Кен Бруен - Tower

Had my answers soon enough. Met Nicky at Moe’s Tavern in the old neighborhood. Guess our streak at Axel’s had run its course. Moe’s was run by Micky Prada, a good man, bullshit not a word in his vocabulary. Ran Micky’s forever, never seemed to change. We aged. He didn’t.

Nick was at the bar in his Armani suit. Looked good on him, complimented the fading bruises around his nose. Just didn’t seem very comfortable, fidgeting a bit. Said my hellos, grabbed a beer and sat myself down next to the clotheshorse. Took one look at his eyes and understood the discomfort. Coke. Not one of my favorite drugs. Spend the whole evening trying to get as high as you were in the first fifteen minutes. Never works. Only get further away from that original rush.

“Doing lines in the men’s room, huh? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”

He made some lame excuse about decent booze.

“Booze my ass. The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”

Leaned in close to me, sneer on his puss.

“That one of the things they teach you at the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”

Christ. Cover’d been blown. Instead of panic, a kind of peace set in. Fucking relief it was. Didn’t have time to worry how it’d happened.

“So you know about that.”

That set off a chain reaction in Nick that was as good as any laser light show on the planet. Full range of emotions washed over his face in such rapid succession that I lost track. First there was an almost stunned admiration. Point is, rage was at the end and it stayed put.

Signalled to Micky. “Another round.”

Nick nearly exploded. “I’m not freaking drinking with you, you... traitor, damned turncoat.”

Smiled, but the cool, calculating smile. Cassius had nothing on me. Seemed Nicky and me had been working up to this moment our whole fucking lives. Didn’t move my lips. The smile said it all. Grabbed his arm. Didn’t like that.

“Listen up, hothead,” I whispered. “You listening?”

Said yes.

“You think you know Boyle, but you don’t. I’ve met some of his partners. The cops have been on his tail for a long time. That guy I popped in his apartment, he was one of ours. Had to make you believe. If you believed, Boyle would buy it. This is big. The prick and his partners are in bed with the border gangs in Mexico, using some of the profits for IRA operations.” Took a drink. Took a breath. “So Boyle made me. What’s he want, you to waste me?”

“Fuck you!” Nicky spit. “He reamed me a new one, yeah?”

“Whoa, buddy,” I said. “I got your back.”

Sucked down his drink and of all things said, “All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”

Almost smiled, then Kathleen stabbed me in the heart. Said something lame like they were going to take the series in a few years. Not much conviction in my voice.

“Do me a favor?” he asked, exhaustion his latest mask.

“Name it.”

“Get the fuck outta my sight. Now!”

The rage was back. Good.

Said to him, “I’m here for you, buddy, but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.” Threw down some cash and headed out the door.

Was out, not gone. Waited in my car for Nicky to come out. Wasn’t sure what he might do. Doubted he’d go to Boyle, but there was a long range of other possibilities. Truth was, he was as fucked as myself. More so.

Saw Nicky come out, the rage subsiding. Chill getting to him, buttoned up. Heard the pop. Looked away to see what it was. Tires screeched. Turned back to see Nick slumping against Moe’s door, blood gushing out of his chest.

Must’ve been quite a sight, me sitting there with a shotgun by the side of Nicky’s bed.

“Come to finish the job?” he croaked.

“Asshole. You think I shot you?”

“Did you?”

Poured him a glass of water. Probably shouldn’t have, but didn’t see a Nothing By Mouth sign anywhere.

“Wasn’t for me, shithead, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”

Tried pouring some water down his throat and nearly drowned him. Hey, you try pouring anything with a shotgun in your other hand and let’s see how you do.

Nicky’s mother like barreled through the door.

“My baby, are you all right?”

Christ, the bullet hadn’t killed him but the embarrassment nearly did. Turned like fifteen shades of red. Didn’t have time to enjoy it. She turned on me.

“And where were you, you shit, where were you when they were pumping my baby full of holes?”

Nick tried to get her attention. “Mom, I’m, okay, really.” That really set her off. Sat and listened. Nick too. No choice. We both seemed comforted by the shotgun. Last resort, of course.

“‘We were pretty good friends once,’ he said unhappily. ‘Were we? I forget. That was two other fellows, seems to me.’”

That time in the hospital with Nicky’s mother pouring it on was like being back home. Don’t know about Nick, but I was only half-listening. I remember that in spite of my folks, my childhood had been a good one. Spent most of it outdoors, beyond the walls of the Rosen Asylum for Empty Lives. Remembered the summer days when the moms, not Sophie, of course, would group together on someone’s stoop. We happily lived in the gutter and the schoolyard. We could weave a world out of asphalt and chalk. Now we lived in our own traps. Held incongruous shotguns in our hands.

Some detective named Ortiz came by to ask Nick a few questions. Waste of time. He would stay silent even if it was Boyle vis-à-vis Griffin that sent him a lead love letter. Nick would want to see to it himself. Me too. Rules of the street.

O’Connor met me at our usual spot. Wasn’t thrilled with my having been turned out. Acted pissy. Like I wanted to get exposed, right? Yeah boss, I even had a bull’s eye painted on the back of all of my clothes to make Griffin’s job easier. Might’ve been relieved to have it out there, but I wasn’t glad to become a fucking target. O’Connor gave me marching orders. I was to lay low and see how things with Nick would shake out, then it was out of town again till the time came to testify.

In spite of their high hopes for me, they hadn’t been able to build the grand case they had envisioned. Boyle’s crew would go down, that was certain. Maybe a few peripheral guys at JFK and the Port of Newark as well. But the big conspiracy case, the one reaching from Brooklyn to Boston, Belfast to the Mexican border, that was shot.

“Don’t fret, lad, your job is secure,” O’Connor assured me, a look on his face as if he’d been digesting glass shards.

As if it mattered. Thanked him anyway.

“What are the flowers for?” he wondered.

“I’ve thrown up on her grave twice. Sonya deserves a little something else from me this last visit.”

Shook his head. “Dead is dead, lad. She’s beyond caring.”

“I’m not.”

That hung there for a few seconds, him pondering the fact that inside he was nearly as dead as Sonya Einstein.

“Nicky’s gonna need a place to run.”

O’Connor started humming a tune that was familiar to me, but that I couldn’t put a title to.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

“‘My Old Kentucky Home.’ We’re way ahead of you, lad. Why do you think I asked you to hang around? I’ll have a package with the details delivered to you later today.”

Watched him walk away. When he was fully out of sight, I placed the bouquet on the grave. Didn’t do an apology. Picked up two rocks. Placed one atop Sonya’s headstone, one on my mom’s. It was Jewish tradition that. Explain it? Can’t. It would be like trying to explain how the fuck I got here in the first place.