“She’s not interested,” said Kyle. “And you need to stop asking her.”
“All I’m saying,” said Skitch, “is it’s a great opportunity.”
“Dude, get it through your lead-plated skull, she’s not interested. Kat’s never going to be interested in any of your slimy little get-richquick schemes.”
“That’s harsh, bro.”
“But true.”
“Maybe, but at least I’m in there pitching. It’s easy enough to sit back and smile and let the world collapse around you. When do you ever take a chance on anything?”
“I take my chances, but I’m never going to be like you, dude, chasing money like a greyhound chasing that fake rabbit.”
“But you’re not chasing anything, except your father’s ghost, and that’s just sad. I’m only trying to get a step up here. I won’t be slaving for Comcast the rest of my life, that’s for sure. And it’s a legit thing, almost. Talk to her, please?”
“No.”
“Bro.”
“She’s not a frigging bank.”
“I guess not for the general public.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s not like you don’t use her as your own personal ATM.”
“Screw off.”
“I only mean—”
“I know what the hell you mean,” said Kyle as something flitted red in front of his eyes and the world slowed down into discrete moments. Without moving a muscle, he felt Skitch’s thick neck being throttled in his own tensed hands, saw Skitch’s beady eyes bulge and his tongue stretch out of his gaping mouth like a poodle’s.
But even as he imagined the sweet pleasure of the throttling, Kyle felt a wave of shame wash through him, not just because he was about to choke his friend to near asphyxiation but because he knew that Skitch was absolutely right. He was using Kat as a bank, and even though his relationship with Kat had roots deeper than Skitch could fathom, the truth of it still made Kyle feel small and angry. There was a moment when Kyle almost lost control, but he regained it again and let the conflicting emotions wash over him and through him, and then he calmed the storm with his all-purpose verbal shrug.
“Whatever,” said Kyle.
“Okay, yeah, forget I even said it,” said Skitch. “There it is, over there.”
On the left they passed a small, squalid storefront with a couple of poorly dressed men sitting on the sidewalk on lawn chairs. The men were squinty and overweight, the chairs seemed to gasp under their bulk, and they were situated on either side of the open front door, like the lions at the New York Public Library. A couple of squinty, overweight lions with arms like legs. Painted roughly on the plate-glass window were the words tiny tony’s ticket brokerage, with rough approximations of the emblems of Philadelphia’s four professional sporting teams underneath. The Phillies’ logo was the psychedelic maroon P abandoned by the team during Kyle’s childhood.
“A friendly-looking crew,” said Kyle.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” said Skitch. “I mean, Tony’s outfit, they generally put the little guys out front. How are you going to get past those bulls?”
“Hopefully, that file you found in my dad’s office will be the ticket. I still don’t know how you squeezed yourself behind those boxes in the storage room before the cops came in.”
“It wasn’t easy, trust me. I still have an old subpoena up my ass. Maybe you shouldn’t go in alone. Maybe you ought to have someone on your wing.”
“You volunteering?”
“I was thinking you might want to give Bubba Jr. a call.”
“I’ll park around the corner,” said Kyle. “Wait for me.”
After Kyle parked, he slipped out of the car and stretched, the file Skitch had taken from the offices of Byrne & Toth in his right hand. He gave the contents a quick look, the last will and testament of Anthony Sorrentino and a pile of betting slips. Satisfied, he tapped the file on the hood of the car and made his way around the corner.
“Can I help youse?” said one of the big, squinty men in front of Tiny Tony’s Ticket Brokerage.
“Maybe you can,” said Kyle. “Is Mr. Sorrentino in by any chance?”
“You looking to buy some tickets?”
“No.”
“You looking to sell some tickets?”
“Not that either.”
“Then, mister, believe me when I tell you, you is very much in the wrong place.”
“Nah, I think this is right. Do you know where Mr. Sorrentino might be?”
“Pawtucket,” said the second man. “Or maybe Piscataway. I get them two confused.”
“Anybody send you?” said the first.
“Nobody sent me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I have something from my father for Mr. Sorrentino.”
“Yeah? Why don’t you give it here, and I’ll make sure it’s delivered.”
“I need to give it to Mr. Sorrentino personally. Just tell him that Liam Byrne’s son is here.”
“I never hearda this Liam Byrne, and I already told you he ain’t in.”
“He’s in Cleveland,” said the second man. “Or maybe Cincinnati. I get them two confused also.”
“You seem to be confused a lot,” said Kyle.
“Well, life’s like that, innit? We find ourselves in situations all the time, without knowing how we got there in the first place or what we should do. Look at yourself, for instance.”
“Why don’t I just go inside and see if Mr. Sorrentino’s there?” said Kyle.
“Why don’t we just pound on your head until your ears bleed?” said the first man.
“Why don’t you try?” said Kyle.
“Wrong answer,” said the man as he shook his head with a resigned sadness. Slowly he rose from out of the lawn chair and stood in front of the door, his arms crossed. “This is a private business, and we don’t do business with somebody nobody sent.”
Kyle looked at the two overweight men, one still seated, one standing but not braced against anything, checked the angles and made the calculation, and then said, “I’m going inside.”
“Hey, Vern,” the standing man called into the open door, “we got a hard case out here wants to see Tiny.”
There was a scrape and a rumble from inside, and then Vern appeared in the front door. As broad as a four-by-four on steroids and wearing a purple velvet sweat suit. Vern loomed over the standing man as he peered out of eyes squashed narrow by the folds of fat in his face.