Busted (24 page)

He prayed that his father would pick up. He half-hoped that nobody would and he'd get an answering machine, but he wasn't that lucky. At least it only rang three times before someone picked up.

"Yeah, what?"

Joe winced. It was his mother, her voice as sharp as it had ever been. At least she sounded coherent. That was something.

"Hi Ma," he said. He had to catch himself from calling her Mrs. O'Malley.

"What? Who is this? Ya got the wrong number."

"No I don't," he said, wishing he really had. "It's Joey, Ma."

"Joey? Joey! You little shit, are you in trouble again?"

"I was never in trouble, Ma, and I'm not now."

"Then what the hell do you want? You haven't called in what, two years?"

"Something like that," he said wryly. Give or take a dozen. He'd sent a card every year for Christmas and for each of his parent's birthdays. With no return address, and he drove to Boston to do it, so the postmark would be out of state. He felt a vague obligation, but not enough to let them have any idea where he lived.

Not until now, at least. He'd forgotten to block the call. He just hoped nobody had put caller ID on the line. Probably not – he was surprised the phone hadn't been cut off.

"So?"

"Ma, I'm looking for Billy," he said.

"Whaddya want that deadbeat for?"

Joe considered lying for a moment. It would probably make things easier. He'd never been all that good at it, though. Unlike the rest of his family.

"I need to talk to him about Stephanie."

He felt the conversation get cold.

"I'll tell you the same thing I told the cops. I ain't seen him and I don't know where he is."

"Cut the shit, Ma. I'm not the cops and I don't give a fuck what they want. Where is he?" Joe was surprised at how easy it was to fall back into the sloppy speech from his old neighborhood.

"He ain't here."

"No kidding. It's two, he's probably out getting drunk or jacking a car.
Where is he?
"

"I don't know, y'little bastard!"

"I wish," he spat at the phone. That had been one of his childhood fantasies, that he was adopted. Or at least a by-blow from one of his mother's drunken flings. Which he might've been – he didn't look at all like his father, something he was desperately grateful for. "I owe him fifty bucks and I need to talk to him. I'm not leaving a message, and I'm not leaving it with
you
. If he's not there, where can I find him?"

Mention of cash perked her up. "He hangs out at the Pony sometimes," she said. Joe had an idea that would catch her interest. "Drinking away the fucking money he owes me."

"He not paid you rent?" Joe asked. It was a wild shot.

"Not in two goddamn months! He eats my food and drinks my whiskey but he's always short when it's time to pay. Goddamn lazy bastard."

Joe smiled grimly. He had two places now, though there was no way in hell he was setting foot back in the house he'd grown up in. Not without an escort. Steve. Chris maybe. Possibly the Governor's Horse Guard.

The Pony was really the Peddler's Pony, a dive a mile or so from the house. Close enough to stagger home from if you were too drunk to find your car keys, and sleazy enough that they'd not bat an eye if you weren't twenty-one. Or sixteen. He'd been there a few times when he was in high school, mostly to drive the family car home.

"I'll tell him when I see him, Ma. I'll talk to you later."

Joe hung up the phone before she could say anything else and slumped back into his chair. The hard part was done. Compared to this, Billy was going to be easy.

* * *

The last place Joe thought he'd ever go back to was the Peddler's Pony. It was a run down neighborhood bar whose sole claim to fame was it was established before indoor plumbing was common. A hundred years later they still hadn't gotten around to putting any in that worked reliably.

Joe had been cursing non-stop from the time he left the office to the time he got to the bar. He was on his fourth go-round for most of it.

He'd stopped at home first. He knew he could get away with driving his car – it was better than most that would be there, but some of the bikes would be nearly as flashy, and there were always a few people there slumming or scoring drugs. He was never sure which when he was growing up, and he didn't really care now.

The clothes wouldn't do, though. He needed to talk with his brother, and he needed to be left alone, and a six hundred dollar suit wouldn't let him do that. Jeans and a t-shirt helped, as did the battered leather jacket he had buried in the depths of closet. It had been Miguel's, left behind when Joe had tossed him out his senior year in college. He hadn't worn it since, but it had been too nice to throw away. He was glad it hadn't – it fit well then, and it still did.

He felt a little better wearing it. Armor of a sort, though it wouldn't do anything against a fist or a bullet. Knives maybe. The Pony wasn't the sort of place people pulled knives. But neither was his sister-in-law's apartment.

Joe parked in the small lot next to the Pony. It was still partly empty. Not too surprising, as it was about six. Too early to go out drinking for most people, though the Pony wasn't patronized by most people. There were a few beat up Harleys near the door. Joe was willing to put money that one of them was Billy's.

The outside of the Pony was worn, but the inside was worse. The ghosts of cigarettes long-dead hit his nose, even years after every bar in the state had gone no smoking. The lights were dim, and the whole place just felt tired. It reminded Joe of the little restaurant Steve had dragged him out to a few weeks back. There was a juke box in the corner bleating out Bob Seeger, and a pool table in the back.

He got a half glance from most of the patrons in the place, but that was about it. They were as worn as the bar. They couldn't be bothered with him, which suited Joe just fine.

At a table near the juke box was a hulking figure. Big, bald, hunched over, and back to the room. Billy, or so Joe hoped. If it wasn't, well, he'd just damn well brazen it out. He'd never taken any shit from anyone who hung out here when he was in high school, and he wasn't about to start now.

Joe grabbed a chair on the other side of the table. It left him with his back to the wall and facing the room.

He'd called it right. It was Billy. He'd gotten older, and bigger, and fatter, and a whole lot balder, but even after all these years there was no mistaking him.

"Willie," he said as he sat down. The neighborhood kids used to call him that when he was young. He'd hated it, and by the time he was fourteen he’d been big enough to make everyone stop. Everyone except Joe, that is.

Billy looked up and scowled. Close up Joe could see he looked like hell. His face was red, his nose had been broken at least once and badly set, and his cheeks were pocked. He was definitely on the way to being drunk.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"C'mon, Willie. That any way to talk to your brother?"

That was a rhetorical question. As Joe remembered, it would've been considered polite, at least by his parent's standards.

Billy frowned, trying to think. "Joey?" His voice was hesitant.

"Yeah. Been a while, hasn't it?"

Billy snorted. "You left after high school and haven't been back." He sounded a little sad. That surprised Joe. He'd been expecting a fight. Not this. Billy seemed almost broken.

"Can you blame me?"

Billy shook his head. "No. You shouldn't have come back, Joey. You were always better than this."

Joe shrugged. He'd wanted to get out as soon as he was old enough to realize exactly where he'd end up if he didn't. Where Billy was now.

"I needed talk to you, Billy," he said. He couldn't keep up the façade, not with Billy like this.

"You never needed me for anything, Joey."

"Maybe," he allowed. "But your daughter needs you."

He shook his head. "She doesn't need me for shit, Joey, and you know it."

That got Joe mad. Seeing his brothers and sister and all their friends growing up, he swore he's never be like his parents. When he'd realized he was gay he knew he'd never have kids. He'd accepted it years ago. His brother was a fuck-up, and he had three. His parents were completely worthless and they had four. That jackass Chris even had one.

It wasn't fair.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Joe growled. His voice was low and full of fury. "She watched her fucking family get murdered, and all you can do is sit there and feel sorry for yourself?"