Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

When I was in the joint, other guys did weights, did dope, did each other. Me, I read and reread, became a fixture in the library. I didn’t get any grief from the other cons. Sean had my back, better than a Rottweiler. What happened was, he’d got in a beef with the guy running the cigarette gig, the most lucrative deal in the place. I heard the guy was carrying a shiv, fixing to gut Sean in the yard. I tipped off Sean only as this guy had come at me in my early days. He was trailer trash, a real bottom-feeder — if it wasn’t for the cigs, he’d have been bottom of the food chain. Mainly I didn’t like him, he was a nasty fuck, always whining, bitching, and moaning, bellyaching over some crap or other. I hate shivs, they’re the weapon of the sneak who hasn’t the cojones to front it. Sean hadn’t said a whole lot when I told him. He nodded, said, “Okay.”

Effusive, yeah?

The shiv guy took a dive from the third tier, broke his back, and the cigarette cartel passed to Sean’s crew. From then on, he walked point for me.

Back in the eighties, a song, “Fade to Gray,” blasted from every radio — it launched the movement, “New Romantics,” and guys got to wear eyeliner and shit. You knew they always wanted to, but now they could call it art.

Gobshites.

But I liked the song, seemed to sum up my life, those days, everything down the crapper, a life of drab existence as gray as the granite on the bleak, blasted landscape of Connamara. That’s when I met Maria.

Lemme tell you straight up, I’m no oil painting. My mother told me, “Get a personality ’cos you’re fairly ugly.”

I think she figured the “fairly” softened the blow.

It didn’t.

Nor was I what you’d call a people’s person. I didn’t have a whole lot of them social skills.

I was at a dance in Seapoint, the massive ballroom perched on the corner of the promenade, the Atlantic hurling at it with intent. Now, it’s a bingo hall. That night, a showband, eight guys in red blazers, bad hairpieces, with three bugles, drums, trombone, and a whole lot of neck, were massacring “Satisfaction.” They obviously hated the Stones. Those days, there was a sadistic practice known as “ladies’ choice.”

Jesus.

Pure hell. The guys used it to nip outside and get fortified with shots of Jameson. I was about to join them when I heard, “Would you like to dance?”

A pretty face, gorgeous smile, and I looked behind me to see whom she meant. This girl gave a lovely laugh, said, “I mean you.”

Hands down, that is the best second of my life. I haven’t had a whole line of them, but it’s the pinnacle, the moment when God relented, decided, “Cut the sucker a little slack.”

’Course, like all divine gifts, he only meant to fuck with me later. That’s okay, I’ve lived that moment a thousand times. And yeah, you guessed it, she was American… from Brooklyn. I loved her accent, her spirit; hell, I loved her Miracle two, she didn’t bolt after the dance, stayed for the next one, “Fade to Gray.” A slow number, I got to hold her, I was dizzy.

Walked her back to her hotel. I stood with her, trying to prolong the feeling, and she said, “You’re kinda cute.”

Put it on my headstone, it’s all that counts. She kissed me briefly on the mouth and agreed to meet me at 7 the next evening.

She didn’t show.

At 10:30, I went into the hotel, heard she checked out that morning. The clerk, a guy I went to school with, told me her surname, Toscini, that she was traveling with her mother. I palmed him a few notes and he let me see the register — the only address was Fulton Street, Brooklyn, New York.

I wrote letter after letter, all came back with, “ Return to sender, address unknown. ” Like that dire song.

I began to learn about Brooklyn. I’d find her. Her not showing or leaving a note, it was some awful misunderstanding. Her mother had suddenly decided they were leaving and Maria had no way to contact me. Yeah, had to be that. I made it so. Got to where I could see her pleading, crying with her mother, and being literally dragged away. Yes, like that, I know.

Mornings, like a vet, I’d come screaming, sweating outa sleep, going, “Maria, hon, I’m on my way!”

Shit like that, get you killed in prison. They’re not real understanding about screamers, though there’s plenty of it.

No more than any other guilt-ridden Catholic Irish guy, I’m not superstitious. But I tell you, the omens, they’re… like… there. You just gotta be open to them.

Listen to this: A while ago, there was a horse running at the Curragh. I’m not a gambler but read the sports pages, read them first to show I’m not gay. At 15/1, there was one, Coney Island Red. How could I not? Put a bundle on him, on the nose.

He lost.

See the omen? Maria wouldn’t want me gambling, lest I blow the kid’s college fund. Over the years, if I was asked about girlfriends, I’d say my girl was nursing in America, and came to believe it. She was caring and ideal for that. ’Course, when the kids arrive, she’ll have to give up her career — I wouldn’t want my wife working, it’s the man’s place to do the graft — know they’ll appreciate those old values in Brooklyn.

Sean came to see me about the new plan. He was wearing one of those long coats favored by shoplifters or rock stars. The collar turned up to give him some edge. I made coffee and he said, “Nice place you got here.” I sat opposite him and he launched: “We’re going to do the main post office.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, said, “Don’t like the sound of that.”

He gave the grin, no relation to warmth or humor, said, “It’s not about what you like or don’t like, money is needed and a lot of it. This Thursday, there is going to be a massive sum there, something to do with the payment of pensions and the bonus due for Social Benefit. It’s rare for them to handle such a large amount so we have to act now.”

I went along with it, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice, he wasn’t asking me, he was delivering orders.

We went in hard and it was playing out as usual, when I took my eye off the crowd, distracted for one second, and that’s when the guy came at me, grabbed my gun, and it went off, taking half his face. Then we were out of there, running like demented things, got in the stolen car, then changed vehicles at Tuam and drove back into town, the exact opposite of what would be anticipated. Sean was breathing hard, said, “You fucked up.”

“Hey, he came at me, it was an accident.”

He gritted his teeth, a raw sound like a nail on glass, said, “This is going south.”

He was right. The dead man was a cop, in plain clothes, and the heat was on. Sean called me that evening, went, “You wasted a fucking policeman, there’s going to be serious repercussions. I’ve a meet with my superiors and I’ll let you know what’s going to happen.”

He slammed down the phone. So I waited, checking my travel arrangements. I’d fly from Shannon to New York, and hell, splurge a little, grab a cab all the way to Brighton Beach, because I liked the sound of it. Then I’d find Maria.

I’d already packed and was trying to decide what movies to bring, when Sean called. “It’s bad.”

“Tell me.”

“We can’t have a cop-killer on our hands, the pressure is enormous.”

I took a deep breath, said, “You’ve given me up.”

For the first time, he sounded nervous, then, “I’m giving you a chance, I wasn’t even supposed to call you.”

“You’re all heart, Sean. So what’s the bottom line?”

Deep breath, then, “They’re sending two guys to pick you up, they’ll be there in twenty minutes, so get the fuck out and run like hell.”