Shamrock Alley (23 page)

“Christ,” Marscolotti uttered beneath his breath. His breathing was loud enough to fill the room.

“Mickey,” Jimmy said, turning his back to the door. “Hit the fuckin’ register.”

Mickey hopped back around behind the counter and shoved past Marscolotti on his way to the cash register. Danny, the paper hat-wearing teen, stood a foot from the register, his hands straight down at his sides. The teenager watched Mickey, undaunted by his approach, with the eyes of a stone relic.

“Move,” Mickey barked, shoving the teenager out of his way. The kid stumbled a couple of feet, nearly tripping backward over a crate of goods, before righting himself against the back wall. His eyes never left the man who’d shoved him.

Mickey stood with his hands hovering above the keys of the register for perhaps two seconds before he lost all patience and began slamming his index fingers against the keypad. The register drawer did not open, which only frustrated Mickey further, and he began slamming his fists down on the keys, his long hair flailing wildly around his face, his teeth clenched in fury.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck!”
Spittle flew from his mouth and a line of it clung to his chin.

“Don’t!” Marscolotti pleaded, taking a step closer to Mickey O’Shay.

Mickey slammed another fist against the keys, his left hand up and caught in the tangle of his hair. Shaking his head rapidly from side to side in little spastic jerks, he yanked his left hand out of his hair and slapped the top of the register as if to draw blood. Behind him, Danny’s eyes burned into his back. Briefly, partially grinning, Jimmy happened to look in Danny’s direction. He recognized the gleam in the boy’s eyes as hate, as mounting rage. It was a hard, angry look, too complex and passionate to be frightened. Jimmy could tell the teenager was a stronger person than his boss. He had a hustler’s glint behind the burning fury in his eyes, and the obvious familiarity of someone who’d been continuously wronged and abused by someone his entire life. If Jimmy Kahn had been a different person, he might have almost admired the kid.

“Shit!” Breathing heavily, Mickey backed away from the register. He stared at it like someone measuring up an opponent. Not one to be bested, he quickly reached out and grabbed the corners of the machine, preparing to push it over the side of the counter and send it crashing to the floor.

“No!” Marscolotti yelled. His face was red and blotchy, his grubby fingers working over one another. “Let me!”

“Do it,” Jimmy called to the proprietor. “Fast.”

Somewhat hesitant about breaching the gap between him and Mickey O’Shay, Marscolotti took two ambiguous steps in Mickey’s direction. Another bark from Jimmy sent him moving, and he reached over Mickey’s shoulders to open the register. He hit two keys and the door sprung open, nearly slamming Mickey in the head.

With one splayed hand against Marscolotti’s chest, Mickey sent the smaller man stumbling backward. Not as agile as his employee, Marscolotti managed to catch one foot in a plastic bucket filled with soapy water. His other foot lifted off the ground and, with a groan, the man flipped backward and slammed against the tile floor. One hand shot up to brace himself, or perhaps grasp onto the counter, yet he only managed to bring down a wooden cutting board and tomato slices onto his chest.

Still boiling, Mickey slammed his hands into the register drawer and began pulling out wads of bills. He stuffed some of the money into his coat, tossed some more onto the countertop. Cheeks quivering, he grabbed a handful of change and flung it across the store. A second handful of change was propelled at the tortoiseshell mirror above the restroom door. The coins
chinked!
off the mirror like pellets to a bull’s-eye.

Laughing, Jimmy collected the remaining bills from the countertop.

From the corner of his eye he could see Tony Marscolotti struggling to get to his feet.

Mickey ruptured. Too riled to even finish emptying the drawer, he planted the sole of his right shoe against the wall behind him, placed both hands once again on either side of the register, and with a great intake of breath—

“No!”
Marscolotti cried.

—he shoved the register over the side of the counter. It slammed against the tile floor just inches from Jimmy’s feet, plastic bits and pieces flying in every possible direction. And in a whirlwind of hair and flapping coat, Mickey spun on Danny, who’d been staring at Mickey’s back throughout the entire fiasco. Mickey’s right hand yanked a small handgun from the waistband of his pants. Eyes wide and bloodshot, pale lips quivering and speckled with spit, Mickey brought the gun up to the kid’s head and slammed the muzzle against his temple. The kid shuddered, stumbled to one knee, wincing at the sudden pain that blossomed through his skull.

Mickey did not pull the trigger, though Jimmy could tell he wanted to.

“Look at me hard?”
Mickey shouted. A dark vein pulsed at his temple.
“You wanna fuckin’ look at me hard?”

Arm stuttering, Mickey jerked the gun away from the kid’s head, shook his wild hair into his eyes—then slammed the gun back into the kid’s face, striking high on Danny’s left cheekbone. Unbelievably, the kid actually managed to pull himself up on both feet again, which only fueled Mickey’s rage. His eyes growing wider and wider until they looked about ready to burst, Mickey repeatedly shoved the barrel of the gun into the kid’s face.

“You a tough guy?” he shouted, a wad of phlegm getting caught in his throat. “Huh? Huh, tough guy?”

The kid did not say a word. Unmoving and silent, he merely watched Mickey with his right eye (the barrel of Mickey’s gun was pressed against his left).

“You
son
of a
bitch!”
Mickey cried, shoving the gun hard enough into the kid’s face to finally send him reeling. Danny’s legs folded up underneath him, and the kid’s body slammed hard against the floor, his head rebounding against the large, wooden crate.

The sight of his adversary bested, Mickey stood above the teenager, catching his breath, suddenly relaxed. The insane flash of light that had been behind his eyes just moments ago was no completely gone. Hair matted with sweat and hanging in his face, Mickey O’Shay adjusted his rumpled coat and slid the handgun into one of the coat’s many pockets. Breathing heavily, eyes still on the kid—he was smart enough to know he should remain on the floor, and did—Mickey ran shaky fingers through his hair and uttered a pathetic laugh.

“Come on,” Jimmy said casually from the other side of the counter. Mickey’s actions had not fazed him. He’d seen Mickey O’Shay at his worst. This wasn’t it. “Let’s roll.”

Mickey turned and hooked a finger at Marscolotti who, by now, had managed to prop himself up on his knees. His pants were soaked from the spilled soapy water.

“You pissed … me off,” Mickey said between breaths. “We’ll … be back tomorrow. Have all your fuckin’ money … ready for us …”

Too frightened to even speak, to even acknowledge that he’d heard and understood, Marscolotti just stared at the looming figure that was Mickey O’Shay.

“Hey,” Jimmy said, drumming a fist on the countertop. “Let’s
go.”

A grin broke across Mickey’s face. He shrugged his shoulders and hopped over the counter, his feet coming down beside the ruined remains of Marscolotti’s cash register.

Before they left, Jimmy Kahn shot a glance at Marscolotti from over his shoulder. Then he turned and thumped Mickey on the back, setting him in motion toward the front door. As they left, their long shadows fell across the countertop and the shattered cash register like some impending doom.

“I
’VE GOT AN IDEA,”
J
OHN SAID
. T
HE
office was busy and Kersh, who disliked the commotion, had transferred some of his reports to the pit. They were both there now, the older agent propped up in a chair at his little wooden table, a scattered assortment of paperwork spread out before him. John, who’d just come in from a street assignment, stood with his arms folded against the wall.

“Your ideas trouble me,” Kersh intoned, not looking up from his paperwork.

“I just got off the phone with Tressa,” John said. “I told her I wanted to reach out for Mickey. She gave me the name of some candy store in Hell’s Kitchen where he supposedly hangs out.”

Now Kersh
did
look up. His expression was that of a crotchety old schoolteacher shooting a glance at a rowdy student. “You think this is a good idea?”

“Yeah, I do,” John said. “He might need a little push.” He offered Kersh a crooked grin. “Coulda lost my number.”

He’d decided against telling Kersh about the meeting with Mickey on Thanksgiving Day. Since nothing had been accomplished, telling Kersh would only elicit his disapproval, as the meeting at St. Patrick’s Cathedral had done.

Kersh twisted his lips and considered. After a moment, he said, “A
candy
store?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Where?” Kersh asked.

“Fifty-third and Tenth.” Then, in an attempt to convince Kersh, he said, “Mickey knows I got a buyer, and a buyer don’t hang around forever. It’s the right move. I should be up his ass about the money.”

“So what’s the plan?” Kersh said.

“Push the deal. If he’s got the money with him—we know he’s got a stash—I’ll set up the buy for later tonight.” John could tell Kersh, too, appreciated the street logic. “Let’s do this before it gets too late.”

Kersh sighed and shuffled through his paperwork. “My headache’s working its way to my knees,” Kersh muttered. “Okay, you wanna do this? Let’s do it. We drive separately, and I’ll hang back a block or two. You really think this guy’s gonna be hanging around some candy store?”

John winked at him. “If not, I’ll treat you to an egg cream.”

It was well into the afternoon by the time they headed out for Hell’s Kitchen. John drove a bit fast, his mind two steps ahead of his actions.

The sun was directly overhead when he pulled onto Tenth Avenue. Around him, the sidewalks were alive with people, even in the cold. Just above the tops of the high-rises, interrupted by the skeletal extensions of television antennas, the sky was the color of cold steel, thick with clouds.

The intersection of Tenth and West 53
^rd
was mildly populated, mostly by commuters and taxicabs heading north toward Amsterdam Avenue. Some Christmas decorations had been hung here, in the windows of neighborhood shops and apartments: cheap plastic Santas, loops of dusty garland, lackluster Christmas balls hanging from pieces of twine.

There were no decorations in the window of Calliope Candy.

John circled the block twice before finding a parking space one block over, and hoofed it back toward the candy store. Kersh, he knew, would remain within eyeshot of the candy store, whether he was illegally parked or not.

There were no customers inside the candy store, even with the
Open
sign still in the window. The place was small and cramped, the levels of shelves along the walls half-empty. A noisy space-heater sat by the door. Behind the counter, a middle-aged man with a sanguine complexion and a faded chambray shirt changed a roll of receipt tape in the cash register. He nodded at John as he approached, his eyes small and rodent-like. There was a large sore at the left corner of his mouth, which he continuously tongued, seemingly without notice.

“Help you with somethin’?” the proprietor said, not pausing in his work.

“I’m looking for Mickey.”

The man behind the counter rolled his bulky shoulders. “Nobody by that name works here,” he said.

“I know that,” John said. “I was told he hangs here.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A business acquaintance,” John said. “I think he’ll want to talk to me.”

The man leveled his eyes on John, sizing him up, trying to convince himself he would have no trouble if things came to blows. He wasn’t in good shape, but he was well over six feet and an easy two hundred fifty pounds. Still, something must have dissuaded him from a physical altercation, because he sighed with great exasperation and moved to a telephone that hung on the wall behind the counter. He punched in a phone number, mumbling something under his breath, and waited while it rang.

“Yeah, it’s me,” the man said, much too familiar. “Got a guy down here, says he’s lookin’ for you.”

“Tell him it’s John.”

“Says his name’s John.” Brief pause. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know.” Another pause. “All right.” With little fanfare, he hung up and turned back to his receipt tape. “He’ll be over in five. You want somethin’ in the meantime?”

“Sure. Gimme an egg cream.”

The man smirked. He turned and grabbed a Coca-Cola glass from the shelf behind him, held it under the soda fountain, pulled the lever. A loop of chocolate syrup drained into the glass. He added milk and seltzer water to the mix, stirred it.

“Not too busy,” John marveled, folding his arms and leaning against the counter. He glanced back over his shoulder. Through the window, he watched the traffic motor slowly up Tenth Avenue. Two young boys bouncing a handball passed by the store’s window without stopping, their shadows long across the glass. “You scare all the kids away?”