Tower

I opened my eyes, a dryness in my mouth and an ache in my head, my chest. Turned my head. Bad idea. The nausea struck and realized I was in the hospital, Todd sitting shotgun by my bed. I croaked

“Come to finish the job?”

He was slumped in the chair, a long black duster gathered round him, his scuffed cowboy boots stretched along the floor. He sat up, his eyes tired, went

“You think I shot you?”

“Did you?”

He reached for a jug of water, poured a glass, offered it to me, said

“It was me, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”

He tilted my head, got some water in my parched mouth. I tried to gulp it and he pulled back, said

“Whoa, easy. You don’t want to take too much. You gotta ease down slow.”

A drip was attached to my right arm and my head really burned. He said

“You were thrown back against the wall. Knocked your fool self cold.”

The door burst open and I mean burst, not opened gently. My mother, hysteria in full riot, going

“My baby, are you all right?”

Then whirled on Todd.

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

Jesus.

I tried to get my voice level, said

“Mom, I’m okay, really, you don’t need to fret.”

Whoops.

She was off.

“Not fret? And what about your poor father, he’s near had a heart attack, what about that?”

I wanted to go

“Oh, like sorry, I’m goddamn shot and he’s what, upset?”

I said

“Will he be coming by?”

Like an echo, she went

“Coming by? The poor man couldn’t eat breakfast.”

God forbid he miss a freaking meal.

She looked at her watch, a cheap plastic job my old man gave her for their anniversary. I checked my wrist, no Rolex, she went

“I’ve got to get back to your father...”

And was gone.

I wanted to shout

“Where’s my grapes, my bowl of restoring stew?”

The door opened, a guy in his fifties came in, wearing a battered sports jacket and his whole weariness screamed the heat. He nodded at Todd, produced a badge, gold one, asked me,

“You up to a few questions, Mr. Barrett? I’m Lieutenant Ortiz, OCCB.”

Todd stood, said

“I gotta scoot. I’ll drop by later.”

A look passed between him and Ortiz. A cop look?

And Todd added

“With grapes.”

Ortiz pulled up a chair, asked

“Mind if I sit?”

And if I did?

He took out a notepad, said

“Your old man was on the job?”

I nodded and rang the call button. The pain in my chest was fierce. A nurse appeared, asked

“How are we today?”

Who, me and Ortiz?

I said

“I’m hurting, like, real bad.”

She tutted, like she didn’t believe a word of it, said

“The doctor will be doing his rounds shortly. I’m sure he’ll prescribe something.”

And she began fluffing the pillows. They learn that in nursing school. When in doubt, fluff the freaking pillows. I snapped

“They’re fine.”

She gave me that tolerant smile you give precocious kids, said

“Bit cranky are we?”

And was gone. Just like my mother.

Ortiz gave some form of laugh, more a snigger then said

“You’re one of Boyle’s crew?”

I stared at him then said

“So?”

He flipped a page of his pad. How many pages did he have on me?

Then

“You lie down with scumbags, you’re gonna get flak.”

I tried to act like this was priceless information and made mmm noises. Mainly as I know how fucking irritating it is. He fixed his eyes on me, the cop special, asked

“Any idea who’d want to take you out?”

I shrugged and he added

“Next time you might not be so lucky.”

He stood up, then

“Lemme give you a bit of advice, sonny.”

I drank some water, noisily, and he said

“Because of your old man, we’re cutting you some slack but don’t depend on it. You’re a punk and when we find your sorry ass in an alley, you think we’re gonna shed any tears?”

He headed for the door and I said

“Forgot anything?”

Got to him and he frowned. I said

“Where’s the bit about not leaving town?”

He put his pad in his jacket, wiped at his mouth and said

“You have a mouth on you, you know that? But if I had a nickel for every two-bit shithead with an attitude, I’d be rich.”

I’d have fucking killed for a double espresso and a line of coke. Or a clean shot of Bourbon. Jesus wept, I was in pain. The doctor swept in with a retinue of cowered nurses, interns or what the fuck ever those trainee doctors are. I said to myself

“Incoming.”

I’d been on a diet of Nam movies: Apocalypse Now, Go Tell the Spartans... not Platoon though, that was like Nam lite. I had me an obsession with Coppola. Knew the dude did forty cups of espresso a day. How fucked is that? Made me like him even more, cos I dug it. He fitted in with my whole world view: fucked.

The doctor checked my chart, without turning to the horde huddled behind him, said

“Gunshot wound, above the heart.”

I cut through the shit, asked

“What happened to ‘Good morning and how are we today?’ What happened to that gig?”

One of the followers gave a suppressed laugh and the doctor whirled, shouted

“That funny, you think a gunshot is funny?”

Jeez, talk about a heavy number. He moved toward me, examined the wound, made mmm sounds which told me absolutely nothing other than that I was in deep shit. He stood back, said

“You can leave today. The dressing will need to be changed daily. Come back for a check up in five days.”

Then he turned and walked out, the posse scuttling behind. I wanted to shout

“God bless.”

After the nurse changed the dressing, and I attempted the breakfast, I asked for my clothes.

She indicated a wardrobe, said

“Your shirt had to be thrown out but your jeans and jacket are there. Your friend, the one who got you this private room, he left you a clean T-shirt.”

Her tone hinted that she was not fond of people who got special treatment. I opened the closet and in all its red glory, was the T with, you guessed it, The Red Sox. I turned it inside out, preferred to look stupid than Boston, which might amount to the same thing. I was pulling my boots on, groaning, when Shannon walked in. She looked tired, circles under her eyes and her hair like she couldn’t find a brush. I’d have finger combed it for her. She appraised me, said

“You look shot.”

I stood up and felt a slight wave of dizziness but that might have been down to her. I asked

“How’d you know I was here?”

“It was on the news.”

I didn’t know, was she angry, sympathetic, what? Her words had an edge but then, they usually did. I asked

“Want to walk me off the premises?”

I signed the release forms and she stood at my side, then

“Why are you wearing your T-shirt inside out?”

Before I could answer, she moved her arms round me and kissed me full on the mouth, to the delight of a passing nurse. Pulling back, Shannon whispered

“I’m so sorry.”

I blew it off, went

“Hey, it’s just a flesh wound, no biggie.”

She was shaking her head, said

“No, I mean, it’s my fault.”

I moved a step, looked at her, tears in her eyes, and asked

“You shot me?”

She took my hand, said

“Let’s get a cab, get the hell out of here. I hate hospitals.”

We got the cab and a surly driver. Shannon gave her address and then slumped back in the seat, said

“Jeff, my ex. He shot you.”

Real conversation stopper, that.

Her apartment was in North Brooklyn, the Polish enclave of Greenpoint. This had in recent years become the über-trendy merging of North Williamsburg and Hasidic South Williamsburg. The building was in good shape, lots of flower boxes on windows, bright painted doors, an air of bohemia but with cash. I asked

“You afford this?”

She shrugged, said

“My dad owns it.”

I hoped he lived elsewhere, like, maybe Ireland. She added

“He’s a carpenter, and real smart.”

He owned this building, I believed her.

I went to pay the fare. The driver pointed at the meter. I said

“Bit steep.”

He hawked some phlegm out the window and if I’d been more focused, I’d have made him eat it. I paid and he looked at the tip. I asked

“What’s the matter, not enough?”

He growled

“Guess it’ll do.”

And before I could slap the fuck, he burned rubber outa there.

Cabbies, you gotta love ’em.

Shannon’s apartment was on the ground floor, clean, full of light and the evidence of her little boy all around. Pac Man, Sesame Street Posters, small sneakers thrown on a couch, miniature baseball bat, and heart rending, a crayon sketch of a stick figure on the wall, with, underneath my mom.

I said

“Looks just like you.”

She couldn’t keep the joy from her eyes then, nervous, asked

“Get you something?”

“Jeff’s address?”

And lowered the tone, brought the boom down on whatever area of peace she had briefly inhabited. She leveled her eyes on me, asked

“Will you make love to me?”

I did.

Right there on the floor, under the crayon sketch. She touched the bandaged wound, asked

“Does it hurt?”

Time to be stoic, be macho, shrug it off. I said

“Like a son of a bitch.”

She made love with an urgency, with a passion that was ferocious. I, as they say, went along for the ride. Afterward, she rose, and, naked, went to the fridge, took out two beers. Sam Adams, frigging Boston rules but what the hell, a cold one was just the deal. I’d already had the hot one. She uncapped them, handed me one, clinked the bottles, said

“Sláinte.”

What else could I say so I said it

“Good health.”

She leaned over my shoulder, took down a pack of Marlboro Lights, lit two and I said

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

She put one between my lips, the gesture more intimate than the love making, said

“There’s a lot you don’t know.”

Ain’t that the truth? The first hits of the nicotine were magic, that rush to the blood stream, a cross between dizziness, nausea and ecstasy. Mainly, a cross, like in crucify. What I wanted was a line of coke and a double shot of bourbon so I asked

“You got any bourbon?”

She indicated a closet, said

“Top shelf.”

Of course.

Self-conscious, naked, I walked to the closet, opened it. Men are no good at that casual stroll without clothes, women can pull it off with grace and us, we do it looking more than a little ridiculous. A bottle of Jim Beam and on the bottom shelf, I saw the butt of a hand gun, and the temptation to check, see it had been fired was nearly overwhelming and reading my thoughts. She said

“My dad put it there. He says a woman alone can’t be too careful.”

I grabbed two glasses from the sink, filled them with Beam, asked

“Water?”

“No, neat, like my man.”

Okay, so it’s dumb but it gave me a glow. I brought the glasses over and she had a quilt, covered us and we lay sipping the hooch, drinking the beer and imagining the world was a fine place. She asked

“What are you thinking about?”

The answer is always

“You, hon.”

I was thinking if Jeff shot me because I took his ex to dinner, what the hell would he do if he knew I’d fucked her?