Never believed in absolutes before Kathleen’s murder. Did now, absolutely. Was FFL. Fucked for life, that was me. There was no escaping culpability. Her blood was on me sure as my own skin. But her death led to a kind of clarity about the universe that had until then eluded me. When my mother took her own life, it was as much relief as loss. Only my dad cried. Then, for himself, really. This was different. Death and me, we were no longer going to stare at each other from across the dance floor. Once you feel loss, you always feel it.
O’Connor was neither fool nor saint. Let me be for a time. Drifted back into my life in New York like carbon monoxide: deadly and colorless. Boyle, Nicky, and Griffin folded me back under their wings without a second thought. In fact, I was treated with a newfound respect. Obviously, Rudi had let word leak back home about my making my bones, about the scene in the basement. Found myself wondering sometimes if Rudi hadn’t had his boyos take pictures of the carnage. Had an image of him staring at photos of Kathleen’s decimated body and masturbating. Christ, those were the nights I drank myself to sleep. As angry as I was at him, it wasn’t Rudi who killed her.
My two-week grace period was over and O’Connor had me meet him at the Einstein gravesite. Never would have visited my mom’s grave if it wasn’t for O’Connor. Was like a fringe benefit.
“That was some ugly shit in Boston, lad. You comported yourself well,” he said.
“Comported! Is that one in the glossary of the cop handbook?”
“We’ve business to do, so—”
“Do you know what they did with her body?” Couldn’t let Kathleen be brushed off like that.
“It won’t do you any good to—”
“Do you know if they even buried her?”
No idiot, he saw that he was going to have to answer if we were to move on. “They probably didn’t bury her, no.”
“What then?”
For the first time I could see in him a split between the human being and the cop. The human being didn’t want to tell me. The cop understood that the truth would fuel me. The cop won out. “They might’ve hacked her up and scattered her in dumps or fed her to—”
For the second time I vomited on poor Sonya Einstein’s grave. “I want to get these motherfuckers, all of them!”
“Okay then, let’s get to work.”
When he left, I did actually go stand by my mother’s grave. “So,” I said, “this is what real pain feels like. I still can’t forgive you, but maybe I understand a little better.”
Was the first and last time in my life I talked to a patch of dirt and blades of grass.
Brooklyn.
Axel’s.
The place was no longer a touchstone for my obsession with Leeza Velez. Given my time in Boston, Leeza’s memory was more like a faint ringing in the ears. After what had happened, I couldn’t even think of Leeza and me together. Felt dirty, a leper, that to imagine us together was sin. Not a God sin. Gotten over that bullshit concept fresh out of the womb. Was worried I’d rub off on her, stain her somehow. What the fuck was I worried about, anyway? I was never going to see her again. Leeza Velez, gone to me as my mother.
Nicky was sitting next to me. Whatever had happened between us in the past year didn’t seem to matter much to either of us. Good definition of friendship that. Took comfort in his presence and he in mine. In my eyes, he was like immune to my disease. He was the only friend I had, the only friend I was ever going to have. The cop shit? That was something else. Would have to work that out later. He was okay with the silence between us, but broke it with whispered curiosity.
“The fuck happened down there?”
Ah fuck! The question hit me between the shoulder blades. Sucked down my Jack on the rocks and chased it with cold Sam Adams. Had taken to drinking Jack to honor Kathleen. Crap! Fuck that lie. Had taken to drinking it to torture and anesthetize myself. The Jack burned, felt my face flush. Said,
“Shit happened.”
We left it at that.
A week later, I put in motion the wheels of destruction.
Nick and I were casing an apartment, at least that’s what he thought we were doing. We were getting high, Yankee game on the radio in the background. Noticed he couldn’t keep his mind on the job for listening to the game. Busted his balls, told him I’d become a true Red Sox fan. Nearly shit his pants.
“The freaking Sox! You’re a Yankees’ fan, the fuck you think you can switch like that, it’s as bad as that asswipe who sold the Dodgers.”
“O’Malley,” I corrected, “didn’t sell the Dodgers. He moved ’em.”
“That shanty prick.” Nick was riled. “Fuck’im!”
“Nick, not for nothing, but I’ve been a Mets fan all my life.”
“I don’t think I ever knew that.” Oblivious. Typical Yankee fan. “Still a betrayal.”
Guess he was right. Laughed. “Nicky, everything changes.”
“Fuck you!” Didn’t like my answer.
In a talkative mood that night, Nick was. Asked me what the deal was with South Philly then South Boston. Nearly bit through my tongue against the notion of confessing my new allegiance and describing, in exquisite detail what a woman’s body looks like after it’s been cut with wires, burned with cigarettes, and been hit at close range with buckshot. Forced myself to focus squarely on the building we were casing.
“Buddy,” I said, “one way or another, the business we’re in, everything goes south.”
He tried patting me on the shoulder. Seemed he was feeling sorry for himself. Wasn’t in the mood for it, not after thinking about Kathleen. Told him not to make a habit of giving me reassuring pats. The doorman did as he’d been told and abandoned his spot in the lobby. The wheels turned. Time to move.
At the door of the apartment I made like Houdini and picked the lock. Movies and TV really fuck with a man’s head. Even semi-hard guys like Nicky could be fooled. They see a guy pick a lock in ten seconds on the tube and they’re like convinced it’s a breeze. Isn’t. Try it some time, see how far you get. All I did was stick one thin pick in top of the keyhole, a crooked one in the bottom and jiggle. Voila! Here’s a tip. Really helps when the lock is already open. Nicky was impressed. That’s all that mattered.
He was further impressed by the size and decor of the apartment. Me too. There were original artworks up on the walls and pieces of furniture that cost more than my dad’s house. Never understood how something or some place could smell like money. Did now. Reeked of it. Wondered if it clung to you like cigarette smoke.
“Remember. Cash, dope, and jewelry.”
Nick couldn’t believe it. “We’re leaving this? This shit must be worth a bundle.”
Told him art was a pain in the balls to fence. He started going for a painting, anyway. Shook my head and went into the bedroom. That’s when the fireworks began.
Door opened.
Stockbroker type. Brooks Brothers suit. “What the fuck is this?”
I walked out of the bedroom. “Fuck.”
Shot the guy in the mouth, twice for good measure. Ruined his suit. His head wasn’t looking all that well either.
“This piece of shit keeps jumping,” I said, looking down at the cheap knock off of a.357 Magnum. “I was going for the heart. Next time, I bring a Glock.”
The look on Nick’s face was priceless. Next time! Made him help me drag the stiff into the bathroom. Amazing what squibs and a little makeup can do. Nick was so fucked, he grabbed a bottle of Makers Mark and took a mighty gulp. Warned him not to drink while we were on the job. Asked if I was going to shoot him to.
Looked at him stone cold. “If I have to.”