Tower: A Novel (7 page)

“Jeff, my ex. He shot you.”

Real conversation stopper, that.

Her apartment was in North Brooklyn, the Polish enclave of Greenpoint. This had in recent years become the über-trendy merging of North Williamsburg and Hasidic South Williamsburg. The building was in good shape, lots of flower boxes on windows, bright painted doors, an air of bohemia but with cash. I asked

“You afford this?”

She shrugged, said

“My dad owns it.”

I hoped he lived elsewhere, like, maybe Ireland. She added

“He’s a carpenter, and real smart.”

He owned this building, I believed her.

I went to pay the fare. The driver pointed at the meter. I said

“Bit steep.”

He hawked some phlegm out the window and if I’d been more focused, I’d have made him eat it. I paid and he looked at the tip. I asked

“What’s the matter, not enough?”

He growled

“Guess it’ll do.”

And before I could slap the fuck, he burned rubber outa there.

Cabbies, you gotta love ’em.

Shannon’s apartment was on the ground floor, clean, full of light and the evidence of her little boy all around. Pac Man, Sesame Street Posters, small sneakers thrown on a couch,
miniature
baseball bat, and heart rending, a crayon sketch of a stick figure on the wall, with, underneath
my mom.

I said

“Looks just like you.”

She couldn’t keep the joy from her eyes then, nervous, asked

“Get you something?”

“Jeff’s address?”

And lowered the tone, brought the boom down on whatever area of peace she had briefly inhabited. She leveled her eyes on me, asked

“Will you make love to me?”

I did.

Right there on the floor, under the crayon sketch. She touched the bandaged wound, asked

“Does it hurt?”

Time to be stoic, be macho, shrug it off. I said

“Like a son of a bitch.”

She made love with an urgency, with a passion that was ferocious. I, as they say, went along for the ride. Afterward, she rose, and, naked, went to the fridge, took out two beers. Sam Adams, frigging Boston rules but what the hell, a cold one was just the deal. I’d already had the hot one. She uncapped them, handed me one, clinked the bottles, said

“
Sláinte.”

What else could I say so I said it

“Good health.”

She leaned over my shoulder, took down a pack of Marlboro Lights, lit two and I said

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

She put one between my lips, the gesture more intimate than the love making, said

“There’s a lot you don’t know.”

Ain’t that the truth? The first hits of the nicotine were magic, that rush to the blood stream, a cross between dizziness, nausea and ecstasy. Mainly, a cross, like in crucify. What I wanted was a line of coke and a double shot of bourbon so I asked

“You got any bourbon?”

She indicated a closet, said

“Top shelf.”

Of course.

Self-conscious, naked, I walked to the closet, opened it. Men are no good at that casual stroll without clothes, women can pull it off with grace and us, we do it looking more than a little ridiculous. A bottle of Jim Beam and on the bottom shelf, I saw the butt of a hand gun, and the temptation to check, see it had been fired was nearly overwhelming and reading my thoughts. She said

“My dad put it there. He says a woman alone can’t be too careful.”

I grabbed two glasses from the sink, filled them with Beam, asked

“Water?”

“No, neat, like my man.”

Okay, so it’s dumb but it gave me a glow. I brought the glasses over and she had a quilt, covered us and we lay sipping the hooch, drinking the beer and imagining the world was a fine place. She asked

“What are you thinking about?”

The answer is always

“You, hon.”

I was thinking
if Jeff shot me because I took his ex to dinner, what the hell would he do if he knew I’d fucked her?

“He’d never met a cat that could tolerate him. For all he knew, his armpits gave off an unpleasant odour that only those little fuckers could smell.”

—Allan Guthrie,
Two-Way Split

I
WISH I COULD
say that after making love, sharing intimacy, we shared a depth, touching each other’s souls and Shannon, she was a woman, she wanted to talk and I did the guy thing.

I slept.

Dreamt a beast was stalking me, could feel its breath on my face and came to with a shudder to find a cat, a fucking cat, staring into my eyes. I screamed. The thing took off like, well, I guess, a scalded cat. Shannon was standing at the door, mugs of steaming coffee in her hands, trying not to laugh, said

“You’ll have met Byron.”

I tried for some macho poise, not too easy to pull off when you’ve just wailed like a banshee. I blustered

“The fuck is Byron?”

She moved over, my Red Sox T-shirt emphasizing her breasts, the logo turned out. Handing me a mug, she said

“That’s my other darling.”

My chest hurt, my head ached and the coffee burned my tongue. I said

“I’m not fond of cats.”

She wasn’t fazed, said

“You’re not fond of a lot of stuff, especially your own self.”

Just a little too deep for me first thing on waking. I asked if I could use the shower, maybe borrow a shirt, Jeff had probably left a pile. She indicated the bathroom, said

“I ran you a bath, get you all mellowed out.”

Take more than a freaking tub of hot water but I didn’t share that. The bath was good and if not relaxing, it eased me down a notch. I was going to ask her about Jeff and was stalling. Checked my wound, it was raw, inflamed. My face was puffy, and I badly needed a shave. Came out, wrapped in a towel. Shannon indicated jeans, and an almost-black blue sweat shirt, said

“The jeans belonged to Jeff and the shirt is my own. And don’t panic, it’s the Yankees.”

It was.

Tight fit but snug. Dressed, I felt marginally better and grabbed a cig, fired up, she said

“Those things will kill you.”

Seemed an opening so I said

“Not if Jeff gets there first.”

Her face took the direct hit, like a serious lash. She moved to the sofa, curled her feet up under her, and focused. That position, I mean, is it comfortable? I always think it’s related to that yoga crap and expect a chant to walk point. She said

“Jeff has A.M.I.”

All these abbreviations we have now, to skirt calling anything what it is. It’s like some relation of P.M.S. I stayed standing, smoke curling above my head, like a bad omen, a useless prayer. I asked

“And that is?”

“Anger management issues.”

Was she serious?

I didn’t ask her but went with

“Shooting people, seems he’s taking it to the next level.”

A flash of anger crossed her eyes. Maybe she had some issues herself and she said

“Don’t be flippant. He’s the father of my child.”

Gee, like I’d forgotten. I said

“How about you give me his address? I’ll help him resolve some of his issues.”

She took a deep breath, said

“Nicky, I like you, I like you a lot and I think I’m falling for you. But if you go after Jeff, we are done. He’s the father of my child. You hurt him, where does that leave us?”

Maybe it wasn’t the time to get into it, I said

“You won’t tell me where he lives. I don’t know what he looks like, so how am I going to do anything?”

We both let that scenario dance a little then she stood up, said

“I have to go, pick up Sean. Let me drop you at your apartment.”

I said no, I’d some stuff to do and we did an awkward hug, Jeff right in there with us.

Outside, I checked up and down, damn foolish. Jeff was hardly going to show himself. I hailed a cab, had him take me to Boyle’s place, time to report in.

The driver was sussing me in the mirror, asked

“Yankees fan, huh?”

Did I want to get into sports with some guy who’d be rabid in his view on how to improve the team? I said

“Naw, I borrowed the shirt.”

His face showed what he thought of that and he shut down. We got to Boyle’s. I overtipped and the cabbie looked pointedly at my shirt, said

“Give it back.”

And was gone.

Another fine start to a day, piss off a Yankees fan. My shoulder throbbed and I dry swallowed some pain killers though I’d a feeling I’d need to mainline heroin to be numb enough for Boyle and Griffin.

I knocked on the door to the office and heard

“Yeah?”

Boyle was nose deep in the good book, Griffin reading the
Daily News.
They surveyed me, hard to read their expressions, but if I had to, I’d say Griffin was, as ever, amused. Boyle, he was just unpredictable. He closed the Bible with a slow grace, gave it a touch and then blessed himself, said

“So they shot yah?”

They?

I nodded and he indicated the chair before him and I sat. He turned to Griffin, said

“Grab us some Java.”

You could see that Griffin was not fond of being treated like the messenger boy but he headed out. I nearly shouted

“Yo, fellah, a cheese Danish.”

Boyle lit up a cigar, took a long draw, then

“The cops been to see you?”

“Yes, sir.”

The sir definitely helped. He seemed to uncoil and with his cigar, signalled for me to continue so I did.

“They asked me if I knew who did it, why anyone would want to shoot me and I gave them nothing.”

Boyle smiled, said

“That’s me boyo.”

Griffin returned with a Starbucks tray, a mess of to-go cups on there, plunked it on the table. Boyle grabbed a grande something and Griffin had an espresso. I took the last one which was some kind of Vanilla hotchpotch. Boyle sipped, made a grimace and reached in the drawer for the Jameson. Leaned over and with out asking, poured a healthy slug into my cup. Vanilla and Irish, sounds like a hooker’s special. I took a taste and it killed off the sweetness. Sometimes that’s all you need. Boyle said

“Ah, that’s an eye opener. So me wild colonial boy, who shot you? That Red Sox whore maybe?”

Call it reckless, but Griffin sitting there, his eyes locked on me, like some superior cobra was dancing on my nerve endings, but I went for it

“I thought Mr. Griffin might have done it.”

The expression “you could have heard a pin drop” only applies if you’re talking about the pin in a grenade. Griffin actually stiffened, a flash of fire in those dead eyes then Boyle laughed, loud and nasty, turned to Griffin, asked

“That true, Frankie, you shot our lad?”

Frankie?

Griffin put down his coffee, leaned over towards me, said

“I shot you, they’d be putting you in the cheap box about now.”

Boyle loved that, said

“He’s right, lad. Griffin only needs one shot and they don’t get up but why would you think he’d shoot you? Aren’t you one of our own? You are, aren’t you?”

The threat was implicit and I tried for hard, said

“Mr. Griffin doesn’t like me.”

Boyle was having a high old time. After wiping his eyes, he finally said

“Jaysus, if Frankie shot everyone he didn’t like, there wouldn’t be enough hours in the day.”

So, against my better judgment, I mentioned Jeff. Boyle said to Griffin

“Find out who that cunt is, cut his balls off.”

I raised my hand, asked

“Mr. Boyle, I’d like to take care of this on my own tab. I think you’ll understand that.”

He considered it, then

“Okay, don’t let it become a problem,
capisce
?

I capisced.

He told me go home, get some rest and tomorrow, he had a new assignment for me. I was at the door when he asked “Your old man, he take money?” I didn’t like the slur but I was in Judas mood, said “Doesn’t everyone?”

As I walked down the corridor, I could hear Boyle say “That kid, cracks me up.”

Maybe it was the crack from Boyle about my old man, or just feeling a bit lost but what the hell, I decided to go visit my parents.

Our house was quiet. Usually it was suppressed bedlam, a tension you could cut with a knife, even a blunt one. I could hear my mother in the kitchen and announced myself. She came out, wiping flour from her hands, exclaimed

“Are you alright, why aren’t you still in the hospital?”

I was already sorry I came. I asked

“Where’s Dad?”

She involuntarily rubbed her eye and how had I missed it at the hospital? A shiner, fading but still visible. She said

“He’s staying, um, at his buddy’s place for a few days.”

Rage engulfed me and before I could explode she said

“He’s going to AA. The drink got out of hand and when he gets his ninety days, he can come home. He’s trying Nicky. Honest to God, it’s a disease.”

I stared at her, stated

“He hit you. The bastard hit you.”

Now she was wringing her hands, dry washing them, said

“He didn’t mean it. I said prayers and they were answered. He agreed to go to them meetings. Lots of his cop buddies are in it. They said he’ll be fine.”

Not if I could track him down first.

My mother said she’d go fix me some coffee and a bowl of porridge, keeping it Irish. The only way you can eat that shit is to douse it in Jameson. My old man, he had a work station in the garage and I headed out there, expecting to find empty bottles strewn about. Maybe I’d bag the suckers, give my mother a break.

No bottles.

In the center of the floor was a three-foot rendition of the North Tower, made of matchsticks. I moved closer and it was incredible, painstakingly constructed, and so like the real thing that I let out an impressed, “phew”. It must have taken him months. I looked around and sure enough, a book of matches on the shelf. I grabbed them, approached the tower, and fired up the whole book. Let it sit on top of the edifice. The wood and sulfur caught quickly and then with a whoosh, the whole thing went up, like some damn funeral pyre.

I moved back a step and marvelled at how it burned.

Tops, four minutes, it was just a husk, smoking, and a rising smell of burnt ash. I waited a few more minutes and stared at the small mound of what used to be the North Tower then, very deliberately, I lashed out with my right foot, sending embers and ash across the floor.