Tower

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.

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?