Кен Бруен - Tower

“You’re the person I most want to talk with.”

A crock, but hey, it worked.

He grabbed a cold one, came over, surveyed me, said

“The yuppie in all his glory.”

We were off.

I spat back

“Wouldn’t hurt you to make an effort the odd time.”

He took a hit of the beer, belched, said

“What you thinking, if I suck up to Boyle, he’ll dress me too?”

The tension was in the air, a slice of barbed wire you could almost touch. He watched me for a moment then

“What are you on? Doing lines in the men’s room? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”

I indicated my glass, said

“A shot of decent booze. That’s a big deal?”

He leaned back, his scuffed boots making that sound of intent, said

“The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”

Time to rumble and I leaned close, said

“That one of the things they teach you in the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”

It hung there, like dead smoke.

But he was cool, I’ll give him that, shrugged, said

“So you know about that.”

As if I’d accused him of pinching a couple of bucks, like, no biggie. He was the ice man. I wanted to reach over, smack him up the side of the head, and if I’d been carrying the piece, I swear I’d have taken it out, pistol whipped him. And okay, the coke and 7s weren’t helping my disposition but I was so fucking enraged. My old man, Irish to the bloody core, he had an expression all the way from Galway, to describe serious anger: spitting iron. Well, I was ready to vomit pure steel. Todd reached up his hand, signalled to Micky, said

“Yo, another round buddy.”

I gritted

“I’m not freaking drinking with you, you... cheese-eating rat motherfucker.”

And he smiled, a small crease between his eyes. I knew that signal. He had it when he was amused but on the verge of aggression, as if it was sad but kind of funny too, like life just wouldn’t quit being a bastard.

The whole expression asking, in a Brooklyn accent

“Watchagonnado?”

He grabbed my arm, real bad move and said

“Listen up you hothead, you listening?”

I was.

He said

“Boyle is a major bad ass. He’s into heavy shit and we’ve been monitoring him for a long time. The guy in the Upper West Side, the guy I wasted, he was one of ours and the guy in the deli, again, one of ours. It was a set up. You really think I killed that guy or that I’d cut a man’s throat? But we had to make you believe. You buy it, then Boyle would buy it. This a big operation, Boyle is even running with the IRA. And also doing deals with some very nasty dope dealers, South of the Rio Grande.”

He took a thirsty slug of his beer. I’d never heard him give such a long speech and then he continued

“Boyle’s told you I’m a cop, so even though it’s fucked that he’s rumbled me, it’s good that he’s bought you as one of his crew. What’s he want you to do, waste me?”

And gave me that level stare.

My mind was awhirl. He was a cop. I’d been suckered every which way but loose and he was sitting there, full of himself. I said

“Fuck you. He reamed me a whole new asshole, yeah?”

He put the beer down, said

“Whoa buddy, I’m watching out for you. Your back is covered all the way.”

Micky brought the drinks and what the hell, I sunk the Seagram’s neat, felt it burn like acid, then I asked

“All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”

He nearly smiled, went

“Hell no, that’s the truth. They’re going to take the series within the next few years, see if they don’t.”

I felt tired. The coke was winding down. Needed another line, shit, a whole battalion of ’em. I asked

“You do me a favor?”

“Name it buddy, it’s a done deal.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight. Now.”

He sat back, like in recoil but slow, then stood, laid a mess of bucks on the table, said

“I’m here for you buddy but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.”

Then he was gone.

Moe’s had one of those big ole Wurlitzer jukeboxes, and one of the regulars fed it a pile of quarters and Lou Reed began with “Walk on the Wild Side.” I stood up, added a couple of bills to the tab and started to walk out. Micky shouted

“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

The evening had gotten cold or maybe it was the cocaine chills. I began to button my jacket and the bullet took me high in my chest, knocked me back against the tavern, and as I slid to the sidewalk, I could still hear Lou crooning about all the colored girls

Catchy little tune.

“He says, ‘Times are changing. Men are afraid of women. I know a lot of beautiful women who should be with men, but you know what they’re doing now?’

‘What?’ me and Roz want to know.

‘Whacking off alone in their beds with vibrators... I have seen the future and it hums...’”

I opened my eyes, a dryness in my mouth and an ache in my head, my chest. Turned my head. Bad idea. The nausea struck and realized I was in the hospital, Todd sitting shotgun by my bed. I croaked

“Come to finish the job?”

He was slumped in the chair, a long black duster gathered round him, his scuffed cowboy boots stretched along the floor. He sat up, his eyes tired, went

“You think I shot you?”

“Did you?”

He reached for a jug of water, poured a glass, offered it to me, said

“It was me, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”

He tilted my head, got some water in my parched mouth. I tried to gulp it and he pulled back, said

“Whoa, easy. You don’t want to take too much. You gotta ease down slow.”

A drip was attached to my right arm and my head really burned. He said

“You were thrown back against the wall. Knocked your fool self cold.”

The door burst open and I mean burst, not opened gently. My mother, hysteria in full riot, going

“My baby, are you all right?”

Then whirled on Todd.

“Where were you, you shit? Where were you when they were pumping my baby full of holes?”

Jesus.

I tried to get my voice level, said

“Mom, I’m okay, really, you don’t need to fret.”

Whoops.

She was off.

“Not fret? And what about your poor father, he’s near had a heart attack, what about that?”

I wanted to go

“Oh, like sorry, I’m goddamn shot and he’s what, upset?”

I said

“Will he be coming by?”

Like an echo, she went

“Coming by? The poor man couldn’t eat breakfast.”

God forbid he miss a freaking meal.

She looked at her watch, a cheap plastic job my old man gave her for their anniversary. I checked my wrist, no Rolex, she went

“I’ve got to get back to your father...”

And was gone.

I wanted to shout

“Where’s my grapes, my bowl of restoring stew?”

The door opened, a guy in his fifties came in, wearing a battered sports jacket and his whole weariness screamed the heat. He nodded at Todd, produced a badge, gold one, asked me,

“You up to a few questions, Mr. Barrett? I’m Lieutenant Ortiz, OCCB.”

Todd stood, said

“I gotta scoot. I’ll drop by later.”

A look passed between him and Ortiz. A cop look?

And Todd added

“With grapes.”

Ortiz pulled up a chair, asked

“Mind if I sit?”

And if I did?

He took out a notepad, said

“Your old man was on the job?”

I nodded and rang the call button. The pain in my chest was fierce. A nurse appeared, asked