Кен Бруен - Tower

When I turned away from the game, noticed a cute blonde in jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt had seated herself two stools away from me. She ordered a Jack Daniel’s with no back and began chatting with the barman. He didn’t seem terribly interested. Under normal circumstances I would have shared his lack of enthusiasm. Short, perky blondes with cropped hair, a little thick through the hips, aren’t usually my type, but she had such fiery blue eyes that I found myself staring at her. Suppose I wasn’t doing a very good job of disguising my curiosity.

“Fah chrissakes, mista, ya stare any hadah at me and ya’ll see into my childhood.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just buy a girl a drink.”

Told the bartender to put her drinks on my tab. Between Rudi and Boyle’s scratch, I was well set for cash. She moved over to sit beside me. We clinked glasses.

“New Yawka, huh?” she said.

“Brooklynite.”

“Yankees?”

“Mets.”

“Both bad answers in this town, but ya got some stones on ya fer saying. Here’s to ya.”

“To the Sox,” I said.

We both emptied our glasses. Gave the sign to the bartender for another round.

“Kathleen Dolan.”

“Todd Rosen.”

We shook and finished the second round at a reasonable pace. Explained that she worked at Harvard as a square badge. It bored the shit out of her, but it paid the rent. I ad-libbed some crap about being a consultant to a computer company and that I had a couple of weeks in town before I started.

“Evah been to Fenway?”

“Nope.”

“Friday night. They’re playing Detroit. I got two tickets, wanna come?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me here at five-thirty.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it.

Three beers later, headed back to my new place. Kathleen was finishing her last Jack when I left. She’d probably have come home with me if I asked. Didn’t. The more I drank, the more present Leeza became. If I ever bedded Kathleen, didn’t want Leeza looking over my shoulder. That night in bed it was just me and Raymond Chandler.

Kathleen and I went to the Sox game that Friday night and sat next to the foul pole in the right field corner. Baseball in Fenway was a much more intimate experience than at Shea or Yankee Stadium. There was a charm to it. Charm is not a New York thing. The grand scale of everything in New York suffocates charm in the crib. The Sox won like fifteen to twelve, a real fucking pitchers’ duel.

Kathleen had a beer an inning until the fifth and slowed to one every other inning for the rest of the game. Good thing there were no extra innings. When the game was over, I suggested we find a local bar. She suggested we go fuck. Liked her suggestion better.

We went back to her place, a first floor apartment in a non-descript neighborhood.

Kathleen’s definition of foreplay was another two beers. When she was done with the second, she just pulled her clothes off and sort of shoved me into the bedroom. Fucked for hours. She had to be raw about halfway through, but I don’t think she cared. It was her nature to just carry on. It wasn’t the greatest sex, certainly not the most tender, but it was completely without pretense or baggage. When she wanted something, wanted to be touched in a particular spot in a particular way, Kathleen just told me. I did the same. The sex, as it rarely ever is, was about the sex.

There was no cooing or hand holding come the morning, no whispers or soft kisses on the ear. We had fun. We fucked. Now one of us had to go to work. When I opened my eyes, Kathleen was wearing her rent-a-cop get up.

“The hot watah’s not great,” she said. “Can ya get back to yer place from here?”

“I’ll find my way. Thanks for the game.”

“Thanks fah the beers and the ride.”

“Anytime.”

“Next week sometime?”

“Sure.”

And that was it. Kathleen became part of my routine, my rebound fuck buddy. Twice a week, we’d get together, get drunk and just fuck our brains out. Knew less about her than I knew about Leeza. Ninety-five percent of what Kathleen knew about me was a lie. Perfection.

Varied from our usual gig only once. Took her niece Bonnie to the zoo. Cute as a button, precocious as hell, but it was Kathleen who was the real kid. Between our beer, baseball, and balling, Kathleen and I didn’t get around to our childhoods much. Knew why I avoided the subject. Didn’t have to be a fucking genius to see that her childhood had been rough. My guess, she’d never been to a zoo before. Caught a contact buzz from being around her she was so juiced by it. Two hours in, Bonnie was asleep on my shoulder. Kathleen just had to experience the whole place. Made me see Kathleen in a different light. Was she Leeza? No. No one would fill that space, ever. But a man could do worse than settling into a comfortable life with her. I was apt to do much worse. That night, the sex got as close to tender as it was ever going to get between us.

Rest of my routine was less exciting, but no less fun. Was at the bookstore every other day buying whatever the earth momma suggested. It got so that I barely watched the ginormous TV in the apartment. Ate at the barbeque place almost every night. Realized this was the first time since I was a kid that my life had settled into a pleasant rhythm. As a kid, there was school, ball, and TV. Every day when I woke up, I knew what was ahead.

But unlike when I was a kid, I knew this pleasant rhythm would come crashing down around my head. Can’t lie to you. The clock was ticking. Heard it louder by the day. Understood that this wasn’t some paid vacation, that Rudi would come calling, that Leeza wouldn’t, that Nicky, Boyle, and Griffin were still back home. Worst was waiting for O’Connor. The tick-tocking was loudest for him. It was near closing time and I was in the back room of the bookstore when the clock stopped.

“Find what you’re looking for, lad?”

O’Connor.

“Didn’t expect to find you. Not here, anyway.”

“And why not here?” He seemed hurt.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a spot of trouble, son. Time to close shop and get you home.”

“But—”

“But nothing. We’re pulling you. Don’t worry, you’ll get your shield.”

“Don’t give a shit about my shield. What the fuck happened?”

“Seems the Boston PD sprung a leak and you might have been compromised.”

“Does Rudi know? Boyle?”

“We don’t think so, at least not yet. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if they did. That’s why we’re moving you out. Go get your stuff. Here’s a ticket for the air shuttle out of Logan for tomorrow morning. There’s a reservation for a Bob Smith at the Holiday Inn. Stay there tonight. And don’t worry, we’ve got your back. There’s two men on you. Sorry, lad.”

He left. I was frozen in place. Didn’t want to go. Liked my life as it was, artificial as it might be. On my way out, leaned over and kissed the earth momma goodbye.

“No books today. Didn’t find what you wanted?”

“Yes and no,” I said. “Yes and no.” Not that I ever got mail, but still always checked as I made my way up to my apartment. This evening there was an envelope. No stamp, no return address, just a bloody thumb print. Inside the envelope was Kathleen’s square badge and a scrap of paper with an address on it. Suppose the smart thing would have been to throw it in the trash, get to the Holiday Inn, and try hard to forget Boston. Like I said, I wasn’t as smart as my mom.

Spotted the two cops in an unmarked unit across the street from my apartment. Went out the back, climbed the fence, called a cab. Gave a false destination to the dispatcher. When the hack showed, shoved a hundred dollar bill in the cabbie’s hand, gave him the real address, asked him not to put this ride on the meter and not to write it down on his trip sheet. Didn’t have to ask twice. Also asked him to stop at a payphone when we got close to the address.