Кен Бруен - Tower

I did.

It fit, like sin.

I shook my wrist the way you do and the thing slid nicely along my wrist. Was it my imagination or did it sparkle?

Boyle said

“’Tis yours, I look after my lads.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was thinking

“Is it one of those knockoffs?”

Boyle said

“’Tis the real McCoy, none of that cheap imitation with me.”

I said

“I dunno what to say.”

Griffin said

“Thank you would be nice.”

The fuck.

I muttered

“Mr. Boyle, I’m very grateful.”

He was taking the wrapper of a cigar, lit it with a Zippo, blew a cloud of smoke at me, asked

“How grateful?”

What?

His tone had completely altered, his mood swings as mercurial as Irish weather. A nasty edge had leaked all over his words. I wanted to ask

“How grateful am I supposed to be?”

Boyle scribbled something on a sheet of paper, handed it over, said

“This is my tailor. Get yer arse down there, get some decent suits. He’ll be expecting you.”

I did some more lame gratitude and he waved it off, asked

“You gonna grease this cop for us?”

I wanted to sling the Rolex at him, said

“He’s my buddy.”

Boyle grimaced, looked at Griffin, then

“Cops ain’t nobody’s buddies. He doesn’t know we’re on to him. We’re gonna let him run a bit then I want you to put a cap in his head. You do that for me?”

Stalling, I said

“I’ll do it for the Yankees.”

He loved it.

He tossed a set of keys across the desk, said

“Welcome to Tribeca.”

“Straight to Hell.”

THOSE DAYS, I WAS big into The Clash, had all the imports, direct from London. “Rock The Kasbah” was on my headphones day and night. Took Shannon out and she spotted the Rolex, asked

“That real?”

“Naw, a knockoff.”

She didn’t believe me but let it slide. I was wearing one of the new suits and she asked

“What is it you do?”

“Import export.”

She digested this, then

“A gangsta, huh?”

Pronounced it with the full hip hop flavor.

I shrugged it off, said

“Yeah, that’s me, a real hood.”

Her face took on a serious bent and she said

“I don’t want to be messed up with some penny ante hoodlum.”

I wanted to point at the watch, ask

“That penny ante to you?”

We’d been out for a meal, and it went well. Our barbed, spiky banter had eased a notch and we were getting if not comfortable, at least a little more familiar, but as long as the sexual tension hung over us, there was a vibe. As if reading my mind, she said

“I’m going to sleep with you.”

What do you say?

“Fucking A?”

I said in a serious tone

“I’d like that.”

And she stared into my eyes, went

“Like? You’re going to love it.”

O -kay.

So, I asked

“When?”

And here was the kicker.

“When you get to know my boy a little.”

The following Sunday, I took them to the park, had me old baseball mitt and got the kid playing. He was a quiet little guy but he sure could hit. Took him a time to get the swing of it but he soon began to smack the ball back and I said

“Right out of the ballpark.”

He had a way of looking at you that hit at your very heart and I liked him, liked him a lot, told Shannon and she said

“I know.”

We were getting there.

Two days later, I got shot.

I arranged to meet Todd in a tavern in Brooklyn, not Manhattan. If I was going to confront him then it was going to be where we grew up, let the betrayal seem more stark.

Fucking cop?

Jesus wept.

I now had a piece, courtesy of Griffin. A Browning.45 automatic. He’d said

“Try not to shoot yer balls off.”

At the last minute, I didn’t bring it. I’d moved into my pad in Tribeca, and felt, I dunno, like a fraud. Didn’t belong there and the other tenants, meeting me briefly, seemed to agree. One prick, I said

“How you doing?”

He gave me the look, the one I’ve received all my life, that goes

“Shouldn’t you be coming in the service entrance?”

Yeah, like that.

Tempted to give the Browning a trial run with him and he asked, in a snotty tone

“Are you delivering something?”

I counted to ten and beyond, said

“I live here.”

He moved back, no kidding, stepped back a pace, said

“We’ll see about that.”

Enough.

I grabbed him by his shirt collar, asked

“You threatening me?”

He pushed my hands away, not a touch intimidated, said

“That’s not a threat, that’s a promise. I’m on the building board. We have certain standards. I wasn’t informed we were allowing garbage men to sublet.”

Can you believe it?

I gave a short laugh, said

“Oh, I’ll be taking out the trash buddy and you’ll be it.”

He swaggered off, with the parting shot

“Don’t unpack.”

Jeez, can you believe that shit? I felt like a kid again, at school, when the nuns walloped the holy fuck outa me, just for the practice and I wanted to scream

“What’d I do?”

Song of my life......... what’d I do?

Bollocks to them.

For my meet with Todd — Todd the informer, the goddamn snitch, the turncoat — I put on the Armani suit. Yeah, I’d been to Boyle’s tailor.

Wore a silk shirt, black slip-on cordovans, a tie with the Yankees Crest, splashed on some Tommy Hilfiger cologne, slid the Rolex on my wrist, liked the give of it, and checked myself in the mirror. Said

“Look like a player, buddy.”

Nearly believed it. Last item, I guess I better get it fessed up, I was doing a little nose candy, nothing major, not then, not like I had me a jones or anything but hey, gave me that icy dribble down the back of my throat, and apart from the first blast of a cold one on a humid New York evening, few feelings like that.

Hit my brain like the A train, hard and cold, lightning up my mind. Took a moment, listened to Strummer with “London Calling,” then got the hell outa there.

I was behind the wheel of the Buick. Yeah, Boyle’s. And remembered, sitting on the sink, the Browning, locked and loaded and forgotten.

Shit, blame the coke.

I do.

Met Todd at Moe’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint, run by a guy named Micky Prada, a straight shooter if ever there was one. Micky took one look at me, did a double take, asked

“That you Nicky? The fuck you doing, working on Wall Street?”

Couple of the regulars, they got a real kick outa that. Freaking losers, still hanging at Moe’s. I dunno if there ever was a Moe. Micky had always had the bar. I flipped him off, asked

“You got Seven and Seven?”

He laughed.

“Seagram’s and Seven up? Jameson no good for you no more?”

“Gimme the goddamn drink, alright?”

He poured out a measure, a slight tremor in his hand, and I was glad to see that, slammed it on the bar and I said

“Run a tab. Todd’s coming by.”

One of the jokers at the counter, said

“Yankees choked, you hear?”

I gave him the look, asked

“You hear me talking to you? I ask you anything?”

He rolled his eyes and I grabbed the drink, moved to the back to watch the door. The snow was cruising in my skull and when the booze hit, I felt the jolt. Reason I did the gig. I was cranked.

I was on the other side of my second drink, thinking of maybe another line of powder when Todd showed. He strode in, wearing a battered leather jacket. Pressed jeans, who the fuck ironed jeans?

He did some high fives with Micky. People always liked Todd. Well, except for Boyle and Griffin. He had that effortless charm, when he wanted, an easy grace that said