Кен Бруен - Tower

That it was Mickville was bad enough, but that it was open mic night made me want to poke my eyes out. It’s one thing to think you can sing. It’s another to think you’re funny. But, Jesus, worst of all were the ones who did the poetry. Poetry is hard enough to pull off when you’ve got some facility for it. When it’s that over earnest, sentimental rhyming crap... Drove me over the edge. Talked sports with what’s-her-name. Nick like couldn’t believe I was with this woman and I’m talking Red Sox baseball.

Not sure where Nicky was at, truth be told. He seemed intent on seeing how much Jim Beam and Sam Adams he could ingest.

“Here’s to the Yankees!” he shouted.

Other drunks joined his fool’s chorus.

Then Nicky’s face took on this peculiar beatific glow. Transformed he was. Followed his eyes to the mic. There stood a lanky girl with auburn hair and a face that had seen the places in life you’re not supposed to look at with eyes wide open. And what eyes they were, green and flecked with gray. You know it’s funny, she was way more than the sum of her parts where as what’s-her-name was so much less. I suppose that’s not fair, but fuck fair, where is the fairness clause in anything? Haven’t fucking seen it. You?

Nicky, who just minutes ago had shouted a toast to the Yankees that drowned out the punchline of a joke the guy at the mic had been working on for an eternity, was now shushing the crowd.

“Yo, keep it down! The lady’s trying to sing here.”

And sing she did. Did two powerhouse numbers: Neil Young and Tom Waits. Her singing was a reflection of herself, a lot more there than met the eye. Brought the place down. The whole time I’m watching Nicky. He won’t look at me. Before I can say something, he’s off. Whatever had turned him zombie earlier in the evening, whatever the Jim Beam couldn’t touch, was now forgotten. He’d taken the red-headed cure, hard.

Nick might’ve taken the cure, but it hadn’t taken to him. She’d sent him packing. He was soon reacquainting himself with his old pals, Jim and Sam. Was positively wounded. A little boy again. Even what’s-her-name gave him a smile. That was a rarity. Told Nick to lighten up on the drink, that he was apt to do some damage if he wasn’t careful. Said he wanted to do damage. Great. Offered him a cab ride. Offered to dump my date so we could hit a club. That’s when the offers stopped.

He was smitten. I knew the look. Being a zombie was easier on the heart, softer on the soul. Even if he wasn’t already half in the bag, Nick wouldn’t have wanted my advice on the subject. But on the way out, I checked with the bouncer, asked after the singer. Gave me her vitals. What’s-her-name actually showed a bit of jealousy at that, a bit of fire. Unfortunately, the fire didn’t extend past the bedroom threshold. Where would my life be without distant women?

Billy Wilder, the famous Hollywood director and producer, was told by a friend that a colleague had suffered a severe heart attack. To this, Wilder said, “Impossible!” The friend wanted to know why Wilder thought this so. “Because to have a heart attack, one requires a heart.”

Another day, another job. Well, maybe a bit different. Sunday was a rare time for what Boyle had put on the schedule for Nick and myself. Was working hard on my future lung cancer. Had graduated to Pall Mall. Smoking those nails was like working the heavy bag in the gym. It was filterless Camels next. My ultimate was these French bastards I’d seen. Gitanes or some such shit.

Was resting my ass on a Buick Electra 225, the same model as that fat fuck Finney used to drive. Had Nick steal it for me, not for irony’s sake, but for convenience. Couldn’t have it traced back to me. No rust on mine, pristine. Nice work, Nicky. Why that model? I had my reasons. Had my reasons for putting plastic slipcovers on the seats as well. Nick showed an hour late, of course. Had that half dead look on his puss that said he’d just seen his dad. Family meals at their house were like a steel cage match.

“You’re late.”

Smirked. “Scored last night, did you?” he asked after what’s-her-name.

“We fucked, but I wouldn’t call it scoring. My hand’s more present when I jerk off.”

“That good, huh?”

Flicked my cigarette high so that it spun, perfect as a twirler’s baton.

“Had to check for a pulse,” I said, opening the passenger side door. To him, “You sure as hell didn’t score.”

As I pulled out into traffic, he said, “Shannon, that’s her name.”

Course I knew that. Knew a fuck of a lot more. One advantage of my new fangled cop-ness was that I could have people checked out, day or night, the whole year through. It’s amazing what you can get if you just label things correctly. If I’d asked to have this woman checked out because my friend was interested in her, they’d have told me to stick it up my ass. Called her a “person of interest” and got the full report. Almost surprised it didn’t include the type of tampons she used. Didn’t let on to Nick. Couldn’t. Acted impressed. Was. When I’d left Rocky’s, Nick was raging.

“You’re shitting me.”

Proud. “Nope, I got her phone number too.”

Let it sit for a minute while he fiddled with the radio. Wondering where to take it.

“I know her.” Mistake.

“Yeah?”

“She used to run with an old buddy of mine.” Yeah, right. Like what buddy besides Nicky would that be? “She’s got a kid, retarded I think. Something like that. And I hear she’s a real ball buster, too.” I think I also might’ve called her a broad. Like that’s something I ever do.

Was losing it. It was like I was trying to protect somebody here. Her probably. Wanted to show Nick pictures of Kathleen and scream, “Leave this woman be, Nick. Look what the fuck happens when women get involved with people like us. And for chrissakes, bro, they didn’t even fucking bury her!” Maybe I wanted to protect Nick a little bit too. Pulled the big Buick up in front of a deli.

Smiled. “Broads,” was all he said. “No one calls babes broads anymore.”

Not sure anyone called them babes either.

“What’s the job?” he was curious.

“Shithead in the deli owes some vig,” I said, grabbing my lower back. Hadn’t been right since Finney shoved me down the stairs. But what had?

Nick worried. “Gonna be a problem?”

Let go of my back and grabbed the door. “Let’s find out.”

Deli man was a beefy boy with attitude enough to slice into sandwiches. He gave us the tough guy routine. Wasn’t in the mood. Threatened his kids. Didn’t worry about it. Hey, you going to play the heavy, be heavy, don’t fuck around. Deli man got a little offended at that. Jumped the counter and I stuck a knife in his neck. Just enough to scare the shit and money out of him. Nicky thought I’d slit his throat. Nah, a trick I picked up in Philly from one of my training officers. Still sounds funky, training officer.

Took an apple out of the fruit basket as I came back over the counter. Ate it in the car. Sour piece of crap. Tossed it out the window and lit up. Back to the heavy bag. Saw the disdain in my old pal’s eyes. Tough shit, bro. Guess I wasn’t on his favorites list today.

“Boyle doesn’t much like you,” he said as if it would break my heart.

“Who the fuck does?”

When Nick turned away, I put a hand on the left side of my chest.

Nothing.

“Let us learn in order to teach.

Let us learn in order to do.”

Had planned to wait for retribution, but the shelf life was shorter than expected. Even with the echo and sway that passed for my life, I had the sense of time closing in. Could not point to anything and say why. Just heard my internal clock ticking. O’Connor and Cousin Ira had their plans, not that the rest of the universe was listening. So I changed the plates on the Buick again, and let everyone know I was off to Philly for a few days’ fun.