I stand at the doorframe. Look around his office. “Is it okay to talk shop in here?”
Paulie scribbles on a pad and paper. Goes back to staring at his computer screen. “Yeah, yeah. I check it every morning for any bugs.”
I close the door behind me and take a seat in a cheap office chair. The phone in my pocket is out and I slide it over the desk. “Dumped the SIM and battery on the ride over—as usual. You get the pictures?”
Paulie opens a desk drawer and slides a new burner phone over to me. He snatches the phone I used to take the pictures of Charlie and tosses it in a small bucket next to the trash can with a flyer taped to it that says, phones for our troops. He does this every time, even if I reset the entire phone to factory settings. I think it’s overcautious—borderline paranoid—but I don’t voice that opinion. Not like I owned the phone, and hell, maybe Paulie knows more about this stuff than I do.
“Fantastic.” Paulie looks up to me. “How’s it going with you?”
I nod and lean back. “It’s going. Need to visit Liam in a few.”
“How’s he holding up?”
“Still not talking, eating, walking—you know—all vegetable.” I understand Paulie’s trying to be polite, but all I want is to collect my pay and leave. Talking about my brother’s condition before I get to see it in person only darkens my mood even more.
“Your mom?”
“Please. No need to invoke storm clouds on a nice day.”
Paulie arches his brow and folds his hands on his desk. There’s a poster behind him with a racial rainbow of smiling children. “All right, well…”
Charlie pops up behind Paulie’s shoulder. Paulie doesn’t bat an eye; he can’t see or feel Charlie. That’s all on my shoulders. I’d like to tell him to cut it out, that he’s all in my head and nobody else gives a damn about him anymore, but Paulie’s already given me enough side-eye during our partnership. Last thing I need is mental health being an even bigger factor in his concerns over me.
So I ignore it. It works better if I’m the only one who knows I’m all sorts of crazy and that the corpses of the people I’ve recently killed hang around with me for a few days. Charlie will keep on with the gore show. Pull some shock magician bullshit on me. Appear whenever the lights go out in the apartment. Then, he’ll start to fade away. Before I know it, he’ll be a fingerprint smudge in my peripheral. It’ll be another job I barely remember. Then it’ll be time for the next job.
“Okay, standard fee for debt collection—minus my cut.” He makes a big show of typing on one of those old-school calculators. I imagine him with one of those visors and a stogie between his lips like a bookie in a black-and-white movie starring James Cagney.
“How’s the daycare business? Getting more than one computer anytime soon?” I might as well lighten the mood in the room. Ghost Charlie’s running amok in a fit of rage. The ghosts have a habit of doing that, even if nothing gets accomplished. They stretch and pull at themselves. It’s all the physics of a cartoon, but unnerving with the textures of the real world.
Paulie smiles. “Smart ass.” Shakes his head. “Not too bad. Some of these kids—” he looks around like one of them could be skulking in corner, “—they can be little motherfuckers. Can’t do much on account of the parentage and all.”
That’s about right. More than half the kids here are the spawn of the mafia glitterati of the Bronx. Future paesan kings and Jersey Shore queens are being cultivated by a man who acts as a handler to most of the hit men in the Bronx and lower Yonkers. I don’t bother to know any of the parents’ personal details. Would be too a big a headache at some point. Much better to keep the relationship simple. I talk with Paulie—only Paulie—and I keep my nose and identity out of anything with potential stickiness. When he decided to move forward with this daycare idea of his, I questioned his sanity. Then I realized the son of a bitch not only had a front, but he literally had a massive human shield. Nobody in their right mind would come after him so long as he was holed up in here.
“You try sending a letter home to their parents?” It’s empty advice. Makes me sound interested.
Paulie slaps at his calculator. “Yeah, but some of the parents are worse. Tell you something. You’re better off doing what you do. At least when someone lips off to you…” He makes his hand into the shape of a revolver and puts the “barrel” to his temple. “Know what I mean?”
“Not as much as good ol’ Charlie there, but yeah, I get it.”
That brings Charlie back to us. “I can make good…” He paces back and forth behind Paulie, throws his arms in the air and his fingers lose form. Fade out like smoke from ten dying cigarettes. I track Charlie’s head wound and count how many times I spot a kid’s smile peeking through from the poster behind him.
“So how long does it take to calculate my take?” I’m tired of waiting.
Paulie clears his throat. “Well, looks like it’s gonna be seven K this time. I had to tack on a few more fees.” He gives me this bullshit grin. “Didn’t have a choice.”
“More fees?” This crap again. Paulie pulled this garbage two gigs ago, but he at least had a reason—I made a mess of the hit. I fight the urge to pistol whip the bastard, but there’s not much choice in the matter. An illicit career doesn’t give a guy much leverage, especially if he does the dirty work.
“Fuck…” Charlie stomps over to me and tries to get in my face. Seems he’s only relevant when he curses.
I keep eyes on Paulie. “You didn’t say a damn thing about new ‘fees’ when I took the gig. Figure I’d be seeing at least nine.” I was depending on that extra to keep my nose out of the water for at least an extra week. I fight the urge to throw my chair at the bastard’s bald head.
“Shit’s getting complicated. I got a bigger stable to take care of. Papa’s had some issues lately, incurring operational costs and all.”
Bullshit. The guy Paulie is middle man for, Tony Papa, is cutting back—going cheap and handing work over to off-the-boat kids from the rougher patches of the planet. Past few years, the wet work scene’s been flooded with these poseurs. They’ve been getting a strong rep for quick work, but you get what you pay for. Hardly the level of professional that can keep things discrete if everything goes pear-shaped.
“So you’re lowering my rates.” It’s as simple as that. I’ve been undercut. “Without warning.”
He raises his hands. “Not like that, it’s been a tight month. Look, I got another gig here.” A folder lands on the desk in front of me. “A couple of strippers been loose-lipped about a party they were hired to work a few weeks ago. It’s giving a few very important friends agita. You’ve done something like this before. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
It’s a tempting offer, wouldn’t hurt to feel it out. “Is what the strippers saw a need-to-know deal?”
Paulie shrugs. “Eh, drugs, a few girls at the paygrade above them—of the non-English-speaking variety, of course.”
No way. Those are the darker alleyways, and while, yeah, my career isn’t exactly sunshine and sparkles, I’m not about to go playing in that sandbox so soon after a simple gig. I push the folder back to him. “You know I don’t go back to back. All these years, and I look green to you?” I should know better to even entertain this. I bend once for Paulie, and he’ll press in harder the next time.
“No, but you’re as prickly as a fucking rookie today.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m offering you a means of cash flow to handle your family commitments. I know keeping Liam half robot costs an arm and a leg. I’m doing you a solid here.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” I stand up. “Give me what I’m owed, and I’ll be on my way.”
Paulie opens a drawer to his left and fishes out two stacks of bills. “Throwing in an extra two fifty since I’ve offended your sensibilities.” The money lands on my lap. Wrapped tight with dirty rubber bands.
I stare down at the cash. “You got an envelope or something for me to put this i
n? Or do you expect me to slip this down my ass crack?”
“On top of the extra two fifty? Jesus.” He’s busting my balls—trying his hand at easing the mood. The envelope appears next to the job folder. “You interested in this extra gig or not?” His eyebrows rise in the kind of way that always makes me nervous. He’s working an angle—I know it.
I shake my head and squirrel the cash into the envelope. “I said no back-to-back gigs. Call me in a month or two once you got something good—something expensive.” I stand up. Charlie’s right next to me and staring daggers again.
“I can always set you up with something meatier. Ain’t any shortage of high-priority assholes that need taking care of.” He jabs a stubby, sausage finger at me. “Payout’s twenty-five grand minimum.”
“Nope. That’s for the younger fellas ain’t got a problem with lighting fires in paper houses.” It’s a personal policy. I’ll hit losers and nobodies—folks that won’t be missed. I can wash away that guilt quickly, for the most part. It also keeps me and Liam safe. High-priority targets like stoolie button men or disgraced criminal middle managers? No way. That kind of heat follows you home no matter how fast you run.
“I’ll talk to you soon then. Try to look on the fucking bright side at some point.” He gets back to scribbling on papers with a pen that has a comically oversized moose head bobbing on top of it on a spring.
“Yeah, well, shooting drunks in the head makes that tough.”
Yeah, Charlie mutters from behind me. Something feels off, but I ignore it. I’m tired.
I open the door and nearly step on one of the little munchkins crawling all over Paulie’s school. She looks up to me and snorts back a gallon of snot. Her eyes are wet with tears. “You’re not Mr. Paulie.” She says it coldly—I’m clearly an interloper and breaking whatever protocol she’s set out in her kid brain. Look at her shirt. Don’t recognize the gawping cartoon animal. Kid’s got lame parents.
“He’s right in there, sweetheart.” I step aside to let her into the office. She watches me the entire time she makes her way past the threshold. That stare crawls straight up my ass and climbs my spine—too familiar—so I double-time the hell out of there.
“Little girl…” Charlie is two steps behind. If he had breath, it would be make my neck moist.
“That one’s too young to be yours, Charlie, try again.” I whisper.
No answer.
I wave to the ladies at the front desk and dodge a few dozen rug rats playing tag and tugging helium balloons around. I wait to get buzzed out and step back into daylight. Get to the car and what a surprise—a ticket. The parking meter was busted. I tear the ticket up and toss the shreds into the wind. My own personal ticker tape parade to my failings.
Back in the car, Charlie grins.
I get the car started. “Really? You think a ticket’s giving you one over on me? I ain’t the one with lead rattling in that empty skull.”
That gets him sulking good. I get the car on the road. “You did that to yourself, not me—not Paulie or his employers. Just you.”
“I can make good,” he whispers.
“None of you ever understand. When a guy like me shows up, it means you burned out all the chances you had.”
He stares out the passenger window. Plunges a finger into his bullet wound and picks at it like a scab or hangnail. This is a first, a sullen ghost. Maybe this idiot was a closet philosopher or something.
“You think I want you here with me?” I slide a cigarette from the pack I have holstered on my visor. Light it with a Zippo I keep in the center console. “The sad truth of it, Charlie, is that you’re not the first. Won’t be the last, either. At least you get to fade away.”
Charlie’s lips move. “Please…”
“Please yourself.” I blow a stream of smoke toward him. “Guess you’re riding with me to the hospital to visit Liam. That’ll be nice. Maybe you can meet a nice, sort of pretty coma victim—settle down. Then you can leave me the hell alone sooner than everyone else.”
We pull up to a red light and I light a fresh cigarette with the old one. Scratch the spot between my eyes. I’ll make the hospital trip quick. Maybe pick up a bottle of something strong. Then catch a day of sleep and bad TV. That sounds about right.
Paulie called Liam a robot and for some reason that sticks with me. I laugh. Liam was always a tough son of a bitch—he would have gotten a kick out of being called a robot or Terminator. Always loved those bullshit movies.
“You know, what I did to you, Charlie. That was for family. That was the extreme I went to in order to stand by my blood and protect them.” I pull my foot off the brake and let the car roll forward. This light is taking forever. “Guys like you are fucking worthless. You don’t leave your family—especially a little kid. Now you’ll never amount to nothing for your daughter and she’ll remember you as some kind of shadow in her life.” I’m getting too personal. This isn’t real. I need to calm down.
I toss my smoke out of the window. The driver next to me is staring. Oh, yeah, I’m talking to myself. I give the guy a smile and a wave. He pretends like he can see right through me. Does that little tough guy thing where you lean to the side and stroke your chin. Then he drives off. Of course, I’m distracted and the asshole behind me leans on his horn three milliseconds after the light turns green.
In the mood for some music. I turn on the CD player and The Wolfe Tones’ “Celtic Symphony” starts. Old school rebel Irish music. Flutes and banjos and brogues. The song’s a bunch of pandering gibberish, but it gives me the warm and fuzzies nonetheless. There’s not much about my time in Ireland that ever makes me smile, so I take these moments as a small treat.
Charlie makes a face like someone farted.
“Deal with it.” Turn the volume all the way up. I sing along at the top of my lungs—dance along the way I used to in the pubs of Killarney and Newry. I think of half-drank pints and smoking two packs of cigarettes in a single night. Of nights with girls that never told me their names but showed me everything else about them. For all the bad, there was some good in Ireland—or at least plenty to distract me. Here, though, I have none of that. I came back to New York and life was waiting to deck me with concrete gloves.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Charlie hold his head in his hands.
At least that makes me smile.
3
I park near the houses across from Jacobi hospital and dig out my personal phone from the car’s glove box. One of those old Nokia models that can’t seem to die. I don’t keep a contact list. Still have all the phone numbers I need—only five—locked up in my head. I punch in an 800-number and then an extension when I’m prompted. One of my eyelids starts to twitch—need to get some sleep.
The phone rings twice. “Jacobi Hospital, Adult Critical Care Unit. This is Nurse Healy.”
“Nancy,” I say with a smile, “it’s Terry Shea.” The name I go by outside of business and private family interaction. As far as they’re concerned, Liam and I are happily married. I avoid his mother—my “mother-in-law”—because of her homophobia. This is why I always call before I pop up. Story I tell is we met through a veteran support group—me being a Gulf War vet and him doing a tour in Afghanistan. Helps explain the age difference too. The truth? I’m a war-time deserter and Liam blew his lid off with a superior officer. Our family weren’t very skilled at making great, well-thought-out decisions, obviously.
I hear the nurse shuffle a moment. “His mom’s leaving now.” She’s lowered her volume. They’re good like that. Always makes me glad I kept Liam in the Bronx. I can afford it, and he gets really good care. Are there better places? Most definitely, but my line of work can’t support the asking price for the more advanced places out west.
“Great. I’ll be up in about twenty minutes.” I look over to the passenger seat. Charlie’s gone.
“That’ll be fine. You can help with the last bit of his physical therapy session.”
&nb
sp; “Excellent. See you folks soon.” I hang up the phone and grip the steering wheel. I can see Charlie seated next to me again. I turn to him.
He’s staring at me like he’s got a mental problem. I’ve seen this happen once or twice before. When the ghosts begin to lose their grip, they pop in and out—always close—but enough that it’s disorienting to them. I won’t lie; it freaks me out a little too. It’s happened once or twice on a nightly jaunt to the bathroom. Doesn’t matter how many times it happens, a man’s going to jump when he’s got his unmentionables in hand and is half asleep. I snap a finger in front of him and he blinks.
“You’re spacing out there, Charlie.”
“Please…” He looks around the car like he dropped something.
I step out the car and walk across the block. Turn. Charlie’s not in the car. Turn again. He’s in front of me. It’s annoying; he’s chained to me like we’re in an arranged marriage. I pack a new set of smokes. “Nothing about this is fun.” I trace a circle with my finger. “All of it, Charlie. You, this hospital, hell, me.”
Three doors down, someone’s watching from behind thin curtains. Even though the neighborhood is quiet, there’s gang presence here. All second-generation idiots puffing their chests out and acting like the gangsters they’ve seen on TV. They’ve got a penchant for sudden, inexplicable bursts of violence. Someone gives them the wrong kind of look, steps on their fresh, lily-white sneakers—seriously, who the hell wears white sneakers anywhere near New York City—and guns are drawn.
I decide to start walking toward the hospital—give the person watching the comfort I’m going someplace less sketchy than under a parking sign to have a smoke. I find my own solace that Charlie’s already beginning to leave me. He might snatch the record for shortest time served haunting me.
I take my time walking. The houses near Jacobi are surprisingly nice. Lots of wrought-iron gates and fancy window rails. Even spot a gorgeous Chevy Nova sitting alone in a torn-up driveway. There isn’t much space between houses—at most six- or seven-foot-wide alleys—but it’s quiet and the silver maples that line the block can fool a guy into thinking he’s not in the Bronx.
Hell Chose Me Page 2