Smiled, but the cool, calculating smile. Cassius had nothing on me. Seemed Nicky and me had been working up to this moment our whole fucking lives. Didn’t move my lips. The smile said it all. Grabbed his arm. Didn’t like that.
“Listen up, hothead,” I whispered. “You listening?”
Said yes.
“You think you know Boyle, but you don’t. I’ve met some of his partners. The cops have been on his tail for a long time. That guy I popped in his apartment, he was one of ours. Had to make you believe. If you believed, Boyle would buy it. This is big. The prick and his partners are in bed with the border gangs in Mexico, using some of the profits for IRA operations.” Took a drink. Took a breath. “So Boyle made me. What’s he want, you to waste me?”
“Fuck you!” Nicky spit. “He reamed me a new one, yeah?”
“Whoa, buddy,” I said. “I got your back.”
Sucked down his drink and of all things said, “All the goddamned lies, the Red Sox, that part of it too?”
Almost smiled, then Kathleen stabbed me in the heart. Said something lame like they were going to take the series in a few years. Not much conviction in my voice.
“Do me a favor?” he asked, exhaustion his latest mask.
“Name it.”
“Get the fuck outta my sight. Now!”
The rage was back. Good.
Said to him, “I’m here for you, buddy, but if you’re thinking of running with Boyle and offing me, think again.” Threw down some cash and headed out the door.
Was out, not gone. Waited in my car for Nicky to come out. Wasn’t sure what he might do. Doubted he’d go to Boyle, but there was a long range of other possibilities. Truth was, he was as fucked as myself. More so.
Saw Nicky come out, the rage subsiding. Chill getting to him, buttoned up. Heard the pop. Looked away to see what it was. Tires screeched. Turned back to see Nick slumping against Moe’s door, blood gushing out of his chest.
Must’ve been quite a sight, me sitting there with a shotgun by the side of Nicky’s bed.
“Come to finish the job?” he croaked.
“Asshole. You think I shot you?”
“Did you?”
Poured him a glass of water. Probably shouldn’t have, but didn’t see a Nothing By Mouth sign anywhere.
“Wasn’t for me, shithead, you wouldn’t be here giving me grief.”
Tried pouring some water down his throat and nearly drowned him. Hey, you try pouring anything with a shotgun in your other hand and let’s see how you do.
Nicky’s mother like barreled through the door.
“My baby, are you all right?”
Christ, the bullet hadn’t killed him but the embarrassment nearly did. Turned like fifteen shades of red. Didn’t have time to enjoy it. She turned on me.
“And where were you, you shit, where were you when they were pumping my baby full of holes?”
Nick tried to get her attention. “Mom, I’m, okay, really.” That really set her off. Sat and listened. Nick too. No choice. We both seemed comforted by the shotgun. Last resort, of course.
“‘We were pretty good friends once,’ he said unhappily. ‘Were we? I forget. That was two other fellows, seems to me.’”
That time in the hospital with Nicky’s mother pouring it on was like being back home. Don’t know about Nick, but I was only half-listening. I remember that in spite of my folks, my childhood had been a good one. Spent most of it outdoors, beyond the walls of the Rosen Asylum for Empty Lives. Remembered the summer days when the moms, not Sophie, of course, would group together on someone’s stoop. We happily lived in the gutter and the schoolyard. We could weave a world out of asphalt and chalk. Now we lived in our own traps. Held incongruous shotguns in our hands.
Some detective named Ortiz came by to ask Nick a few questions. Waste of time. He would stay silent even if it was Boyle vis-à-vis Griffin that sent him a lead love letter. Nick would want to see to it himself. Me too. Rules of the street.
O’Connor met me at our usual spot. Wasn’t thrilled with my having been turned out. Acted pissy. Like I wanted to get exposed, right? Yeah boss, I even had a bull’s eye painted on the back of all of my clothes to make Griffin’s job easier. Might’ve been relieved to have it out there, but I wasn’t glad to become a fucking target. O’Connor gave me marching orders. I was to lay low and see how things with Nick would shake out, then it was out of town again till the time came to testify.
In spite of their high hopes for me, they hadn’t been able to build the grand case they had envisioned. Boyle’s crew would go down, that was certain. Maybe a few peripheral guys at JFK and the Port of Newark as well. But the big conspiracy case, the one reaching from Brooklyn to Boston, Belfast to the Mexican border, that was shot.
“Don’t fret, lad, your job is secure,” O’Connor assured me, a look on his face as if he’d been digesting glass shards.
As if it mattered. Thanked him anyway.
“What are the flowers for?” he wondered.
“I’ve thrown up on her grave twice. Sonya deserves a little something else from me this last visit.”
Shook his head. “Dead is dead, lad. She’s beyond caring.”
“I’m not.”
That hung there for a few seconds, him pondering the fact that inside he was nearly as dead as Sonya Einstein.
“Nicky’s gonna need a place to run.”
O’Connor started humming a tune that was familiar to me, but that I couldn’t put a title to.
“What’s that you’re humming?”
“‘My Old Kentucky Home.’ We’re way ahead of you, lad. Why do you think I asked you to hang around? I’ll have a package with the details delivered to you later today.”
Watched him walk away. When he was fully out of sight, I placed the bouquet on the grave. Didn’t do an apology. Picked up two rocks. Placed one atop Sonya’s headstone, one on my mom’s. It was Jewish tradition that. Explain it? Can’t. It would be like trying to explain how the fuck I got here in the first place.
The call came. Nick was fucked. Join the club.
Not even a hello. “I’m in deep shit.”
Said, “You’ve always been in deep shit, Nicky, but needing help, that’s new.”
We met in a diner in Manhattan. Aren’t any real diners in Manhattan, just money vacuums dressed up to look like them for the tourist trade. Like everything else in the city, you want reality, you go into the boroughs. That’s where you find New York. Only authentic thing in Manhattan is the bullshit.
“Eggs over easy, I think.” Only in Manhattan could you call two eggs for $9.95 easy.
Nick was busy pouring Jim Beam in his coffee. Christ, if he didn’t look scared. Wasn’t the bullet hole in him either. No, something else was at him. Suspected I knew what that something was.
“Shannon’s husband was shot to death last night. My guess is it wasn’t you. Tell me I’m right. You did that, even I can’t help you.”
Just sat there, drank his high octane coffee. The burden of speech was still on my shoulders.
“Griffin? A set up. Let me guess. You do me or they fuck you?”
Nick looked impressed. Not an easy thing to pull off.
“Never really wanted this life, but I’ve got a talent for this cop shit.”
Impressed ran to desperation. “What am I going to do, Todd?”
My opening, slid a packet across the counter to him.
“There’s a small town in Kentucky. I have a buddy there.” For a guy from Brooklyn with one friend in the world, I seemed to have old buddies spread out over the country like dandelion spores. “He’ll give you a job. Lie real low and we’ll see to things on this end. There’s some cash in there and a ticket for a train outta Penn Station. Leaves tomorrow morning.”