Bollocks to them.
For my meet with Todd — Todd the informer, the goddamn snitch, the turncoat — I put on the Armani suit. Yeah, I’d been to Boyle’s tailor.
Wore a silk shirt, black slip-on cordovans, a tie with the Yankees Crest, splashed on some Tommy Hilfiger cologne, slid the Rolex on my wrist, liked the give of it, and checked myself in the mirror. Said
“Look like a player, buddy.”
Nearly believed it. Last item, I guess I better get it fessed up, I was doing a little nose candy, nothing major, not then, not like I had me a jones or anything but hey, gave me that icy dribble down the back of my throat, and apart from the first blast of a cold one on a humid New York evening, few feelings like that.
Hit my brain like the A train, hard and cold, lightning up my mind. Took a moment, listened to Strummer with “London Calling,” then got the hell outa there.
I was behind the wheel of the Buick. Yeah, Boyle’s. And remembered, sitting on the sink, the Browning, locked and loaded and forgotten.
Shit, blame the coke.
I do.
Met Todd at Moe’s Tavern, a neighborhood joint, run by a guy named Micky Prada, a straight shooter if ever there was one. Micky took one look at me, did a double take, asked
“That you Nicky? The fuck you doing, working on Wall Street?”
Couple of the regulars, they got a real kick outa that. Freaking losers, still hanging at Moe’s. I dunno if there ever was a Moe. Micky had always had the bar. I flipped him off, asked
“You got Seven and Seven?”
He laughed.
“Seagram’s and Seven up? Jameson no good for you no more?”
“Gimme the goddamn drink, alright?”
He poured out a measure, a slight tremor in his hand, and I was glad to see that, slammed it on the bar and I said
“Run a tab. Todd’s coming by.”
One of the jokers at the counter, said
“Yankees choked, you hear?”
I gave him the look, asked
“You hear me talking to you? I ask you anything?”
He rolled his eyes and I grabbed the drink, moved to the back to watch the door. The snow was cruising in my skull and when the booze hit, I felt the jolt. Reason I did the gig. I was cranked.
I was on the other side of my second drink, thinking of maybe another line of powder when Todd showed. He strode in, wearing a battered leather jacket. Pressed jeans, who the fuck ironed jeans?
He did some high fives with Micky. People always liked Todd. Well, except for Boyle and Griffin. He had that effortless charm, when he wanted, an easy grace that said
“You’re the person I most want to talk with.”
A crock, but hey, it worked.
He grabbed a cold one, came over, surveyed me, said
“The yuppie in all his glory.”
We were off.
I spat back
“Wouldn’t hurt you to make an effort the odd time.”
He took a hit of the beer, belched, said
“What you thinking, if I suck up to Boyle, he’ll dress me too?”
The tension was in the air, a slice of barbed wire you could almost touch. He watched me for a moment then
“What are you on? Doing lines in the men’s room? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”
I indicated my glass, said
“A shot of decent booze. That’s a big deal?”
He leaned back, his scuffed boots making that sound of intent, said
“The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”
Time to rumble and I leaned close, said
“That one of the things they teach you in the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”
It hung there, like dead smoke.
But he was cool, I’ll give him that, shrugged, said
“So you know about that.”
As if I’d accused him of pinching a couple of bucks, like, no biggie. He was the ice man. I wanted to reach over, smack him up the side of the head, and if I’d been carrying the piece, I swear I’d have taken it out, pistol whipped him. And okay, the coke and 7s weren’t helping my disposition but I was so fucking enraged. My old man, Irish to the bloody core, he had an expression all the way from Galway, to describe serious anger: spitting iron. Well, I was ready to vomit pure steel. Todd reached up his hand, signalled to Micky, said
“Yo, another round buddy.”
I gritted
“I’m not freaking drinking with you, you... cheese-eating rat motherfucker.”
And he smiled, a small crease between his eyes. I knew that signal. He had it when he was amused but on the verge of aggression, as if it was sad but kind of funny too, like life just wouldn’t quit being a bastard.
The whole expression asking, in a Brooklyn accent
“Watchagonnado?”
He grabbed my arm, real bad move and said
“Listen up you hothead, you listening?”
I was.
He said
“Boyle is a major bad ass. He’s into heavy shit and we’ve been monitoring him for a long time. The guy in the Upper West Side, the guy I wasted, he was one of ours and the guy in the deli, again, one of ours. It was a set up. You really think I killed that guy or that I’d cut a man’s throat? But we had to make you believe. You buy it, then Boyle would buy it. This a big operation, Boyle is even running with the IRA. And also doing deals with some very nasty dope dealers, South of the Rio Grande.”
He took a thirsty slug of his beer. I’d never heard him give such a long speech and then he continued
“Boyle’s told you I’m a cop, so even though it’s fucked that he’s rumbled me, it’s good that he’s bought you as one of his crew. What’s he want you to do, waste me?”
And gave me that level stare.
My mind was awhirl. He was a cop. I’d been suckered every which way but loose and he was sitting there, full of himself. I said
“Fuck you. He reamed me a whole new asshole, yeah?”
He put the beer down, said
“Whoa buddy, I’m watching out for you. Your back is covered all the way.”
Micky brought the drinks and what the hell, I sunk the Seagram’s neat, felt it burn like acid, then I asked
“All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”
He nearly smiled, went
“Hell no, that’s the truth. They’re going to take the series within the next few years, see if they don’t.”
I felt tired. The coke was winding down. Needed another line, shit, a whole battalion of ’em. I asked
“You do me a favor?”
“Name it buddy, it’s a done deal.”
“Get the fuck out of my sight. Now.”
He sat back, like in recoil but slow, then stood, laid a mess of bucks on the table, said
“I’m here for you buddy but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.”
Then he was gone.
Moe’s had one of those big ole Wurlitzer jukeboxes, and one of the regulars fed it a pile of quarters and Lou Reed began with “Walk on the Wild Side.” I stood up, added a couple of bills to the tab and started to walk out. Micky shouted
“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”
The evening had gotten cold or maybe it was the cocaine chills. I began to button my jacket and the bullet took me high in my chest, knocked me back against the tavern, and as I slid to the sidewalk, I could still hear Lou crooning about all the colored girls
Catchy little tune.
“He says, ‘Times are changing. Men are afraid of women. I know a lot of beautiful women who should be with men, but you know what they’re doing now?’
‘What?’ me and Roz want to know.
‘Whacking off alone in their beds with vibrators... I have seen the future and it hums...’”