The Pariot GAme (29 page)

“That is exactly right, big brother,” Jerry said “And you know why that is?”

“Because you don’t like me,” Paul said. “I can endure that burden.”

“Fuck you,” the Digger said. He twisted slightly in the seat, leaving the Luger on the floormat. He spread his hands.

“I don’t like that language,” Paul said.

“Go fuck yourself,” Jerry said. “You started this and you’re this determined to talk to me, for once you’re gonna listen to what I got to say. You think I don’t like you? I guess I don’t. You know why I don’t like you? You remember back about eight, nine, ten years ago, I had to go and see you when I got inna scrape that I hadda … I owed some guys some money and I was either gonna pay it or they were gonna do something to me, and I couldn’t get it nowhere else so I hadda ask you?”

“I gave you that money,” Paul said. “It was a lot of money, too.”

“I know you did and I know it was,” Jerry said. “It was your new-car money, which I notice you got the new car a couple
years later anyway. You remember the deal you made me make with you about that money? I hadda promise I would never ask you nothing again, right?”

“Right,” Paul said. “The deal was, that was the last time.”

“Right,” Jerry said, “and I made that deal and I kept it, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Paul said, “I’ll give you credit, Jerry. You made the deal and you kept it. Of course, I’d expect nothing else from Digger Doherty, from all the things I hear, and—”

“Shut up, fuckface,” Jerry said. “You got any idea how you made me feel that day? That day and lots of other times I couldn’t even count? You got any idea? No, of course not. You high and mighty son of a bitch, you think I don’t hear some of the stuff you say to people about me? You’re wrong. I do. You made me crawl around on my belly like I was some kind of shit that time. Lots of times. You tell people I don’t treat my kids right. I get in trouble with a broad, which I have done, and there is my Bishop brother out having dinner with some fuckin’ rabbi and the Attorney General and all them grand fellas giving awards to each other all the time, and when they bring around the brandy, the cigars, old Paul Doherty’s always right there, tell a few crowd-pleasers what an asshole he’s got for a crooked thief of a brother. And everybody has a good laugh for himself, and the U.S. Attorney or whoever it happens to be goes and tells a few his cops, and pretty soon they’re telling it onna street to the hard guys what an asshole my own brother says I am.

“It makes you feel good, don’t it, Paul?” Jerry said. “It makes you feel good just like this little stunt you pulled here tonight. Get you all tingly and excited, big brother? Like you’re beating your meat with some soapsuds on it, gettin’ your cookies without anybody knowin’? Tailing me like that. You knew I’d think you were either a cop or a guy out to hit me. You knew that. That’s why, you came around the corner
there, you didn’t even slow down. You knew I wouldn’t know what was going on, and I’d be worried. You knew I’d come back here the way I did with a gun in my hand, so you could make fun of me. You like doing that to me, you cocksucker. Gives you another good story you can tell the Police Commissioner, next time you see him down Pier Four at some goddamned reception where everybody’s buying the politicians and eatin’ the oysters and getting their names in the paper. They’re all good guys, aren’t they, Paul? Your pals. Big shots. Not like your asshole brother. And pretty soon I got Petrucelli in my place when it’s crowded and he’s giving me the business, front of everybody, which I got to take from him on account he is a cop and he can pull my license if he wants, how I was gonna shoot my own brother and the next thing I will probably do is light one off at my shadow. That gives guys confidence, Paul, that don’t like me and maybe would like to set me up the way you were pretending like an asshole to do tonight. You’re fuckin’ around in things you don’t understand, and it ain’t funny, shithead darling brother. It ain’t funny at all, from where I sit.”

“Jerry,” Paul said, “look, honestly, I didn’t mean to …”

The Digger held up his hand. “Never mind the bullshit, Paul,” he said. “You came out to jerk my chain tonight, and you could’ve got yourself shot doing it, but I guess the Lord really does like you. He won’t even let
me
hurt you, even when you practically make me do it without even knowing. Just say what’s on your mind and get the fuck out of here before I get pissed off at you enough to do what I’d really like to do anyway.”

“There’s a guy named Magro that you know in Walpole and he’s trying to get out,” Paul said. “There’s a halfway decent chance he’ll make it.” He paused. “I’m sorry I’ve embarrassed you, and I wasn’t trying to get you going tonight. I just thought you ought to know.”

“I did know,” Jerry said. “Petrucelli and his bellboy were in my joint about on Monday night, and that cocksucker, he never comes in unless there’s something going on, so the next day I started asking around: What is going on that I got the wop cop in my place giving me the business? And I find out. So I get the word in to Mikie-mike, that I hear he is taking a shot at getting out and I want to know, is he still being a big asshole and thinking that I put him in? Because if that is what he thinks, he should know he will be a lot safer if he did not get out. And I get the word back that he has got that straightened out in his mind and he has got no beef with me and he is hoping if he gets out maybe we can have a glass of beer.

“See, Paul?” the Digger said. “I know Magro a long time. I know he is not a bishop. I know he has done some bad things. He knows I have done some bad things. But he is not a bad guy, and I am not a bad guy, and we know this. He also knows if he tries to do something bad to me, I will try to do something bad to him. He didn’t have to say anything, and if that is what he had in mind, that is what he would have said: he would not have said anything. You guys that’re always coming around and fucking around in things that you don’t understand, this is where you’re always making your mistake. All you got to do is ask the guy, is he planning something? That’s all. He will tell you. Now you excuse me,” he said, picking up the gun and opening the car door, “I am going to go back and get my car, and bring it up and put it in my driveway, and I am going into my own house and go to bed. Like I was planning to do a lot earlier. And you get the fuck out of here and go home and say your prayers.”

“Jerry,” Paul said as the door opened, “I only meant …”

The Digger was all the way out of the car. He bent down and looked in. “Go home, Paul,” he said. “Go home and stay home. At least stay away from me. I’m not your fuckin’ hobby
anymore, Paul, your goddamned family Wild West show that you use to get your chuckles. I’m just a middle-aged saloonkeeper with some bad habits that I understand and you don’t. Now just fuck off.” He shut the door.

W
HEN
J
ENNY
came out of her bedroom in the middle of the morning, Riordan was sitting on a three-legged wooden stool in the kitchen area, his back to the corridor that led to the bedrooms. There were newspapers spread out on the floor under him. He had a white towel around his neck, and another towel spread over his shoulders. He wore fresh tan pants and a tee-shirt. His hair was wet and shiny. She saw her mother step behind him with scissors and a comb, and cock her head critically. Jenny watched him reach out toward the counter where there was a tall mug of orange juice and a fifth of Smirnoff vodka. He poured vodka into the orange juice and stirred the mixture with his index finger.

“I think it’s pretty even,” Freddie said. She wore a white bathrobe.

“Jesus, Pete,” Jenny said, “does it hurt so much to get your hair cut you have to start in on the booze for breakfast? Cripes, this good grooming thing’s a real sacrifice for you isn’t it?”

Freddie wheeled around, her hands with the tools at her sides. Her eyes were red and bloodshot. Her face was contorted. “All right, Sleeping Beauty,” she said, “now that the dwarfs got you up before you slept off all the poison, get your ass out here and catch up on the late-breaking news.”

“Mother,” Jenny said, staring, “all I said was …”

Setting the glass down on the counter, Riordan raised his right hand and beckoned her into the kitchen. She hurried past her mother and looked him in the face. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “Holy shit. What the hell happened to you?”

There were fourteen butterfly bandages on his face, six of them around his eyes and his hairline, so that he appeared to be wearing a white patchwork mask. There was one midway up the right side of his nose. There were three on his left cheek and one on his right cheek. There was one on his right jawline and there were two on his right ear. The towel around the back of his neck had prevented her from seeing the heavy gauze bandage wrapped in layers around his throat, from the collarbones to the bottoms of his earlobes. The mustache was gone; there were four three-stitch sutures on his upper lip, and three three-stitch sutures on his lower lip. There was a white plastic guard taped over the bridge of his nose. His face was mottled maroon and bilious yellow around the nose, and the flesh was swollen under the bandages and stitches. Below the gauze collar on his throat, his chest had been visibly shaven. There were butterfly bandages in lumps under his tee-shirt. “I told you,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “never ask me about my business.”

Jenny looked at her mother. “What
happened
to him?” she said.

“The damned fool got shot,” Freddie said. “That right, Red Ryder? That safe to say? You got shot?”

“That right, Little Beaver,” Riordan said in a deep voice. “I got shot, Jenny. Like a damned fool, I went out and got myself shot.”

“And then,” Freddie said, “in case there was any doubt remaining in anybody’s mind about whether he was a damned fool, getting himself all shot up like that, he refused to stay in the hospital where he belonged and where he should
be right this very moment, and he came home looking like he’d been in a scrape with a chainsaw just so he could wake me up at three in the morning and scare the shit out of me. You really are an asshole, you know that, Riordan? Listen up, daughter, and avoid the mistakes your poor mother’s made: all men are assholes. Right, Riordan? Say
yes, dear
, and make it nice and humble.”

“Yes, dear,” Riordan said. “Fortunately, some of them’re poor shots. Have you got that hair so it’s pretty much the same length over the left ear as they made it over the right ear?”

“Patience, patience,” she said.

“Who shot you?” Jenny said. “Why?”

“Three guys shot at me,” Riordan said. “One missed. One used a sawed-off shotgun which would clean out a small room nicely but isn’t much good out-of-doors and we were on the street at the time. Although I will say that he did succeed in ruining that fine Christmas shirt. And what he didn’t make holes in, I bled all over. They cut it off me at the hospital, and I didn’t really see much sense in bringing home the rags so you could start bitching all over again. Anyway, and the third guy used an automatic, but he tried for a head shot and just nicked me in the neck.”

“What did you do?” Jenny said.

“Yeah, Riordan,” Freddie said, “tell the little lady what you did.”

“I shot back,” Riordan said.

“He killed them,” Freddie said.

“Three of them?” Jenny said.

“Three of them,” Freddie said. “And before he did that, just to warm up, he beat the shit out of a couple guys who jumped him and broke his nose for him. Little barroom brawl before the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. See what fine taste I have in roommates, Jennifer? Nothing but a common thug.”

“A public servant, I will have you know, woman,” Riordan
said. “I was wounded in the line of duty, the best traditions of an officer sworn to uphold the Constitution and the laws of the United States. Blah. Blah. Blah. I’ll probably get a reprimand for wasting the taxpayers’ money on special ammunition. Which reminds me: Can I use your car? In all the excitement, I sort of forgot mine, and I have got to meet Bishop Doherty for lunch.”

“Lunch?” Jenny said. “You’re going out looking like that? How’d they miss your eyes?”

“They didn’t miss my eyes,” Riordan said. “I had on shooting glasses. Not bulletproof, but pelletproof. I’m not going out for a beauty pageant. I never do that. I’m not qualified for it. I told the guy that I would meet him, and I am going to meet him. You can get the story from your mother.”

Freddie came around and stood in front of him. “I’ll let you take the car,” she said. “You have to bring it back. Yourself. With no new marks on it or you. Is that a deal?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Because,” she said, “I think I am probably going to lose my job. Which means I won’t be able to afford a new car, and I am really going to need a man.”

“Gee,” Riordan said, “I didn’t know I ranked that high. It’s nice to feel needed.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, you do and you are. So come back in one piece, all right? No more fights for at least two weeks.”

“I promise,” he said. “I will not let the Bishop beat me up.”

“No,” she said, “don’t. Ask him instead, to say a Mass for me, thanking God that you’re all right, okay?”