Tower: A Novel (15 page)

Billy Wilder, the famous Hollywood director and producer, was told by a friend that a colleague had suffered a severe heart attack. To this, Wilder said, “Impossible!” The friend wanted to know why Wilder thought this so. “Because to have a heart attack, one requires a heart.”

A
NOTHER DAY, ANOTHER JOB
. Well, maybe a bit different. Sunday was a rare time for what Boyle had put on the schedule for Nick and myself. Was working hard on my future lung cancer. Had graduated to Pall Mall. Smoking those nails was like working the heavy bag in the gym. It was filterless Camels next. My ultimate was these French bastards I’d seen. Gitanes or some such shit.

Was resting my ass on a Buick Electra 225, the same model as that fat fuck Finney used to drive. Had Nick steal it for me, not for irony’s sake, but for convenience. Couldn’t have it traced back to me. No rust on mine, pristine.
Nice work, Nicky.
Why that model? I had my reasons. Had my reasons for putting plastic slipcovers on the seats as well. Nick showed an hour late, of course. Had that half dead look on his puss that said he’d just seen his dad. Family meals at their house were like a steel cage match.

“You’re late.”

Smirked. “Scored last night, did you?” he asked after what’s-her-name.

“We fucked, but I wouldn’t call it scoring. My hand’s more present when I jerk off.”

“That good, huh?”

Flicked my cigarette high so that it spun, perfect as a twirler’s baton.

“Had to check for a pulse,” I said, opening the passenger side door. To him, “You sure as hell didn’t score.”

As I pulled out into traffic, he said, “Shannon, that’s her name.”

Course I knew that. Knew a fuck of a lot more. One advantage of my new fangled cop-ness was that I could have people checked out, day or night, the whole year through. It’s amazing what you can get if you just label things correctly. If I’d asked to have this woman checked out because my friend was interested in her, they’d have told me to stick it up my ass. Called her a “person of interest” and got the full report. Almost surprised it didn’t include the type of tampons she used. Didn’t let on to Nick. Couldn’t. Acted impressed. Was. When I’d left Rocky’s, Nick was raging.

“You’re shitting me.”

Proud. “Nope, I got her phone number too.”

Let it sit for a minute while he fiddled with the radio. Wondering where to take it.

“I know her.” Mistake.

“Yeah?”

“She used to run with an old buddy of mine.” Yeah, right. Like what buddy besides Nicky would that be? “She’s got a kid, retarded I think. Something like that. And I hear she’s a real ball buster, too.” I think I also might’ve called her a broad. Like that’s something I ever do.

Was losing it. It was like I was trying to protect somebody here. Her probably. Wanted to show Nick pictures of Kathleen and scream, “Leave this woman be, Nick. Look what the fuck happens when women get involved with people like us. And for chrissakes, bro, they didn’t even fucking bury her!” Maybe I wanted to protect Nick a little bit too. Pulled the big Buick up in front of a deli.

Smiled. “Broads,” was all he said. “No one calls babes broads anymore.”

Not sure anyone called them babes either.

“What’s the job?” he was curious.

“Shithead in the deli owes some vig,” I said, grabbing my lower back. Hadn’t been right since Finney shoved me down the stairs. But what had?

Nick worried. “Gonna be a problem?”

Let go of my back and grabbed the door. “Let’s find out.”

Deli man was a beefy boy with attitude enough to slice into sandwiches. He gave us the tough guy routine. Wasn’t in the mood. Threatened his kids. Didn’t worry about it. Hey, you going to play the heavy, be heavy, don’t fuck around. Deli man got a little offended at that. Jumped the counter and I stuck a knife in his neck. Just enough to scare the shit and money out of him. Nicky thought I’d slit his throat. Nah, a trick I picked up in Philly from one of my training officers. Still sounds funky, training officer.

Took an apple out of the fruit basket as I came back over the counter. Ate it in the car. Sour piece of crap. Tossed it out the window and lit up. Back to the heavy bag. Saw the disdain in my old pal’s eyes. Tough shit, bro. Guess I wasn’t on his favorites list today.

“Boyle doesn’t much like you,” he said as if it would break my heart.

“Who the fuck does?”

When Nick turned away, I put a hand on the left side of my chest.

Nothing.

“Let us learn in order to teach.

Let us learn in order to do.”

—
Hebrew Prayer

H
AD PLANNED TO WAIT
for retribution, but the shelf life was shorter than expected. Even with the echo and sway that passed for my life, I had the sense of time closing in. Could not point to anything and say why. Just heard my internal clock ticking. O’Connor and Cousin Ira had their plans, not that the rest of the universe was listening. So I changed the plates on the Buick again, and let everyone know I was off to Philly for a few days’ fun.

Fuck Philly, like I might go there for fun. For a haunting, it was a fine place. Could throw on my green coveralls as a nod to old time’s sake and stand across from the old walkup, trying to catch glimpses of Leeza’s ghost. Christ, she’d lately been coming back into my sleep. Even through all the blood and chaos, she persisted. Her presence, which had been but a buzz since Boston, had re-emerged. Hated myself for letting her back in.

With Kathleen, it had been so free, so frequent. Whatever we wanted, we got: no mind games, no
mishegas,
no withholding, no negotiation. We’d drink and fuck and fuck and fuck. No wonder it took her murder to make me miss her. Leeza Velez meted herself out to me in tiny rations. Being with her had felt like anything but freedom. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’d only been inside her three times and damn me if each stroke, each kiss, each thrust didn’t feel like a prayer to an attentive god. It was to laugh, no? I may have let her spirit back in, but she was gone.

Philly it was, if only to establish an alibi. Parked the Buick downtown, rented a Toyota and checked into a motel that specialized in privacy, prostitutes, and triple-X programming. Called a bouncer I’d befriended when Leeza and I were doing our bar thing. Gave him a grand, key to the car, use of the room. When he came in, I went out. Did a reverse Beatles, leaving through the bathroom window. Caught a cab back downtown, got in the Buick, headed for Boston.

Crossing the Charles River didn’t feel a fucking thing like home. Didn’t love that dirty water, the beer or the baseball team. Just hated the Sox a little less than the Yanks. For a Mets’ fan it’s like choosing between gangrene and leprosy. They both get you, one just quicker than the next. Thinking on it, I wasn’t so sure why I’d taken on the Red Sox mantle. Funny phrase that, as Mickey Mantle was the most beloved Yankee of all. First thought it was as much to rub it in Nick’s face as to honor Kathleen. Nah, that was too easy. In my guts I think it was a warning. Like
Pay attention, Nicky, I’ve changed teams. I’ve gone over to the other side.

Rudi was a slippery fuck and more clever than me by half. That argued against careful planning and surveillance. If I’d tried to follow his movements for more than a day or two, he’d sense it. You don’t get to be such a kingpin cocksucker without the feel for being watched. An amateur like me couldn’t set his ass up. He’d have one of his boys put one behind my ear and I’d never see it coming. Had to be done like a surprise party with only one guest and the guest of honor. Chances were good I would get myself killed in the process, but fuck if I wasn’t going to take Rudi with me for company.

Drove to the warehouse where we first met. Parked down the street, way down, watched the cars leave until there was just Rudi’s old Caddy keeping the cobblestones company. Hadn’t seen any cameras during my first trip and I didn’t figure Rudi was a surveillance camera type of guy. No, figured him as strictly old school, the type who liked that his rep would keep people away. Also didn’t strike me as a man who liked tapes and records. Bet you he never wrote shit down. Kept it all in his head.

Took one last look around, knelt down, stuck a blade into the front tire of Rudi’s Caddy. Strode right into the warehouse as I had that first time, quieter though. The crudely painted step van was still in the loading bay, maybe dustier, probably hadn’t moved an inch. Looked up. Saw the light on in the office.

Shouted out, “Rudi!”

Saw his face at the window, smiling. Waved me up.

We were alone in the office. Wasn’t smiling now. Smelled trouble. So I confirmed his fears to relax him.

“I’m fucked, Rudi. Didn’t know who to come to. And I figure you owe me a little something for…”

Relax he did, as long as the woes appeared to be mine. “What’s the trouble, boyo?”

“Cops. Think my best bud in New York has gone over.”

“Jaysus. Nothing worse. Did ya go to Boyle?”

“Can’t. I’m the one got my bud into the crew.”

“Fooked three ways to Sunday, ya are. But what is it ya think I can do for ya?”

“Just need a few days to figure things out. Have you got a safehouse or something, someplace I can go and get my head around it? You owe me that.”

He didn’t look pleased. Rudi wasn’t a man who liked owing people. On the other hand, you need more than fear to inspire loyalty. My sense was that he kept his word even when it killed him to do so. That was a big part of a man’s rep, his word.

“Two days,” he said. “No more.”

Smiled as if he’d commuted my sentence. “Thanks, Rudi.”

“Let’s be on our way.”

Shut the lights and locked the door behind him. Followed him to his Caddy.

“Shite!”

“What?”

“Flat tire.”

Acted twitchy, nervous. “I can’t stay out in the open like this. I’ve got my car down the block.”

Sneered at me. Could tell he thought I was a fool. Cars are easy to trace. I was more trouble than I was worth. He only knew the half of it. Walked down to the Electra.

Actually stopped and admired it. Didn’t make the connection between it and Finney’s rusted piece of shit. Got in behind the wheel. He slid in next to me. Didn’t wait or give him a lecture. Reached over and stuck a twelve inch chefs knife through his liver and pulled it across him widthwise. Yanked it out. Dark thick liquid poured out of him as he sat there frozen and in shock. Pulled away from the curb.

“You should have buried her, Rudi. You should have fucking buried her!”

Took out my shield and mashed it into his face.

In the movies, he would have smiled knowingly or laughed sardonically. In real life he coughed up blood and died. Plastic slipcovers are like a godsend. Found a spot to finish the job I started. Did what needed doing, then headed to Philly. Was back in New York a few days later when the story broke in the Boston rags

HUMAN REMAINS FOUND IN ZOO

Like I said, he should have fucking buried her.

“He didn’t come here for answers. There were no answers. There was only sensation. No answers, and there would be no closure.”

—George Pelecanos,
Right as Rain

C
HANGE IS SOMETHING I
never dwelt on. Now it dwells on me.

Remembered my high school physics teacher explaining the myth of solidity. Told us to imagine the distance between the nucleus of an atom and its closest electron as the distance between the sun and Pluto. Not very comforting that. Said that solidity was a rationalization to help us get out of bed every day. Who wanted to live in a world where your next step might sink into the space between Pluto and the sun? Good question. Well, whether I wanted it or not, it was my new world.

When I got back from Philly, the lay of the land had once again changed. Was as if Boyle had waved his magic wand and Nicky was transformed.
Presto chango, abra cadabra.
Gold Rolex on his wrist, new suits on his skin, new apartment in Tribeca, new distance from me. Oh yeah, there was that freshly broken nose of his. Asked him where he got it.

“Saks Fifth Avenue.”

Cute.

Or was it Boyle at all? Maybe the new woman, Shannon? Had she waved the magic stick? Doubted it. Didn’t strike me as the type for silk suits and style, especially store-bought style. More likely she was the one to have broken his nose.

Frankly didn’t give a rat’s ass about the style changes, but Nicky’s refrigerator friendship was disturbing. Thought we had reached some kind of understanding in spite of our recent troubles, Nick and me. Knew that what I’d done to the deli man had bugged him and my not drinking with Boyle

…Thought I was losing it, getting out of control. Maybe I was. Wonder what he would have thought if he knew I’d just assassinated Rudi and supplemented the diets of several zoo animals with pieces of the bastard’s remains. Wondered if Vinny Podesta would try to knock me down now.

Had my answers soon enough. Met Nicky at Moe’s Tavern in the old neighborhood. Guess our streak at Axel’s had run its course. Moe’s was run by Micky Prada, a good man, bullshit not a word in his vocabulary. Ran Micky’s forever, never seemed to change. We aged. He didn’t.

Nick was at the bar in his Armani suit. Looked good on him, complimented the fading bruises around his nose. Just didn’t seem very comfortable, fidgeting a bit. Said my hellos, grabbed a beer and sat myself down next to the clotheshorse. Took one look at his eyes and understood the discomfort. Coke. Not one of my favorite drugs. Spend the whole evening trying to get as high as you were in the first fifteen minutes. Never works. Only get further away from that original rush.

“Doing lines in the men’s room, huh? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”

He made some lame excuse about decent booze.

“Booze my ass. The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”

Leaned in close to me, sneer on his puss.

“That one of the things they teach you at the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”

Christ. Cover’d been blown. Instead of panic, a kind of peace set in. Fucking relief it was. Didn’t have time to worry how it’d happened.