Shamrock Alley (17 page)

They had lived in a two-story, semi-detached stucco house on the corner of 62
^nd
Street and Eleventh Avenue in Brooklyn. Summers, the streets would flood with a great storm of children. Cars would crowd as close to the curbs as possible to avoid getting slammed by a rogue baseball. Laughter could be heard well into the night during the summer, permeating the houses along the avenue through screen doors and partially opened windows. Sometimes, if the air thinned enough in the late evening, it was possible to hear the din of a block party halfway across town and, soon, half the neighborhood would begin migrating in that direction: wild animals on the scent of divertissement.

Winters, the moon would rise early from behind the avenue and creep slowly into the sky like a watchful eye, its surface whitish-yellow and swirled with sharp streaks of blue. Winters were usually long and harsh. Neighborhood snowball fights would ensue among the younger children without provocation (to the detriment of working fathers who found it nearly impossible to make it to their cars unscathed by an onslaught of snowballs in the morning). Christmas lights strung from one end of the block to the other, not a single house ostracized from the festivities, all in harmony as things during that time of year should be.

Driving down Eleventh Avenue now, in the cold, gray, snow-less afternoon, John found himself subconsciously summoning these memories.

He stopped the car in front of his old home and sat behind the wheel for some time. His father’s house sat like a rotting tooth along the avenue. It
had
changed since his childhood, but in the way a young person will eventually change into an old one. The small patch of lawn unkempt, the stone façade nearly pistachio-colored and heavy with mildew. The windows hadn’t been scrubbed in some time—since his father had been diagnosed and Katie had gotten pregnant. The driveway pulled up along the left side of the house, comprised of segmented concrete flags. Weeds as thick as forestry sprouted up from cracks in the cement. And beyond the driveway was a small garage, battered and forgotten, ravaged by years of unkind, unyielding weather. Until now he hadn’t realized it had gotten so bad, and it bothered him to look at it in such a state.

He got out of the car and crept up the walk, shivering against the cold. Across the street, a group of kids had congregated on the corner, smoking cigarettes behind cupped hands. The lock stuck when he went to turn it, and when he finally managed to push the door open it squealed from age and neglect, piercing the silence of the front hall.

It was dark inside. All the drapes had been pulled closed over the windows. He could just barely make out the semi-familiar shapes of furniture, the stairs at the end of the hallway leading to the second level and, beyond the stairs, the kitchen with its ugly red and gray tile and Formica countertop. Beside the door was his father’s black wool coat hanging from the coat rack. On the floor beside the rack were two small suitcases. When his father had found out he’d be spending some time in the hospital for tests, he’d packed his belongings and set them down here by the front door. Then, quite unexpectedly, the old man had suffered a mild stroke and had luckily managed to get to a telephone in time to call the paramedics. The ambulance came and hurried him to the hospital, leaving his bags by the front door like two loyal dogs awaiting the old man’s return. Now, looking at the bags, he felt a pang of grief deep inside his chest.

He grabbed the coat from the rack and folded it over his arm.

Before he could realize what he was doing, he had stepped across the foyer and was walking through the condensed living area. He could remember his father’s aquarium on the fold-out table beneath the large copper-framed mirror on the wall. He recalled the difficulty with which his father attempted to decorate the house each Christmas, garland and ornaments hanging from every available lip, nail, screw, and doorknob. The year some neighborhood creeps stole Christmas decorations from their front stoop …

The kitchen was small and cluttered, and he stood in the doorway while looking the room over. It occurred to him that he hadn’t been here since before his father’s admittance to the hospital, and it was now like looking at a crime scene: unwashed pots scattered recklessly along the countertop; ground beef, still in the package, rotting in the sink. The coffeepot was still on the stove, cold and defunct.

He was in the middle of making dinner when he collapsed
, John realized. Until now, he’d never actually contemplated the details of his father’s final moments before the ambulance arrived and whisked him away to the hospital.
He was in the middle of making dinner, and he could have died here
—
alone
—
in this house. Maybe a minute or two longer …

Leaving the kitchen, he headed back toward the foyer, but paused as he passed by the stairwell. He turned and looked up. The stairwell itself was dark, but apparently the shades on the upstairs windows had not been drawn, so some daylight managed to seep in and illuminate the hallway. Without thinking, he grabbed the banister and began mounting the stairs one at a time. He stopped at the landing, unmoving. The house smelled stale, empty. Wind blew tree branches against the windows, startling him. He turned and saw his old bedroom door was open a crack. He crossed over to the door, pushed against it gently, though not all the way.

“Christ, Pop,” he muttered. For the first time he noticed just how empty the room looked, and a prolonged sadness washed over him. It was as if his father had already passed on and he was here, now, standing in the old man’s house like some traitor.

He suddenly realized he was tracing the small scar in his scalp with a pair of fingers.

His cell phone rang.

He slung his father’s coat to his left arm, dug his cell phone from his jacket pocket, and quickly pressed it to his face.

“John, it’s Tressa. Can you hear me?”

He’d been expecting Kersh to call with information on Douglas Clifton’s prints. Hearing Tressa Walker’s voice now jarred him, and his mind suddenly slipped back to the night they’d met at McGinty’s and how frightened she’d been.

“Yes, yes, go ahead.”

“I’ve only got a minute—”

“I can hear you.”

“Mickey’s ready to meet you. Outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”

“The cathedral?” He shifted the phone to his other ear. There was an urgency in Tressa’s voice, and she was speaking low to try to disguise it. “Sure. When?”

“Thirty minutes,” she said, and hung up.

S
TANDING ON
F
IFTH
A
VENUE
, J
OHN LOOKED ACROSS
the street at St. Patrick’s Cathedral while trying to catch his breath. Before him, the twin spires of the cathedral divided the sky. The building itself loomed there, an ecclesiastic testament to both man and God, surrounded by the abrupt yet suddenly meaningless steel-and-glass rectangles of New York City. A number of people milled around the front steps before the enormous copper doors. He scanned the crowd for Tressa Walker but could not find her. Why would this bum Mickey want to meet here? It was bizarre. Already, he did not like this Mickey O’Shay character.

He mounted the steps of the cathedral two at a time, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants, and paused at the crest of stone risers, again dissecting the crowd. Catching his breath after his mad sprint from Rockefeller Center, he feared he was too late. He could find Tressa Walker nowhere. Perhaps O’Shay had changed his mind.

“Damn,” John muttered under his breath.

“Here,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. “John.” He turned around and saw Tressa Walker, half-bundled in a thick green coat, standing in the cathedral’s entranceway. She looked much smaller than she had the night they met at McGinty’s. Her skin looked paler, too—possibly from the cold. She had her coat bundled around something which was pressed to her chest. Not until John made out a distinct little fist jutting from the coat did he realize Tressa had brought along her baby. “John,” she said again, a plume of vapor blossoming in the air before her mouth.

“Thought I was late.”

“It’s cold,” she said. “Come on. It’s warmer inside.”

“Your friend with you?” But, with the exception of her child, John could see Tressa was alone.

“Inside,” she repeated, and disappeared behind the large copper doors of the cathedral.

Growing up near the city, John had been inside the cathedral on a number of occasions and, even as a small child, had understood at least some part of the church’s power. His father had been a devout Catholic and had taken him to St. Patrick’s for Christmas Mass a number of times. He could remember sitting in the pew beside his father and staring at the church in awe.

He realized he was sweating.

There were a number of people slowly working their way around the interior of the church. They were like large fish swimming laps in an aquarium. At his side, Tressa unzipped her coat and shook her hair out from her collar, cradling her child in one arm. Watching her, John was amazed how skewed some people were in this world. He tried to imagine Katie standing here before him, their own child propped against her chest, and the thought made his head spin. He could almost feel the heat from the fiery collapse of morality all around him.

The baby began to fuss, and Tressa quickly popped a pacifier into its mouth to keep the kid quiet.

“Is he here?”

“He’s up there in the front,” she said, nodding toward the altar. Two rows of pews stretched out before them like trails of garments. “I’m staying here.”

“Are you kidding me? The heck is this?” There were too many people to see Mickey O’Shay clearly. A few people were seated in the pews facing the altar—a collection of necks and heads. “Where?”

“Up front,” Tressa repeated, “sitting down.”

Slowly, he began walking down the aisle between the pews. He was aware of his footfalls hammering the floor, the heels of his shoes overly loud despite the commotion created by spectators surrounding him. He was always conscious of himself, even under circumstances unrelated to his job: another benefit of having grown up in the streets.

Directly before him, powerful in gold baldachin, humble in alabaster, the grand altar loomed.

There was a man seated in the first row of pews to his left, facing the altar. He could only see the back of the man’s head—scraggly, dirty-blond hair—and he could tell he was fairly young just by his posture, but he couldn’t make out the man’s profile. Not that it mattered; he had no idea what Mickey O’Shay looked like. Before approaching the man, John turned around toward the back of the church, as if seeking Tressa’s approval, but the girl was gone.

He stopped at the end of the aisle beside the first row of pews, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the magnificent altar. He didn’t bother trying to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. If the guy was O’Shay, it would play out. “Something, ain’t it? Makes you think about some things,” he said, shooting for the man’s attention.

“You John?”

“Mickey?”

“Sit down.”

John sat, his eyes still straight ahead. “This is good … that we could meet…”

“You still want that hundred grand?” Mickey asked.

“These the same bills I was supposed to get before?”

“The same. How come you don’t go back to Deveneau?”

“I don’t know any Deveneau.”

“Good answer.” There was a pause. “We can do the deal right now,” Mickey said after a moment.

John turned and faced him. He guessed Mickey to be roughly around his own age, though he appeared much older. His eyes were startlingly blue, his profile—for Mickey O’Shay did not take his eyes from the altar—that of a choirboy. His sandy hair was long and greasy and curled behind his ears. He wore a dull green canvas coat, nondescript slacks, scuffed boots. In all, his appearance was nothing if not disappointing. O’Shay sat there motionless, the collar of his polyester shirt flipped out over the zippered collar of his canvas coat. He looked like some eccentric throwback, a confused and ignorant homage to the Dead End Kids, a street punk who’d somehow struck oil and was now dealing up. There was nothing intimidating about him, nothing in his eyes that professed any semblance of uniformity, of rationalization, of the ability to organize and
be
organized. Less a gangster and more a man who’d just finished scrounging for beer money in his sofa.

“Right now?” John uttered a small laugh. “You wanna do the deal right now? Are you serious?”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t have the money on me. I had to bust my ass to get here in time just to meet with you. I had no notice. Give me a day or two to get my money together and then—”

“You know the price.”

He shifted in his seat and turned back toward the altar. “Twenty grand for a hundred thousand.”

“You got a pen?”

John blinked, patted the front of his shirt. “I—I don’t know …”

“Wait.” Mickey fished around inside his coat and produced a pencil stub, handed it to John. “Here,” he said, then picked up a Bible from beside him, flipped it open to the middle, and handed it over to John. “And here. Write down your phone number.”

He printed his cell phone number on page 887, just above a passage in Jeremiah that said, “The stain of your guilt is still before me.” He slid the open Bible across the pew back over to Mickey, who gazed disinterestedly at the main altar. When he
did
glance down, it was only for a second before turning to look at John.

Something flickered behind Mickey’s ice-blue eyes—something like a spark in the darkness. But it was there and then gone, too fleeting for John to interpret.

Mickey tore the page from the Bible and stuffed it inside his coat.

“Guess you’re not a religious man, huh?” John said.

Mickey stood, his frame unimposing. His eyes remained on the altar. “You know Tressa long?”

“On and off since high school.”

“Anything goes wrong with this deal, no one will know her. Or you.”

The words were out and John let Mickey say them, though he would have normally slapped the little punk right out of the pew. Instead, he looked forward to slapping the cuffs on O’Shay’s wrists. That would be satisfaction enough.