I drive in a haze. More road hypnosis. Not sure if it’s the mental state or the lack of sleep. I shake my head to clear the fog and switch radio stations. Something loud, bass-heavy, and danceable comes on. The song makes me grit my teeth, so I leave that on. It should keep me focused on driving. I don’t need another cop stopping me now and I don’t need to be in an accident.
It’s still early enough that traffic hasn’t delayed my trip to Pelham Parkway. I’m a few blocks off the south entrance of the hospital in no time after that. Park the car in a tow-away zone then wipe off the steering wheel and door latches with the cuff of my jacket before collecting my gear. I close the door with my boot. There are probably a dozen other places I’ve touched on the car, but there’s no time for being fussy. I make a beeline toward the hospital while keeping an eye open for patrol cars or anything shady. Can’t have been followed, but that doesn’t mean Tony Papa didn’t send a few assholes to watch the area near Jacobi for me.
I nearly shit a brick when a black Escalade double parks a few feet ahead of me. My hand’s already on the pistol at my waistband. I relax when I see it’s some random guy making a run into a Dunkin’ Donuts.
Then the top of his head pops open. A pink mist hangs in the air as his body drops. His legs and arms spasm—processing the last bits of info his now-pulverized brain had sent to them: get me coffee. There are bits of gray matter and blood on my boots and pants.
Fuck.
I scramble. The pavement and walls behind me are pockmarked with bullets as I half sprint, roadie walk toward the corner. I turn to look behind me and see another black Escalade near a block back. There’s a well-dressed guy aiming down the barrel of a rifle that’s better suited in sandier locales. Well, at least I was right to be nervous about the damn make and model of the car. More shots fired, no real use for subtlety. I pull my Smith & Wesson and pop off a few scattered, blind shots. That suppresses them long enough to get my bearings. People across the street scatter. The cops will be here in no time. I need to get off the street and into the hospital.
There’s a problem, though. If they’re here to get me, they’re already at the hospital. For all I know, Liam’s done for, but there’s no way I’m giving Papa the satisfaction of tearing my heart out without putting a little elbow grease into this. My crime was circumstance and I get why he’s pissed, but the son of a bitch can keep it between us. No need to put an innocent man in a vegetative state in the middle of it. Not like Liam’s aiming a gun to his head.
I get myself upright and sprint down the block. I smell exhaust fumes from a bank of diesel trucks near the back of the hospital. I turn and fire off a few more shots in case. Manage to catch a pursuer in the leg—all luck. He screams and stumbles onto the sidewalk.
I hear the roar of an engine to my right and the Escalade is bearing down. It gets ahead of me and pulls into a driveway three houses down. I reload; shoot at the driver’s side window. The door doesn’t open. A windshield explodes next to me and I slide feet first to the ground. The Escalade has huge tires; unfortunately for them, this means the chassis is far off the ground. This means I have a clear view of what’s behind the car. Three sets of legs are waiting for me. I aim and catch one of the sons of bitches in the ankle and calf. He falls over, lands, and locks eyes with me. One more shot ends his story.
I stay low and run over to a Buick a little further ahead. It’s low to the ground, but I keep myself tucked in and close to the rear passenger tire well. There’s a buzzing by my ear again, but this time I feel something warm go down my jawline. I’ll ignore it. Concede that I won’t be as pretty as I was before all of this went down. I bring my gun hand up and squeeze the trigger until I hear a click. Reload. Half wonder when I’m going to run out of spare ammo. At least I have a few other options at my side. Debate wasting a grenade, but we don’t need to go turning this into a full-on terrorist event. Had enough of those in my day.
Gunfire’s ongoing. I hear sirens, but I can’t tell if it’s police or an ambulance. Could be both, could be my imagination. The shooting stops. They’re reloading. The window’s not staying open for long, so I break from cover and aim myself at the first opening I see leading toward Jacobi’s visitor entrance. It’s a bad call; I could be bringing violence to a place that sees enough consequences. Liam’s too important. I’ll own this one too.
On the other side of the street, I notice the sap I nailed from under the car running with me. He keeps up with me for a few feet, then stumbles, reenacting his own end. I don’t pay attention, though. I already know what happened. Ahead, my entourage—Charlie, Benny, and Cherry—stand waiting. Like they’re mocking me. Letting me know they’re a step closer to Liam than I am. I want nothing more right now than to avoid seeing him like that.
I keep pace down the rest of the block, stay close to the hospital’s perimeter in case I need to do something silly like jump the fence or duck into an alcove. The sirens are behind me, but they’re not getting louder. They must have found the Dunkin’ Donuts guy. I feel bad about that. There was no reason for him to die this morning.
I get over to the hospital’s main entrance without murdering anyone else. There’s a painter’s van parked out front that gives me pause, but there’s a young woman sitting in the passenger seat reading a Spider-Man comic—not too threatening—so I calm myself down. I get inside the hospital, duck into the closest bathroom, and hide my gear at the bottom of a trash can—not very sophisticated and potentially dangerous—all me. The only things I bring with me are the three burner phones at the bottom of the bag and an extra clip. I rush out, sign my fake name at the reception area, and get my ass upstairs.
I’m alone, no ghosts—yet. Decide to check one of my phones. Two missed calls, no messages—text or voice. I bring up the recent calls list and scroll down until I bump into one I know—Paulie. He called about an hour ago. That was about the time I was packing up at the apartment. I should feel stupid for trusting him about that forced hand line. For all I know, he’s giving me up to Tony Papa on his best china. The worst of it, though, for as much as I knew Paulie would stiff me with money, I never in a million years thought he’d do me wrong like this. The worst of it, this was the one guy in the world I still thought of us a friend. Not a best friend, but hey, a guy in my field doesn’t deserve to be picky about his companions.
No Better Friend—2002
16
I hooked up with Paulie a week after Liam went overseas for his tour of duty. We met the day after I saw the kid off, but I was still fighting back tears as I slipped onto an oak stool in a joint called the Temple Bar.
The place was still under renovation but looked to be a little more upscale from what I was used to. An army of contractors—all illegals—were in the back painting the newly hung drywall. The air was heavy with the smell of sawdust and wet plaster. Everything was new—the bar, liquor, stools, chairs, booths—none of the telltale signs that old men have gathered to trade stories or a few underage kids with clever forgeries vomited in the corners.
“You find the place okay?” We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade and this was how he greeted me. He was fatter than I remembered. Hair was gone. Wore a beautiful suit that made up for the defects of age. Can’t say I ever wore a suit cost more than a hundred bucks. He folded a newspaper four ways and placed it to the left of a half-drained martini glass. It was a cunt hair’s shy of noon—the man got started early.
I nodded. Slipped my coat off. Hung it on the back the stool beside me. “Yeah, bus stopped right in front of the place.”
Paulie frowned. “You taking buses now?” Couldn’t tell if his tone was feigned concern or genuine pity.
I shrugged. “Money’s a little tight. Car and an apartment are a little out of the question right now.” Thought the nest egg I came back with would have lasted longer. I was wrong—New York, even the Bronx, had become a money pit.
“Ah, yeah. We can fix that.” Paulie picked up a pen. Wrote some notes o
n a legal pad. “I got people that can help.” He took a sip of his martini. “Got any questions about the job?”
I leaned against the bar top. Reached over and stole a cherry from a jar near me. “Liam said it was typical muscle work. Go here and there. Make a little noise, collect a little cash—maybe shake down a bum or two.”
Paulie smiled. I could tell he had caps in. His teeth were unnaturally straight. “That’s about right.” He shifted on his stool. Turned to me. Placed a hand on my shoulder. “Fuck’s sake, Bryan. How long has it been?”
I wondered what inspired the sudden burst of geniality. “Oh. Damn, well, I left at the ass end of ninety. So, near twelve years.”
“Twelve fucking years, man.” Paulie looked away. “I think the last time we hung out was right before your grandpa died. We drank all that nasty shit my dad kept in the basement. Remember that? Had a fucking tree branch in one of those bottles.”
The taste of the foul, foul liquid came back to me. “I remember. I never found out what that was. Nothing like it.”
“It was homemade grappa.” He cackled.
“Bullshit. I’ve had grappa since then. That was no grappa.”
“Hand to God. My father broke my ass when he found the empty bottle.” He chuckled. “Good times, man. Glad to see you again.” He took his hand back. “Just wanted to say that.”
I scratched my neck. Felt a little ashamed at the earlier flare of anger I had at him. Paulie and I went way back. Maybe we weren’t best friends, but we had a connection—even if the years wore it down a bit. “Agreed. Nice to be back. Never thought I’d actually say that to be honest.”
“Good, good.” He went back to writing. “Now, Liam wasn’t completely onboard with all the work we did, and I get it, I do. Only problem is, Bryan, I could use someone with your…background.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. Liam had mentioned I had desirable qualifications. I had hoped it wasn’t going to come up. “Where are you going with this?”
“It ain’t a secret what you were up to in Ireland. Shit, I’d like to sit you down and talk over some of the wilder stuff I’ve heard about. Truth is, I can use a guy who’s got a certain way with the delicate shit.”
“Well, I’m sort of retired.” I tapped my fingers against the bar top. “What I did wasn’t very delicate either.”
Paulie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, retirement in your thirties, but money’s already tight.” He slipped a cap over his fancy pen. “Look, I can use you to fill the void Liam’s leaving behind, but if you want something more lucrative, well, I got it.”
“I’d have to think about it. Not too keen on getting back into old habits.” I didn’t want to say no outright. I needed extra cash and insulting my prospective employer before I started would be a bad move. There were no choices for me. I couldn’t get anything legitimate—the fake documents could only take a guy so far. Besides, with a high school diploma, where would I go, Starbucks?
Paulie nodded. “I get it, I do. I ain’t looking for you to jump start a revolution here. You go out and send a message to the deadbeats that keep jerking me and my employer around is all.”
I eyed a tarp draped over the shelves behind the bar. “Is this why you got up Liam’s ass about meeting up?”
“Obviously.” He chuckled.
“Not a friendly reunion, then.” I didn’t want to be so obvious about my mood souring, and it wasn’t like I was naïve enough to think that Paulie and I would jump right back into the “good old days,” but I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed.
Paulie laughed. “You’re an international criminal, man. Can’t imagine the bid I’d have to do if someone caught you in here with me. Why would I take a risk like that if I didn’t want something from you that I felt only you could do for me?”
It took a moment to get my head straight with Paulie’s words. He didn’t want a favor, or a friend-level obligation. Once again, I was a tool for someone to use at their discretion.
I took in my surroundings again. The bar was nice. Well lit, nice little alcove for playing pool and darts. They even had a staircase going up to the restrooms. I watched a contractor set up a fake brick façade at the far side of the wall by the game area. To his right was an old-school arcade cabinet with Galaga. Something about it felt odd. This bar was too nice for the neighborhood. “This your place?”
Paulie sat up. Straightened his suit jacket and picked a small thread from it. “Silent partnership. The other guys are cops.”
“Makes life a little easier then.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, all those fees, inspections—cops as partners probably makes it all less of a headache.”
“At times.” He scratched something onto his legal pad.
“Then your argument about me being hot holds no water. I’m safer in here than most anywhere else.”
Paulie smiled. “Smart man.”
I leaned forward and looked Paulie in the eye. I wanted him to understand I was serious. “I don’t miss my old life. Certainly, don’t want to get back in the thick of it. Content enough with a few jobs here and there keeping the peace if you get me.”
“I get you.”
“Great. So you understand, I’m not about to go back to gunfights, bombs, and high adventure. My freedom fighter days are over.”
Paulie nodded with a frown.
“No hard feelings?”
“What? No, none at all.” He went back to his legal pad. Ripped a page off and handed it to me. “Here’s an address. It’s a little spot over in Parkchester I got rented out for odds and end kinds of shit. Got a guy there that can hook you up with some paperwork—titles, registration—and get you a used car.” He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. “This is to pay him, and a little extra to keep the money from being so tight.”
“Thanks.” I slid the cash into a pants pocket.
“After you’re set, give me a call. You meet me back here in a few days. We talk what I need from you.”
“And nothing ‘delicate,’ right?” I lowered my voice.
“No. Nothing like that.” Paulie smiled, dipped his head down, and lowered his voice. “Not unless you want to.” He let the suggestion hang in the air, as if he was offering me a second course of meatballs on the sly.
“Don’t think I’ll ever want to.” I stood, offered my hand. “Good seeing you again.”
Paulie took it. His grip was a dead fish. “Absolutely.”
I turned to leave.
“Bryan,” Paulie called to me.
I turned back. The look on his face was sour. “Never say never in this business. I didn’t think I was ever gonna graduate from football spreads to—” he spread his arms out as if he could encapsulate the bar, “—all this.”
“You not happy with it?”
“Happy ain’t a factor. I make do with what I have. The happiness comes after the fact.”
What a bullshit artist, I thought. I waved to him. “Well, I’ll see you later.”
“Be easy.”
I walked back out onto the sidewalk. Eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Stared out across the street at the signs for restaurants and Yonkers Raceway. Wandered back to my bus stop and lit a cigarette. It was the last in the pack. Took mental stock of how many Cedars I had left—only three packs at home. My heart dropped a little at the thought of switching back to an American brand.
The whole Paulie deal struck me as off. Initially thought it was because he hadn’t offered me a drink. Most men that took you seriously, or at least had a semblance of respect for you, offered you a drink—especially if they owned the damn bar. Still, a promise was a promise and I made one to my idiot brother. My nerves got the best of me and I wondered if he had fibbed a little about what he really did for Paulie. Wondered if his hands were as dirty as mine. Couldn’t have been the case—nobody with my baggage would willfully go fight in a war.
I turned back to the bar. It had a nice,
new canopy—all black with Temple written in a Gaelic-looking font. The front door and windows were being replaced. The original door leaning against the outside wall had those old silver stickers marking the address on it. Beneath that was what I assumed to be the bar’s old name, Shea’s.
The Long Black Veil—Now
17
The elevator stops on Liam’s floor. I speed walk down the hall and into the ICU. Wave my hellos and give everyone the best smile I can give in a wrinkled, dirty suit and blood-covered hands. I barge into Liam’s room and lock the door. Close my eyes and listen to the beeps and machine breathing. It’s soothing. Take the moment to snatch a towel from the bathroom, wet it, and clean off my boots and pants of Dunkin’s head meats. It dawns on me that this is all too normal for me.
Cherry’s sitting on one of the chairs across from Liam.
I close the privacy shutters to the room. “Give me some time.”
She listens and disappears. I close the drapes and turn on one of the desk lamps nearest Liam.
“How’s it going, buddy?” I ask him. “You think maybe you can do me a solid and wake up with full use of your arms and legs? Maybe turn water to wine right after?”
Liam’s got no response for me, like always.
I move bedside and run a hand over his shaved head. “I’m a fucking shit head, aren’t I?”
I look at Liam—take a good, long look. He’s so frail—so thin. There was a time he could deadlift his bodyweight and drink twice that. Now, he’s gone. No matter what I say or do, he’s been gone this entire time. It may not have been my fault, but this—all of what came after—is. I lean in and give his forehead a kiss. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Noises from Liam’s machines are overcome by the buzz of flies. I turn from him and the ghosts are all here. Stone silent, mouths agape, a black cloud filled with millions of wings above my head. They want him among their ranks. They want him there to judge me—to mock me. I’m crying again. I wipe the tears from my eyes and fish my phone from my jacket. Dial Paulie’s number.
Hell Chose Me Page 11