Кен Бруен - Tower

He tried patting me on the shoulder. Seemed he was feeling sorry for himself. Wasn’t in the mood for it, not after thinking about Kathleen. Told him not to make a habit of giving me reassuring pats. The doorman did as he’d been told and abandoned his spot in the lobby. The wheels turned. Time to move.

At the door of the apartment I made like Houdini and picked the lock. Movies and TV really fuck with a man’s head. Even semi-hard guys like Nicky could be fooled. They see a guy pick a lock in ten seconds on the tube and they’re like convinced it’s a breeze. Isn’t. Try it some time, see how far you get. All I did was stick one thin pick in top of the keyhole, a crooked one in the bottom and jiggle. Voila! Here’s a tip. Really helps when the lock is already open. Nicky was impressed. That’s all that mattered.

He was further impressed by the size and decor of the apartment. Me too. There were original artworks up on the walls and pieces of furniture that cost more than my dad’s house. Never understood how something or some place could smell like money. Did now. Reeked of it. Wondered if it clung to you like cigarette smoke.

“Remember. Cash, dope, and jewelry.”

Nick couldn’t believe it. “We’re leaving this? This shit must be worth a bundle.”

Told him art was a pain in the balls to fence. He started going for a painting, anyway. Shook my head and went into the bedroom. That’s when the fireworks began.

Door opened.

Stockbroker type. Brooks Brothers suit. “What the fuck is this?”

I walked out of the bedroom. “Fuck.”

Shot the guy in the mouth, twice for good measure. Ruined his suit. His head wasn’t looking all that well either.

“This piece of shit keeps jumping,” I said, looking down at the cheap knock off of a.357 Magnum. “I was going for the heart. Next time, I bring a Glock.”

The look on Nick’s face was priceless. Next time! Made him help me drag the stiff into the bathroom. Amazing what squibs and a little makeup can do. Nick was so fucked, he grabbed a bottle of Makers Mark and took a mighty gulp. Warned him not to drink while we were on the job. Asked if I was going to shoot him to.

Looked at him stone cold. “If I have to.”

He wiped the bottle down and put it back.

We collected our take in a black plastic garbage bag and split. On the way out, he wanted to know if killing the guy was really necessary.

“Probably,” I said.

On the ride to Boyle’s, I kept it up, the cold-blooded killer routine. Seemed to really get to Nicky. Good. Getting him the fuck out of this life wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Kept shaking his head. Couldn’t believe I’d just killed a man and could be so cool about it. I lit up a cigarette. New habit. Might kill me, but what the fuck. Reaching for my pack in the glove box, I saw fear in Nicky’s eyes. Rare sight that. Did he think I was going for a gun? He seemed to want to rehash things. He was still a bit in shock.

“It’s over,” I said, and not friendly-like. “You wanna dwell on it, replay it, do it on your own nickel.”

That just pissed him off and he started cracking his fucking knuckles. Made me mental. Wanted to know what had happened to me since Boston. Said he didn’t know me anymore. That made two of us. When we pulled up in front of Boyle’s warehouse, warned Nicky not to tell the boss about the mess back at the apartment, that there was no need to get into it now. Thought Nicky would shit.

Biblical Boyle was an ambitious prick who had worked his way up the sewer pipe to the toilet and from the toilet to the gutter. All the time he was climbing he carried the good book by his side, the stupid dick. Samuel L. Jackson had worn that biblical shit out two movies ago. But like I said before, Boyle’s ambition would carry him only as far as Griffin’s psychopathy. Love that word, psychopathy. As we entered, I warned Nick to keep his eyes on Griffin.

“Why?” Nick asked.

Sighed like a disappointed parent. “Because he’ll be watching you.”

It was odd. My whole miserable life, I looked to Nicky to be the teacher. Now the world had flipped. Philly, Boston, they’d made me the teacher and there was another lesson coming up.

Boyle acted well pleased with the take from our job. Offered us a seat and a drink of Jameson. Three shot glasses. Only two were raised. Wasn’t in the mood to drink with the likes of him or Rudi. Also wanted to make a point to the man: I don’t fear you. Maybe I did, but I was too numb just then to realize it.

When I refused his hospitality, his eyes went all fish-like and cold. Swept my untouched glass of Irish off the desk, the whiskey just missing me. Never moved. Don’t even think I blinked. He and Nicky gulped their shots down.

“Back home, you refuse to drink with a man, might be seen as an insult.”

Christ, what a straight line. Back home! Where? The Bronx! Bit my lower lip, looked at the shot glass near my boot.

“We’re a long way from Tipperary, Mr. Boyle.”

He didn’t bite. “Aye, you’re right there, boyo.”

Griffin smiled. Couldn’t tell if he liked the joke or the size of my cojones. Boyle ordered me over to the piers to help smooth some goods through customs. As I headed out the door, Boyle asked if there’d been any trouble on the job tonight.

“Nothing major,” I said. “Nick, your laddie... had to shoot the owner.”

Didn’t look back.

“‘You a paisan?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a mick.’

‘You’re on the wrong crew. How come you ain’t driving nails?’

‘I’m a spy.’”

My zombie twin, Nick.

Something had happened to him in the few days between the charade at the heist and this evening. Wouldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t very well throw stones at him given my closed mouth. Was fucking eerie though, like looking in the mirror at myself the day after Kathleen’s death. Had that same haunted look. The world had shifted beneath his feet. All the assumptions that let him sleep at night had been yanked out from under him.

O’Connor had told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to push Boyle and his boyos too far.

“That was foolish, lad, not drinking with him like that. What were you out to prove?”

The prick was right, of course. As big a dick as Boyle was, he hadn’t anything to do with Kathleen’s murder, not really. My fight was with Rudi, the calculating, cold-hearted cocksucker, and it was a score I meant to have someday. O’Connor instructed me to find a woman to date or he’d supply me with window dressing. Fuck no. The last time he’d made that arrangement her name was Leeza Velez. Wasn’t driving up that street again.

Found her at the Midori makeup counter at Bloomingdale’s. Dark and darkly complected; Leeza Velez without the afterburner. Lived on Long Island and traveled all the way into Manhattan just to be able to say she worked at Bloomies in the city. What can I say, some people aim low. Who the fuck was I to judge? Liked her voice, I guess, husky and resonant. There was a point in my life not too long ago, would have killed to hear her whisper, “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.” Now all I wanted to hear her say was, “Yes, come by around ten.” I’d tell you her name if I could remember it. Also don’t recall if it was Nicky or me that picked the place.

Took her to some joint on Lex called Rocky Sullivan’s. Christ, it was like a freaking Irish theme park: St. Patty’s World. No Mickey Mouse, just micks, wall to wall. The lot of them pining for the old country to which they’d never been and from which their ancestors couldn’t run fast enough. There’s some commonality between the Irish and the Jews, but this wasn’t one of the areas of overlap. You don’t hear too many second generation Jews pining for Poland or Russia, Romania or Ukraine.