Tower: A Novel (14 page)

“That was some ugly shit in Boston, lad. You comported yourself well,” he said.

“Comported! Is that one in the glossary of the cop handbook?”

“We’ve business to do, so—”

“Do you know what they did with her body?” Couldn’t let Kathleen be brushed off like that.

“It won’t do you any good to—”

“Do you know if they even buried her?”

No idiot, he saw that he was going to have to answer if we were to move on. “They probably didn’t bury her, no.”

“What then?”

For the first time I could see in him a split between the human being and the cop. The human being didn’t want to tell me. The cop understood that the truth would fuel me. The cop won out. “They might’ve hacked her up and scattered her in dumps or fed her to—”

For the second time I vomited on poor Sonya Einstein’s grave. “I want to get these motherfuckers, all of them!”

“Okay then, let’s get to work.”

When he left, I did actually go stand by my mother’s grave. “So,” I said, “this is what real pain feels like. I still can’t forgive you, but maybe I understand a little better.”

Was the first and last time in my life I talked to a patch of dirt and blades of grass.

Brooklyn.

Axel’s.

The place was no longer a touchstone for my obsession with Leeza Velez. Given my time in Boston, Leeza’s memory was more like a faint ringing in the ears. After what had happened, I couldn’t even think of Leeza and me together. Felt dirty, a leper, that to imagine us together was sin. Not a God sin. Gotten over that bullshit concept fresh out of the womb. Was worried I’d rub off on her, stain her somehow. What the fuck was I worried about, anyway? I was never going to see her again. Leeza Velez, gone to me as my mother.

Nicky was sitting next to me. Whatever had happened between us in the past year didn’t seem to matter much to either of us. Good definition of friendship that. Took comfort in his presence and he in mine. In my eyes, he was like immune to my disease. He was the only friend I had, the only friend I was ever going to have. The cop shit? That was something else. Would have to work that out later. He was okay with the silence between us, but broke it with whispered curiosity.

“The fuck happened down there?”

Ah fuck!
The question hit me between the shoulder blades. Sucked down my Jack on the rocks and chased it with cold Sam Adams. Had taken to drinking Jack to honor Kathleen. Crap! Fuck that lie. Had taken to drinking it to torture and anesthetize myself. The Jack burned, felt my face flush. Said,

“Shit happened.”

We left it at that.

A week later, I put in motion the wheels of destruction.

Nick and I were casing an apartment, at least that’s what he thought we were doing. We were getting high, Yankee game on the radio in the background. Noticed he couldn’t keep his mind on the job for listening to the game. Busted his balls, told him I’d become a true Red Sox fan. Nearly shit his pants.

“The freaking Sox! You’re a Yankees’ fan, the fuck you think you can switch like that, it’s as bad as that asswipe who sold the Dodgers.”

“O’Malley,” I corrected, “didn’t sell the Dodgers. He moved ’em.”

“That shanty prick.” Nick was riled. “Fuck’im!”

“Nick, not for nothing, but I’ve been a Mets fan all my life.”

“I don’t think I ever knew that.” Oblivious. Typical Yankee fan. “Still a betrayal.”

Guess he was right. Laughed. “Nicky, everything changes.”

“Fuck you!” Didn’t like my answer.

In a talkative mood that night, Nick was. Asked me what the deal was with South Philly then South Boston. Nearly bit through my tongue against the notion of confessing my new allegiance and describing, in exquisite detail what a woman’s body looks like after it’s been cut with wires, burned with cigarettes, and been hit at close range with buckshot. Forced myself to focus squarely on the building we were casing.

“Buddy,” I said, “one way or another, the business we’re in, everything goes south.”

He tried patting me on the shoulder. Seemed he was feeling sorry for himself. Wasn’t in the mood for it, not after thinking about Kathleen. Told him not to make a habit of giving me reassuring pats. The doorman did as he’d been told and abandoned his spot in the lobby. The wheels turned. Time to move.

At the door of the apartment I made like Houdini and picked the lock. Movies and TV really fuck with a man’s head. Even semi-hard guys like Nicky could be fooled. They see a guy pick a lock in ten seconds on the tube and they’re like convinced it’s a breeze. Isn’t. Try it some time, see how far you get. All I did was stick one thin pick in top of the keyhole, a crooked one in the bottom and jiggle.
Voila!
Here’s a tip. Really helps when the lock is already open. Nicky was impressed. That’s all that mattered.

He was further impressed by the size and decor of the apartment. Me too. There were original artworks up on the walls and pieces of furniture that cost more than my dad’s house. Never understood how something or some place could smell like money. Did now. Reeked of it. Wondered if it clung to you like cigarette smoke.

“Remember. Cash, dope, and jewelry.”

Nick couldn’t believe it. “We’re leaving this? This shit must be worth a bundle.”

Told him art was a pain in the balls to fence. He started going for a painting, anyway. Shook my head and went into the bedroom. That’s when the fireworks began.

Door opened.

Stockbroker type. Brooks Brothers suit. “What the fuck is this?”

I walked out of the bedroom. “Fuck.”

Shot the guy in the mouth, twice for good measure. Ruined his suit. His head wasn’t looking all that well either.

“This piece of shit keeps jumping,” I said, looking down at the cheap knock off of a .357 Magnum. “I was going for the heart. Next time, I bring a Glock.”

The look on Nick’s face was priceless.
Next time!
Made him help me drag the stiff into the bathroom. Amazing what squibs and a little makeup can do. Nick was so fucked, he grabbed a bottle of Makers Mark and took a mighty gulp. Warned him not to drink while we were on the job. Asked if I was going to shoot him to.

Looked at him stone cold. “If I have to.”

He wiped the bottle down and put it back.

We collected our take in a black plastic garbage bag and split. On the way out, he wanted to know if killing the guy was really necessary.

“Probably,” I said.

On the ride to Boyle’s, I kept it up, the cold-blooded killer routine. Seemed to really get to Nicky. Good. Getting him the fuck out of this life wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Kept shaking his head. Couldn’t believe I’d just killed a man and could be so cool about it. I lit up a cigarette. New habit. Might kill me, but what the fuck. Reaching for my pack in the glove box, I saw fear in Nicky’s eyes. Rare sight that. Did he think I was going for a gun? He seemed to want to rehash things. He was still a bit in shock.

“It’s over,” I said, and not friendly-like. “You wanna dwell on it, replay it, do it on your own nickel.”

That just pissed him off and he started cracking his fucking knuckles. Made me mental. Wanted to know what had happened to me since Boston. Said he didn’t know me anymore. That made two of us. When we pulled up in front of Boyle’s warehouse, warned Nicky not to tell the boss about the mess back at the apartment, that there was no need to get into it now. Thought Nicky would shit.

Biblical Boyle was an ambitious prick who had worked his way up the sewer pipe to the toilet and from the toilet to the gutter. All the time he was climbing he carried the good book by his side, the stupid dick. Samuel L. Jackson had worn that biblical shit out two movies ago. But like I said before, Boyle’s ambition would carry him only as far as Griffin’s psychopathy. Love that word, psychopathy. As we entered, I warned Nick to keep his eyes on Griffin.

“Why?” Nick asked.

Sighed like a disappointed parent. “Because
he’ll
be watching you.”

It was odd. My whole miserable life, I looked to Nicky to be the teacher. Now the world had flipped. Philly, Boston, they’d made me the teacher and there was another lesson coming up.

Boyle acted well pleased with the take from our job. Offered us a seat and a drink of Jameson. Three shot glasses. Only two were raised. Wasn’t in the mood to drink with the likes of him or Rudi. Also wanted to make a point to the man: I don’t fear you. Maybe I did, but I was too numb just then to realize it.

When I refused his hospitality, his eyes went all fish-like and cold. Swept my untouched glass of Irish off the desk, the whiskey just missing me. Never moved. Don’t even think I blinked. He and Nicky gulped their shots down.

“Back home, you refuse to drink with a man, might be seen as an insult.”

Christ, what a straight line.
Back home! Where? The Bronx!
Bit my lower lip, looked at the shot glass near my boot.

“We’re a long way from Tipperary, Mr. Boyle.”

He didn’t bite. “Aye, you’re right there, boyo.”

Griffin smiled. Couldn’t tell if he liked the joke or the size of my
cojones.
Boyle ordered me over to the piers to help smooth some goods through customs. As I headed out the door, Boyle asked if there’d been any trouble on the job tonight.

“Nothing major,” I said. “Nick, your laddie… had to shoot the owner.”

Didn’t look back.

“‘You a paisan?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a mick.’

‘You’re on the wrong crew. How come you ain’t driving nails?’

‘I’m a spy.’”

—SJ Rozan, No Colder Place

M
Y ZOMBIE TWIN, NICK
.

Something had happened to him in the few days between the charade at the heist and this evening. Wouldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t very well throw stones at him given my closed mouth. Was fucking eerie though, like looking in the mirror at myself the day after Kathleen’s death. Had that same haunted look. The world had shifted beneath his feet. All the assumptions that let him sleep at night had been yanked out from under him.

O’Connor had told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to push Boyle and his boyos too far.

“That was foolish, lad, not drinking with him like that. What were you out to prove?”

The prick was right, of course. As big a dick as Boyle was, he hadn’t anything to do with Kathleen’s murder, not really. My fight was with Rudi, the calculating, cold-hearted cocksucker, and it was a score I meant to have someday. O’Connor instructed me to find a woman to date or he’d supply me with window dressing. Fuck no. The last time he’d made that arrangement her name was Leeza Velez. Wasn’t driving up that street again.

Found her at the Midori makeup counter at Bloomingdale’s. Dark and darkly complected; Leeza Velez without the afterburner. Lived on Long Island and traveled all the way into Manhattan just to be able to say she worked at Bloomies in the city. What can I say, some people aim low. Who the fuck was I to judge? Liked her voice, I guess, husky and resonant. There was a point in my life not too long ago, would have killed to hear her whisper, “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.” Now all I wanted to hear her say was, “Yes, come by around ten.” I’d tell you her name if I could remember it. Also don’t recall if it was Nicky or me that picked the place.

Took her to some joint on Lex called Rocky Sullivan’s. Christ, it was like a freaking Irish theme park: St. Patty’s World. No Mickey Mouse, just micks, wall to wall. The lot of them pining for the old country to which they’d never been and from which their ancestors couldn’t run fast enough. There’s some commonality between the Irish and the Jews, but this wasn’t one of the areas of overlap. You don’t hear too many second generation Jews pining for Poland or Russia, Romania or Ukraine.

That it was Mickville was bad enough, but that it was open mic night made me want to poke my eyes out. It’s one thing to think you can sing. It’s another to think you’re funny. But, Jesus, worst of all were the ones who did the poetry. Poetry is hard enough to pull off when you’ve got some facility for it. When it’s that over earnest, sentimental rhyming crap… Drove me over the edge. Talked sports with what’s-her-name. Nick like couldn’t believe I was with this woman and I’m talking Red Sox baseball.

Not sure where Nicky was at, truth be told. He seemed intent on seeing how much Jim Beam and Sam Adams he could ingest.

“Here’s to the Yankees!” he shouted.

Other drunks joined his fool’s chorus.

Then Nicky’s face took on this peculiar beatific glow. Transformed he was. Followed his eyes to the mic. There stood a lanky girl with auburn hair and a face that had seen the places in life you’re not supposed to look at with eyes wide open. And what eyes they were, green and flecked with gray. You know it’s funny, she was way more than the sum of her parts where as what’s-her-name was so much less. I suppose that’s not fair, but fuck fair, where is the fairness clause in anything? Haven’t fucking seen it. You?

Nicky, who just minutes ago had shouted a toast to the Yankees that drowned out the punchline of a joke the guy at the mic had been working on for an eternity, was now shushing the crowd.

“Yo, keep it down! The lady’s trying to sing here.”

And sing she did. Did two powerhouse numbers: Neil Young and Tom Waits. Her singing was a reflection of herself, a lot more there than met the eye. Brought the place down. The whole time I’m watching Nicky. He won’t look at me. Before I can say something, he’s off. Whatever had turned him zombie earlier in the evening, whatever the Jim Beam couldn’t touch, was now forgotten. He’d taken the red-headed cure, hard.

Nick might’ve taken the cure, but it hadn’t taken to him. She’d sent him packing. He was soon reacquainting himself with his old pals, Jim and Sam. Was positively wounded. A little boy again. Even what’s-her-name gave him a smile. That was a rarity. Told Nick to lighten up on the drink, that he was apt to do some damage if he wasn’t careful. Said he wanted to do damage. Great. Offered him a cab ride. Offered to dump my date so we could hit a club. That’s when the offers stopped.

He was smitten. I knew the look. Being a zombie was easier on the heart, softer on the soul. Even if he wasn’t already half in the bag, Nick wouldn’t have wanted my advice on the subject. But on the way out, I checked with the bouncer, asked after the singer. Gave me her vitals. What’s-her-name actually showed a bit of jealousy at that, a bit of fire. Unfortunately, the fire didn’t extend past the bedroom threshold. Where would my life be without distant women?