day, a wet Wednesday, and he looked down: “Jesus!”.
We were getting £15 a shift [per day], that time. He looked down into the hole, anyway;
“ Jesus Christ, bhoys, I wouldn’t do that, for FIFTY pound a shift !”.
Next thing, McCaffrey give me an awful dig in the ribs, and up the ladder we went, into the Horse & Jockey pub. We were on the third pint, when the ‘Dog’ Murphy came in.
“ Hey lads,” he said, “ what’re ye doing? Go on back to work”.
McCaffrey said, “if you won’t do it for fifty pound, we’re not doing it for FIFTEEN !!!”. [Laughs].
That was in Coventry about nine or ten years ago. It was mighty, it really was mighty.
I was in tunnels, too. This [low] table is high compared to them. ‘Headings’ they called them. I was in a wooden heading, myself and the two Denny brothers. There was good money alright, but Jesus Christ, you were taking your life in your own hands. That was in Watford.
Jasus, I’ve met some arseholes in my life [Sighs].
Note: Dominic suffered from ill health, and in 1998, shortly after this interview was completed, he managed to secure independent accommodation in the Camden area. However, he passed away shortly after moving out of Arlington House hostel into his new home.
