I was tired of losing every round so snapped
“Maybe I’ve got good reason.”
Like that was going to fly.
She was right on it.
“And what, the rest of us don’t? Hello? But guess what? We’re out for an evening, want to have nice time, we bend a little. You think you can do that, bend a bit?”
The hell with it, I said
“Like a blade in the wind.”
We settled on The Algonquin, and the first thing I saw was a fat white cat on a pillow, in the lobby. I don’t mean a guy in a suit, I mean your actual feline. We went into the bar, got ourselves a window table and before we ordered, Shannon asked
“You read?”
“Sure, the Daily News.”
“What happened to the bending?”
I had a Bud and she went for a glass of white wine, saying
“It’s that kind of place.”
I was thinking it was just another tourist trap and checked the bar list, said
“Sure do know how to up the ante.”
She gave a tiny smile, said
“Class is always going to cost.”
Which is a crock and did I say so?
Nope.
She was toying with the wine. I’d sunk the beer and fast, ordered another and she covered the rim of her glass. What? I was going to force her? Not sure if it was the smart thing, I asked
“So your kid, how old is he?”
Her eyes lit up, no fooling. I thought that only happened when you snorted some particularly fine coke. It was like she was shot through with energy and you know what? Goddamn it to hell, I felt jealous, of some dumb-ass kid I didn’t even know. I wanted her to light up like that for me.
Dumb, huh?
Her words came out in a torrent, spilling over each other in their joy.
“Sean, Sean is eight now. He’s a real tough little dude. He’s got Down Syndrome. When he was born and the doctor told me, I thought my world was done. My heart was crushed, a handicapped kid, and me... me... to look after him?”
The brightness in her eyes was shadowed. A touch of, I dunno, self-recrimination. She continued
“You know about mosaicism?”
Yeah, right.
She nodded, explained
“It’s a type of Down’s that means he’s not affected mentally but physically,” and God forgive me, she actually made the sign of the cross. Jeez, I hadn’t seen that in a while, then
“If I had to make a choice, I’d have him mentally all right. The physical side we can work on and we do.”
I decided to go for broke, get it out of the way, asked
“His father?”
She reached for the wine, drained half, gulped, then
“Jeff’s not the worst.”
The Irish, they say that, like I’d heard my old man do, they mean you’re a shithead. I figured I was doing okay, batting an even five hundred fifty, pushed
“And Jeff, you see him?”
She gave me a look like, was I serious? Said
“He’s Sean’s father, course I see him.”
Fuck.
Then she focused and spat
“Oh, I get it. You’re asking do I, like, sleep with him?”
Well, yeah.
I protested, a bit too much but she waved it off, said
“None of your fucking business.”
So I figured, yeah, she was balling him. I wanted another beer but she said
“You know, I’m going to call it a night. Got to get up early for work.”
I’d fucked up, yeah, screwed the whole deal. Outside, she hailed a cab, asked
“Drop you?”
Wasn’t she already doing that?
I said
“No, I’m good.”
She reached over, kissed me full on the mouth, said
“I’d ask you to come home with me but you probably don’t on a first date. So call me, we’ll have Friday night, a real whoopee evening.”
And she was gone.
What did I think? Fuck knows, nothing positive.
Boyle broke my nose.
Wallop.
Right across the desk, out of nowhere.
One minute, I was sipping an espresso and next, I was jumping up, hot coffee burning my crotch and the pain of the damned in the center of my face. He was asking about the deli owner and I’d said
“No prob.”
Griffin of course, was standing to his right and I was keeping my eye on him. Boyle was resting his hand on the good book, had earlier quoted me a piece from Revelation.
It was a revelation to me that the fuck could read.
Then he’d lunged across the desk.
He sat back, massaging his knuckles, adjusting his tweed vest, said
“Do I have your attention?”
Griffin was smiling. Looked more like a rictus. I tried to get my eyes in gear, the pain in my burned crotch as bad as the sledgehammer to my nose. A trickle of blood poured into my mouth. I mumbled
“Yes, sir”.
Thinking, you fucking bastard.
He tossed some tissues at me, said
“Now clean up and get your head straight.”
I went to the restroom, and in the mirror, saw my nose slanted to the left. It was already swelling. I managed to stem the blood but wouldn’t you know, I’d elected that day to wear a white shirt. Not white no more. Electric stabs of agony were shooting to my startled brain. I cleaned up as best I could and returned to the office, trying to rein in my rage. Boyle was laughing out loud, something Griffin had told him. He shook his head, as if to rid himself of frivolity, said
“The guy who ran the deli, he could have gone to the cops and the last thing I need is heat. You get what I’m saying?”
I nodded and even that drew pain from my face. He gave me a long intense look, then
“That’s going to give you a bit of character. Make you seem like a tough guy. You want that, eh, be a hard arse?”
How on earth do you answer that, especially to the man who just re-arranged your features? I mumbled something about wanting to do the best I could by him, brown-nosing, if you’ll forgive the play on words, telling myself, suck it up, your time will come and we’ll see about toughness. My old man had his nose broken in a street brawl and I don’t know if it toughened him but it sure soured him. At last we had something in common.
I nearly missed Boyle’s question.
“Your buddy, Todd, how tight are you guys?”
Figured out that this was loaded so went for
“He’s a Red Sox fan, what can I tell you?”
And Boyle loved that, slapped the desk, the fuck, always slapping something, said
“Fucking turncoat, the likes of him, back home...” He meant Ireland. Home was freaking Hoboken “... we call them informers. They dropped a dime on us every time we got a rebellion going, sons of bitches. How you going to trust a cunt who deserts the Yankees?”
Griffin was quivering. This was obviously where he lived. Anything to do with betrayal, hatred, got his mojo cranked. Boyle indicated him, said
“You’re going to be trailing along with my Mr. G this evening. How’d that sit with you?”
Not good.
I was hoping to have another round of verbal warfare with Shannon. I said
“That’s cool.”
Griffin spoke, his voice startling me
“Be here at 7:00 sharp. Wear black.”
Despite my nose or because of it, I shot back
“A funeral, is it?”
Leveled those ferret dead eyes on me, said
“Will be if you fuck up.”
“You didn’t know that each time you passed the threshold you were saying goodbye.”
Griffin was driving a beat-up Chevy. He was wearing a black suit and looked like an undertaker. How apt that was? There was something dead about the guy, not just the eyes but his whole face had the sheen of the embalmed. He was wearing some kind of god-awful cologne. One of those scents that a guy gets hold of early in life and is convinced is a winner, despite all the evidence. Made you want to gag. But with him, perhaps that was the point. I had a cup of coffee and he said