Tower: A Novel (4 page)

Todd laughed. Went

“Who the fuck does?”

But he was right. The following week, the deli guy came through.

I called Shannon, my palms covered in sweat, a chick making me nervous. She answered on the third ring and I said

“It’s me.”

A slight intake of breath, then

“I’m going to need a little more than that, fellah.”

She knew, course she did. But hoops, I had to jump through ’em. I sighed, then

“Rocky Sullivan’s, I liked your singing, tried to buy you a brew.”

Another beat, then

“Oh, the drunk Mick. What do you want?”

Jesus.

I nearly slammed the receiver down and how different everything would have been. I wouldn’t have spent ten months in this forsaken shit hole for one but… what? …I was determined to get the better of her, said

“Hey, you’re the one put your number in my pocket.”

She laughed, that rich sound, said

“I guess I was a little shitfaced me own self, you think?”

And the whole tone of her voice changed. I arranged to take her to a movie the following night. She said she’d meet me on Fifth and 33rd. It crossed my mind that I could have collected her but maybe she didn’t want me to see the damaged kid. I asked myself

“So, her having a kid, how’s that sitting with you all?”

Not easily.

Dress to impress.

Good base plan but the little voice in my head cautioned that she wasn’t going to be easily won over. If I wore a suit, she’d spit on me, that was a given. Too casual, she’d think I didn’t give a flying fuck.

And I did.

So I went to The Gap. You might look like the all-American asshole but at least a tidy one. Chinos, Converse All-Stars, not too new, scuffed along the sides, like I’d been shooting baskets, and a navy blue shirt, accessorize my eyes. A hooker told me that and for a hundred, I felt like believing her. She didn’t of course let me kiss her on the mouth, they never do. Give you a blow job but kissing on the lips?
Fuggedditaboutit.

I debated my Yankees jacket but didn’t really want to get into a whole biggie about sports, settled for my battered bomber leather. It had loads of pockets so that was a plus, gave me an Indiana Jones vibe. Tiny hint of cologne, gotta ration that shit real slow or a chick will have your ass, you smell better than her. Checked myself in the mirror, all the young dudes, and gave my hair a careless flick, get that outa bed gig. Hummed Wham’s “Careless Whisper” and I was out of there.

She was late. Gee, what a surprise and when she finally showed, I said

“You’re late.”

She stared at me, then

“What happened to ‘Hello, you look nice?’”

She did, look nice, real nice. White jeans, black T-shirt and Keds. A light tan set the whole deal off. I was standing outside the movie, pointed at the times, said

“We’ve missed the opening.”

She clutched her heart, said

“Oh no, how can I go on?”

Then she linked my arm, said

“C’mon. I’ll buy you a beer and you can do guy stuff like talk about yourself for three hours.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

It was one of those golden New York evenings, not too humid, a light breeze off the Hudson and a buzz in the air. She said

“Let’s walk till we see a place that sings to us.”

Is there an answer to this, an answer that seems related to logic?

She wrinkled her nose, said

“Whoa, buddy. Got a little carried away with the aftershave.”

Fuck on a bike.

She squeezed my arm, said

“Just jerking your chain. You smell real nice.”

And found ourselves on West 44th, the Mansfield Hotel, across the road were The Algonquin and The Iroquois. She said

“James Dean slept there.”

Like I gave a fuck where he slept. Her face had taken on a wistful look. She added

“You look a little like ol’ Jimmy, you know that?”

I said

“Jerking my chain again.”

She stopped, looked me full in the face, said

“Hey, someone gives you a compliment, you go, thank you very much. Okay, you down with that?”

Like I was going to get into a big thing about some fucking dead movie star. I let it slide with

“Whatever.”

She ran a hand through her hair, something I wanted to do and badly, said

“You’re a defensive guy, anyone ever told you that?”

I was tired of losing every round so snapped

“Maybe I’ve got good reason.”

Like that was going to fly.

She was right on it.

“And what, the rest of us don’t?
Hello?
But guess what? We’re out for an evening, want to have nice time, we bend a little. You think you can do that, bend a bit?”

The hell with it, I said

“Like a blade in the wind.”

We settled on The Algonquin, and the first thing I saw was a fat white cat on a pillow, in the lobby. I don’t mean a guy in a suit, I mean your actual feline. We went into the bar, got ourselves a window table and before we ordered, Shannon asked

“You read?”

“Sure, the
Daily News.
”

“What happened to the bending?”

I had a Bud and she went for a glass of white wine, saying

“It’s that kind of place.”

I was thinking it was just another tourist trap and checked the bar list, said

“Sure do know how to up the ante.”

She gave a tiny smile, said

“Class is always going to cost.”

Which is a crock and did I say so?

Nope.

She was toying with the wine. I’d sunk the beer and fast, ordered another and she covered the rim of her glass. What? I was going to force her? Not sure if it was the smart thing, I asked

“So your kid, how old is he?”

Her eyes lit up, no fooling. I thought that only happened when you snorted some particularly fine coke. It was like she was shot through with energy and you know what? Goddamn it to hell, I felt jealous, of some dumb-ass kid I didn’t even know. I wanted her to light up like that for me.

Dumb, huh?

Her words came out in a torrent, spilling over each other in their joy.

“Sean, Sean is eight now. He’s a real tough little dude. He’s got Down Syndrome. When he was born and the doctor told me, I thought my world was done. My heart was crushed, a handicapped kid, and me…
me
… to look after him?”

The brightness in her eyes was shadowed. A touch of, I dunno, self-recrimination. She continued

“You know about mosaicism?”

Yeah, right.

She nodded, explained

“It’s a type of Down’s that means he’s not affected mentally but physically,” and God forgive me, she actually made the sign of the cross. Jeez, I hadn’t seen that in a while, then

“If I had to make a choice, I’d have him mentally all right. The physical side we can work on and we do.”

I decided to go for broke, get it out of the way, asked

“His father?”

She reached for the wine, drained half, gulped, then

“Jeff’s not the worst.”

The Irish, they say that, like I’d heard my old man do, they mean you’re a shithead. I figured I was doing okay, batting an even five hundred fifty, pushed

“And Jeff, you see him?”

She gave me a look like, was I serious? Said

“He’s Sean’s father, course I see him.”

Fuck.

Then she focused and spat

“Oh, I get it. You’re asking do I, like, sleep with him?”

Well, yeah.

I protested, a bit too much but she waved it off, said

“None of your fucking business.”

So I figured, yeah, she was balling him. I wanted another beer but she said

“You know, I’m going to call it a night. Got to get up early for work.”

I’d fucked up, yeah, screwed the whole deal. Outside, she hailed a cab, asked

“Drop you?”

Wasn’t she already doing that?

I said

“No, I’m good.”

She reached over, kissed me full on the mouth, said

“I’d ask you to come home with me but you probably don’t on a first date. So call me, we’ll have Friday night, a real whoopee evening.”

And she was gone.

What did I think? Fuck knows, nothing positive.

Boyle broke my nose.

Wallop.

Right across the desk, out of nowhere.

One minute, I was sipping an espresso and next, I was jumping up, hot coffee burning my crotch and the pain of the damned in the center of my face. He was asking about the deli owner and I’d said

“No prob.”

Griffin of course, was standing to his right and I was keeping my eye on him. Boyle was resting his hand on the good book, had earlier quoted me a piece from Revelation.

It was a revelation to me that the fuck could read.

Then he’d lunged across the desk.

He sat back, massaging his knuckles, adjusting his tweed vest, said

“Do I have your attention?”

Griffin was smiling. Looked more like a rictus. I tried to get my eyes in gear, the pain in my burned crotch as bad as the sledgehammer to my nose. A trickle of blood poured into my mouth. I mumbled

“Yes, sir”.

Thinking, you fucking bastard.

He tossed some tissues at me, said

“Now clean up and get your head straight.”

I went to the restroom, and in the mirror, saw my nose slanted to the left. It was already swelling. I managed to stem the blood but wouldn’t you know, I’d elected that day to wear a white shirt. Not white no more. Electric stabs of agony were shooting to my startled brain. I cleaned up as best I could and returned to the office, trying to rein in my rage. Boyle was laughing out loud, something Griffin had told him. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of frivolity, said

“The guy who ran the deli, he could have gone to the cops and the last thing I need is heat. You get what I’m saying?”

I nodded and even that drew pain from my face. He gave me a long intense look, then

“That’s going to give you a bit of character. Make you seem like a tough guy. You want that, eh, be a hard arse?”

How on earth do you answer that, especially to the man who just re-arranged your features? I mumbled something about wanting to do the best I could by him, brown-nosing, if you’ll forgive the play on words, telling myself, suck it up, your time will come and we’ll see about toughness. My old man had his nose broken in a street brawl and I don’t know if it toughened him but it sure soured him. At last we had something in common.

I nearly missed Boyle’s question.

“Your buddy, Todd, how tight are you guys?”

Figured out that this was loaded so went for

“He’s a Red Sox fan, what can I tell you?”

And Boyle loved that, slapped the desk, the fuck, always slapping something, said

“Fucking turncoat, the likes of him, back home…” He meant Ireland. Home was freaking Hoboken “… we call them informers. They dropped a dime on us every time we got a rebellion going, sons of bitches. How you going to trust a cunt who deserts the Yankees?”

Griffin was quivering. This was obviously where he lived. Anything to do with betrayal, hatred, got his mojo cranked. Boyle indicated him, said

“You’re going to be trailing along with my Mr. G this evening. How’d that sit with you?”

Not good.

I was hoping to have another round of verbal warfare with Shannon. I said

“That’s cool.”

Griffin spoke, his voice startling me

“Be here at 7:00 sharp. Wear black.”

Despite my nose or because of it, I shot back

“A funeral, is it?”

Leveled those ferret dead eyes on me, said

“Will be if you fuck up.”

“You didn’t know that each time you passed the threshold you were saying goodbye.”

—Colson Whitehead,
The Colossus of New York

G
RIFFIN WAS DRIVING A
beat-up Chevy. He was wearing a black suit and looked like an undertaker. How apt that was? There was something dead about the guy, not just the eyes but his whole face had the sheen of the embalmed. He was wearing some kind of god-awful cologne. One of those scents that a guy gets hold of early in life and is convinced is a winner, despite all the evidence. Made you want to gag. But with him, perhaps that was the point. I had a cup of coffee and he said

“Sling it.”

I had been about to take a sip and I paused, asked

“Do what?”

He put the car into gear, slid out into traffic like a hearse, slow but deadly, said, without looking at me

“You deaf? Lose the cup.”

We were in midtown, heavy gridlock and I went

“You’re kidding.”

Griffin, whatever else, a kidder he wasn’t. He gave that grimace smile, as if he’d swallowed something vile, said

“No one, no fucking one, smokes, drinks or eats in my ride.”

I rolled down the window, the full container in my hand and slung it.

I couldn’t resist, asked

“Happy now?”

He liked that, I could see by the slight tensing of his body. He said

“I don’t do happy.”

Gee, what a surprise.

When I didn’t reply, he said

“We’re going to swing by the boss’s old lady.”

And dumb-ass I was, I asked

“Mrs. Boyle?”

He cut in front of a yellow cab, nearly rear-ending the guy, scoffed

“Jaysus, you know nothing, do you?”

I was tempted to say

“Well, I know you’re a total prick.”

But figured it would keep. He said

“Mr. Boyle’s bit of stuff. She’s been stepping out and you know, the one thing you don’t want ever to do, is screw around with him.”

So I asked

“And we’re going to what, throw a fright into her?”

We were on the triangle below Canal Street. Tribeca, bounded on the other side by Murray Street, transformed into a vibrant mix of commercial, lofts, studios, galleries and chic restaurants. He pulled into a disabled parking spot, said

“Get out.”

I looked at the street sign, Franklin, and what I knew about it was it cost. You had a place here, it was serious bucks. We stood before a renovated building, and Griffin took out a set of keys, let us in. Course, I had to ask

“You have a key to her place?”

He ignored the elevator, took the stairs, said