Tower: A Novel (2 page)

“The fuck happened down there?”

He was drinking Jack D, Sam Adams as chaser, with a look of what I can only call controlled ferocity. He gulped the Jack, let it burn then

“Shit happened.”

Fucking with those outfits, not the best idea.

He hadn’t gotten a liking for violence, not like I had, but he definitely had a change in outlook, now he saw that sometimes you couldn’t avoid it. One evening, on the Upper West Side, we were casing an apartment that Boyle figured was ripe for taking. We were doing the weed, nothing major, just mellow time and he started in on the Red Sox. He’d become a fan. Is there a bigger treachery? I shouted, the weed not mellowing me that much

“The freaking Sox? You’re a Yankee’s fan. The fuck you think you can switch like that? It’s as bad as that asswipe who sold the Dodgers.”

He gave a soft laugh, said

“Nicky, everything changes.”

I came back with a reasoned, rational defense, a New York tolerance, said

“Fuck you.”

We watched the apartment. The doorman went for a sneak brew on the hour and that would be our window. To get us back, to balance, I asked

“What’s with that South gig, South Philly, South Boston, what’s that all about?”

He didn’t answer for five minutes, his eyes locked on the building, then

“Buddy, one way or another, the business we’re in, everything goes south.”

I blew him off.

He was right but by the time I knew that, it was all gone to hell in a shitcart.

I said to him, before we got out of the car,

“My mom, she says I’ve the bad drop.”

He tasted that, let it hang. Like I said, he’d gotten this quiet gig going, then

“She’s wrong.”

I slapped his shoulder, said

“Thanks, buddy.”

He glanced at where I’d touched him, a glance that warned

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

Then he said, real low

“More than a drop.”

That evening went south.

I couldn’t believe Todd picked the locks so easy at the apartment. I asked

“What the hell? No deadlock?”

Todd nearly smiled. Nearly. Smiling wasn’t his strong point since Boston, said

“They got a doorman. Figure, why waste bucks on locks?”

I didn’t get it, said

“I don’t get it. They can afford the best.”

We were in and Todd said

“Why? They’re rich and us, why we rob ’em.”

The place was a goddamn palace, could have put my whole neighborhood in the living room and the furniture, that white leather must be a bitch to keep clean.

Todd headed for the bedrooms, said

“Remember, cash, dope and jewelry.”

I was staring at the art on the walls, said

“We’re leaving this? This shit must be worth a bundle.”

He snapped

“Pain in the ass is what it is. Can’t fence it.”

The paintings had little lights over them and I figured that must make them expensive. I was on the point of taking one when the door to the apartment opened.

Todd had promised we were cool, no one would disturb us, the owner was a stockbroker, doing stock stuff. I heard

“The fuck is this?”

Turned to see a guy in a suit. If he was scared, he wasn’t showing it. Todd came out of the bedroom, muttered,

“Fuck.”

Shot the guy in the mouth… twice.

I was stunned. Of all the events I’d expected, this was not on the list. Todd was staring at his weapon, said

“Piece of shit, keeps jumping high.”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, went

“What?”

Todd indicated the gun, said

“I was going for a heart shot. Next time, I bring a Glock.”

Next time?

The guy was lying in the doorway, his ruined head in the corridor. Todd walked over, grabbed one of his feet, said

“Gimme a fucking hand.”

I did.

We stashed him in the bathroom, having dragged his ass across the carpets, blood trailing. The smell of cordite was heavy in the air and I went to the drinks cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Makers Mark, drank from the bottle. Todd protested

“Hey, not while we’re working.”

I pointed the bottle at him, asked

“What you gonna do, shoot me?”

He was hefting the gun in his hand, said

“If I have to.”

I don’t think he was kidding.

We put our haul in a black garbage bag and as we moved to the door, I asked

“Did you have to kill him?”

Todd, unruffled, glanced up and down the corridor, said

“Probably.”

“Since the house is on fire, let us warm ourselves.”

—Italian proverb

WE BROUGHT THE HAUL
to Boyle. I was still reeling from the casual way Todd had offed the guy. Todd said

“There’s a nice chunk of change in that.”

He was driving with that total concentration, like he did most everything those days. I asked, sarcasm dripping,

“You got time to count it?”

He caught it, looked at me, asked

“What’s with you?”

I wanted to lash out, grab him, shake some sense into him, tried

“You just killed a guy and you don’t even mention it. We’re going to act like it never happened?”

He reached into the glove compartment. For a mad moment, I thought he was reaching for his piece. Got his cigarettes out, fired one up, all fluid motion, his eyes never leaving the road, said

“It’s over. What’s to discuss? You want to dwell on it, replay it, do it on your own nickel.”

I wanted a cigarette, a drink, some weed and mainly, the hell away from him. I cracked my knuckles, knew it annoyed the shit out of him, asked

“What happened to you in Boston, sorry, South Boston? I don’t know you any more.”

He shrugged, went

“Maybe you never did.”

We were pulling up at Boyle’s. Todd was sliding into a space right outside the warehouse that Boyle conducted business in, said

“Don’t mention the shooting.”

I laughed, not with any humor, asked

“You think Boyle’s not going to hear about it?”

Todd was easing out of the seat, said

“No need to get into it now.”

Boyle was known as Biblical Boyle but not to his face. We called him Mister Boyle. His tag came from his fondness for the Good Book. On his desk was a battered bible and he quoted from it, a lot. Pain in the ass is what it was. He was a comer, moving up from penny ante stuff to major league, had at least ten guys in his crew and had ambition. How he got to wherever the fuck he was going, he didn’t care.

My life was crammed with Micks, my family and most of the guys I knew. Boyle was one of the most irritating. Third generation, he’d been to Ireland a few times and had more than once told me to get my arse over there, touch my roots. I assured him it was one of my goals but the only place I wanted to go was Miami. The warehouse had posters of Dublin and Galway, Galway with that Bay, and Boyle wasn’t above singing a few bars of the song, “If I ever go across the sea to Ireland” and he sang like a strangled crow. In his late fifties, he had that barroom tan, the bloated face from too much Jameson, the busted veins along his cheeks. Small eyes that darted like eels and it would be a huge mistake to think the booze affected his attention. If anything, the drink seemed to work on him like speed for anyone else, got him cranked.

He always wore a crisp white shirt, tie and vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, show he was a working stiff. He was running to fat but the arms were still formidable. He was sitting behind a massive desk, a wooden harp on the side and a family snap beside it, a team of kids and his wife, looking frightened. Probably with good reason.

Couple of guys were piling boxes and shooting the shit. Sitting in a hardchair, to Boyle’s left, was his main guy, a genuine Mick, born in Belfast and rumored to have been with the Provos. Name of Griffin, he never said much, just stared at you with dead eyes. He’d never spoken to me but I had the feeling he didn’t much care for me. I gave him lots of distance. Not that I was afraid of him, just, who needed the aggravation? Todd had cautioned

“Keep your eyes on Griffin.”

And being contrary, I’d asked

“Why?”

Todd had sighed, as if he had to explain every damn thing, said

“Because he’ll be watching you.”

Boyle stood up, stretched out his arms as if he was going to hug us, and maybe if he’d had enough hooch, he might have. He said

“Me lads, back from their big adventure.”

His accent grated on me. It was stage Irish. I was sure not even the Irish spoke like this. Todd put the garbage bag on the desk, the loot piled in. Boyle nodded to Griffin who moved slowly, took the bag, spilled the contents on the floor, began to sift through it. Boyle took a brief look, said

“Did good.”

Then indicated two chairs in front of his desk, said

“Take the weight off, fellahs.”

He sat down, reached in a drawer, took out a bottle of Jameson, said

“Wet your whistle?”

He placed three shot glasses on the desk, filled them. I reached over, took one. Todd didn’t move. Boyle had his glass raised, looked at Todd, asked

“You’re not drinking?”

Todd, in a lazy gesture, waved his hand, said

“Little early for me.”

A look passed over Boyle’s face, a tiny peek into what went on behind his eyes, and it was dark, malignant. He was still for a moment, then casually swept the glass off the desk. It narrowly missed Todd, the liquid spilling onto the cheap carpet. Todd never flinched, just sat there, his face without expression, as if dramatic gestures were so much smoke. Boyle said to me

“Sláinte.”

I knocked it back, waited for the burn. Boyle made a grimace, said

“Hits the spot.”

Then to Todd

“Back home, you refuse to drink with a man, might be seen as an insult.”

Todd gave a long look at the glass beside his boot, said

“We’re a long way from Tipperary.”

I thought Boyle might come over the desk but went with it, laughed, said

“Aye, you’re right there, boyo.”

Griffin was laying wedges of bills in piles and I saw a tiny smile. Fleeting but it was there.

Boyle stood up, said to Todd

“Get your arse down to the pier 80, I got some freight coming in.”

Todd moved and I stood. Boyle said

“Not you laddie, I need you.”

Then to Todd

“You can manage your own self. You have a mouth on yah for two men.”

Todd had reached the door when Boyle shouted

“Any problem with that apartment?”

Todd gave it some thought, then

“Nothing major, Nick. Your laddie… had to shoot the owner.”

Then he was gone.

Griffin was watching me, definite interest showing and Boyle turned to me, asked

“That right, you put a cap in some guy?”

My mind was reeling and I got out

“He walked in on us.”

Boyle looked at Griffin, said

“Doncha hate when that happens?”

Griffin, as usual, said nothing. Boyle was putting on the jacket of his suit, an Armani, the real thing, you could tell by the way the jacket hung. He fixed the lapel, asked me

“You like the suit?”

I did.

On him it looked cheap. He was just a cheap guy, not all the clothes in the city were going to alter that. I said

“Class.”

It was the right answer. I didn’t look at Griffin. I knew he’d have the smirk in place. Boyle smacked me on the back and I don’t mean a friendly pat, a hard wallop, said

“Stick with me boy, you’ll have one yer own self.”

I loved being called boy.

A gray Caddy was parked in the alley. Boyle threw me the keys, said

“Let’s see what you got.”

The fuck sat in the back, lit up a cigar, a Cuban he said, and it smelled cheap. Not unlike the cologne that he smothered himself in. He gave me an address in the East Village, said

“Swing by the Towers, we’ll see how your old man’s doing.”

My heartbeat accelerated and Boyle laughed, said

“Just fucking with you kid. Had you going.”

He did.

I liked being called kid as much as I liked boy. As we swung into the Village, Boyle asked

“How’s your old man? He doing okay as a rent-a-cop?”

Now that’s exactly how I saw my father but I didn’t much appreciate Boyle calling him so. He laughed again, said

“Look at the face on yah kid. You could explode. I like a bit of spirit. Now your buddy Todd there, he’s a cold cunt.”

The obscenity as icy as the sentiment. I put the car in park, got out and waited on the sidewalk. Boyle didn’t move, then the window rolled down and he asked

“The door gonna open by itself?”

He wanted me to open the door?

He did.

Biting down, I grabbed the handle, eased it out and he lumbered towards me, said

“You have a bit to learn yet.”

The smell of the cigar was overpowering and if that came from Cuba, we’d been sold a crock for longer than we knew.

We went into a brownstone and I headed for the stairs. Boyle laughed, said

“Whoa there Butch, we’re going down.”

Butch?

My first surprise was to see Griffin already there. How the hell had he managed that?

The second was the man tied to a chair.

He looked familiar and then it hit me, the doorguy, the man who’d been on the front in the Upper East Side, who’d fucked off for a drink. His face was swollen and he looked at me with pleading in his eyes and I was thinking a line of shit

How’d he end up here?

What the fuck was going on?

And pleading, the fuck did he think I could do?

Boyle smiled, said

“Nicky, meet Mr. Slovak, recently custodian of the prestigious address you knocked over.”

Was I supposed to shake hands, ask

“How you doing?”

How he was doing was pretty bad.

Boyle gave him a casual slap on the back of the head, almost friendly. Griffin was watching me with those dead eyes and I noticed pliers in his left hand, and fuck, blood on it or was it rust? Jesus, I thought, be rust. I knew, call it instinct, that a guy like Griffin, his tools would be pristine.