Tower

I’m skipping the whole deal with the doorman. You wanna know why? Cos I can... well, I can blot it out. Gimme enough Makers Mark or, better, some of that Tennessee hooch, Knob Creek, I can blot out almost anything, even Shannon.

Shannon and her little boy. He was ten years old last Wednesday. Happy birthday little buddy. I taught him how to play ball and for a Down Syndrome kid, he could throw pretty damn good. I think of him, I get an ache above my left lung, from the bullet hole, I tell myself.

It was three days after Griffin went medieval on the doorman’s ass. I was in Rocky Sullivan’s, the joint on Lexington? Yeah, Irish, I know, but what you gonna do? Todd asked me along, he had a hot date... well, hottish. Babe from Long Island, I forget her name and I guess Todd forgets it too. Rocky’s specializes in writers and music. Lots of bands from the Old Sod wash up there and writers, they say you ain’t arrived till you read there. I’d heard Eoin Colfer read there once. Guy had a nice deadpan humor.

That evening, it was open mike... Yeah, you know that lame gig, comedians, poets, singers, whoever, get up there and strut their pathetic efforts. It sure gets you drinking and I didn’t need a whole lot of excuse. The scene in the basement was Technicolor in my mind. Jesus, the blood when Boyle took off the poor bastard’s first finger...

I was sinking Jim Beam, Sam Adams back. Todd was chatting to the babe, extolling the freaking Red Sox. Real smart, bring out a woman and talk sports? He glanced at me as I ordered up a fresh batch, muttered

“Whoa, slow down there tiger.”

I want to think the babe smiled but she was one of those, she figured it would spoil her lip gloss. Yeah, you get the picture. Cute, huh?

I raised my glass, said

“Here’s to the Yankees.”

Followed it with a chug from my bottle of Sam Adams. He didn’t respond, looked at the narrow stage as a tall girl strode up.

A moment.

One split second, your whole life changes. What went before is barren and you’re grabbed by a feeling you never knew existed. I don’t believe in love at first sight. Lust maybe, sure, why the fuck not, but love? Yeah, right. But that’s what happened. The woman, in her late 20s, with long auburn hair, wearing blue jeans, boots and a tank top, wasn’t pretty in any conventional way. Her face had lots of flaws, trace of acne, too long a nose, but hell, cheekbones to die for and she turned for a second, as if assessing the crowd and I saw her eyes, the strangest color, green with flecks of gray and a slight narrowing of her focus, as if she was short sighted. You’ll have gathered I’m a hard ass, not a guy to fall for schmaltz or airy fairy shit but she hit my heart like a goddamn wallop. I actually gulped and like how often is that going to happen?

Smitten.

Good word that. I like it and that’s what I was, right from the get go. Signed, sealed and delivered, baby. Fucked, in other words, and total. Here’s the odd thing. Todd caught it, or spotted something, looked at the woman, then back to me, said

“Who’d have believed it?”

I didn’t answer him, didn’t want that moment spoiled. She took the mike, said

“This is a Neil Young song.”

And launched into

“Powderfinger.”

I swear by all that’s holy that I’d heard that song, lots of times. Who hasn’t?

No biggie.

Now, now it was alchemy, and okay, bear with me here, it sounds like jerk-off rapping but she glowed in the rendition and I could feel Todd’s eyes on me, I wouldn’t look at him.

Would you?

Then she did a Tom Waits song and she was done. Rapturous applause. They fucking flat out loved her. I pitied the bastard who had to go on next. How could you follow that? She went to the bar, started talking to another woman, took a hefty belt from a long neck, no glass, my kind of woman. And I was up, moving towards her, asked

“Can I buy you a beer?”

Without turning, she said

“Fuck off.”

Did I push it, grab her, ask her

“Where’s your goddamn manners?”

Nope.

I slunk back to my seat, tail between my legs, whipped and Todd asked

“Strike out, huh? Just like the Yankees.”

I gave him my granite look, feeling cold fury rising and drained my Beam, shouted at the waitress for another round. Todd’s lady nearly smiled and my evening had gone right down the shitter. Did I take it well?

Like fuck.

Proceeded to get loaded and get myself geared to kick ass, any ass. Todd stood, said

“We’re outa here. Share a cab?”

I glared at him and he warned

“You don’t want to stay here, why don’t you just call it quits? We can hit a club.”

I waved him off and he shrugged, said

“You take it easy buddy. You don’t wanna do something stupid.”

Oh, yes I did.

But first I had to pee. I had to edge past the bar. She was still with her friend, a guy on stage mutilating the English Language with some tribute to Ginsberg. She asked

“What’s the matter with you, you give up that easily?”

Her voice was soft, a slight rough edge but she’d put work in, hard to tell she was from the Bronx. I stared at her, said

“Babe, life’s too short for you fucking with my head.”

She laughed, a rich full one, said

“The amount of booze you’re sinking, your head is already fucked. And don’t call me babe.”

I pushed on. Who needed this crap? The restroom was packed, guys pissing away the week’s wages. A guy shoved against me, knocking me, threatened

“Watch your step, fellah.”

I hit him fast and low, said

“Sorry.”

Then unzipped, let all the beer shower over the dude. His buddy, washing his hands, asked

“The fuck you doing?”

I glared at him and he let it slide. I was kinda sorry.

I came back, feeling vented in every sense, and as I passed her, she handed me a cold one, said

“Sláinte.”

I took the bottle, asked

“You’re Irish?”

She raised her eyebrows, went

“Duh, hello. It’s like a Mick bar. What were you expecting, Romania?”

Fucking mouth on her, she had to be a Mick, just what I needed. I put the bottle on the counter, said

“Shove it.”

And went back to my table, downed some more Beam, simmered afresh. I don’t remember much after that. Those blackouts, a curse and a blessing. Most times, the former.

I woke in my own bed which is miraculous enough, and better, alone. Times, I woke, saw my bed partner, wondered what the hell I’d been doing.

Yeah, that rough.

I was in my clothes so no surprise there and a greenish leg of chicken testified to late night munchies. My stomach heaved and I hit the bathroom, tore my jeans off, checked the pockets and found a slip of paper. Written on it was

And a phone number in the city.

I muttered

“The fuck is that chick at?”

Todd had told me no one calls babes chicks no more, but then he also switched from the Yankees, so like, how much notice was I going to pay him?

Six Advil, a gallon of water, two strong coffees and I was good to roll. Good-ish. Todd and I were to hook up in the Village for another job for Boyle. More and more, we were spending our time on his business. It was starting to pay serious bucks and I was able to give my mother some cash. My old man, seeing me do it, barked

“You’ve got a job?”

I didn’t answer. No reply was going to satisfy him. But he wasn’t through, said

“The boys tell me you’re jobbing for that Boyle.”

The ‘that Boyle’ was loaded with contempt. The boys were his buddies from the force. Course, I should have known they’d be on it. I looked at him, asked

“So?”

He wasn’t able to take his hand to me no more, I was too big, but his face let the thought show. He spat

“Piece of shit hoodlum, gives our race a bad name.”

I decided to fuck with him, said

“He’s been to Ireland three times this past year. How many times you been, Dad, like, in your whole life?”

None.

And well he knew it.

Always meaning to, if... fucking if... the lottery came through or he stopped drinking or the Knicks could win another goddamn championship. My mother intervened

“Will ye stop it? I’ve a nice stew made, and for once, could we just have some peace to enjoy it.”

Yeah, and pigs might fly or the Brits pull out of Northern Ireland.

The stew was thrown against the wall shortly after and I stormed out, Sunday as usual. Happy families on a Brooklyn afternoon.

Todd was leaning against a Buick, a Pall Mall in his mouth, said

“You’re late.”

He had a half smirk building and I figured he’d gotten laid with the lip gloss queen. I asked

“Score?”

He flicked the cigarette high, watched it spin then flutter to the sidewalk, opened the door of the ride, said

“You sure as hell didn’t.”

He was pulling out into traffic and I went

“Shannon, that’s her name.”

Surprised him and he gave me a brief appraisal, said

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope, I got her phone number too.”

He cranked the radio. An old Heart song came on. I sang along in my head. High school, I always had a thing for them. He nodded, said

“I know her.”

I let that sit then

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, used to run with an old buddy of mine. She’s got a kid, a damaged one, something wrong with him. Like mental stuff.”

I didn’t know what to do with this information so I did nothing with it. We were parking alongside a deli and he said

“She’s a ball buster. Way too much broad for you.”

He indicated I was to get out and I volleyed

“Broad? No one calls babes broads any more.”

I think he gave a slight smile, least that’s the way I want to remember it. I asked

“What’s the deal?”

He straightened his back. He’d hurt it in Philly and it gave him lotsa grief, said

“Guy owes some vig.”

I wasn’t packing anything save attitude, asked

“He gonna be a problem?”

Todd pushed the door, said “Let’s find out.”

He was.

I look back on those days and I’m not proud of what we were doing, but hey, we had to eat. The deli guy, big mother with beefy arms, sneered at Todd, said

“Two-bit punk, you come in here, expect me to hand over my hard-earned dough. The fuck is the matter with you? Can’t you find some decent line of work?”

Todd looked bored, even a touch apologetic, which was him at his most unpredictable. He fired up a smoke, blew a perfect ring, said

“You got kids in school, over at St. Mary’s, right?”

The guys face went nuclear. He roared

“You threatening my family, you no good piece of shit? Get the fuck outa my place before I come over the counter.”

Todd dropped the cigarette, didn’t stub it out, said

“Hey, no need, I’m coming over myself.”

And vaulted the counter in one fluid movement, his back not troubling him then and had the guy in a neck choke, a cleaver under his lips, said

“Want me to take your tongue out?”

This brought back the scene with the doorman and I felt bile rise in my throat. The only two customers were edging towards the exit. The deli guy had balls, I’ll give him that. He managed to spit, the phlegm landing near my shoe. Todd said

“I love it, a hard case.”

And he dug the knife into the guy’s neck. Let it sit for a moment then let him slide to the floor. He grabbed an apple, took a huge bite, said

“Tangy.”

And we were out of there, back in the car, burning rubber. I was trying to catch my breath, and finally managed

“Gee, that was smart, killing him.”

Todd let the window down, flipped the apple core out and said

“It looked worse than it was. An old Boston trick. They think you severed the jugular but it’s only an artery. No biggie. He’ll have a re-focus and presto, the payment will come through. You get your neck slit, it narrows your agenda.”

I didn’t know who he was anymore, if I ever really had. We’d been buddies so long, I never gave any thought as to whether I actually liked him. At that moment, I fucking flat out hated him. He lit another cig, asked

“So, you and Boyle. Tight, huh?”

I savored that, much as he had the apple and sour. Oh yeah. I said

“He doesn’t much like you.”

Todd laughed. Went

“Who the fuck does?”

But he was right. The following week, the deli guy came through.

I called Shannon, my palms covered in sweat, a chick making me nervous. She answered on the third ring and I said

“It’s me.”

A slight intake of breath, then

“I’m going to need a little more than that, fellah.”

She knew, course she did. But hoops, I had to jump through ’em. I sighed, then

“Rocky Sullivan’s, I liked your singing, tried to buy you a brew.”

Another beat, then

“Oh, the drunk Mick. What do you want?”

Jesus.

I nearly slammed the receiver down and how different everything would have been. I wouldn’t have spent ten months in this forsaken shit hole for one but... what? ...I was determined to get the better of her, said

“Hey, you’re the one put your number in my pocket.”

She laughed, that rich sound, said

“I guess I was a little shitfaced me own self, you think?”

And the whole tone of her voice changed. I arranged to take her to a movie the following night. She said she’d meet me on Fifth and 33rd. It crossed my mind that I could have collected her but maybe she didn’t want me to see the damaged kid. I asked myself

“So, her having a kid, how’s that sitting with you all?”

Not easily.

Dress to impress.

Good base plan but the little voice in my head cautioned that she wasn’t going to be easily won over. If I wore a suit, she’d spit on me, that was a given. Too casual, she’d think I didn’t give a flying fuck.

And I did.

So I went to The Gap. You might look like the all-American asshole but at least a tidy one. Chinos, Converse All-Stars, not too new, scuffed along the sides, like I’d been shooting baskets, and a navy blue shirt, accessorize my eyes. A hooker told me that and for a hundred, I felt like believing her. She didn’t of course let me kiss her on the mouth, they never do. Give you a blow job but kissing on the lips? Fuggedditaboutit.

I debated my Yankees jacket but didn’t really want to get into a whole biggie about sports, settled for my battered bomber leather. It had loads of pockets so that was a plus, gave me an Indiana Jones vibe. Tiny hint of cologne, gotta ration that shit real slow or a chick will have your ass, you smell better than her. Checked myself in the mirror, all the young dudes, and gave my hair a careless flick, get that outa bed gig. Hummed Wham’s “Careless Whisper” and I was out of there.

She was late. Gee, what a surprise and when she finally showed, I said

“You’re late.”

She stared at me, then

“What happened to ‘Hello, you look nice?’”

She did, look nice, real nice. White jeans, black T-shirt and Keds. A light tan set the whole deal off. I was standing outside the movie, pointed at the times, said

“We’ve missed the opening.”

She clutched her heart, said

“Oh no, how can I go on?”

Then she linked my arm, said

“C’mon. I’ll buy you a beer and you can do guy stuff like talk about yourself for three hours.”

I smiled in spite of myself.

It was one of those golden New York evenings, not too humid, a light breeze off the Hudson and a buzz in the air. She said

“Let’s walk till we see a place that sings to us.”

Is there an answer to this, an answer that seems related to logic?

She wrinkled her nose, said

“Whoa, buddy. Got a little carried away with the aftershave.”

Fuck on a bike.

She squeezed my arm, said

“Just jerking your chain. You smell real nice.”

And found ourselves on West 44th, the Mansfield Hotel, across the road were The Algonquin and The Iroquois. She said

“James Dean slept there.”

Like I gave a fuck where he slept. Her face had taken on a wistful look. She added

“You look a little like ol’ Jimmy, you know that?”

I said

“Jerking my chain again.”

She stopped, looked me full in the face, said

“Hey, someone gives you a compliment, you go, thank you very much. Okay, you down with that?”

Like I was going to get into a big thing about some fucking dead movie star. I let it slide with

“Whatever.”

She ran a hand through her hair, something I wanted to do and badly, said

“You’re a defensive guy, anyone ever told you that?”

I was tired of losing every round so snapped

“Maybe I’ve got good reason.”

Like that was going to fly.

She was right on it.

“And what, the rest of us don’t? Hello? But guess what? We’re out for an evening, want to have nice time, we bend a little. You think you can do that, bend a bit?”

The hell with it, I said

“Like a blade in the wind.”

We settled on The Algonquin, and the first thing I saw was a fat white cat on a pillow, in the lobby. I don’t mean a guy in a suit, I mean your actual feline. We went into the bar, got ourselves a window table and before we ordered, Shannon asked

“You read?”

“Sure, the Daily News.”

“What happened to the bending?”

I had a Bud and she went for a glass of white wine, saying

“It’s that kind of place.”

I was thinking it was just another tourist trap and checked the bar list, said

“Sure do know how to up the ante.”

She gave a tiny smile, said

“Class is always going to cost.”

Which is a crock and did I say so?

Nope.

She was toying with the wine. I’d sunk the beer and fast, ordered another and she covered the rim of her glass. What? I was going to force her? Not sure if it was the smart thing, I asked

“So your kid, how old is he?”

Her eyes lit up, no fooling. I thought that only happened when you snorted some particularly fine coke. It was like she was shot through with energy and you know what? Goddamn it to hell, I felt jealous, of some dumb-ass kid I didn’t even know. I wanted her to light up like that for me.

Dumb, huh?

Her words came out in a torrent, spilling over each other in their joy.

“Sean, Sean is eight now. He’s a real tough little dude. He’s got Down Syndrome. When he was born and the doctor told me, I thought my world was done. My heart was crushed, a handicapped kid, and me... me... to look after him?”

The brightness in her eyes was shadowed. A touch of, I dunno, self-recrimination. She continued

“You know about mosaicism?”

Yeah, right.

She nodded, explained

“It’s a type of Down’s that means he’s not affected mentally but physically,” and God forgive me, she actually made the sign of the cross. Jeez, I hadn’t seen that in a while, then

“If I had to make a choice, I’d have him mentally all right. The physical side we can work on and we do.”

I decided to go for broke, get it out of the way, asked

“His father?”

She reached for the wine, drained half, gulped, then

“Jeff’s not the worst.”

The Irish, they say that, like I’d heard my old man do, they mean you’re a shithead. I figured I was doing okay, batting an even five hundred fifty, pushed

“And Jeff, you see him?”

She gave me a look like, was I serious? Said

“He’s Sean’s father, course I see him.”

Fuck.

Then she focused and spat

“Oh, I get it. You’re asking do I, like, sleep with him?”

Well, yeah.

I protested, a bit too much but she waved it off, said

“None of your fucking business.”

So I figured, yeah, she was balling him. I wanted another beer but she said

“You know, I’m going to call it a night. Got to get up early for work.”

I’d fucked up, yeah, screwed the whole deal. Outside, she hailed a cab, asked

“Drop you?”

Wasn’t she already doing that?

I said

“No, I’m good.”

She reached over, kissed me full on the mouth, said

“I’d ask you to come home with me but you probably don’t on a first date. So call me, we’ll have Friday night, a real whoopee evening.”

And she was gone.

What did I think? Fuck knows, nothing positive.

Boyle broke my nose.

Wallop.

Right across the desk, out of nowhere.

One minute, I was sipping an espresso and next, I was jumping up, hot coffee burning my crotch and the pain of the damned in the center of my face. He was asking about the deli owner and I’d said

“No prob.”

Griffin of course, was standing to his right and I was keeping my eye on him. Boyle was resting his hand on the good book, had earlier quoted me a piece from Revelation.

It was a revelation to me that the fuck could read.

Then he’d lunged across the desk.

He sat back, massaging his knuckles, adjusting his tweed vest, said

“Do I have your attention?”

Griffin was smiling. Looked more like a rictus. I tried to get my eyes in gear, the pain in my burned crotch as bad as the sledgehammer to my nose. A trickle of blood poured into my mouth. I mumbled

“Yes, sir”.

Thinking, you fucking bastard.

He tossed some tissues at me, said

“Now clean up and get your head straight.”

I went to the restroom, and in the mirror, saw my nose slanted to the left. It was already swelling. I managed to stem the blood but wouldn’t you know, I’d elected that day to wear a white shirt. Not white no more. Electric stabs of agony were shooting to my startled brain. I cleaned up as best I could and returned to the office, trying to rein in my rage. Boyle was laughing out loud, something Griffin had told him. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of frivolity, said

“The guy who ran the deli, he could have gone to the cops and the last thing I need is heat. You get what I’m saying?”

I nodded and even that drew pain from my face. He gave me a long intense look, then

“That’s going to give you a bit of character. Make you seem like a tough guy. You want that, eh, be a hard arse?”

How on earth do you answer that, especially to the man who just re-arranged your features? I mumbled something about wanting to do the best I could by him, brown-nosing, if you’ll forgive the play on words, telling myself, suck it up, your time will come and we’ll see about toughness. My old man had his nose broken in a street brawl and I don’t know if it toughened him but it sure soured him. At last we had something in common.

I nearly missed Boyle’s question.

“Your buddy, Todd, how tight are you guys?”

Figured out that this was loaded so went for

“He’s a Red Sox fan, what can I tell you?”

And Boyle loved that, slapped the desk, the fuck, always slapping something, said

“Fucking turncoat, the likes of him, back home...” He meant Ireland. Home was freaking Hoboken “... we call them informers. They dropped a dime on us every time we got a rebellion going, sons of bitches. How you going to trust a cunt who deserts the Yankees?”

Griffin was quivering. This was obviously where he lived. Anything to do with betrayal, hatred, got his mojo cranked. Boyle indicated him, said

“You’re going to be trailing along with my Mr. G this evening. How’d that sit with you?”

Not good.

I was hoping to have another round of verbal warfare with Shannon. I said

“That’s cool.”

Griffin spoke, his voice startling me

“Be here at 7:00 sharp. Wear black.”

Despite my nose or because of it, I shot back

“A funeral, is it?”

Leveled those ferret dead eyes on me, said

“Will be if you fuck up.”