A Drink Before the War (11 page)

I poured myself another shot. “It ain't Louis Farrakhan.”

“And it ain't David Duke,” he shot back. “I mean, what—we're supposed to do away with affirmative action quotas, minority grants, racial incident cases?”

I pointed the bottle at him and he leaned forward with his glass. “No,” I said, pouring his drink, “but…” I leaned back. “Damnit, I don't know.”

He half smiled and leaned back in the chair again, looking out the window. The Peter Gabriel tape had ended and from the street came the sound of the occasional car scooping up air as it hummed past on the asphalt. The breeze coming through the screen had cooled and as it drifted into
the room, I felt the weight of the atmosphere dissipating. Somewhat anyway.

“Know what the American way is?” Richie asked, still looking out the window, his elbow up, drink poised halfway to his mouth.

I could feel the anger in the room beginning to fuse with the slow rush of scotch in my blood, dissolving in the liquor's undertow. I said, “No, Rich. What's the American way?”

“Finding someone to blame,” he said and took a drink. “It's true. You out working a construction job and you drop a hammer on your foot? Hell, sue the company. That's a ten-thousand-dollar foot. You're white and you can't get a job? Blame affirmative action. Can't get one and you're black? Blame the white man. Or the Koreans. Hell, blame the Japanese; everyone else does. Fucking whole country's filled with nasty, unhappy, confused, pissed-off people, and not one of them with the brain power to honestly
deal
with their situation. They talk about simpler times—before there was AIDS and crack and gangs and mass communications and satellites and airplanes and global warming—like it's something they could possibly get back to. And they can't figure out why they're so fucked up, so they find someone to blame. Niggers, Jews, whites, Chinks, Arabs, Russians, pro-choicers, pro-lifers—who do you got?”

I didn't say anything. Hard to argue with the truth.

He slammed his feet down on the floor and stood up, began pacing. His steps were a little uncertain, as if he expected resistance after each one. “White man blames people like me because they say quotas got me where I am. Half of 'em can't so much as read, but they think they deserve my job. Fucking pols sit in their leather chairs with their windows looking out on the Charles and make sure their stupid-fuck white constituents think the reason they're angry is because I'm stealing food from their children's mouths. Black men—brothers—they say I ain't black anymore because I live on an all-white street in a pretty much all-white neighborhood. Say I'm sneaking into the middle
class. Sneaking. Like, because I'm black, I should go live in some shithole on Humboldt Avenue, with people who cash their welfare checks for crack money. Sneaking,” he repeated. “Shit. Heteros hate homos, now homos are ready to ‘bash back,' whatever the fuck that means. Lesbians hate men, men hate women, blacks hate whites, whites hate blacks, and…everyone is looking for someone to blame. I mean, hell, why bother looking in the mirror at your own damn self when there's so many other people out there who you
know
you're better than.” He looked at me. “You know what I'm saying, or is it the booze talking?”

I shrugged. “Everyone needs someone to hate for some reason.”

“Everyone's too damn stupid,” he said.

I nodded. “And too damn angry.”

He sat down again. “Goddamn.”

I said, “So where's that leave us, Rich?”

He held up his glass. “Crying into our scotch at the end of another day.”

The room was still for a while. We each poured another drink in silence, sipped them a bit more slowly. After five minutes of this, Richie said, “How do you feel about what happened today? Are you OK?”

Everyone kept asking me that. I said, “I'm all right.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think.” I looked at him, and for some reason I wished he'd met her. I said, “Jenna was decent. A good person. All she wanted was, once in her life, not to be pushed under the rug.”

He looked at me and leaned forward, his glass extended. “You're going to make people pay for her, aren't you, Patrick?”

I leaned forward and met his glass with mine. I nodded. “In spades,” I said, then held up my hand. “No offense.”

Richie left a
little after midnight, and I carried the bottle across the street to my apartment. I ignored the blinking red light on my answering machine and flicked on the TV. I dropped into the leather La-Z-Boy, drank from the bottle, watched
Letterman
, and tried not to see Jenna's death dance every time my eyelids reached half-mast. I don't usually indulge in hard liquor to excess, but I was putting one hell of a dent in the Glenlivet. I wanted to pass out, no dreams.

Richie had said Socia sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place him. I assessed what I knew. Curtis Moore was a member of the Raven Saints. He had killed Jenna, most likely at someone else's behest, that someone probably being Socia. Socia was Jenna's husband, or had been. Socia was friendly enough with Senator Brian Paulson to have had snapshots taken with him. Paulson had slapped the table in front of me at our first meeting. “This is no joke,” he'd said. No joke. Jenna was dead. Well over a hundred urban warriors who weren't afraid to die had a bone to pick with me. No joke. I was scheduled to meet Mulkern and crew for lunch tomorrow. I was drunk. Maybe it was me, but Letterman seemed to be getting stale. Jenna was dead. Curtis Moore was missing a foot. I was drunk. A ghost in a fireman's uniform was looming up in the shadows behind the TV. The TV was getting harder to focus on. Probably the vertical hold. The bottle was empty.

 

The Hero swung his fire ax into my head and I sat bolt upright in the chair. The TV screen was snowing. I trained a blurry eye on my watch: 4:15
A.M.
Molten fire surged under my sternum. All the nerves in my skull were freshly exposed by the ax, and I stood up and just made the bathroom before I yakked up the Glenlivet. I flushed the toilet and lay on the cool tile, the room smelling of scotch and fear and death. This was the second time in three nights I'd thrown up. Maybe I was getting bulimia.

I made it to my feet again and brushed my teeth for half an hour or so. I stepped into the shower, turned it on. I stepped back out, removed my clothes, and got back in. By the time I finished, it was almost dawn. Three Tylenol, and I fell on top of my bed, hoping that whatever I had upchucked contained all those things that made me afraid to sleep.

I dozed on and off for the next three hours, and, thankfully, no one came to visit. Not Jenna, not the Hero, not Curtis Moore's foot.

Sometimes, you get a break.

 

“I hate this,” Angie said. “I…hate…it.”

“You look like shit too,” I offered.

She gave me that look and went back to fiddling violently with the hem of her skirt in the back of the taxi.

Angie wears skirts about as often as she cooks, but I'm never disappointed. And for all her bitching, I don't think it's as painful for her as she pretends. Too much thought had gone into what she was wearing for the result to be anything less than “Wow.” She wore a dark cranberry silk-crepe wraparound blouse and a black suede skirt. Her long hair was brushed back off her forehead, pinned back over her left ear, but tumbling loosely along the right side of her face, cowling in slightly around her eye. When she raised her eyes from under her long lashes and looked at me, it hurt. The skirt was damn near painted on and she kept tugging at the hem to get comfortable, squirming in the
backseat of the cab. The sight, all in all, wasn't hard to take.

I was wearing a gray herringbone double-breasted with a subtle black crisscross pattern. The jacket was tight where it hugged my hips for that cosmopolitan look, but fashion designers are usually kinder to men, and all I had to do was unbutton it.

I said, “You look fine.”

“I know I look fine,” she said, scowling. “I'd like to find whoever designed this skirt, because I
know
it was a man, and shove him into it. Turn his ass soprano real quick.”

The cab dropped us on the corner, across from Trinity Church.

The doorman opened the door with a “Welcome to the Copley Plaza Hotel,” and we went in. The Copley is somewhat similar to the Ritz: they were both standing long before I was born; they'll still be here long after I'm gone. And if the employees at the Copley don't seem as plucky as those at the Ritz, it's probably because they have less to be plucky about. The Copley's still trying to bounce back from its status as the city's most forgotten hotel. Its latest multimillion-dollar refurbishment will have to go a long way to erase its once dark corridors and staid-to-the-point-of-death atmosphere from people's minds. They started with the bar, though, and they've done a good job. Instead of George Reeves and Bogey, I always expect to see Burt Lancaster as J. J. Hunsecker holding court at a table, a preening Tony Curtis at his foot. I mentioned this to Angie as we entered.

She said, “Burt Lancaster as who?”

I said,
“Sweet Smell of Success.”

She said, “What?”

I said, “Heathen.”

Jim Vurnan didn't rise to meet me this time. He and Sterling Mulkern sat together in oaken shadows, their view protected from the trivialities of the outside world by dark
brown slats. Pieces of the Westin Hotel peeked in through the window slats, but unless you were looking for it, you wouldn't notice. Which is just as well I suppose—the only hotel uglier than the Westin in this city is the Lafayette and the only hotel uglier than the Lafayette hasn't been built yet. They noticed us about the time we reached their booth. Jim started to get up, but I held up my hand and he slid over to make room for me. If only they made dogs and spouses as accommodating and loyal as they made state reps.

I said, “Jim, you know Angie. Senator Mulkern, this is my partner, Angela Gennaro.”

Angie held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Senator.”

Mulkern took the hand, kissed the knuckles, and slid along his seat, leading the hand with him. “The pleasure is completely mine, Ms. Gennaro.” That smoothie. Angie sat down beside him, and he let go of her hand. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Partner?” He chuckled.

Jim chuckled too.

I thought it rated a slight smile. I sat beside Jim. “Where's Senator Paulson?” I asked.

Mulkern was smiling at Angie. He said, “Couldn't get him away from his desk this afternoon, I'm afraid.”

I said, “On Saturday?”

Mulkern took a sip of his drink. “So, tell me,” he said to Angie, “where is it that Pat's been hiding you?”

Angie gave him a brilliant smile, all teeth. “In a drawer.”

“Is that a fact?” Mulkern said. He drank some more. “Oh, I like her, Pat. I do.”

“People usually do, Senator.”

Our waiter came, took our drink orders, crept away silently on the deep carpet. Mulkern had said lunch, but all I saw on the table were glasses. Maybe they'd discovered a way to liquefy the menu.

Jim touched my shoulder. “You had quite a day yesterday.”

Sterling Mulkern held up the morning
Trib
. “A hero like your father now, lad.” He tapped the paper. “You've seen it?”

“I only read ‘Calvin and Hobbes,'” I said.

He said, “Yes, well…wonderful press, really. Great for business.”

“But not for Jenna Angeline.”

Mulkern shrugged. “Those who live by the sword…”

“She was a cleaning woman,” I said. “Closest she ever came to a sword was a letter opener, Senator.”

He gave me the same shrug and I saw that his mind wasn't for the changing. People like Mulkern are used to creating the facts on their own, then letting the rest of us in.

“Patrick and I were wondering,” Angie said, “if the death of Ms. Angeline means our work for you is done.”

“Hardly, my dear,” he said. “Hardly. I hired Pat, and you as well, to find certain documents. Unless you've brought those to the table with you, you're still working for me.”

Angie smiled. “Patrick and I work for ourselves, Senator.”

Jim looked at me, then down at his drink. Mulkern's face stopped moving for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows, amused. He said, “Well, exactly why did I sign that check made out to your agency?”

Angie never missed a beat. “Service charges for the loan of our expertise, Senator.” She looked up as the waiter approached. “Ah, the drinks. Thank you.”

I could have kissed her.

Mulkern said, “Is that the way you see it, Pat?”

“Pretty much,” I said and sipped my beer.

“And, Pat,” Mulkern said, leaning back, gearing up for something, “does she usually do all the talking when you're together? And all other duties, I'm assuming?”

Angie said, “She doesn't appreciate being spoken of in the third person when
she's
in the room, Senator.”

I said, “How many drinks you had, Senator?”

Jim said, “Please,” and held up his hand.

If this had been a saloon in the Old West, the place would have cleared about now, the loud rustling of fifty chairs pushing back from tables, wood scraping against wood. But it was a posh bar in Boston in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, and Mulkern didn't look like he'd wear a six-gun real well. Too much belly. But then, in Boston, a gun never was much of a match for a signature in the proper place, or a well-chosen slur dropped at precisely the right moment.

Mulkern's black eyes were staring at me from under heavy lids, the look of a snake whose lair has been invaded, the look of a violent drunk itching for a fight. He said, “Patrick Kenzie,” and leaned across the table toward me. The bourbon on his breath could have ignited a gas station. “Patrick Kenzie,” he repeated, “now you listen to me. There is absolutely no way I will be spoken to in this manner by the
son
of one of my
lackeys
. Your father, dear boy, was a dog who jumped when I told him to. And you have no other hope in this town but to carry on in his footsteps. Because”—he leaned in farther and suddenly grasped my wrist on the table, hard—“if you show disrespect to me, boyo, your business will be lonelier than an AA meeting on St. Patrick's Day. One word from me, and you'll be ruined. And as for your girlfriend here, well, she'll have a lot more to worry about than a few pops in the eye from her deadbeat husband.”

Angie looked fit to decapitate him, but I put my free hand on her knee.

I took it back and reached into my breast pocket to remove the Xerox I'd made of the photograph. I held it in my hand, away from either Mulkern or Vurnan, and smiled slightly, coldly, I imagine, my eyes never leaving Mulkern's. I leaned back a little, away from his toxic halitosis, and said, “Senator, my father was one of your lackeys. No argument. But, dead or alive, he can piss up a rope as far
as I'm concerned. I hated the bastard, so don't waste your distilled breath on appeals to my sentimentality. Angie is family. Not him. Not you.” I flicked my wrist and my hand came free of his. Before he could pull his back, I closed mine around it and yanked. “And Senator,” I said, “if you ever threaten my livelihood again”—I flipped the photocopy on the table in front of him—“I'll blow a fucking hole in your life.”

If he noticed the photocopy, he didn't show it. His eyes never left mine, just grew smaller, pinpoints of focused hatred.

I looked at Angie and let go of Mulkern's hand. “I'm done,” I said and stood up. I patted Jim's shoulder. “Always a pleasure, Jim.”

Angie said, “Bye, Jim.”

We walked away from the table.

If we made it to the door, I'd be on welfare come autumn. If we made it to the door, the picture meant nothing more than guilt by association and they had nothing to hide. I'd have to move to Montana or Kansas or Iowa or one of those places where I imagine it's so boring no one would want to wield political influence. If we made it to the door, we were done in this city.

“Pat, lad.”

We were eight or nine feet from the door; my faith in human nature was restored.

Angie squeezed my hand and we turned around like we had better things to do.

Jim said, “Please, come back and sit down.”

We approached the table.

Mulkern held out his hand. “I'm a tad peckish this early in the day. People seem to misunderstand my sense of humor.”

I took the hand. “Ain't that always the way.”

He held it out to Angie. “Ms. Gennaro, please accept the apologies of an ornery old man.”

“It's already forgotten, Senator.”

“Please,” he said, “call me Sterling.” He smiled warmly and patted her hand. Everything about him screamed sincerity.

If I hadn't upchucked the night before, I think we all would have been in danger.

Jim tapped the photocopy and looked at me. “Where did you get this?”

“Jenna Angeline.”

“It's a copy,” he said.

“Yes, it is, Jim.”

“The original?” Mulkern said.

“I have it.”

“Pat,” Mulkern said, his smile keeping his voice in check, “we hired you for the purpose of retrieving documents, not their photocopies.”

“I keep the original of this one until I find the rest of them.”

“Why?” Jim asked.

I pointed at the front page of the newspaper. “Things have gotten messy. I don't like messy. Ange, do you like messy?”

Angie said, “I don't like messy.”

I looked at Vurnan and Mulkern. “We don't like messy. Keeping the original is our way of stepping around the mess until we're sure what it is.”

“Can we help you, Pat, lad?”

“Sure. Tell me about Paulson and Socia.”

“A foolish indiscretion on Brian's part,” Mulkern said.

“How foolish?” Angie asked.

“For the average man,” Mulkern said, “not very. But for one in the public eye, extremely foolish.” He nodded at Jim.

Jim folded his hands together on the table. “Senator Paulson engaged in a night of…illicit pleasure with one of Mr. Socia's prostitutes six years ago. I can hardly make light of it under the circumstances, but in the grand scheme
of things, it amounts to little more than an evening of wine and women.”