Tower: A Novel (5 page)

“I have keys to everything.”

Second floor, a brightly painted door, had little flowers on the top. He sniggered, then knocked. There was the sound of music, Whitney Houston? Then a woman’s voice,

“Who is it?”

Without missing a beat, he said

“Fed Ex.”

There was a peephole and she could obviously see him. She opened the door. The first thing she did was sigh and I was with her there. Griffin at your door, you’d sigh too. She was barely twenty, barefoot, in halter top and jeans, her hair wet, like she’d just been in the shower, and she was a looker.

Oh yeah.

Puerto Rican maybe, that brown sheen, glistening, and that was almost funny as Boyle was, like so many Micks, a raging bigot, spitting invective about niggers and tar babies, sand Arabs and spics. If she was intimidated by Griffin, she was hiding it well. Put her hands on her hips, demanded

“’Cho want, Griffin?”

Before he could respond, she let her eyes settle on me, asked

“Who’s the kid and who moved his nose?”

Griffin was enjoying it, especially as he knew what was coming down the pike. He didn’t even look at me, said

“The hired help.”

She dismissed me thus. Riled me? Yeah, a little. Griffin had a scan around the apartment, all leather furniture, covered in plastic for the most part and I tried not to see Boyle, Bible in one hand, mounting her on the couch, probably wearing his socks. Micks and their socks, like Texans and boots. Griffin made a big production of shooting his cuff, checking his watch, a Tag Hauer, and he wore cuff links. I mean who, apart from freaking Donald Trump, wore them any more? You could see they were tiny harps, the whole Irish variation of wearing your heart on your sleeve. He went

“You’ve got, lemme see, okay, one hour to get your arse out of here, pack up your shite and get the fuck gone.”

She was stunned, took her all of a minute to digest it then, eyes blazing, she retaliated

“You cho don’t tell me to move. Only Papi does that, he want me to move, he come here, be a
hombre,
tell me hisself.”

She’d balanced herself on the balls of her feet, ready to ignite. I stood well back, hoping to fuck she’d launch, tear the smug bastard’s eyes out. Griffin was delighted with the reaction, put his hand in his jacket, said

“Chickee, you’ve been screwing around. You think you can give it away when the boss is paying for exclusivity? I have a little going away pressie for ye, so you don’t, you know, go away, empty handed.”

He took a vial from his pocket. You could see a liquid rolling in there. He unscrewed the top and before anyone could act, he threw the contents in her face, said

“Acid, baby. Like your tongue.”

It wasn’t.

Just ordinary tap water. But for one horrendous moment, she and I were believers. My response was

“Holy fuck.”

And she, she clawed at her face, shrieking

“Dios mio, madre del Jesus.”

Religious reaction all around, you might say.

She sank to her knees, sobbing, all the spunk gone out of her. Griffin hovered over her, tapped his crotch, said

“You’re down there, you want to give me one for the road?”

If I’d been packing—and why the hell wasn’t I?—I’d have shot the bastard. I did find my voice, said

“Enough.”

He turned to me, smiled like a cobra, then back to her, said

“I was wrong. I said an hour, the clock is ticking,
mi puta,
so you got, what, forty five minutes? The next time, it won’t be water.”

And he walked out of the apartment. I went to her, asked

“Are you okay?”

Christ, was I kidding?

She managed to look up, her face a ruin of fright and rage, spat

“What kind of
hombre
are you?”

Good question.

I got in the car. Griffin said

“You give her a little comfort, you do that, fellah?”

I was too agitated to answer. He put the car in gear and we burned rubber. We pulled into Boyle’s. Griffin took out a set of keys, asked

“How’d you like to live in Tribeca? Nice place, huh? You can see yourself there?”

I was taken aback, asked

“You’re giving me her place?”

He shrugged.

“You want it or not?”

I couldn’t get a handle on this, tried

“So who’d I have to kill for that?”

Without missing a beat, he said

“Your buddy, Todd. Kill him, the apartment is yours.”

He had to be even more deranged than he seemed. I gasped, then

“Why on earth would I kill my best friend?”

Griffin was opening a packet of cashew nuts, tore at the cellophane, put a pile in his mouth, chewed loudly and I wondered what happened to the no eats in the car rule. He said

“Because he’s a cop.”

How did I respond?

Badly.

Very.

I followed Griffin into Boyle’s office, my mind a pit of savagery. I wanted to kill someone, Boyle and Griffin topping the poll. Boyle was chewing on a hot dog, grease dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He’d a large bottle of Dr Pepper, and gargled from that, all of it in stereo. Between bites, he asked

“So, how did it go, kid?”

I looked at Griffin, and Boyle said

“Don’t be scared kid. Speak up. I don’t much like scaredy cats.”

Where the fuck did he find that? Was it possible he’d heard of Dr. Seuss?

Naw.

I cleared my throat, always a sure sign you’re about to pop a whopper. I said

“Mr. Griffin got the job done.”

Can you believe it?

Like the girl asked

“What kind of man was I?”

Boyle spluttered his drink and even Griffin seemed amused. He said

“I like it. You got
cojones,
kid, you know that?”

The good book as usual was resting on the desk and wiping his leaking mouth with his sleeve, he opened it, read

“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”

He looked up, his face shining, a mix of grease, sauerkraut and fervor. Mad bastard. He asked

“You got a copy of this here volume?”

Oh sure.

I was going to say

“Caught the movie.”

But went with

“Yes, sir.”

I have no reason, no explanation for my next action. I shot my cuff and
looked at my watch.

Fuck.

Few insults to equal it.

Instead of taking offense, Boyle squinted, asked

“What’s that you’re wearing?”

Was he blind? I nearly said

“Like, hello, it’s a watch, one of those items, got little hands, like you. And you know what, tells you the time, how cool is that?”

I said

“A Timex, sir.”

Bought it off a guy in Times Square, cost me all of ten bucks but what the hell, it did the job. Boyle sat back as if he’d never heard such a thing and I was thinking, hey fellah, it’s far from any freaking watch you were reared, sounding eerily like my old man, not a good thing. Boyle got a toothpick, dug deep into his teeth, extracted some meat, popped it back in his mouth, said

“Be-Jaysus, no one in my crew is going to be a cheapskate. Lemme see.”

Pulled open a drawer, rummaged round then took out a watch, offered it across the desk.

My jaw dropped. I thought that was an expression, like in books and shit, but I could feel my face droop.

A gold Rolex.

Griffin was amused at my reaction. Boyle said

“Don’t just gape at it, try it on.”

I did.

It fit, like sin.

I shook my wrist the way you do and the thing slid nicely along my wrist. Was it my imagination or did it sparkle?

Boyle said

“’Tis yours, I look after my lads.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was thinking

“Is it one of those knockoffs?”

Boyle said

“’Tis the real McCoy, none of that cheap imitation with me.”

I said

“I dunno what to say.”

Griffin said

“Thank you would be nice.”

The fuck.

I muttered

“Mr. Boyle, I’m very grateful.”

He was taking the wrapper of a cigar, lit it with a Zippo, blew a cloud of smoke at me, asked

“How grateful?”

What?

His tone had completely altered, his mood swings as mercurial as Irish weather. A nasty edge had leaked all over his words. I wanted to ask

“How grateful am I supposed to be?”

Boyle scribbled something on a sheet of paper, handed it over, said

“This is my tailor. Get yer arse down there, get some decent suits. He’ll be expecting you.”

I did some more lame gratitude and he waved it off, asked

“You gonna grease this cop for us?”

I wanted to sling the Rolex at him, said

“He’s my buddy.”

Boyle grimaced, looked at Griffin, then

“Cops ain’t nobody’s buddies. He doesn’t know we’re on to him. We’re gonna let him run a bit then I want you to put a cap in his head. You do that for me?”

Stalling, I said

“I’ll do it for the Yankees.”

He loved it.

He tossed a set of keys across the desk, said

“Welcome to Tribeca.”

“Straight to Hell.”

—The Clash

T
HOSE DAYS, I WAS
big into The Clash, had all the imports, direct from London. “Rock The Kasbah” was on my headphones day and night. Took Shannon out and she spotted the Rolex, asked

“That real?”

“Naw, a knockoff.”

She didn’t believe me but let it slide. I was wearing one of the new suits and she asked

“What is it you do?”

“Import export.”

She digested this, then

“A gangsta, huh?”

Pronounced it with the full hip hop flavor.

I shrugged it off, said

“Yeah, that’s me, a real hood.”

Her face took on a serious bent and she said

“I don’t want to be messed up with some penny ante hoodlum.”

I wanted to point at the watch, ask

“That penny ante to you?”

We’d been out for a meal, and it went well. Our barbed, spiky banter had eased a notch and we were getting if not comfortable, at least a little more familiar, but as long as the sexual tension hung over us, there was a vibe. As if reading my mind, she said

“I’m going to sleep with you.”

What do you say?

“Fucking A?”

I said in a serious tone

“I’d like that.”

And she stared into my eyes, went

“Like? You’re going to love it.”

O
-kay.

So, I asked

“When?”

And here was the kicker.

“When you get to know my boy a little.”

The following Sunday, I took them to the park, had me old baseball mitt and got the kid playing. He was a quiet little guy but he sure could hit. Took him a time to get the swing of it but he soon began to smack the ball back and I said

“Right out of the ballpark.”

He had a way of looking at you that hit at your very heart and I liked him, liked him a lot, told Shannon and she said

“I know.”

We were getting there.

Two days later, I got shot.

I arranged to meet Todd in a tavern in Brooklyn, not Manhattan. If I was going to confront him then it was going to be where we grew up, let the betrayal seem more stark.

Fucking cop?

Jesus wept.

I now had a piece, courtesy of Griffin. A Browning .45 automatic. He’d said

“Try not to shoot yer balls off.”

At the last minute, I didn’t bring it. I’d moved into my pad in Tribeca, and felt, I dunno, like a fraud. Didn’t belong there and the other tenants, meeting me briefly, seemed to agree. One prick, I said

“How you doing?”

He gave me the look, the one I’ve received all my life, that goes

“Shouldn’t you be coming in the service entrance?”

Yeah, like that.

Tempted to give the Browning a trial run with him and he asked, in a snotty tone

“Are you delivering something?”

I counted to ten and beyond, said

“I live here.”

He moved back, no kidding, stepped back a pace, said

“We’ll see about that.”

Enough.

I grabbed him by his shirt collar, asked

“You threatening me?”

He pushed my hands away, not a touch intimidated, said

“That’s not a threat, that’s a promise. I’m on the building board. We have certain standards. I wasn’t informed we were allowing garbage men to sublet.”

Can you believe it?

I gave a short laugh, said

“Oh, I’ll be taking out the trash buddy and you’ll be it.”

He swaggered off, with the parting shot

“Don’t unpack.”

Jeez, can you believe that shit? I felt like a kid again, at school, when the nuns walloped the holy fuck outa me, just for the practice and I wanted to scream

“What’d I do?”

Song of my life………
what’d I do?

Bollocks to them.

For my meet with Todd—Todd the informer, the goddamn snitch, the turncoat—I put on the Armani suit. Yeah, I’d been to Boyle’s tailor.

Wore a silk shirt, black slip-on cordovans, a tie with the Yankees Crest, splashed on some Tommy Hilfiger cologne, slid the Rolex on my wrist, liked the give of it, and checked myself in the mirror. Said

“Look like a player, buddy.”

Nearly believed it. Last item, I guess I better get it fessed up, I was doing a little nose candy, nothing major, not then, not like I had me a jones or anything but hey, gave me that icy dribble down the back of my throat, and apart from the first blast of a cold one on a humid New York evening, few feelings like that.

Hit my brain like the A train, hard and cold, lightning up my mind. Took a moment, listened to Strummer with “London Calling,” then got the hell outa there.

I was behind the wheel of the Buick. Yeah, Boyle’s. And remembered, sitting on the sink, the Browning, locked and loaded and forgotten.

Shit, blame the coke.

I do.

Met Todd at Moe’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint, run by a guy named Micky Prada, a straight shooter if ever there was one. Micky took one look at me, did a double take, asked

“That you Nicky? The fuck you doing, working on Wall Street?”