“Sling it.”
I had been about to take a sip and I paused, asked
“Do what?”
He put the car into gear, slid out into traffic like a hearse, slow but deadly, said, without looking at me
“You deaf? Lose the cup.”
We were in midtown, heavy gridlock and I went
“You’re kidding.”
Griffin, whatever else, a kidder he wasn’t. He gave that grimace smile, as if he’d swallowed something vile, said
“No one, no fucking one, smokes, drinks or eats in my ride.”
I rolled down the window, the full container in my hand and slung it.
I couldn’t resist, asked
“Happy now?”
He liked that, I could see by the slight tensing of his body. He said
“I don’t do happy.”
Gee, what a surprise.
When I didn’t reply, he said
“We’re going to swing by the boss’s old lady.”
And dumb-ass I was, I asked
“Mrs. Boyle?”
He cut in front of a yellow cab, nearly rear-ending the guy, scoffed
“Jaysus, you know nothing, do you?”
I was tempted to say
“Well, I know you’re a total prick.”
But figured it would keep. He said
“Mr. Boyle’s bit of stuff. She’s been stepping out and you know, the one thing you don’t want ever to do, is screw around with him.”
So I asked
“And we’re going to what, throw a fright into her?”
We were on the triangle below Canal Street. Tribeca, bounded on the other side by Murray Street, transformed into a vibrant mix of commercial, lofts, studios, galleries and chic restaurants. He pulled into a disabled parking spot, said
“Get out.”
I looked at the street sign, Franklin, and what I knew about it was it cost. You had a place here, it was serious bucks. We stood before a renovated building, and Griffin took out a set of keys, let us in. Course, I had to ask
“You have a key to her place?”
He ignored the elevator, took the stairs, said
“I have keys to everything.”
Second floor, a brightly painted door, had little flowers on the top. He sniggered, then knocked. There was the sound of music, Whitney Houston? Then a woman’s voice,
“Who is it?”
Without missing a beat, he said
“Fed Ex.”
There was a peephole and she could obviously see him. She opened the door. The first thing she did was sigh and I was with her there. Griffin at your door, you’d sigh too. She was barely twenty, barefoot, in halter top and jeans, her hair wet, like she’d just been in the shower, and she was a looker.
Oh yeah.
Puerto Rican maybe, that brown sheen, glistening, and that was almost funny as Boyle was, like so many Micks, a raging bigot, spitting invective about niggers and tar babies, sand Arabs and spics. If she was intimidated by Griffin, she was hiding it well. Put her hands on her hips, demanded
“’Cho want, Griffin?”
Before he could respond, she let her eyes settle on me, asked
“Who’s the kid and who moved his nose?”
Griffin was enjoying it, especially as he knew what was coming down the pike. He didn’t even look at me, said
“The hired help.”
She dismissed me thus. Riled me? Yeah, a little. Griffin had a scan around the apartment, all leather furniture, covered in plastic for the most part and I tried not to see Boyle, Bible in one hand, mounting her on the couch, probably wearing his socks. Micks and their socks, like Texans and boots. Griffin made a big production of shooting his cuff, checking his watch, a Tag Hauer, and he wore cuff links. I mean who, apart from freaking Donald Trump, wore them any more? You could see they were tiny harps, the whole Irish variation of wearing your heart on your sleeve. He went
“You’ve got, lemme see, okay, one hour to get your arse out of here, pack up your shite and get the fuck gone.”
She was stunned, took her all of a minute to digest it then, eyes blazing, she retaliated
“You cho don’t tell me to move. Only Papi does that, he want me to move, he come here, be a hombre, tell me hisself.”
She’d balanced herself on the balls of her feet, ready to ignite. I stood well back, hoping to fuck she’d launch, tear the smug bastard’s eyes out. Griffin was delighted with the reaction, put his hand in his jacket, said
“Chickee, you’ve been screwing around. You think you can give it away when the boss is paying for exclusivity? I have a little going away pressie for ye, so you don’t, you know, go away, empty handed.”
He took a vial from his pocket. You could see a liquid rolling in there. He unscrewed the top and before anyone could act, he threw the contents in her face, said
“Acid, baby. Like your tongue.”
It wasn’t.
Just ordinary tap water. But for one horrendous moment, she and I were believers. My response was
“Holy fuck.”
And she, she clawed at her face, shrieking
“Dios mio, madre del Jesus.”
Religious reaction all around, you might say.
She sank to her knees, sobbing, all the spunk gone out of her. Griffin hovered over her, tapped his crotch, said
“You’re down there, you want to give me one for the road?”
If I’d been packing — and why the hell wasn’t I? — I’d have shot the bastard. I did find my voice, said
“Enough.”
He turned to me, smiled like a cobra, then back to her, said
“I was wrong. I said an hour, the clock is ticking, mi puta, so you got, what, forty five minutes? The next time, it won’t be water.”
And he walked out of the apartment. I went to her, asked
“Are you okay?”
Christ, was I kidding?
She managed to look up, her face a ruin of fright and rage, spat
“What kind of hombre are you?”
Good question.
I got in the car. Griffin said
“You give her a little comfort, you do that, fellah?”
I was too agitated to answer. He put the car in gear and we burned rubber. We pulled into Boyle’s. Griffin took out a set of keys, asked
“How’d you like to live in Tribeca? Nice place, huh? You can see yourself there?”
I was taken aback, asked
“You’re giving me her place?”
He shrugged.
“You want it or not?”
I couldn’t get a handle on this, tried
“So who’d I have to kill for that?”
Without missing a beat, he said
“Your buddy, Todd. Kill him, the apartment is yours.”
He had to be even more deranged than he seemed. I gasped, then
“Why on earth would I kill my best friend?”
Griffin was opening a packet of cashew nuts, tore at the cellophane, put a pile in his mouth, chewed loudly and I wondered what happened to the no eats in the car rule. He said
“Because he’s a cop.”
How did I respond?
Badly.
Very.
I followed Griffin into Boyle’s office, my mind a pit of savagery. I wanted to kill someone, Boyle and Griffin topping the poll. Boyle was chewing on a hot dog, grease dribbling from the corners of his mouth. He’d a large bottle of Dr Pepper, and gargled from that, all of it in stereo. Between bites, he asked
“So, how did it go, kid?”
I looked at Griffin, and Boyle said
“Don’t be scared kid. Speak up. I don’t much like scaredy cats.”
Where the fuck did he find that? Was it possible he’d heard of Dr. Seuss?