“Aw, come on, John. We haven’t seen each other in how many years?”
I didn’t want to tally them. “Tommy—”
“Hey,” he said, pouring liberally into both glasses, an ounce or so more for the one closer to him. “You heard the joke about the three seminarians?”
Tommy, Tommy. “Will it get us closer to why you wanted to see me?”
“Spirit of the season, John. Spirit of the season.” His right hand shook a little as he passed my glass across the desk. “The head of this seminary’s worried that his place is turning out incompetent priests, right? So, the monsignor decides to call the three students at the bottom of the class into his office, give each one a pop quiz.”
Tommy gulped some of his bourbon without offering a toast. I sipped mine, the burn feeling pretty good.
As though it wouldn’t be a totally wasted evening with a former coworker on what looked to be the downslope of his life.
“Well,” Tommy putting down his glass, “the guy gets the first kid into his office and says, ‘All right, my son, what is Easter?’ And the kid, surprised, replies, ‘Why, Monsignor, Easter is that holiday in the early winter when we decorate pine trees and exchange gifts.’ The monsignor goes, ‘No, you idiot! Pack your bags and get out.’ ”
Tommy coughed a little, taking another gulp of bourbon like it was offered water. “So the guy gets the second kid into his office, and asks the same question, and this kid, also surprised, says, ‘Why, Monsignor, Easter is that holiday in the midsummer when we have picnics and shoot off fireworks.’ And the monsignor — getting kind of pissed now that his suspicions are being confirmed — says, ‘No, you idiot! Pack your bags and get out.’ ”
Seeing a certain pattern developing, I said, “Tommy—”
“—So the guy calls in the third seminarian, and asks him the question. And this kid, seeming kind of disappointed, says, ‘Why, Monsignor, Easter is that holiday in the early spring when we celebrate Christ being crucified and taken down from the cross...’ And the head of the seminary’s starting to think things maybe aren’t so hopeless after all as the kid goes on to say, ‘...and He’s buried, and on the third day He arises from the dead to walk out of His tomb...’ And just as the monsignor’s about to tell the kid he can return to his studies, the third seminarian finishes by saying, ‘...And if He sees His shadow, He goes back in, and we have six more weeks of winter.’ ”
Tommy Flaherty laughed so hard I thought he’d need a Heimlich maneuver, which I wasn’t sure worked on bourbon.
“Well, John,” around a choking sound, “what do you think?”
“Good one, Tommy. Now what do you need me for?”
The choking, and the laughing, stopped pretty much at the same time. “Ah, the truth is, I’ve got kind of a problem.”
“What kind, Tommy?”
“You stayed up on the insurance industry after you left Empire?”
The company had made all of us get private investigator licenses while we worked there. I’d opened up my own shop, and did occasional insurance-claims work, even a few cases for Empire itself. “Some.”
“Well, I have to tell you, John, I got sick of it. Not that you didn’t train us all real good. Hell, I never felt more... professional than when I worked for you back there. Only thing was, I never made any money at it, and so when this uncle of mine wanted to retire to Florida, I took over his agency here.”
I thought I knew what was coming next. “Bad timing.”
“Huh, tell me about it. First, I got eaten alive by all the companies offering their employees health insurance during the boom times. Then I couldn’t get the poor slobs covered once they were laid off in the recession. The big agencies are all doing radio and TV advertising for the auto-liability market, and John, I can’t compete with them on discounts.”
“Which leaves you...?”
“...the life and homeowners policies, but now most of the working stiffs get some kind of group life coverage through the job with premiums that I also can’t touch. And a lot of mortgage banks now dictate what kind of homeowners, ‘oh, and by the way, we offer it for just a little money and a check mark in that box on the form.’ So, what was I supposed to do?”
Uh-oh. “You borrowed from your accounts?”
“Worse.” Tommy tossed off the rest of his drink. “I borrowed from a shark.”
Swell. “Somebody you knew beforehand?”
“Uh-unh. Got a... referral, like.”
“Let me guess. You’re not keeping up with the payment schedule.”
“Keeping up?” Tommy tried to laugh, but it didn’t quite come off, so he poured himself another few ounces of bourbon. “John, the weekly vig amounts to fifty percent of my weekly take.”
The interest, or “vigorish,” on whatever he’d borrowed. “Are you covering at least the vig, though?”
“Most weeks, yes.” Tommy held up his left hand, waggled it in a way that caused a wave of pain to cross his facial features. “Last week, no.”
“The shark broke your finger.”
“Not Tedesco himself. It was this half-colored enforcer he’s got, wears his hair like an Afro, probably trying to get in touch with his ‘darker’ side.”
“Tommy?”
“Yeah?”
“Another racial slur, and you’ll be talking to yourself here.”
“Aw, jeez, John. I’m sorry, I forgot how you were about that kind of—”
“Tommy, what do you think I can do for you?”
He breathed out deeply, a little foulness reaching me even four feet away. “You know why DuPage — the enforcer — broke this finger?”
“Seems pretty clear. Start small, work his way up the—”
“No, John. I mean this finger.” Tommy held up his left hand again, pointing with the index finger on his right to the splinted one. “He was sending me a message. Break the finger with the wedding band on it, guess what he breaks next?”
“Another husband part.”
“Or the ‘wife part.’ ” Tommy’s eyes began to fill. “You never met Hildy, I don’t think.”
Hard for me to say. When my wife, Beth, died from her cancer, a lot of the Empire people paid their respects, but I wasn’t exactly focusing on them, and it was long enough ago any—
“John?”
“Sorry, Tommy.”
“I was getting a little worried about you there.”
“I’m okay. And no, I don’t think I ever met Hildy.”
Tommy blinked away a tear. “She’s the kind of woman, a guy like DuPage gets a look at her, he’d—”
A knock on the glass doors. Tommy jumped in the swivel chair and lurched behind him toward a floor safe, the kind you’d see in an old Wells Fargo office. I looked toward the front of the building.
A couple, maybe Latinos, middle-aged and dressed for church, were peering in, their expressions showing uncertainty.
I turned back and saw Tommy sliding something with a walnut butt into the safe.
“Jesus, Tommy. You still have a permit for that?”
“Kept it up after I left Empire. Smith & Wesson revolver.” He almost seemed relieved by who was knocking. “Clientele I got, there’s always cash coming in to pay last month’s premium. Or the month’s before that.” Tommy wiped his hands on his thighs and squirreled away the liquor bottle. “Look, John, I need to try and sell these people a homeowners’ policy. How’s about you go upstairs, talk to Hildy awhile?”
“Tommy, I—”
“No more than ten, fifteen minutes. Swear.” Then, in a lower voice. “Please?”
If I were in his position... “Okay. She know who I am, at least?”
“Yeah,” said Tommy. “I told her you were coming by, and you can use that door there, goes right up to our apartment.”