Naw.
I cleared my throat, always a sure sign you’re about to pop a whopper. I said
“Mr. Griffin got the job done.”
Can you believe it?
Like the girl asked
“What kind of man was I?”
Boyle spluttered his drink and even Griffin seemed amused. He said
“I like it. You got cojones, kid, you know that?”
The good book as usual was resting on the desk and wiping his leaking mouth with his sleeve, he opened it, read
“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”
He looked up, his face shining, a mix of grease, sauerkraut and fervor. Mad bastard. He asked
“You got a copy of this here volume?”
Oh sure.
I was going to say
“Caught the movie.”
But went with
“Yes, sir.”
I have no reason, no explanation for my next action. I shot my cuff and looked at my watch.
Fuck.
Few insults to equal it.
Instead of taking offense, Boyle squinted, asked
“What’s that you’re wearing?”
Was he blind? I nearly said
“Like, hello, it’s a watch, one of those items, got little hands, like you. And you know what, tells you the time, how cool is that?”
I said
“A Timex, sir.”
Bought it off a guy in Times Square, cost me all of ten bucks but what the hell, it did the job. Boyle sat back as if he’d never heard such a thing and I was thinking, hey fellah, it’s far from any freaking watch you were reared, sounding eerily like my old man, not a good thing. Boyle got a toothpick, dug deep into his teeth, extracted some meat, popped it back in his mouth, said
“Be-Jaysus, no one in my crew is going to be a cheapskate. Lemme see.”
Pulled open a drawer, rummaged round then took out a watch, offered it across the desk.
My jaw dropped. I thought that was an expression, like in books and shit, but I could feel my face droop.
A gold Rolex.
Griffin was amused at my reaction. Boyle said
“Don’t just gape at it, try it on.”
I did.
It fit, like sin.
I shook my wrist the way you do and the thing slid nicely along my wrist. Was it my imagination or did it sparkle?
Boyle said
“’Tis yours, I look after my lads.”
I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was thinking
“Is it one of those knockoffs?”
Boyle said
“’Tis the real McCoy, none of that cheap imitation with me.”
I said
“I dunno what to say.”
Griffin said
“Thank you would be nice.”
The fuck.
I muttered
“Mr. Boyle, I’m very grateful.”
He was taking the wrapper of a cigar, lit it with a Zippo, blew a cloud of smoke at me, asked
“How grateful?”
What?
His tone had completely altered, his mood swings as mercurial as Irish weather. A nasty edge had leaked all over his words. I wanted to ask
“How grateful am I supposed to be?”
Boyle scribbled something on a sheet of paper, handed it over, said
“This is my tailor. Get yer arse down there, get some decent suits. He’ll be expecting you.”
I did some more lame gratitude and he waved it off, asked
“You gonna grease this cop for us?”
I wanted to sling the Rolex at him, said
“He’s my buddy.”
Boyle grimaced, looked at Griffin, then
“Cops ain’t nobody’s buddies. He doesn’t know we’re on to him. We’re gonna let him run a bit then I want you to put a cap in his head. You do that for me?”
Stalling, I said
“I’ll do it for the Yankees.”
He loved it.
He tossed a set of keys across the desk, said
“Welcome to Tribeca.”
“Straight to Hell.”
THOSE DAYS, I WAS big into The Clash, had all the imports, direct from London. “Rock The Kasbah” was on my headphones day and night. Took Shannon out and she spotted the Rolex, asked
“That real?”
“Naw, a knockoff.”
She didn’t believe me but let it slide. I was wearing one of the new suits and she asked
“What is it you do?”
“Import export.”
She digested this, then
“A gangsta, huh?”
Pronounced it with the full hip hop flavor.
I shrugged it off, said
“Yeah, that’s me, a real hood.”
Her face took on a serious bent and she said
“I don’t want to be messed up with some penny ante hoodlum.”
I wanted to point at the watch, ask
“That penny ante to you?”
We’d been out for a meal, and it went well. Our barbed, spiky banter had eased a notch and we were getting if not comfortable, at least a little more familiar, but as long as the sexual tension hung over us, there was a vibe. As if reading my mind, she said
“I’m going to sleep with you.”
What do you say?
“Fucking A?”
I said in a serious tone
“I’d like that.”
And she stared into my eyes, went
“Like? You’re going to love it.”
O-kay.
So, I asked
“When?”
And here was the kicker.
“When you get to know my boy a little.”
The following Sunday, I took them to the park, had me old baseball mitt and got the kid playing. He was a quiet little guy but he sure could hit. Took him a time to get the swing of it but he soon began to smack the ball back and I said
“Right out of the ballpark.”
He had a way of looking at you that hit at your very heart and I liked him, liked him a lot, told Shannon and she said
“I know.”
We were getting there.
Two days later, I got shot.
I arranged to meet Todd in a tavern in Brooklyn, not Manhattan. If I was going to confront him then it was going to be where we grew up, let the betrayal seem more stark.
Fucking cop?
Jesus wept.
I now had a piece, courtesy of Griffin. A Browning.45 automatic. He’d said
“Try not to shoot yer balls off.”
At the last minute, I didn’t bring it. I’d moved into my pad in Tribeca, and felt, I dunno, like a fraud. Didn’t belong there and the other tenants, meeting me briefly, seemed to agree. One prick, I said
“How you doing?”
He gave me the look, the one I’ve received all my life, that goes
“Shouldn’t you be coming in the service entrance?”
Yeah, like that.
Tempted to give the Browning a trial run with him and he asked, in a snotty tone
“Are you delivering something?”
I counted to ten and beyond, said
“I live here.”
He moved back, no kidding, stepped back a pace, said
“We’ll see about that.”
Enough.
I grabbed him by his shirt collar, asked
“You threatening me?”
He pushed my hands away, not a touch intimidated, said
“That’s not a threat, that’s a promise. I’m on the building board. We have certain standards. I wasn’t informed we were allowing garbage men to sublet.”
Can you believe it?
I gave a short laugh, said
“Oh, I’ll be taking out the trash buddy and you’ll be it.”
He swaggered off, with the parting shot
“Don’t unpack.”
Jeez, can you believe that shit? I felt like a kid again, at school, when the nuns walloped the holy fuck outa me, just for the practice and I wanted to scream
“What’d I do?”
Song of my life......... what’d I do?