Tower: A Novel (3 page)

Like that word, “pristine”, got a ring to it, right?

Yeah, them
Reader’s Digests,
worth their weight in… whatever.

Boyle went to a small cabinet, took out a bottle of Jameson, two glasses, poured stiff amounts, handed one to me and said

“We’re gonna drink to this bollix, this fuckhead, who was supposed to call up if the owner returned. Mr. Slovak got the bucks in advance, cos I’m like an upfront kind of guy.”

Griffin gave a snort like a bull in heat, not a sound you’d want to hear a lot. I avoided meeting his eyes and Mr. Slovak, well, he sat on, going nowhere, no appointments to meet and he may have whimpered but I think that was my imagination. I fucking hope so. Boyle continued

“Our lookout, our representative if you will, what’s he doing, he’s knocking back the old vodka or whatever shite they have in his homeland. I’ll bet he’s sorry he came to the land of opportunity now. So he’s soaking up the sauce and the owner returns, leaving me boyos unprotected.”

He looked at Slovak with, I swear, something like concern, like, you doing okay there buddy? Then clinked his glass with mine, said

“Sláinte amach.”

The Irish toast. I’d heard my old man use it like a zillion times. I muttered

“Back at yah.”

Not meaning a word of it and tossed back the hooch. It took a second then it burned, oh yeah, just the way you love it, like a sweet lady rubbing your belly, the belly of the beast… jeez, I’d had three… four? …serious drinks in the last hour and was beginning to feel them. I’d be needing them.

“No snapshots of life flashing before my eyes, thank fuck. I mean, thank God. Devout, that’s me.”

—Ray Banks, The Big Blind

I
’M SKIPPING THE WHOLE
deal with the doorman. You wanna know why? Cos I can… well, I can blot it out. Gimme enough Makers Mark or, better, some of that Tennessee hooch, Knob Creek, I can blot out almost anything, even Shannon.

Shannon and her little boy. He was ten years old last Wednesday. Happy birthday little buddy. I taught him how to play ball and for a Down Syndrome kid, he could throw pretty damn good. I think of him, I get an ache above my left lung, from the bullet hole, I tell myself.

It was three days after Griffin went medieval on the doorman’s ass. I was in Rocky Sullivan’s, the joint on Lexington? Yeah, Irish, I know, but what you gonna do? Todd asked me along, he had a hot date… well, hottish. Babe from Long Island, I forget her name and I guess Todd forgets it too. Rocky’s specializes in writers and music. Lots of bands from the Old Sod wash up there and writers, they say you ain’t arrived till you read there. I’d heard Eoin Colfer read there once. Guy had a nice deadpan humor.

That evening, it was open mike… Yeah, you know that lame gig, comedians, poets, singers, whoever, get up there and strut their pathetic efforts. It sure gets you drinking and I didn’t need a whole lot of excuse. The scene in the basement was Technicolor in my mind. Jesus, the blood when Boyle took off the poor bastard’s first finger…

I was sinking Jim Beam, Sam Adams back. Todd was chatting to the babe, extolling the freaking Red Sox. Real smart, bring out a woman and talk sports? He glanced at me as I ordered up a fresh batch, muttered

“Whoa, slow down there tiger.”

I want to think the babe smiled but she was one of those, she figured it would spoil her lip gloss. Yeah, you get the picture. Cute, huh?

I raised my glass, said

“Here’s to the Yankees.”

Followed it with a chug from my bottle of Sam Adams. He didn’t respond, looked at the narrow stage as a tall girl strode up.

A moment.

One split second, your whole life changes. What went before is barren and you’re grabbed by a feeling you never knew existed. I don’t believe in love at first sight. Lust maybe, sure, why the fuck not, but love? Yeah, right. But that’s what happened. The woman, in her late 20s, with long auburn hair, wearing blue jeans, boots and a tank top, wasn’t pretty in any conventional way. Her face had lots of flaws, trace of acne, too long a nose, but hell, cheekbones to die for and she turned for a second, as if assessing the crowd and I saw her eyes, the strangest color, green with flecks of gray and a slight narrowing of her focus, as if she was short sighted. You’ll have gathered I’m a hard ass, not a guy to fall for schmaltz or airy fairy shit but she hit my heart like a goddamn wallop. I actually gulped and like how often is that going to happen?

Smitten.

Good word that. I like it and that’s what I was, right from the get go. Signed, sealed and delivered, baby. Fucked, in other words, and total. Here’s the odd thing. Todd caught it, or spotted something, looked at the woman, then back to me, said

“Who’d have believed it?”

I didn’t answer him, didn’t want that moment spoiled. She took the mike, said

“This is a Neil Young song.”

And launched into

“Powderfinger.”

I swear by all that’s holy that I’d heard that song, lots of times. Who hasn’t?

No biggie.

Now, now it was alchemy, and okay, bear with me here, it sounds like jerk-off rapping but she glowed in the rendition and I could feel Todd’s eyes on me, I wouldn’t look at him.

Would you?

Then she did a Tom Waits song and she was done. Rapturous applause. They fucking flat out loved her. I pitied the bastard who had to go on next. How could you follow that? She went to the bar, started talking to another woman, took a hefty belt from a long neck, no glass, my kind of woman. And I was up, moving towards her, asked

“Can I buy you a beer?”

Without turning, she said

“Fuck off.”

Did I push it, grab her, ask her

“Where’s your goddamn manners?”

Nope.

I slunk back to my seat, tail between my legs, whipped and Todd asked

“Strike out, huh? Just like the Yankees.”

I gave him my granite look, feeling cold fury rising and drained my Beam, shouted at the waitress for another round. Todd’s lady nearly smiled and my evening had gone right down the shitter. Did I take it well?

Like fuck.

Proceeded to get loaded and get myself geared to kick ass, any ass. Todd stood, said

“We’re outa here. Share a cab?”

I glared at him and he warned

“You don’t want to stay here, why don’t you just call it quits? We can hit a club.”

I waved him off and he shrugged, said

“You take it easy buddy. You don’t wanna do something stupid.”

Oh, yes I did.

But first I had to pee. I had to edge past the bar. She was still with her friend, a guy on stage mutilating the English Language with some tribute to Ginsberg. She asked

“What’s the matter with you, you give up that easily?”

Her voice was soft, a slight rough edge but she’d put work in, hard to tell she was from the Bronx. I stared at her, said

“Babe, life’s too short for you fucking with my head.”

She laughed, a rich full one, said

“The amount of booze you’re sinking, your head is already fucked. And don’t call me babe.”

I pushed on. Who needed this crap? The restroom was packed, guys pissing away the week’s wages. A guy shoved against me, knocking me, threatened

“Watch your step, fellah.”

I hit him fast and low, said

“Sorry.”

Then unzipped, let all the beer shower over the dude. His buddy, washing his hands, asked

“The fuck you doing?”

I glared at him and he let it slide. I was kinda sorry.

I came back, feeling vented in every sense, and as I passed her, she handed me a cold one, said

“Sláinte.”

I took the bottle, asked

“You’re Irish?”

She raised her eyebrows, went

“Duh,
hello.
It’s like a Mick bar. What were you expecting, Romania?”

Fucking mouth on her, she had to be a Mick, just what I needed. I put the bottle on the counter, said

“Shove it.”

And went back to my table, downed some more Beam, simmered afresh. I don’t remember much after that. Those blackouts, a curse and a blessing. Most times, the former.

I woke in my own bed which is miraculous enough, and better, alone. Times, I woke, saw my bed partner, wondered what the hell I’d been doing.

Yeah, that rough.

I was in my clothes so no surprise there and a greenish leg of chicken testified to late night munchies. My stomach heaved and I hit the bathroom, tore my jeans off, checked the pockets and found a slip of paper. Written on it was

Shannon

You need to lighten up

And a phone number in the city.

I muttered

“The fuck is that chick at?”

Todd had told me no one calls babes chicks no more, but then he also switched from the Yankees, so like, how much notice was I going to pay him?

Six Advil, a gallon of water, two strong coffees and I was good to roll. Good-ish. Todd and I were to hook up in the Village for another job for Boyle. More and more, we were spending our time on his business. It was starting to pay serious bucks and I was able to give my mother some cash. My old man, seeing me do it, barked

“You’ve got a job?”

I didn’t answer. No reply was going to satisfy him. But he wasn’t through, said

“The boys tell me you’re jobbing for that Boyle.”

The ‘that Boyle’ was loaded with contempt. The boys were his buddies from the force. Course, I should have known they’d be on it. I looked at him, asked

“So?”

He wasn’t able to take his hand to me no more, I was too big, but his face let the thought show. He spat

“Piece of shit hoodlum, gives our race a bad name.”

I decided to fuck with him, said

“He’s been to Ireland three times this past year. How many times you been, Dad, like, in your whole life?”

None.

And well he knew it.

Always meaning to, if… fucking if… the lottery came through or he stopped drinking or the Knicks could win another goddamn championship. My mother intervened

“Will ye stop it? I’ve a nice stew made, and for once, could we just have some peace to enjoy it.”

Yeah, and pigs might fly or the Brits pull out of Northern Ireland.

The stew was thrown against the wall shortly after and I stormed out, Sunday as usual. Happy families on a Brooklyn afternoon.

Todd was leaning against a Buick, a Pall Mall in his mouth, said

“You’re late.”

He had a half smirk building and I figured he’d gotten laid with the lip gloss queen. I asked

“Score?”

He flicked the cigarette high, watched it spin then flutter to the sidewalk, opened the door of the ride, said

“You sure as hell didn’t.”

He was pulling out into traffic and I went

“Shannon, that’s her name.”

Surprised him and he gave me a brief appraisal, said

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope, I got her phone number too.”

He cranked the radio. An old Heart song came on. I sang along in my head. High school, I always had a thing for them. He nodded, said

“I know her.”

I let that sit then

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, used to run with an old buddy of mine. She’s got a kid, a damaged one, something wrong with him. Like mental stuff.”

I didn’t know what to do with this information so I did nothing with it. We were parking alongside a deli and he said

“She’s a ball buster. Way too much broad for you.”

He indicated I was to get out and I volleyed

“Broad? No one calls babes broads any more.”

I think he gave a slight smile, least that’s the way I want to remember it. I asked

“What’s the deal?”

He straightened his back. He’d hurt it in Philly and it gave him lotsa grief, said

“Guy owes some vig.”

I wasn’t packing anything save attitude, asked

“He gonna be a problem?”

Todd pushed the door, said “Let’s find out.”

He was.

I look back on those days and I’m not proud of what we were doing, but hey, we had to eat. The deli guy, big mother with beefy arms, sneered at Todd, said

“Two-bit punk, you come in here, expect me to hand over my hard-earned dough. The fuck is the matter with you? Can’t you find some decent line of work?”

Todd looked bored, even a touch apologetic, which was him at his most unpredictable. He fired up a smoke, blew a perfect ring, said

“You got kids in school, over at St. Mary’s, right?”

The guys face went nuclear. He roared

“You threatening my family, you no good piece of shit? Get the fuck outa my place before I come over the counter.”

Todd dropped the cigarette, didn’t stub it out, said

“Hey, no need, I’m coming over myself.”

And vaulted the counter in one fluid movement, his back not troubling him then and had the guy in a neck choke, a cleaver under his lips, said

“Want me to take your tongue out?”

This brought back the scene with the doorman and I felt bile rise in my throat. The only two customers were edging towards the exit. The deli guy had balls, I’ll give him that. He managed to spit, the phlegm landing near my shoe. Todd said

“I love it, a hard case.”

And he dug the knife into the guy’s neck. Let it sit for a moment then let him slide to the floor. He grabbed an apple, took a huge bite, said

“Tangy.”

And we were out of there, back in the car, burning rubber. I was trying to catch my breath, and finally managed

“Gee, that was smart, killing him.”

Todd let the window down, flipped the apple core out and said

“It looked worse than it was. An old Boston trick. They think you severed the jugular but it’s only an artery. No biggie. He’ll have a re-focus and presto, the payment will come through. You get your neck slit, it narrows your agenda.”

I didn’t know who he was anymore, if I ever really had. We’d been buddies so long, I never gave any thought as to whether I actually liked him. At that moment, I fucking flat out hated him. He lit another cig, asked

“So, you and Boyle. Tight, huh?”

I savored that, much as he had the apple and sour. Oh yeah. I said

“He doesn’t much like you.”