Кен Бруен - Tower

“Sure.”

He handed me a Sam Adams, cold as Griffin’s heart. Sat myself down in an ancient office chair.

“Love the stuff me own self,” he said, taking a bottle. “That Harp shite from home is but blond piss for pussies.” And like Griffin, this guy was a native speaker, not the cartoon equivalent. “I’m Rudi. It’s not me given name, but it’s who I am. And you’d be Todd?”

“I would.”

“I know you boys down there in Brooklyn are tough fookers, but this is a different world. The rules of the road don’t apply.”

“Figure that’s why I’m here.”

“Boyle told me ya were a smart bastard. I like that. The less I need explain, the greater the benefit. Better to say nowt to a man who can read a map for himself.”

Just shook my head and drank.

He smiled that smile at me again. The sun might not shine outside, but it did in here. Rudi seemed as fierce as a twig and with as much heft. Guessed he liked it that way. Always better to be underestimated. He could see me sizing him up. Read my mind.

“Prefer to be underestimated, I do, and never to make the same mistake about my enemies. You’d figured by now that I’m not sweet as cane sugar and you’d be right. Did Griffin not say anything about me to ya?”

“Griffin doesn’t say anything to anyone about anybody, but his face speaks sometimes. That was enough for me.”

“Good. Let’s be off. I’ll drop you at your place in Cambridge.”

“Cambridge?”

“Yer no Southie,” he said, showing me out to his ’85 Coupe de Ville. “Besides, you’ve already served half yer purpose in me having ya up here.”

“Finney,” I said.

“Jaysus and his blessed mother, yer even smarter than advertised. Before we get halfway to yer flat, he will have told me boyos about ya.”

“They’ll figure I’m outside talent brought in to see to one of them. You wanna see who runs and who stays. You’ve got a rat problem.”

“Feckin’ rodents. Easy to kill ’em, but tough to flush the fookers out a their holes. If ya were ever to tire of working for Boyle, I’d take ya on.”

Ignored that. “Funny thing about Finney, you say he’s a talker, but he said no more than ten words to me from the time he picked me up at the station.”

“He wouldn’t talk to ya, now would he?”

“You think he’s the snitch?”

Rudi had a good laugh at that. His laugh, like the rest of him, could fool you. It was deep and resonant. “Not Finney. He’s a stupid bastard. Good for collections and the occasional muscle, but would have neither the stones nor the wherewithal to parlay what little he knows into transit fare. No, it’s one of the smart ones. Always is,” he said, staring right at me.

“Hey, don’t look at me! I just got here.”

He laughed again. Good thing one of us did.

My flat was a one bedroom rented apartment on the top floor of a small Victorian just off Massachusetts Avenue. It was as close to Harvard as I was likely to get. My destiny, always a few blocks from the Ivy League. Handed me an envelope not nearly as fat as the one Boyle had given me.

“The key’s in there along with a small wedge. I own the building under another name, so no one will bother ya here. It should be a while till I call again, so relax a bit. Learn the city’s charms, which are legion. Catch a ball game at Fenway. Locally, there’s a fine barbeque establishment just down the block and bookstore around the bend there on Mass Ave.”

“Thanks, Rudi.” Shook his hand.

“If things work as I hope, please God, it’s me that’ll be thanking you. By the way, feel free to use the phone and the appliances. Enjoy yer time in Boston.”

Watched him drive away, the taillights of his old Cadillac disappearing around the corner. Between Finney and Rudi their rides were older than time itself. At least Rudi’s Caddy had solid floorboards. And they call Jews cheap. No, it was real estate above all else made an Irishman feel wealthy. The rest of the trappings were inconsequential. Boyle too had most of his holdings in real estate. Guess maybe they had a point.

The apartment had its own entrance in the rear and was spotlessly clean and stocked with furniture older than manned space flight. But it was good solid furniture, if not exactly trend-setting in style. The appliances, however, were bizarrely incongruous. There was like a huge flat screen TV in the living room. There was a restaurant quality Viking stove and a Sub Zero fridge in the kitchen. Assumed all the appliances had fallen off the truck at Logan Airport or on the piers. It was just the same at JFK. If it fell off the truck on Monday, I was wearing it, using it, or selling it by Wednesday.

Unpacked my suitcase and checked out the fridge. It was empty but for a six pack of Sam Adams. Took one and plopped myself down on the plaid cushions of the colonial couch and learned the ins and outs of my big screen TV. Strange, but an hour had passed without me once thinking of Philly or Leeza or O’Connor. Thought I might get to like Boston. Even fell into the first dreamless, peaceful sleep I’d had in some time.

Waking, I felt as if I could breathe again. Leeza was there, front and center, but some of the bitter edge had been bevelled off. The windows had darkened and, for a change, the hunger was in my belly instead of my heart.

After a half rack of ribs, pulled pork and a beer at the barbeque joint Rudi had recommended, walked past my new house on the way to the bookstore he’d mentioned.

It wasn’t like any kind of bookstore I’d ever been in before. It was on the ground floor of a red clapboard house and the only stuff they stocked were mysteries and detective novels. Never been much for fiction, let alone crime novels. I mean, like I didn’t have to make it up, right? The occasional book next to my bed would be about WWII or the building of the atomic bomb or some such shit.

Felt more lost in that bookstore than I did in Philly. It was like wall to wall books with huge stacks piled up in the aisles. The paperbacks were squeezed so tightly together you wouldn’t’ve been able to fit a dancing angel between any two of them.

“You seem like you can use some help,” an invisible voice called to me.

Looked around and there, seated behind the counter, was a big earth momma with a friendly face. She wore glasses, let her hair straggle, but had a presence that was hard to explain.

“Not much for fiction,” I said.

“Don’t read this stuff, huh?”

“Never.”

She called out to someone lurking in the stacks. “Continental Op. Maltese Falcon. Red Harvest. The Long Goodbye. Farewell, My Lovely. The Little Sister.” Then she turned back to me. “Visiting?”

“Moved in around the corner.”

A spinster-ish woman appeared before us with six paperbacks in her hands. She placed them on the counter and receded into the shadows.

“Here,” the earth momma said, putting the books in a bag. “You take those and see what you think.”

Reached for my wallet, but she waved me off. “You’ll be back. Pay me then.”

“Seem pretty sure about that.”

“I been in the business a long time. I’ll take my chances on you.”

Didn’t argue. Thanked her and dropped the bag at the apartment. Stared at the phone and thought about calling Nick. Didn’t. What would I have said? That I had bought books? Might have impressed Nick’s dad, but not Nicky. Wasn’t sure what would impress him anymore. Felt the walls closing in. Like I said, the edge was off a bit, not gone.

Found a bar near Harvard Square, an Irish pub. Big surprise, right? Like finding salt in the ocean. It was pretty empty. Ordered a Harpoon Ale, turned to watch the Red Sox game on the tube. Didn’t actually give a fuck about the Red Sox. No Yankee fan could say that. Sometimes, it seemed Yankee fans like Nick cared more about the Red Sox failing than the Yankees winning. Failing, now there’s something I was well acquainted with, being raised a Mets fan and all.