And got a clip round my earhole.
He had big hands, the Irish inheritance, and though he was second generation, he was probably more Celtic than Notre Dame — the team, not the Cathedral. He’d been a cop for a while and he flat out loved it, then...
Got hurt in a drive by, pensioned out. That’s when the bitterness set in.
Not that he was a bundle of good nature before. He was always a mean bastard, made him a good cop, but after the shooting, he peaked. Began to soak up the Jameson like a good ’un, and he’d have sat on his ass for the duration ’cept my mom, she rode him till he screamed
“Alright already.”
The union got him a gig at the World Trade Center, a guard on the North Tower. The day, his first, a wet barren Monday, he donned the uniform, he went
“Bollix to this.”
My mom, aiming for some peace if not calm, tried
“You look swell.”
He was enraged, spat
“Fucking rent-a-cop.”
One of the few times I ever agreed with him.
But he hung in there. A few years went by and he was promoted, still in the North Tower but pulling down more bucks.
And he liked it.
Not the job so much but he loved the building. Got himself a photo of his station, up on the 107th floor, and my mom framed it, put it beside Ariel Sharon and John F. Kennedy, over the fireplace. I said to my buddy, Todd
“The three stooges.”
The Irish sure have odd ways of looking at things, and the way they talk, full of twisted language. As if they see a perfectly good expression, then mangle it. Why?
Fuck knows.
Maybe because they can.
Me, I figure it’s all the Guinness, rots the brain and gives them that slanted view of the world. My mom, no slouch in the words department, would say
“Your father, like his race, they love the sound of their own voice.”
Could be right.
What-the fuck-ever.
Like, who gives a rat’s ass?
I can do a rap with the best of ’em but the difference, I try to measure the content. Not just shoot my goddamn mouth off. My teens, I started getting in shit, being rousted for nickel-and-dime stuff. My old man, he’d lose it, go
“You’re a thundering disgrace. You’re nothing but a punk.”
The cops, cos he’d been on the job, would cut me some slack. Time came when that didn’t work and I got sent to juvie hall. Hell with puke-green walls. I did six months and came out, hard.
The first thing my old man does, does he crack open a cold one, welcome me home?
He gets a hurly, sent from the heart of the old country, made from the ash, and gives me a flaking. I can still hear the swish of that wood as he swung it, the end walloping against my back and it hurt like a son of a bitch. He wanted to hear me cry. Dream on you prick. Finally, spent, sweat coasting down his face, he threw the hurly aside, said
“Let that be a lesson to you.”
And he opened the Jameson, poured himself a serious one, knocked it back, said
“There’s a chance I can get you on the tower, even with the sheet you’ve got. We can get it sealed but you’re going to have to cut the crap.”
I was picking myself up off the floor, pain everywhere and I looked him right in the eye, said
“Shove it.”
Got another hiding. My mom, later, said
“Nick, he’s got the bad drop.”
She’d learned a few Irish-isms and she certainly got me nailed. I did what I do when I’m hurting, hooked up with Todd and we went to Park Slope, always lots of action there, had us some weed, and Todd had gotten tequila, boosted off a guy who’d hit a warehouse. We drank that, with Bud as back, and I went to that place, the cold zone, an icy territory I knew like the back of my hand, said
“Let’s rock ’n’ roll.”
We caught a guy in an alley, fooling with some babe, and I used my feet, till Todd pulled me off, saying
“Jeez, Nick, enough. You’ll kill the bastard.”
I wanted to.
I can still hear the sound of the guy’s teeth cracking, my boot hitting his mouth for the third time. Way I see it, you have to lay it off, get that poison out and maybe teach the guy something, like, stay the fuck out of alleys unless someone’s got your back. Later, coming down, chilling, Todd passed me a smoke, lit me up, said
“You’ve got to rein it in, bro.”
I asked him, not out of cussedness though there was some, but I really wanted to know, asked him
“Why?”
He sighed, shook his head, said
“You’ll never last. They’ll kill you or send you up for some serious time. You have to, like, ration it.”
I dunno why, but that seemed to me hilarious. He stared at me, said
“You’re one demented dude.”
I moved out of Brooklyn shortly after, got a crash pad in the East Village and began my love affair with Manhattan.
Todd was into all sorts of scams: cards, hot goods, intimidation, muscle, and he got me taken on by a guy named Boyle, small-time racketeer. I began to pull in some change. Boyle was a big bastard and mean as hell. Took a shine to me, started to give me more and more work, usually boosting cars. I had a knack, could hotwire one in record time and be out of the street before you could count to ten.
Then the worst thing happened. Todd met a woman, went to South Philly with her. Didn’t last too long, the woman that is. He came back for a week, then off to Boston, some business for Boyle. He ran with the gangs in South Boston, learned some moves with those guys and came back... quiet. I asked
“The fuck happened down there?”
He was drinking Jack D, Sam Adams as chaser, with a look of what I can only call controlled ferocity. He gulped the Jack, let it burn then
“Shit happened.”
Fucking with those outfits, not the best idea.
He hadn’t gotten a liking for violence, not like I had, but he definitely had a change in outlook, now he saw that sometimes you couldn’t avoid it. One evening, on the Upper West Side, we were casing an apartment that Boyle figured was ripe for taking. We were doing the weed, nothing major, just mellow time and he started in on the Red Sox. He’d become a fan. Is there a bigger treachery? I shouted, the weed not mellowing me that much
“The freaking Sox? You’re a Yankee’s fan. The fuck you think you can switch like that? It’s as bad as that asswipe who sold the Dodgers.”
He gave a soft laugh, said
“Nicky, everything changes.”
I came back with a reasoned, rational defense, a New York tolerance, said
“Fuck you.”
We watched the apartment. The doorman went for a sneak brew on the hour and that would be our window. To get us back, to balance, I asked
“What’s with that South gig, South Philly, South Boston, what’s that all about?”
He didn’t answer for five minutes, his eyes locked on the building, then
“Buddy, one way or another, the business we’re in, everything goes south.”
I blew him off.
He was right but by the time I knew that, it was all gone to hell in a shitcart.
I said to him, before we got out of the car,
“My mom, she says I’ve the bad drop.”
He tasted that, let it hang. Like I said, he’d gotten this quiet gig going, then
“She’s wrong.”
I slapped his shoulder, said
“Thanks, buddy.”
He glanced at where I’d touched him, a glance that warned
“Don’t make a habit of it.”
Then he said, real low
“More than a drop.”
That evening went south.
I couldn’t believe Todd picked the locks so easy at the apartment. I asked
“What the hell? No deadlock?”
Todd nearly smiled. Nearly. Smiling wasn’t his strong point since Boston, said