Tower

A week at home hadn’t done much but make things worse. My nerves were raw, ends frayed by the time I hit the Boston train. Think I would have walked if Boyle had asked. Wanted out, out of my dad’s house, out of Brooklyn, out of my own skin. Settled for out of Brooklyn.

I’d seen Boyle only once again after our dinner in Sheepshead Bay, back at his office, Griffin, as always, by his side. It was then he handed me my ticket and an envelope fat with cash.

“You mind yourself,” he said. “Rudi’s a tough son of a bitch, but do what he says and you’ll be well served.”

“What’s the money for?”

“Think of it as an advance.”

“An advance?”

“Don’t worry, boyo. You’ll earn every penny.”

Griffin curled his lip at that. Nodded his head slightly in agreement. This was serious. For Griffin this was practically a display of fear. I didn’t give a shit. Thought, bring it on. Bring the fucker on. Went back to Brooklyn, laid in my bedroom for days trying not to think about what I couldn’t stop thinking about. Memory is the curse of humankind. Wondered did dogs or cats torture themselves this way? Christ, hoped not, the poor fuckers. Nicky kept calling. Went drinking with him again, but only for an hour and not at Axel’s. Tried to bring Leeza up once. Saw the look on my puss and segued quickly to another subject. Smart man, my old pal Nick. My dad steered clear. The only time in my life I appreciated his near invisibility. Thanks, pops!

Dreamed a lot during the week. Kept picturing Leeza swinging from the big old oak in front of our house. Could never see her face in the dreams, but I knew it was her. The neighbors didn’t seem to notice or, if they did, they didn’t care. Apparently, as long as it wasn’t that miserable bitch Sophie, any naked woman could hang herself in front of my old house. Wonder what Robert Frost would have made of my neighbors. And yeah, fuckhead, I know who Robert Frost was.

The whole train ride up I occupied myself by thinking of just how O’Connor knew I’d be asked up to Boston. Was he like psychic? Maybe he’d called the Psychic Hotline and they’d seen it in the stars. You’ll meet the woman of your dreams. You’ll have a bright future if you invest in high tech start-ups. And, by the way, that schmuck you’re training will be asked to work in Boston. Somehow doubted that’s the way it went.

O’Connor had a snitch on the inside in Boston. That gave me cold comfort. Meant that someone up there would know who I was, what I was. Didn’t need police training to know that a rat has a peculiar sense of loyalty, loyalty to self. If the rat was willing to flip on a guy who scared Griffin, he wouldn’t think twice about rolling on me to save his own neck. Brooklyn schooled me on that.

Boston, Philadelphia, anywhere: all equals to me. A fat, unshaven bastard with a wind-fucked comb-over met me at the station. Smelled like beer and onions and his jeans rode low enough to reveal the top of his plumber’s crack. Delightful. Said his name was Finney. Guess I believed him. Didn’t offer to shake my hand. Worked for me. Wanted as little personal contact with old Finney as could be managed. Just sitting in the front seat of his 1979 Buick Electra 225 made me want to shower. The vinyl stank worse than the driver and the carpeting, what was left of it, was covered in cigarette filters, beer cans, and porno magazines.

“Watch the hole in the floor,” was the other sentence Finney had uttered.

Oh, didn’t I mention the fucking floor had rusted through and I could see the streets of Boston close up as we went to wherever it was we were going? Well, I thought, it was only up from here. Shows you what I knew.

Rode into a dingy area of crooked streets, wood row houses, and bleak faces. Was like the sun didn’t shine on this part of town. Reminded me of the pictures from my history textbooks of nineteenth century England. The kids on the streets moved like snakes, wary and coiled to strike. Knew the posture well. Thought Nicky might have liked it here, Nicky or the Artful Dodger. Finney stopped in an alleyway behind a small brick warehouse.

The fat man pointed at the backdoor like the ghost of Christmas Future pointing at my grave. He was his usual talkative self. Wondered who’d win the debate between him and Griffin. Griffin, no doubt. He’d just cut Finney’s fat throat. Stepped through the door into New England’s contribution to my personal hell.

Inside was musty, dank, but an improvement indeed over close proximity to Finney. There was no one around. A step van that had been crudely painted brown with rollers and brushes was backed up to a quiet loading dock. Then above me, at my back, I heard a muffled knocking. Turned to see a man at the window of a second floor office gesturing me to come up. Found the stairs.

Satan was a skinny fucker with wispy gray hair, keen blue eyes and a happy mouth too big for his gaunt face.

“Take a load off, fella.” He smiled broad and bright as the gates to heaven. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip as he spoke. Must’ve been glued on as it never once seemed in danger of falling. “Jaysus, ya must be wrecked from yer trip. Sorry ya had to suffer Finney’s company, but I had no one else available to send for ya. A beer.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Sure.”

He handed me a Sam Adams, cold as Griffin’s heart. Sat myself down in an ancient office chair.

“Love the stuff me own self,” he said, taking a bottle. “That Harp shite from home is but blond piss for pussies.” And like Griffin, this guy was a native speaker, not the cartoon equivalent. “I’m Rudi. It’s not me given name, but it’s who I am. And you’d be Todd?”

“I would.”

“I know you boys down there in Brooklyn are tough fookers, but this is a different world. The rules of the road don’t apply.”

“Figure that’s why I’m here.”

“Boyle told me ya were a smart bastard. I like that. The less I need explain, the greater the benefit. Better to say nowt to a man who can read a map for himself.”

Just shook my head and drank.

He smiled that smile at me again. The sun might not shine outside, but it did in here. Rudi seemed as fierce as a twig and with as much heft. Guessed he liked it that way. Always better to be underestimated. He could see me sizing him up. Read my mind.

“Prefer to be underestimated, I do, and never to make the same mistake about my enemies. You’d figured by now that I’m not sweet as cane sugar and you’d be right. Did Griffin not say anything about me to ya?”

“Griffin doesn’t say anything to anyone about anybody, but his face speaks sometimes. That was enough for me.”

“Good. Let’s be off. I’ll drop you at your place in Cambridge.”

“Cambridge?”

“Yer no Southie,” he said, showing me out to his ’85 Coupe de Ville. “Besides, you’ve already served half yer purpose in me having ya up here.”

“Finney,” I said.

“Jaysus and his blessed mother, yer even smarter than advertised. Before we get halfway to yer flat, he will have told me boyos about ya.”

“They’ll figure I’m outside talent brought in to see to one of them. You wanna see who runs and who stays. You’ve got a rat problem.”

“Feckin’ rodents. Easy to kill ’em, but tough to flush the fookers out a their holes. If ya were ever to tire of working for Boyle, I’d take ya on.”

Ignored that. “Funny thing about Finney, you say he’s a talker, but he said no more than ten words to me from the time he picked me up at the station.”

“He wouldn’t talk to ya, now would he?”

“You think he’s the snitch?”

Rudi had a good laugh at that. His laugh, like the rest of him, could fool you. It was deep and resonant. “Not Finney. He’s a stupid bastard. Good for collections and the occasional muscle, but would have neither the stones nor the wherewithal to parlay what little he knows into transit fare. No, it’s one of the smart ones. Always is,” he said, staring right at me.

“Hey, don’t look at me! I just got here.”

He laughed again. Good thing one of us did.

My flat was a one bedroom rented apartment on the top floor of a small Victorian just off Massachusetts Avenue. It was as close to Harvard as I was likely to get. My destiny, always a few blocks from the Ivy League. Handed me an envelope not nearly as fat as the one Boyle had given me.

“The key’s in there along with a small wedge. I own the building under another name, so no one will bother ya here. It should be a while till I call again, so relax a bit. Learn the city’s charms, which are legion. Catch a ball game at Fenway. Locally, there’s a fine barbeque establishment just down the block and bookstore around the bend there on Mass Ave.”

“Thanks, Rudi.” Shook his hand.

“If things work as I hope, please God, it’s me that’ll be thanking you. By the way, feel free to use the phone and the appliances. Enjoy yer time in Boston.”

Watched him drive away, the taillights of his old Cadillac disappearing around the corner. Between Finney and Rudi their rides were older than time itself. At least Rudi’s Caddy had solid floorboards. And they call Jews cheap. No, it was real estate above all else made an Irishman feel wealthy. The rest of the trappings were inconsequential. Boyle too had most of his holdings in real estate. Guess maybe they had a point.

The apartment had its own entrance in the rear and was spotlessly clean and stocked with furniture older than manned space flight. But it was good solid furniture, if not exactly trend-setting in style. The appliances, however, were bizarrely incongruous. There was like a huge flat screen TV in the living room. There was a restaurant quality Viking stove and a Sub Zero fridge in the kitchen. Assumed all the appliances had fallen off the truck at Logan Airport or on the piers. It was just the same at JFK. If it fell off the truck on Monday, I was wearing it, using it, or selling it by Wednesday.

Unpacked my suitcase and checked out the fridge. It was empty but for a six pack of Sam Adams. Took one and plopped myself down on the plaid cushions of the colonial couch and learned the ins and outs of my big screen TV. Strange, but an hour had passed without me once thinking of Philly or Leeza or O’Connor. Thought I might get to like Boston. Even fell into the first dreamless, peaceful sleep I’d had in some time.

Waking, I felt as if I could breathe again. Leeza was there, front and center, but some of the bitter edge had been bevelled off. The windows had darkened and, for a change, the hunger was in my belly instead of my heart.

After a half rack of ribs, pulled pork and a beer at the barbeque joint Rudi had recommended, walked past my new house on the way to the bookstore he’d mentioned.

It wasn’t like any kind of bookstore I’d ever been in before. It was on the ground floor of a red clapboard house and the only stuff they stocked were mysteries and detective novels. Never been much for fiction, let alone crime novels. I mean, like I didn’t have to make it up, right? The occasional book next to my bed would be about WWII or the building of the atomic bomb or some such shit.

Felt more lost in that bookstore than I did in Philly. It was like wall to wall books with huge stacks piled up in the aisles. The paperbacks were squeezed so tightly together you wouldn’t’ve been able to fit a dancing angel between any two of them.

“You seem like you can use some help,” an invisible voice called to me.

Looked around and there, seated behind the counter, was a big earth momma with a friendly face. She wore glasses, let her hair straggle, but had a presence that was hard to explain.

“Not much for fiction,” I said.

“Don’t read this stuff, huh?”

“Never.”

She called out to someone lurking in the stacks. “Continental Op. Maltese Falcon. Red Harvest. The Long Goodbye. Farewell, My Lovely. The Little Sister.” Then she turned back to me. “Visiting?”

“Moved in around the corner.”

A spinster-ish woman appeared before us with six paperbacks in her hands. She placed them on the counter and receded into the shadows.

“Here,” the earth momma said, putting the books in a bag. “You take those and see what you think.”

Reached for my wallet, but she waved me off. “You’ll be back. Pay me then.”

“Seem pretty sure about that.”

“I been in the business a long time. I’ll take my chances on you.”

Didn’t argue. Thanked her and dropped the bag at the apartment. Stared at the phone and thought about calling Nick. Didn’t. What would I have said? That I had bought books? Might have impressed Nick’s dad, but not Nicky. Wasn’t sure what would impress him anymore. Felt the walls closing in. Like I said, the edge was off a bit, not gone.

Found a bar near Harvard Square, an Irish pub. Big surprise, right? Like finding salt in the ocean. It was pretty empty. Ordered a Harpoon Ale, turned to watch the Red Sox game on the tube. Didn’t actually give a fuck about the Red Sox. No Yankee fan could say that. Sometimes, it seemed Yankee fans like Nick cared more about the Red Sox failing than the Yankees winning. Failing, now there’s something I was well acquainted with, being raised a Mets fan and all.

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.

“We’re about two miles away,” he said and handed me his cell phone.

Dialed the number wrong a few times, then got it right. Whispered into the mouth piece. Erased the call off his phone and handed it back.

“How close are we now?” I asked.

“Two blocks.”

“Stop and point the way.”

He was happy to oblige, especially after I put another hundred in his hand. As he turned back around, pressed the cold muzzle of my.38 to the nape of his neck.

“If you fuck with me and I find out you took my money and opened your mouth, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you through the liver. Do we understand one another?”

He nodded that he did. When I got out, he didn’t wait to see if I was moving in the right direction. Soon the only trace of the cab having ever been there was the faint smell of its exhaust.

Street was a fucking wreck. Every other house had a foreclosure sign up on its dirt and hardscrabble lawn. And it wasn’t like the rest of the homes were candidates for a glossy photo shoot. The second most popular sign on the block was BEWARE OF DOG. Would have to be aware of more than just pit bulls and Rottweilers. There were tire-less cars up on cinder blocks behind the cyclone fencing in nearly every yard. The one good thing about the ruined landscape was that I could very clearly see the house that belonged to the address written on the scrap of paper in my pocket. It was the only well-lit place on the block.

Finney’s rusted piece of shit was parked out front. A guy whose face I could not make out, but who was way too thin to be Finney, was pacing a rut in the broken sidewalk. The red glowing tip of his cigarette zigzagged back and forth, back and forth. My bet was there was at least one other guy around beside the one out front and Finney. Not like I was a novice at this crap. When I did “jobs” for Boyle, he didn’t send his whole crew. Usually two or three guys, four at most. The more people you involve, the greater the chances are that someone will fuck up. The more people involved, the harder it is to keep control. Conversely, the fewer people in on a job, the fewer that can get caught or flip.

Had to move fast. Got down in a crouch, moving quickly and quietly along the same side of the street as the house in which I assumed Kathleen was being held. Passing each house, I’d silently swing open their front gates. Then I’d pull the gate close to me so that I was sandwiched between the gate and the fence at my back. First and second houses yielded nothing. House number three? Bingo! A humongous Rottweiler came barreling through the open gate. Made an attempt to get at me, but after snagging a tooth on the fencing, he gave up, moving on to the next best target; the shithead pacing in front of the target house. Let the massive fucker get a good twenty feet ahead of me before following. Didn’t want him to change his mind or direction.

The relative silence of the night was broken by a sickening scream. The dog was all over the cigarette smoker. The Rottweiler growled as he tore into the man’s flesh. Got close enough to see the blood come shooting out of the guy’s thigh. The thin bastard was smart enough to try and guard his throat from the dog, but made the mistake of going for his piece. As soon as he removed one hand from his throat, the Rottweiler went for it. Now the man was flailing aimlessly, panic having overwhelmed him.

Another man, big, built like a middle linebacker, came charging out of the house, a 9mm or.40 caliber in his hand. He tried pulling the dog off his friend with his free hand, but when he saw that wasn’t going to work, he blew a hole through the Rottweiler’s massive head. The dog collapsed and the shooter pushed him off his partner. The thin guy’s body was twitching, blood pouring out of his neck with decreasing force. When the big guy knelt down to see if he could help, I whacked him across the back of his skull with a chunk of concrete. He went down but not immediately out. Took care of that with a kick to his jaw. Heard his neck snap. Added both dead men’s guns to my collection.

Thought about throwing something through the front window and sneaking around back. Didn’t have the time. Charged through the front door, a pistol in each hand. Nothing. Then the house went dark. Blackness. Heavy steps. Floorboards creaking. Heard a sound that would make even the bravest man shiver. Cha-ching! A shotgun being racked. Something hard and round pressed into my ribs.

“Move asshole!” Finney.

Got me to the basement door and shoved me down the steps. Didn’t lose consciousness when I hit the wet floor, but I was a little disoriented. Listened to his heavy steps behind me. Smelled him as he stepped over me. Beer, sex, and onions. His meaty paws yanking out the guns still clutched in my hands. He tossed them. Stepped away. A switch clicked. Lights came on. Wish they hadn’t.

The basement floor was wet not with water but with blood. A foot or two away from me was a very naked, very dead man. Even in my hazy state of awareness, I could tell he was worse for wear. There was a hunting knife sticking out from where his left eye used to sit. There were burn marks and welts all over his body. And as my eyes refocused, I noticed his ears had been crudely sliced off. The thickened blood on the sides of his head told me that he’d been alive when the ears were removed. Another part of his anatomy had also been removed and relocated to his mouth. Was glad to have missed the butchering.

Heard something, a muffled moan. Kathleen!

“Get up, pig!” Finney ordered, shotgun pointed at my chest.

Kathleen was nude, tied down to a workbench with wire that had cut through her wrists and ankles. Her head was clamped in a vise. Duct tape covered her mouth. She too had cigarette burns on her body.

Charged. “You motherfucker! I’ll—”

He swung the butt of the shotgun and caught me in the jaw. I staggered backwards nearly tripping over the dead man, but didn’t go down. My back was now against the wall of the basement.

“Shut the fuck up!” he barked. “You piece a shit cop. See that rat on the floor there? That snitch fuck was Rudi’s favorite boyo. Good thing I know people on the cops who like to earn on the side or that cocksucker woulda brought us all down. Take a good fucking look at him. That’s where you’re headed in a few minutes. But first I’m gonna make you watch me kill your girlfriend here.”

“Leave her the fuck alone!”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” He waved the shotgun at me again. “Besides, she’s already asked me to kill her about twenty times already. The first time I stuck my cock in her asshole, she practically fucking begged me. She didn’t like it too much either when I squeezed her head a little. Like this.”

He stepped by the bench, took a hand off the scatter gun, ripped the tape off her mouth, and twisted the vise handle. Kathleen’s squealed. Her body jerked with pain, the wire biting further into her flesh. A car pulled to the curb outside. Finney heard the car too. He looked up. Had to move now.

Reached behind me and retrieved the.38 tucked between my belt and the small of my back. The stupid fat fuck had neglected to roll me over when he took the guns out of my hands. First shot caught him slightly above the heart. He twisted to his right. The shotgun flashed, then roared. Second shot caught him in the side of the head. He was on his way to hell before he hit the floor. Heard voices upstairs, feet rushing, pounding. Finney had fulfilled Kathleen’s wish. He’d killed her. The shotgun blast had torn away the left side of her chest. By the time they pulled me off Finney’s lifeless carcass, I had nearly cut his head off using the hunting knife. And by that time, I had come to realize I’d done as much as Finney to seal Kathleen’s fate. Griffin’s words about violence rang in my ears. Once you cross the line, you cross the line.

“Ah, jaysus!” Rudi.

Turned to see him crossing himself. That was the last bit of humanity in him.

“Start talking, boyo.” He eyed me coldly, pressing the still smoking shotgun to my temple. I’d seen more compassion in the eyes of an insect.

“Well, I served my purpose. There’s your rat,” I said, pointing at Finney. “This dead guy here missing his ears and the eye was like that when I got here. Finney didn’t mention his name.”

“Tommy Mac,” Rudi obliged.

“Tommy Mac found out about Finney from a source inside the cops. At least that’s what Finney said. So Finney killed him and then lured me down here by... Well, you can see how. He was going to set it up that Tommy Mac was the rat, that I found out about it. Finney was gonna make it look like Tommy Mac killed me and the girl. Finney was gonna come to the rescue, but too late. Then he would prove his loyalty to you by torturing the rat to death. His ass would be covered and he’d be even closer to you.”

Story had holes, but it was pretty good given that I’d just killed my first three men and was half crazy with guilt. Rudi wasn’t buying it.

“Might believe it if it were any man but Finney.”

“You said it your own self, Rudi. You underestimated him.”

Nothing convinces a man better than his own words thrown back in his face. I saw Rudi’s eyes return to their mammalian incarnation and knew I had saved my fairly worthless life. He pulled the shotgun away.

“Ya done good, pal. There’ll be a bonus in it for ya.”

Not an “I’m sorry about the girl” or “What a terrible price to have to pay”, but a bonus.

“Take him back to the safehouse and get him fixed up,” Rudi said to one of his minions.

Felt hands lifting me up and moving me along.

“What about—?”

“Quiet now, boyo,” he shushed me. “I’ll clean up the mess.

In that second, I came to hate Rudi more than I could ever hate Finney or anyone else. Ever!