Tower: A Novel (8 page)

Back in the kitchen, I sipped my mother’s coffee, left the porridge untouched and she asked

“Is it okay?”

I waited a beat then said

“It burns.”

“There was a gothic quality to the neighborhood and the cast iron colonnettes, stone gargoyles, the Italianate palaces, the ornate metal canopies, the broad-shouldered textile buildings were redolent with a sense of history I could feel and admire. And yet, there were shadows, and broken windows, razor-wire, wide cracks in the pavement, and failure and loss. And there were ghosts…”

—Jim Fusilli,
Closing Time

T
HE NEXT WEEK, I
did errands for Boyle, making drops of various packages, collecting money, and generally getting my body back in some kind of post-bullet shape. I was relying more and more on coke and that shit sneaks up on you. You come to in the morning, you have a fast hit to get you up and mobile. Then after coffee, shower, another hit to get you out the door.

I called Shannon and we had a day in the park with her little boy. I brought my old catcher’s mitt. The lad and me tossed the ball around. Shannon had brought a picnic and when we sat down to have some cold cuts, French bread, a bottle of wine, she watched the boy practice with the bat. I said

“He’s got an arm on him.”

Her face was radiant and she said

“He likes you, likes you a lot. The truth is, I think he’s a little afraid of his own father.”

I was tempted to say

“Well, the guy shoots people.”

But let it slide.

She added

“But you have great patience. You working at that?”

Not exactly a quality you link with a cokehead but odd thing, when I was with the kid, I didn’t feel the same urge to shove the crap up my nose. I said

“No, I like being with him.”

She handed me a pitcher of wine, said

“We might have something going for us.”

I didn’t want to spoil it by sharing my thoughts.

I was thinking of Jeff, and the guy I gave two hundred bucks to to find his address, I’d already learned his full name was Jeff Delaney and he had, as the cops say, some history, a rap sheet, one that sung consistently. Burglary, grand theft auto, robbery, aggravated assault.

A real sweetheart and this prick was walking around.

Shannon was busting my balls about maybe being a wiseguy and she had this guy in her portfolio?

Women, jeez.

We were seeing more and more of each other and it was getting real serious. I caught myself looking in jewelry stores, at engagements rings.

I was on the verge of taking the plunge when my cell rang early one morning. I’d gone to my own place as Shannon was getting Sean ready for a visit with his grandparents and she wanted one night of just the two of them. Did I feel left out? Yeah, a little.

So shoot me.

That song by Tupac, “Thugs Get Lonely Too.”

The cell dragged me from a bourbon dream. I’d had me a few belts before hitting the sack. Heard Griffin go

“You up, lover boy?”

Where was the goddamned candy?

I said

“What do you want?”

He gave a mean chuckle, said

“I’m sitting in my ride outside your new flash apartment. How’s that working for you?”

Fucker wanted to chat?

I found a smoke, cranked it up, still no sign of my freaking coke, snapped

“You rang me up for a chat, that it?”

More chuckling and this was not a guy who ever laughed, unless it was at a dog being tortured or other niceties. He said

“Get your arse down here. I’ve a wee gift for you.”

I dragged on a sweat shirt, managed to brew a fast cup of java. No way I move out on any day without the caffeine hit, need that jolt, that kick start to a wasting system. Pulled on a pair of Levis and slipped my feet into a pair of Converse.

Good to go.

Oh, tousled my hair, keep that casual gig going.

Met one of the tenants on the way down. I tried

“Morning.”

He glared at me. So they hadn’t yet warmed to me. I added

“You have a good one.”

Griffin was sitting in a black Merc, the engine running. I got in and he asked

“You didn’t bring me a cup of coffee?”

I looked at him. He was wearing a black suit, to match the car I guess, and his soul. I said

“You have a rule about that stuff.”

He checked his mirror, then

“Little bit of hospitality goes a long way. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”

I figured we could do this all day, so I asked

“You had something in mind, besides busting my balls?”

He reached in the dash, took out a Walther, handed it to me, said

“Take that.”

Like a fool, I did.

Then he said,

“Lemme check the slide.”

I handed it back. The fuck was he at?

I should have clocked his thin black leather gloves. He put the gun back in the dash, said

“Excellent.”

I asked

“What’s going on?”

He reached in his jacket, pulled out a .38, leveled it at me and I shouted

“You’re here to show me your fucking gun collection? It’s lovely, now what the hell is going on?”

The gun still steady on my chest, he said

“Jeff Delaney. Got his own fool self shot to death this morning, early hours I believe and guess what the caliber of weapon is?”

The Walther.

He smiled, said

“With your fine set of pristine prints. Now get out of the car.”

I didn’t move, asked

“You’re setting me up to take the fall for his murder?”

He sighed as if to ask,
how dumb are you?
Said

“Only if you don’t do what we ask.”

“Do the fuck what?”

“Kill the cop.”

My mind was on fire. Jeff was dead, my fingerprints on the pistol, and my ass in the frame if I didn’t off Todd. I did some coke, tried to get my head straight or at least functioning. I was going to run, that was for damn sure. I had some cash, well, plenty of cash, and if I headed to some obscure burg, laid low, maybe Todd and his blue buddies would take down Boyle and Griffin.

But Shannon, if I took off, Griffin would use her for leverage to get me back. I shouted

“Ah, fuck.”

Didn’t help.

Try this: I waste Todd.

Wouldn’t fly, not even for a nano second. He was my buddy, my brother. I called him said

“I’m in deep shit, I need help.”

He was quiet then said

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

I needed a lecture now?

I snapped

“You gonna help or not?”

He was.

We met at a diner on 6th and 33rd. I love diners but that day, I wanted a bar, and lots of drinks. Todd was calling the shots, no pun intended, so the goddamn diner it was. He was wearing the battered leather and yeah, Red Sox cap. I asked

“You have to shove it in my face every time?”

He gave me a hurt look, unusual for him, then picked up the menu, said

“Eggs over easy, you think?”

I had a flask, lethal with Beam, used it to jolt my coffee. Todd said

“That will help, keep you clear headed.”

Before I could reply, he said

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

I shook my head and he said

“Lemme guess. Griffin. And they’ve got you framed. And to get out, you have to waste me?”

Impressed the hell out of me. He smiled, said

“I’m very good at being a cop, Nicky.”

I gave it up, tired all of a sudden, asked

“What am I going to do?”

He reached in his pocket, took out a sheaf of papers, said

“There’s a small town in Kentucky, I’ve got a buddy there. He’ll give you a job. Lie real low and we’ll take care of things this end. There’s a ticket in there for Penn Station. You leave tomorrow morning.”

It was too fast. I had a hundred questions, but went for one

“What about Shannon?”

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

I went

“You want me to testify?”

He signalled the waitress, said

“You’ve got a choice?”

He was ordering the eggs. My mind was in a tailspin. “Leave the city?”

He nodded, said

“It’ll be okay. Messy but I’ll sort it out.”

I wish I could have believed him, asked

“What about my parents?”

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

Bollocks.

His eggs came and he dug in. My coffee was cold and not even the Beam could liven it. I asked

“That’s it, I just split and what, wait?”

His mouth full, he said

“You got it. You’re out of it.”

I stood up, threw a mess of bucks on the table, said

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

I let the sarcasm leak all over the words. He said

“Sure, you should have had the eggs. They’re real fine.”

That evening I called Shannon and her opening words were

“You murdering bastard.”

I tried to explain but she was shouting, calling me all sorts of names. I managed to say

“I have to leave town but Todd will be by. You’ll see, I’m not the one who killed Jeff.”

She was quiet and I thought maybe I’d reached her, then she said

“Run, it’s what I’d expect of you.”

And hung up.

I had one item of business to take care of. Todd might have his plans but I had to do something. I called Griffin, told him I’d decided to do as he asked but I needed him to help me dispose of the body. He said

“Atta boy.”

“The pier, you know which one.”

Deserted at night, used to be one busy mother but not no more. Only the vermin run it now, human and rodent. I was parked by the water when Griffin drove up. His smirk in place, he got out of the car, slid in beside me, asked

“So, when are you doing the dirty deed?”

I said

“It’s done.”

He was surprised, took a moment then,

“The bold policeman, where’s he at?”

“In the trunk.”

Before he could digest this I shot him in the gut, twice. His eyes were wide and I said

“They say that hurts like a son of a bitch. Are they right?”

I thought about putting the third one between his eyes, but that was too easy, not enough suffering.

Dropping him over the pier, I said

“May you rot in hell.”

The next morning, I still had the Buick and drove by the North Tower, parked for a moment. I still had time to go up there, reconcile with my old man. I gave it serious consideration then let out a long breath, said

“Fuck him.”

Turned the car, headed for Penn Station. I was thinking of Shannon and hoped someone would still teach Sean how to catch. That kid had an arm on him.

My eyes were watering, probably the coke.

I hoped I could hook up in Kentucky. I mean, they have some good ole boys there.

You think?

“When two people fall in love and begin to feel that they’re made for one another, then it’s time for them to break off, for by going on they have everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

—Søren Kierkegaard

M
EN AREN’T SUPPOSED TO
say shit like this, but the fact is that I loved Nicky. Yeah, here’s the part where I’m supposed to say, I wasn’t
in love
with Nicky. Sorry to disappoint you. I was
in love
with him, not like lustfully in love with him. Didn’t want to have his babies or anything, not that I could differentiate in third grade. We don’t talk about it much in our culture, but there’s very little can hold a candle to the infatuation a young boy has for his first hero. For some boys, it’s their dads. My dad… yeah, right!

Nick, he hated his father for the way he’d smack him around. I was jealous. At least his dad gave a shit, if not for Nick, for something, anyway. And the rough treatment produced in Nick another quality I admired: rage. We all have anger. I have more than most, but Nick was different. He was a rage cheetah, zero to seventy in the beat of a heart. It wasn’t blind rage either, though he was sometimes blinded by it. He could focus it like a laser sight on the forehead of his next target.

What’s that blues song, “Born Under a Bad Sign”? If it wasn’t for bad luck, I think the lyrics go, I’d have no luck at all. If it wasn’t for rage, sometimes I think Nicky would have no feelings at all. Everything—friendship, grief, even love—seemed to be a permutation of his rage. Only later did I come to the realization that it wasn’t all his father’s doing. Nick had the rage in him like my mom had the sadness in her, on the molecular level.

Guess I should have seen it when we were kids. There was this one time we were playing stickball on the street and Vinny Podesta, the block bully, knocked me down to get to a ball. What an asshole Vinny was. I mean, we were on the same fucking team and he knocked me over just because he could. Nicky like exploded. He broke Vinny’s nose, climbed on top of him and just started smacking him with the back of his hand and I mean hard. Never seen anything like it. None of us kids had.

Yeah, we’d all had street fights. Came with the territory. You live in the rain forest, you get wet. So the thing about most street fights, especially among kids, is that they’re pretty ritualized. They have a form. It’s like when you see two rams butting heads. Before they get to it, there’s gesturing, threat behavior, each combatant giving the other a chance to back down. Watch the next time you see a bunch of boys in a schoolyard. There’s name calling, screaming, then a push. The push is the last chance for backing off. If there’s a push back, the fight’s coming. If the kid that gets pushed reverts to name calling, the fight’s been averted. That wasn’t Nick’s way.

You even looked at Nick the wrong way, he was coming for you. And it’s not like he started off easy and gave you a chance for retreat. No, it was all out from the first punch. Nicky didn’t lose many fights. That was the thing, he had rage. There was this other time, when we were older. We’d been smoking a few doobs and drinking in a trendy Park Slope hole. The bathroom was like the deli counter at Waldbaums: you needed to get a number. Went out to the alley to piss.