Tower: A Novel (6 page)

Couple of the regulars, they got a real kick outa that. Freaking losers, still hanging at Moe’s. I dunno if there ever was a Moe. Micky had always had the bar. I flipped him off, asked

“You got Seven and Seven?”

He laughed.

“Seagram’s and Seven up? Jameson no good for you no more?”

“Gimme the goddamn drink, alright?”

He poured out a measure, a slight tremor in his hand, and I was glad to see that, slammed it on the bar and I said

“Run a tab. Todd’s coming by.”

One of the jokers at the counter, said

“Yankees choked, you hear?”

I gave him the look, asked

“You hear me talking to you? I ask you anything?”

He rolled his eyes and I grabbed the drink, moved to the back to watch the door. The snow was cruising in my skull and when the booze hit, I felt the jolt. Reason I did the gig. I was cranked.

I was on the other side of my second drink, thinking of maybe another line of powder when Todd showed. He strode in, wearing a battered leather jacket. Pressed jeans, who the fuck ironed jeans?

He did some high fives with Micky. People always liked Todd. Well, except for Boyle and Griffin. He had that effortless charm, when he wanted, an easy grace that said

“You’re the person I most want to talk with.”

A crock, but hey, it worked.

He grabbed a cold one, came over, surveyed me, said

“The yuppie in all his glory.”

We were off.

I spat back

“Wouldn’t hurt you to make an effort the odd time.”

He took a hit of the beer, belched, said

“What you thinking, if I suck up to Boyle, he’ll dress me too?”

The tension was in the air, a slice of barbed wire you could almost touch. He watched me for a moment then

“What are you on? Doing lines in the men’s room? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”

I indicated my glass, said

“A shot of decent booze. That’s a big deal?”

He leaned back, his scuffed boots making that sound of intent, said

“The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”

Time to rumble and I leaned close, said

“That one of the things they teach you in the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”

It hung there, like dead smoke.

But he was cool, I’ll give him that, shrugged, said

“So you know about that.”

As if I’d accused him of pinching a couple of bucks, like, no biggie. He was the ice man. I wanted to reach over, smack him up the side of the head, and if I’d been carrying the piece, I swear I’d have taken it out, pistol whipped him. And okay, the coke and 7s weren’t helping my
disposition
but I was so fucking enraged. My old man, Irish to the bloody core, he had an expression all the way from Galway, to describe serious anger:
spitting iron.
Well, I was ready to vomit pure steel. Todd reached up his hand, signalled to Micky, said

“Yo, another round buddy.”

I gritted

“I’m not freaking drinking with you, you… cheese-eating rat motherfucker.”

And he smiled, a small crease between his eyes. I knew that signal. He had it when he was amused but on the verge of aggression, as if it was sad but kind of funny too, like life just wouldn’t quit being a bastard.

The whole expression asking, in a Brooklyn accent

“Watchagonnado?”

He grabbed my arm, real bad move and said

“Listen up you hothead, you listening?”

I was.

He said

“Boyle is a major bad ass. He’s into heavy shit and we’ve been monitoring him for a long time. The guy in the Upper West Side, the guy I wasted, he was one of ours and the guy in the deli, again, one of ours. It was a set up. You really think I killed that guy or that I’d cut a man’s throat? But we had to make you believe. You buy it, then Boyle would buy it. This a big operation, Boyle is even running with the IRA. And also doing deals with some very nasty dope dealers, South of the Rio Grande.”

He took a thirsty slug of his beer. I’d never heard him give such a long speech and then he continued

“Boyle’s told you I’m a cop, so even though it’s fucked that he’s rumbled me, it’s good that he’s bought you as one of his crew. What’s he want you to do, waste me?”

And gave me that level stare.

My mind was awhirl. He
was
a cop. I’d been suckered every which way but loose and he was sitting there, full of himself. I said

“Fuck you. He reamed me a whole new asshole, yeah?”

He put the beer down, said

“Whoa buddy, I’m watching out for you. Your back is covered all the way.”

Micky brought the drinks and what the hell, I sunk the Seagram’s neat, felt it burn like acid, then I asked

“All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”

He nearly smiled, went

“Hell no, that’s the truth. They’re going to take the series within the next few years, see if they don’t.”

I felt tired. The coke was winding down. Needed another line, shit, a whole battalion of ’em. I asked

“You do me a favor?”

“Name it buddy, it’s a done deal.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight. Now.”

He sat back, like in recoil but slow, then stood, laid a mess of bucks on the table, said

“I’m here for you buddy but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.”

Then he was gone.

Moe’s had one of those big ole Wurlitzer jukeboxes, and one of the regulars fed it a pile of quarters and Lou Reed began with “Walk on the Wild Side.” I stood up, added a couple of bills to the tab and started to walk out. Micky shouted

“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

The evening had gotten cold or maybe it was the cocaine chills. I began to button my jacket and the bullet took me high in my chest, knocked me back against the tavern, and as I slid to the sidewalk, I could still hear Lou crooning about all the colored girls

Catchy little tune.

“He says, ‘Times are changing. Men are afraid of women. I know a lot of beautiful women who should be with men, but you know what they’re doing now?’

‘What?’ me and Roz want to know.

‘Whacking off alone in their beds with vibrators… I have seen the future and it hums…’”

—Julia Phillips,
You’ll Never Eat Lunch in This Town Again

I
OPENED MY EYES
, a dryness in my mouth and an ache in my head, my chest. Turned my head. Bad idea. The nausea struck and realized I was in the hospital, Todd sitting shotgun by my bed. I croaked

“Come to finish the job?”

He was slumped in the chair, a long black duster gathered round him, his scuffed cowboy boots stretched along the floor. He sat up, his eyes tired, went

“You think I shot you?”

“Did you?”

He reached for a jug of water, poured a glass, offered it to me, said

“It was me, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”

He tilted my head, got some water in my parched mouth. I tried to gulp it and he pulled back, said

“Whoa, easy. You don’t want to take too much. You gotta ease down slow.”

A drip was attached to my right arm and my head really burned. He said

“You were thrown back against the wall. Knocked your fool self cold.”

The door burst open and I mean burst, not opened gently. My mother, hysteria in full riot, going

“My baby, are you all right?”

Then whirled on Todd.

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

Jesus.

I tried to get my voice level, said

“Mom, I’m okay, really, you don’t need to fret.”

Whoops.

She was off.

“Not fret? And what about your poor father, he’s near had a heart attack, what about that?”

I wanted to go

“Oh, like sorry, I’m goddamn shot and he’s what, upset?”

I said

“Will he be coming by?”

Like an echo, she went

“Coming by? The poor man couldn’t eat breakfast.”

God forbid he miss a freaking meal.

She looked at her watch, a cheap plastic job my old man gave her for their anniversary. I checked my wrist, no Rolex, she went

“I’ve got to get back to your father…”

And was gone.

I wanted to shout

“Where’s my grapes, my bowl of restoring stew?”

The door opened, a guy in his fifties came in, wearing a battered sports jacket and his whole weariness screamed
the heat.
He nodded at Todd, produced a badge, gold one, asked me,

“You up to a few questions, Mr. Barrett? I’m Lieutenant Ortiz, OCCB.”

Todd stood, said

“I gotta scoot. I’ll drop by later.”

A look passed between him and Ortiz. A cop look?

And Todd added

“With grapes.”

Ortiz pulled up a chair, asked

“Mind if I sit?”

And if I did?

He took out a notepad, said

“Your old man was on the job?”

I nodded and rang the call button. The pain in my chest was fierce. A nurse appeared, asked

“How are we today?”

Who, me and Ortiz?

I said

“I’m hurting, like, real bad.”

She tutted, like she didn’t believe a word of it, said

“The doctor will be doing his rounds shortly. I’m sure he’ll prescribe something.”

And she began fluffing the pillows. They learn that in nursing school. When in doubt, fluff the freaking pillows. I snapped

“They’re fine.”

She gave me that tolerant smile you give precocious kids, said

“Bit cranky are we?”

And was gone. Just like my mother.

Ortiz gave some form of laugh, more a snigger then said

“You’re one of Boyle’s crew?”

I stared at him then said

“So?”

He flipped a page of his pad. How many pages did he have on me?

Then

“You lie down with scumbags, you’re gonna get flak.”

I tried to act like this was priceless information and made
mmm
noises. Mainly as I know how fucking irritating it is. He fixed his eyes on me, the cop special, asked

“Any idea who’d want to take you out?”

I shrugged and he added

“Next time you might not be so lucky.”

He stood up, then

“Lemme give you a bit of advice, sonny.”

I drank some water, noisily, and he said

“Because of your old man, we’re cutting you some slack but don’t depend on it. You’re a punk and when we find your sorry ass in an alley, you think we’re gonna shed any tears?”

He headed for the door and I said

“Forgot anything?”

Got to him and he frowned. I said

“Where’s the bit about not leaving town?”

He put his pad in his jacket, wiped at his mouth and said

“You have a mouth on you, you know that? But if I had a nickel for every two-bit shithead with an attitude, I’d be rich.”

I’d have fucking killed for a double espresso and a line of coke. Or a clean shot of Bourbon. Jesus wept, I was in pain. The doctor swept in with a retinue of cowered nurses, interns or what the fuck ever those trainee doctors are. I said to myself

“Incoming.”

I’d been on a diet of Nam movies:
Apocalypse Now, Go Tell the Spartans
… not
Platoon
though, that was like Nam lite. I had me an obsession with Coppola. Knew the dude did forty cups of espresso a day. How fucked is that? Made me like him even more, cos I dug it. He fitted in with my whole world view: fucked.

The doctor checked my chart, without turning to the horde huddled behind him, said

“Gunshot wound, above the heart.”

I cut through the shit, asked

“What happened to ‘Good morning and how are we today?’ What happened to that gig?”

One of the followers gave a suppressed laugh and the doctor whirled, shouted

“That funny, you think a gunshot is funny?”

Jeez, talk about a heavy number. He moved toward me, examined the wound, made
mmm
sounds which told me absolutely nothing other than that I was in deep shit. He stood back, said

“You can leave today. The dressing will need to be changed daily. Come back for a check up in five days.”

Then he turned and walked out, the posse scuttling behind. I wanted to shout

“God bless.”

After the nurse changed the dressing, and I attempted the breakfast, I asked for my clothes.

She indicated a wardrobe, said

“Your shirt had to be thrown out but your jeans and jacket are there. Your friend, the one who got you this
private
room, he left you a clean T-shirt.”

Her tone hinted that she was not fond of people who got special treatment. I opened the closet and in all its red glory, was the T with, you guessed it,
The Red Sox.
I turned it inside out, preferred to look stupid than Boston, which might amount to the same thing. I was pulling my boots on, groaning, when Shannon walked in. She looked tired, circles under her eyes and her hair like she couldn’t find a brush. I’d have finger combed it for her. She appraised me, said

“You look shot.”

I stood up and felt a slight wave of dizziness but that might have been down to her. I asked

“How’d you know I was here?”

“It was on the news.”

I didn’t know, was she angry, sympathetic, what? Her words had an edge but then, they usually did. I asked

“Want to walk me off the premises?”

I signed the release forms and she stood at my side, then

“Why are you wearing your T-shirt inside out?”

Before I could answer, she moved her arms round me and kissed me full on the mouth, to the delight of a passing nurse. Pulling back, Shannon whispered

“I’m so sorry.”

I blew it off, went

“Hey, it’s just a flesh wound, no biggie.”

She was shaking her head, said

“No, I mean, it’s my fault.”

I moved a step, looked at her, tears in her eyes, and asked

“You shot me?”

She took my hand, said

“Let’s get a cab, get the hell out of here. I hate hospitals.”

We got the cab and a surly driver. Shannon gave her address and then slumped back in the seat, said