Shamrock Alley (11 page)

Look up
, she willed him.
Look at me
.

Mickey emptied his last glass, set it down, and tossed his head back against the wall. He pressed his eyes shut, sucked air through his teeth, and when he opened his eyes again his gaze was leveled on her. She nodded and turned back to her beer with a look of unmistakable disinterest.

“Frankie Deveneau’s girl.” He was directly behind her a moment later, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.

She turned, half-smiled. “I thought that was you, Mickey. Take a seat.”

Mickey climbed onto the stool next to her, ordered himself another beer. “The hell you doin’ here by yourself?”

“Nothing. Getting some fresh air.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Baby’s sick, been keepin’ me up. Drivin’ me crazy.” She watched him rub the sides of his face with filthy hands. His skin looked pale, and his chin was unshaven. With long, flaxen hair and startling blue eyes, Mickey O’Shay was handsome in a universal sense; his features were perfectly symmetrical, his body not muscular but lean, like the body of a long-distance runner. His teeth were small, white, even, and there was something prepubescent about him as well—something Tressa had always noticed but couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t any specific thing but, rather, the culmination of his features and mannerisms, she supposed.

“Frank still pissin’ his pants over what happened at the club?” Mickey asked, not looking at her.

“I ain’t seen him around much,” she lied, forcing herself to relax while sipping her beer. It suddenly tasted very bitter.

Mickey chuckled and ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,” he mused.

“We’re just lucky the three of us got out without getting jammed up,” she added, baiting him with caution.

“That cop die?”

“Huh?”

“That cop that was shot. You heard if he died?”

“No … I don’t know. I didn’t realize it…”

“Goddamn it.” He laughed again, but there was no emotion in the sound.

If I’m going to do this
, she thought,
I’m doing it now
.

“You still looking to move that money?”

Mickey looked at her from the corner of one eye. He was so close she could almost make out her reflection in his pupil. “What?” He said this slowly and under his breath, the way a sinner might begin a confession. “What are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m the one who brought that guy to Frankie to buy the stuff.”

“So what’s that got to do with me?”

“Mickey, Frankie told me who he’s getting the money from. I’m his girl.”

Mickey looked down at the bar. “Frankie said this guy spooked, took off, that he ain’t interested in dealing with him no more …”

“He ain’t,” she said, “so that’s why I came here to meet you. After that shit at the club, he don’t wanna touch Frank, thinks he’s bad luck. Whatever. He ain’t scared, but he ain’t stupid, either. Come on—Frank’s been dealing all kinds of shit outta that club since day one. It was only a matter of time before the place got hit.”

“So what about this guy?”

“He still wants to buy.”

“How much?”

“Same deal. Hundred grand, same as with Frank. He’s anxious. He’s got a buyer for it.”

“You know him?”

“I brought him to my boyfriend.”

Mickey’s lips tightened, and a look of distrust flickered behind his blue eyes. A long strand of hair had fallen across his face, dividing his expression. All at once, there appeared to be hundreds of tiny creases beneath Mickey’s eyes.

“This guy knows me?” he nearly whispered.

“I didn’t drop your name,” she said. “He just said he don’t want nothing to do with Frank, that he wanted to go directly to Frank’s supplier for this thing to happen.” She forced a convincing smile that did nothing to soften Mickey’s expression. “So here you are—now I’m telling you what he said. Okay?” She winced inwardly—the “okay” made her sound too unsure of herself, too apologetic.

“I don’t meet with nobody,” Mickey said, turning away from her and swallowing his beer. His boyish profile reminded Tressa of pictures of angels she’d seen in books as a child.

“Suit yourself.” For what seemed like an eternity, she watched the bartender change a keg of beer under the bar.

“What’s his name?”

“John.”

Mickey O’Shay chuckled. “Johnny-John-John.” He spoke it like a new word game. “Where’s this guy come from?”

“I went to high school with him.”

“He Irish?”

“Italian. Don’t hold it against him.”

“He just pop up outta nowhere like this?”

“Not really. I see him around from time to time.”

“Did he shoot that cop?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “There was a lot of shooting going on.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t Frankie-balls,” Mickey said offhandedly. “He got away with you guys?”

“Away?”

“Through the tunnels.”

“Oh, yeah. Kept his head. I got his number, said I’d call him if I talked to you. So now I talked to you. What you want me to tell him?”

“I don’t like making deals with people, new people.”

“That’s up to you.”

“Son of a bitch,” Mickey said and finished his beer. He held the empty glass up to his face and examined the bottom. His lips were moist and reflected the neon lights over the bar. After some deliberation, he turned to face Tressa again. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll meet him. We’ll set it up.” She watched as he ran a hand along the top of the bar and pushed his finger down in the center of a pile of cocktail napkins. He did this absently and seemingly without notice, as if his hand—his entire arm—were in control of itself.

“Okay,” she said.

“What are you lookin’ for on this?”

“I guess the same as you’d give Frankie.”

“Five percent. And don’t worry—I won’t tell your old man.”

Mickey stood up, stretched, and pulled some wadded tens from his khakis. He tossed two tens on the bar.

“When?” she said.

“When,” he repeated, his eyes seemingly lost in a haze of alcohol and complex thought. For a second, Tressa thought he might just fall forward and put his face through the bar. But then something registered inside him and he suddenly looked very sober, very together and alert. “You just better hope this guy don’t bring us no problems,” he said.

Yeah
, she thought,
I hope
.

T
HE
B
LACK
B
OX WAS JUST THAT—DARK
, square, and confined. It was certainly not a tourist stop, not one of the city’s hidden dens of fornication now several blocks removed from Times Square; rather, this place was crude and unfriendly, like an injured animal curled up inside a hole in the ground, its silver eyes shining through the darkness. The surrounding streets were dark and narrow, burdened with rats. A single streetlight stood outside the club, a fine mist of water and dust swirling in its dull light. Outside stood an enormous bouncer, and when John and Kersh approached, the bouncer had some frightened street thug by the scruff of his neck.

“You feel like gettin’ handy, pal? You wanna fuckin’ dance with me? Piece of shit,” the bouncer growled. His face looked like the grille of a Mack truck. “Hit the bricks, fool!” And the bouncer delivered a swift kick to the thug’s rear, sending the smaller man staggering down the street, dazed and inebriated.

The bouncer turned his attention to John and Kersh. “Fifteen apiece.”

John was about to produce his badge, when Kersh nudged him with his elbow and shot him a wink. “It’s all right,” Kersh said, “I got it.” He pulled out two twenties and handed them to the bouncer, who made change and let them inside.

Like most strip clubs, the Black Box was dark and noisy and dense with smoke. Long runway stages stood along three of its four walls. Closest to the front doors was a narrow bar behind which a number of young women in flimsy tops served drinks. The top of the bar was all wood and brass, freshly polished with crocus and marred by countless fingerprints. Opposite the bar stood a bank of pay phones and an ATM.

“Busy night,” John mumbled, shoving past two large men in ties. Most of the people were just shapes, just caricatures floating in darkness.

John and Kersh squeezed their way around the bar, pausing before one of the runways. A young Asian girl, desperately struggling to look eighteen, gyrated her buttocks while gripping a brass pole that rose from the stage and disappeared into the rafters. The only things she wore were a pair of tall, white go-go boots and an ear-to-ear smile.

“Lord,” Kersh said, rubbing his eyes and tweaking his large nose, “the incense in this place wreaks havoc on my sinuses.”

“You mean you’re not a regular here?”

“Ha.”

“You know what this Carlson girl looks like?”

Kersh rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “No.”

John scanned the crowd. The clientele was comprised mostly of middle-aged men in cheap suits showing more scalp than hair. A few younger men had gathered at the foot of one stage, hollering at one of the dancers and waving fistfuls of greasy singles. Beyond them, women in nylons and nothing else filed in and out of bathroom and dressing room doors.

Kersh leaned over and whispered something to a passing dancer who whispered something back and pointed across the room with her chin. Kersh chuckled—he sounded so out of place doing that—and then the girl laughed once, sharply, with her head craned back. Before she disappeared into the crowd, Kersh tipped the girl a dollar.

“Follow me,” he told John, and they began snaking their way toward the rear of the club. Smells intensified: lilac and bourbon and sweat—lots and lots of sweat—and something very close to rotting fruit. A few couples were tangled together within the cover of shadow, their bodies propped on tattered couches or smashed against wood-paneled walls. They were oblivious to passersby.

John and Kersh stopped before a small table occupied by a number of young men wearing ski coats and knitted caps and smoking cigarettes. Two men had girls perched in their laps while their friends cheered them on with drunken catcalls and the pounding of beer bottles against their thighs. One of the women, a young black girl, was nibbling on one man’s ear.

“Heidi Carlson?” Kersh said.

A few of the men looked up, as did the half-naked nibbler. She was young and attractive, her skin the color of motor oil beneath the neon lights. She wore a sheer bra and a multicolored sarong around her waist, her black hair in loose coils around her face. In the dark, she was mostly eyes.

“Miss Carlson?” Kersh repeated.

“Yes?” The woman pulled herself from the man’s lap, straightened her sarong. “Oh—you’re the—with—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Kersh went on, “but we’d like to speak with you. Could you give us a few minutes, please?”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

Her eyes darted between John and Kersh. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “All right.”

The young guy whose lap Heidi had been previously occupying reached out and grabbed Heidi by the wrist, startling her. “Hey!” he shouted. He stood from the chair and glowered at Kersh. He was an ugly bastard, with eyes set too closely together and a row of upper teeth that resembled fence pickets the day after a tornado. “Wait your goddamn turn, buddy.”

“Sit down, son,” Kersh said, unaffected.

“You think you’re my father now?”

John took a step toward the table.

“Let go,” Heidi Carlson said, trying to shake her wrist free. “You’re hurting me …”

“Sit the hell back down,” the man told her, his eyes never leaving Kersh’s face.

She continued to struggle. “Stop—”

“Listen, Snaggletooth,” Kersh said, and casually reached into his jacket pocket to produce his badge. At the sight of Kersh’s gold shield, the man frowned and dropped his grip on Heidi Carlson’s wrist. Free, the stripper brought her hand up quickly between her breasts. “I can postpone your fun for a few minutes or ruin your next few days. How do you want it?”

The man did not move for perhaps a full ten seconds—he just stood there, his eyes pinned to Kersh, his pockmarked cheeks quivering like thinly sliced slabs of mozzarella cheese, the fingers of his right hand slowly working themselves open and closed.

The waitress Kersh had tipped only moments ago appeared beside the table. Kersh caught her eye and smiled, moving his head slightly to turn his smile on the men as well. He looked like a mechanical clown on rotation outside a candy store. “Sorry about this, fellas,” he said. “How ‘bout a round of drinks?” Turning back to the waitress, he said, “You wanna load this table up, give ‘em whatever they want?”

Some of the guys at the table applauded. Even the frown on Snaggletooth faltered.

The waitress smiled and winked at Kersh. “You got it,” she said, and moved around the table to bump Kersh playfully with her hip. She even managed to snake an arm around his stubby neck. Some of the guys at the table started cheering and laughing.

Kersh smiled wider and leaned over as if to peck the waitress on the cheek. “Put it on their bill,” he told her under his breath before turning away.

His hand on Heidi’s back, Kersh led the stripper away from the table. “Come on. Is there a place we can talk?”

“In the back,” Heidi said, and they followed her to a small door in the wall beside the center stage. She knocked on it once, twice—waited. “Okay,” she said, and pushed it open.

It was a dressing room with a wall-length mirror papered with Polaroid pictures on one side opposite a row of lockers and stools. The countertop beneath the mirror was littered with undergarments and makeup cases and countless pairs of high-heeled shoes, all laid out like fresh kills. A twisted nylon stocking sat beside a toothbrush, rolled into a ball. On a rack beside the door hung a number of colorful feathered boas. John saw Kersh eye them ruefully and poke one with his finger. The whole place was thick with the smell of baby powder and cinnamon and more sweat.

“Okay, okay …” Heidi said to no one in particular. She crept over to a stool and sat on it, pulling her legs up to her chest like someone suddenly afraid to touch the floor. In this light, she looked much older. Her skin was now the color of ash, but moist with sweat and lanolin, and her body—as tight and well-kept as it had initially appeared—now looked tired and worn from years of misuse. The skin just beneath her chin was black and puckered into scar tissue—something noticeable only in unflattering light.