Кен Бруен - Tower

When we got there, Nicky parked around back. The stink of the discarded seafood rotting in the dumpsters overwhelmed the smell of the sea itself. Thought, no, that rotting smell was me. If Griffin was waiting around the turn, who gave a fuck?

“What are you smiling at?” Nick wanted to know as we turned the corner.

“Nothing, Nicky. Nothing.”

Boyle and Griffin were seated at a table in the rear of the dimly lit clam house. It was what you’d expect, red and white checked tablecloths, flickering candles, and Chianti bottles covered in wicker and dripped wax. Boyle got up to greet me as if I was a brother gone for five years instead of a flunky gone a month or two. Hugged me, slapped my back, tousled my hair. Griffin curled up the corner of his mouth. Said nothing. That was like effusive for him.

“Sit!” Boyle ordered. We did. “I heard of your troubles, boyo. Nothing will gut a man like a woman. You learn your lesson and move on. In the future, you won’t let it happen to you again. If the opportunity should ever arise for me to teach you boys how it’s done, how to deal with a woman proper, I will. That’s me word. Do you think she was stepping out on you?”

“No.”

“Were you on her?” he asked.

Could feel the rage again. Tasted it. Fuck, rage had flavor and it was nothing like bacon or pussy. How could this prick even ask me that?

“Never,” I heard myself say, the rage subsiding, slightly.

Boyle must’ve seen it in my eyes. Seemed well pleased. “Let’s order.”

Boyle ordered about two dozen clams of various sorts, so I guess that cleared up any questions I had about why we were here.

During dinner, Nick described what I’d done to the big man at Axel’s. Now it was Griffin who seemed impressed. Actually stopped chewing for a second.

“Listen, Todd,” Boyle said between bites of cheese cake, “I’ve a partner in South Boston could use an extra hand for a coupl’a weeks, someone from outside his patch, if you catch my drift. Would you be interested in doing me the favor? Seems to me you could use the distraction and I would be inclined to show my appreciation.”

“Would I get to use my hands?”

“Idle hands are the devil’s playground, so it’s said. Well, the devil don’t do much playing in South Boston.”

Later learned, and at quite a cost, his assessment was as wrong as wrong could be.

“When do I leave?”

“Not before dessert, at least. Eat up.”

“He was one of those guys, that rare breed, that when people mentioned his name they’d automatically lower their voices and mentally make the sign of the cross.”

A week at home hadn’t done much but make things worse. My nerves were raw, ends frayed by the time I hit the Boston train. Think I would have walked if Boyle had asked. Wanted out, out of my dad’s house, out of Brooklyn, out of my own skin. Settled for out of Brooklyn.

I’d seen Boyle only once again after our dinner in Sheepshead Bay, back at his office, Griffin, as always, by his side. It was then he handed me my ticket and an envelope fat with cash.

“You mind yourself,” he said. “Rudi’s a tough son of a bitch, but do what he says and you’ll be well served.”

“What’s the money for?”

“Think of it as an advance.”

“An advance?”

“Don’t worry, boyo. You’ll earn every penny.”

Griffin curled his lip at that. Nodded his head slightly in agreement. This was serious. For Griffin this was practically a display of fear. I didn’t give a shit. Thought, bring it on. Bring the fucker on. Went back to Brooklyn, laid in my bedroom for days trying not to think about what I couldn’t stop thinking about. Memory is the curse of humankind. Wondered did dogs or cats torture themselves this way? Christ, hoped not, the poor fuckers. Nicky kept calling. Went drinking with him again, but only for an hour and not at Axel’s. Tried to bring Leeza up once. Saw the look on my puss and segued quickly to another subject. Smart man, my old pal Nick. My dad steered clear. The only time in my life I appreciated his near invisibility. Thanks, pops!

Dreamed a lot during the week. Kept picturing Leeza swinging from the big old oak in front of our house. Could never see her face in the dreams, but I knew it was her. The neighbors didn’t seem to notice or, if they did, they didn’t care. Apparently, as long as it wasn’t that miserable bitch Sophie, any naked woman could hang herself in front of my old house. Wonder what Robert Frost would have made of my neighbors. And yeah, fuckhead, I know who Robert Frost was.

The whole train ride up I occupied myself by thinking of just how O’Connor knew I’d be asked up to Boston. Was he like psychic? Maybe he’d called the Psychic Hotline and they’d seen it in the stars. You’ll meet the woman of your dreams. You’ll have a bright future if you invest in high tech start-ups. And, by the way, that schmuck you’re training will be asked to work in Boston. Somehow doubted that’s the way it went.

O’Connor had a snitch on the inside in Boston. That gave me cold comfort. Meant that someone up there would know who I was, what I was. Didn’t need police training to know that a rat has a peculiar sense of loyalty, loyalty to self. If the rat was willing to flip on a guy who scared Griffin, he wouldn’t think twice about rolling on me to save his own neck. Brooklyn schooled me on that.

Boston, Philadelphia, anywhere: all equals to me. A fat, unshaven bastard with a wind-fucked comb-over met me at the station. Smelled like beer and onions and his jeans rode low enough to reveal the top of his plumber’s crack. Delightful. Said his name was Finney. Guess I believed him. Didn’t offer to shake my hand. Worked for me. Wanted as little personal contact with old Finney as could be managed. Just sitting in the front seat of his 1979 Buick Electra 225 made me want to shower. The vinyl stank worse than the driver and the carpeting, what was left of it, was covered in cigarette filters, beer cans, and porno magazines.

“Watch the hole in the floor,” was the other sentence Finney had uttered.

Oh, didn’t I mention the fucking floor had rusted through and I could see the streets of Boston close up as we went to wherever it was we were going? Well, I thought, it was only up from here. Shows you what I knew.

Rode into a dingy area of crooked streets, wood row houses, and bleak faces. Was like the sun didn’t shine on this part of town. Reminded me of the pictures from my history textbooks of nineteenth century England. The kids on the streets moved like snakes, wary and coiled to strike. Knew the posture well. Thought Nicky might have liked it here, Nicky or the Artful Dodger. Finney stopped in an alleyway behind a small brick warehouse.

The fat man pointed at the backdoor like the ghost of Christmas Future pointing at my grave. He was his usual talkative self. Wondered who’d win the debate between him and Griffin. Griffin, no doubt. He’d just cut Finney’s fat throat. Stepped through the door into New England’s contribution to my personal hell.

Inside was musty, dank, but an improvement indeed over close proximity to Finney. There was no one around. A step van that had been crudely painted brown with rollers and brushes was backed up to a quiet loading dock. Then above me, at my back, I heard a muffled knocking. Turned to see a man at the window of a second floor office gesturing me to come up. Found the stairs.

Satan was a skinny fucker with wispy gray hair, keen blue eyes and a happy mouth too big for his gaunt face.

“Take a load off, fella.” He smiled broad and bright as the gates to heaven. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip as he spoke. Must’ve been glued on as it never once seemed in danger of falling. “Jaysus, ya must be wrecked from yer trip. Sorry ya had to suffer Finney’s company, but I had no one else available to send for ya. A beer.” It wasn’t really a question.