Tower: A Novel (16 page)

“So you know about that.”

That set off a chain reaction in Nick that was as good as any laser light show on the planet. Full range of emotions washed over his face in such rapid succession that I lost track. First there was an almost stunned admiration. Point is, rage was at the end and it stayed put.

Signalled to Micky. “Another round.”

Nick nearly exploded. “I’m not freaking drinking with you, you… traitor, damned turncoat.”

Smiled, but the cool, calculating smile. Cassius had nothing on me. Seemed Nicky and me had been working up to this moment our whole fucking lives. Didn’t move my lips. The smile said it all. Grabbed his arm. Didn’t like that.

“Listen up, hothead,” I whispered. “You listening?”

Said yes.

“You think you know Boyle, but you don’t. I’ve met some of his partners. The cops have been on his tail for a long time. That guy I popped in his apartment, he was one of ours. Had to make you believe. If you believed, Boyle would buy it. This is big. The prick and his partners are in bed with the border gangs in Mexico, using some of the profits for IRA operations.” Took a drink. Took a breath. “So Boyle made me. What’s he want, you to waste me?”

“Fuck you!” Nicky spit. “He reamed me a new one, yeah?”

“Whoa, buddy,” I said. “I got your back.”

Sucked down his drink and of all things said, “All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”

Almost smiled, then Kathleen stabbed me in the heart. Said something lame like they were going to take the series in a few years. Not much conviction in my voice.

“Do me a favor?” he asked, exhaustion his latest mask.

“Name it.”

“Get the fuck outta my sight. Now!”

The rage was back. Good.

Said to him, “I’m here for you, buddy, but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.” Threw down some cash and headed out the door.

Was out, not gone. Waited in my car for Nicky to come out. Wasn’t sure what he might do. Doubted he’d go to Boyle, but there was a long range of other possibilities. Truth was, he was as fucked as myself. More so.

Saw Nicky come out, the rage subsiding. Chill getting to him, buttoned up. Heard the pop. Looked away to see what it was. Tires screeched. Turned back to see Nick slumping against Moe’s door, blood gushing out of his chest.

Must’ve been quite a sight, me sitting there with a shotgun by the side of Nicky’s bed.

“Come to finish the job?” he croaked.

“Asshole. You think
I
shot you?”

“Did you?”

Poured him a glass of water. Probably shouldn’t have, but didn’t see a
Nothing By Mouth
sign anywhere.

“Wasn’t for me, shithead, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”

Tried pouring some water down his throat and nearly drowned him. Hey, you try pouring anything with a shotgun in your other hand and let’s see how you do.

Nicky’s mother like barreled through the door.

“My baby, are you all right?”

Christ, the bullet hadn’t killed him but the embarrassment nearly did. Turned like fifteen shades of red. Didn’t have time to enjoy it. She turned on me.

“And where were you, you shit, where were you when they were pumping my baby full of holes?”

Nick tried to get her attention. “Mom, I’m, okay, really.” That really set her off. Sat and listened. Nick too. No choice. We both seemed comforted by the shotgun. Last resort, of course.

“‘We were pretty good friends once,’ he said unhappily. ‘Were we? I forget. That was two other fellows, seems to me.’”

—Raymond Chandler,
The Long Goodbye

T
HAT TIME IN THE
hospital with Nicky’s mother pouring it on was like being back home. Don’t know about Nick, but I was only half-listening. I remember that in spite of my folks, my childhood had been a good one. Spent most of it outdoors, beyond the walls of the Rosen Asylum for Empty Lives. Remembered the summer days when the moms, not Sophie, of course, would group together on someone’s stoop. We happily lived in the gutter and the schoolyard. We could weave a world out of asphalt and chalk. Now we lived in our own traps. Held incongruous shotguns in our hands.

Some detective named Ortiz came by to ask Nick a few questions. Waste of time. He would stay silent even if it was Boyle
vis-à-vis
Griffin that sent him a lead love letter. Nick would want to see to it himself. Me too. Rules of the street.

O’Connor met me at our usual spot. Wasn’t thrilled with my having been turned out. Acted pissy. Like I wanted to get exposed, right?
Yeah boss, I even had a bull’s eye painted on the back of all of my clothes to make Griffin’s job easier.
Might’ve been relieved to have it out there, but I wasn’t glad to become a fucking target. O’Connor gave me marching orders. I was to lay low and see how things with Nick would shake out, then it was out of town again till the time came to testify.

In spite of their high hopes for me, they hadn’t been able to build the grand case they had envisioned. Boyle’s crew would go down, that was certain. Maybe a few peripheral guys at JFK and the Port of Newark as well. But the big conspiracy case, the one reaching from Brooklyn to Boston, Belfast to the Mexican border, that was shot.

“Don’t fret, lad, your job is secure,” O’Connor assured me, a look on his face as if he’d been digesting glass shards.

As if it mattered. Thanked him anyway.

“What are the flowers for?” he wondered.

“I’ve thrown up on her grave twice. Sonya deserves a little something else from me this last visit.”

Shook his head. “Dead is dead, lad. She’s beyond caring.”

“I’m not.”

That hung there for a few seconds, him pondering the fact that inside he was nearly as dead as Sonya Einstein.

“Nicky’s gonna need a place to run.”

O’Connor started humming a tune that was familiar to me, but that I couldn’t put a title to.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

“‘My Old Kentucky Home.’ We’re way ahead of you, lad. Why do you think I asked you to hang around? I’ll have a package with the details delivered to you later today.”

Watched him walk away. When he was fully out of sight, I placed the bouquet on the grave. Didn’t do an apology. Picked up two rocks. Placed one atop Sonya’s headstone, one on my mom’s. It was Jewish tradition that. Explain it? Can’t. It would be like trying to explain how the fuck I got here in the first place.

The call came. Nick was fucked. Join the club.

Not even a hello. “I’m in deep shit.”

Said, “You’ve always been in deep shit, Nicky, but needing help, that’s new.”

We met in a diner in Manhattan. Aren’t any real diners in Manhattan, just money vacuums dressed up to look like them for the tourist trade. Like everything else in the city, you want reality, you go into the boroughs. That’s where you find New York. Only authentic thing in Manhattan is the bullshit.

“Eggs over easy, I think.” Only in Manhattan could you call two eggs for $9.95 easy.

Nick was busy pouring Jim Beam in his coffee. Christ, if he didn’t look scared. Wasn’t the bullet hole in him either. No, something else was at him. Suspected I knew what that something was.

“Shannon’s husband was shot to death last night. My guess is it wasn’t you. Tell me I’m right. You did that, even I can’t help you.”

Just sat there, drank his high octane coffee. The burden of speech was still on my shoulders.

“Griffin? A set up. Let me guess. You do me or they fuck you?”

Nick looked impressed. Not an easy thing to pull off.

“Never really wanted this life, but I’ve got a talent for this cop shit.”

Impressed ran to desperation. “What am I going to do, Todd?”

My opening, slid a packet across the counter to him.

“There’s a small town in Kentucky. I have a buddy there.” For a guy from Brooklyn with one friend in the world, I seemed to have old buddies spread out over the country like dandelion spores. “He’ll give you a job. Lie real low and we’ll see to things on this end. There’s some cash in there and a ticket for a train outta Penn Station. Leaves tomorrow morning.”

“What about Shannon?”

“I’ll talk to her. You just get the fuck out. Things are going down. Now you’re only a nuisance. We’ll bring you back up for the indictments.”

Horrified. “You want me to testify?”

“You have a choice? It’ll be messy, bro, but I’ll sort it out.”

“And my parents?”

“Go see them tonight, tell them you’re going for a fresh start. They’ll be glad you’re straightening out.”

Nick, his old self returning. “That’s it? I just split and what… wait?”

“You got it. You’re out of it.”

“I’ll be moving on then. Any words of wisdom to speed me on my way?”

“Sure. You shoulda had the eggs. They’re great.”

And there was Nicky walking out of my life. Least, that’s what he thought.

Waited for the splash, for the car to pull away. Typical fucking Nicky, effective but sloppy. The rage again. Griffin’s pants had snagged on one of the pilings. The waterline was high and it wasn’t much of a strain getting my hands on him. Pulling his dead, waterlogged carcass the fuck out of the river was another issue. Thought both my shoulders would tear apart.
There goes my pitching career!

Got his body onto the pier, the skin no colder now than when he was drawing breath, his heart probably warmer. I weighted the bastard down good and trussed his ass up like a chained mummy. He’d come up eventually. They almost always do, but he’d be hell to identify. Liked thinking about him as fish food.

“Give my regards to Rudi.”

Pushed him back in the Hudson for the long dive goodnight.

“I felt as though I’d lost something, lost it forever and I didn’t even know what it was, had no name for it. Those are the worst losses we ever sustain.”

—James Sallis, The Long-Legged Fly

2000

Milwaukee

Downer Avenue

December, late.

Milwaukee? Yeah, don’t ask. Okay, ask. I don’t give a fuck. Because it wasn’t Philly, Boston or Brooklyn. A lot of places aren’t like those places, but not unlike them in the same way as Milwaukee. Just something about the Midwest, tough to put a finger on. Everyone pictures it in winter, as it is now: sunless, snowy, gray, frozen. There’s another Midwest that the rest of the country never dreams of in their philosophies. Like that? Paid attention in English, especially during Shakespeare and Frost.

Waited to make sure Nicky made it to Kentucky all right, had a long talk with Shannon and her boy. Cute kid, made me play catch with him. Assured Shannon that Nicky hadn’t done her ex. Neglected to mention that Nicky had done the man that
had
done her ex. Didn’t tell her she’d be under surveillance until Boyle was in Attica. Easy to see what Nicky saw in her. Who knows what the fuck she saw in him? Who knows what a woman sees in any man?

That done, got in my car and drove west. This is fucked, I know, but I was following the Mets. Wanted to see a game in Wrigley Field my whole life. It’s an ancient park, reminiscent in its quirkiness if not in style to Fenway. Scalped a sweet seat. Rained out. Figures. Thought Chicago was a pretty place, but it was too much like New York. Cleaner maybe, smaller with bad pizza. Still, had a subway and too many tall buildings for me to stay. Next stop for the Mets? Milwaukee. Me too.

Like Shea, County Stadium was an old piece of shit. But unlike Shea, the stadium food was great and there was a cool, new, retractable roofed stadium being built in the parking lot to take its place. It was supposed to be open already, but while they were building it a crane or something collapsed and like killed a few guys. My bad luck continued. Not so bad, I guess, as those poor bastards got crushed by the crane. Seen their last opening day. Didn’t have to scalp tickets at County. Some guy gave me a spare. Liked that. Liked that a lot. Liked it that the Mets won.

Decided to stay in Milwaukee for a week. Months later, still here. Found a place on Downer Avenue. Don’t you love that fucking name, Downer? Sums it up. Lived just up the block from a movie theater and a bookstore and not too far away from the university. Gotten back into my reading. Go to the movies all the time. Summer was great, not crazy humid like back home. Lake Michigan is cool. Kind of like the Atlantic with Kalamazoo on the opposite shore instead of Galway. There’s these weird silver fish, smelt or some such shit, that wash up on the lakeshore by the thousands. Like a Passover fucking plague. Passes for normal here.

Fall was short, like two weeks. Then the sun disappeared, replaced by snow and grayness. You think it gets cold back East? Fuck that! This is cold, brothers and sisters. Few more months of this and Brooklyn in February would feel like South Beach. You understand drinking in a place like this. Jack Daniel’s and me became even better friends… best friends. Hadn’t been about friendship before. Always a nod to Kathleen. Milwaukee changed that. Nights were darker here somehow, darker even than Boston. Leeza and Kathleen were ever present, Rudi too, the cocksucker. Just didn’t have the energy to leave. Figured I’d live through the winter. Lived through worse, much worse.

Then one day, about a week ago, God lifted the fucking veil. Grayness burned away by the sun like a match through dark acetate. Still cold as an icehouse, but to feel the sun on my face was redemption, if only temporary. Bypassed the place down the block and walked over to this little crime bookstore near the lake. Christ, I’d been in bigger bathrooms. Thing was, the owner, this tall gangly guy with a Led Zep tee shirt, had a New York accent. Didn’t mention it. Afraid it would break the spell. Handed me my bag. Smiled at him large. Probably thought I was queer. So what? The sun was out.

Two doors down, an Irish pub run by Germans. Sums up Milwaukee, that. Was about to order a Jack.

“What can I get for you?” barman asked.

“Anything but Jack Daniel’s.”

Didn’t flinch. Put a can of Point beer on the bar with a glass. Never had something so mediocre tasted so fucking good. Whispered “Goodbye” to Kathleen. Threw a twenty down on the bar. Left. Barman didn’t chase after me. Understood about not wanting to break a spell. Stayed outside until the sun became irrelevant. There’s no delaying darkness. Least, that’s what I thought.