"Yo, what's the rush?" shouted Skitch.
"I had to get the hell away from there before she came out and ate my liver."
"Who, the sweet old French lady?"
"Don't even try. I could feel the evil emanating from that house. It was like the Eye of Mordor was staring at me."
"Old Tommy is right. You are such a pussy."
"I don't deny it."
"And you got her all wrong. Cissy's a doll."
"Cissy?"
"She even made me tea."
"Cissy?"
"Chamomile."
"Boiled newt brains, most likely."
"And there were sugar cookies."
"Sugar cookies? Dude, listen to yourself. You've been lured to the dark side by sugar cookies. Next thing you know, your skin will decay and you'll be breathing out of a black mask."
"I had a Darth Vader mask for Halloween once. I spent the whole night saying 'Luke, you have my candy.' I was so annoying they gave me double just to get rid of me. You know she's married."
"To my dad."
"No, she remarried. Her husband was there, too. Sid. Nice guy."
"I don't believe any of this."
"No, he was. He had big brown shoes and was wearing a cardigan. She seemed—and I know you don't want to hear this—she seemed okay."
"Shut up."
"I actually liked her. And let me tell you, if she was twenty years younger, I'd do her."
"Please, shut up, before I puke in my bucket seat. What did you find out?"
"It's not there."
"How do you know?"
"Because she told me."
"And you believed her?"
"Cissy wouldn't lie."
"Did you look around, search the basement or something?"
"I was too busy eating cookies. They were soft, just like I like them, and big as grapefruit."
"Dude."
"I love cookies. Cooookies. But I believed her. I gave her the whole O'Malley speech, like you told me to, and—get this—I wasn't the first O'Malley to knock at the door. There was another O'Malley before me, looking for the same damn file cabinet."
"Son of a bitch beat me to it. When?"
"Before the funeral."
"So the real O'Malley came to me after he couldn't find his precious file here. Okay, now I see. Maybe it's not there after all. You get anything else?"
"Well, she remembered something she hadn't told the real O'Malley. She said her husband did have a business relationship with someone outside of his legal office. It wasn't law, it was real estate. She said if the file cabinet wasn't in the law office, she thought maybe it could be with the partner."
"Who the hell was that?"
"Guess."
CHAPTER 18
KYLE'S CAR WAS an old red Datsun 280ZX, with a ripped leather interior, an engine spewing oil smoke, and brakes that wailed like the lamentations of barbarian women. Kyle's head brushed the car's roof, one shoulder of his T-shirt rubbed against the door, the other banged into Skitch, and the oil smoke that leaked into the interior made him slightly ill. Not much to brag about, but Kyle's car was the last thing of value he still owned in this world, and he loved it. He had no job, no girl, no real money, no place of his own, no plans for the future, but by golly by gee he had that car, and in a way it was almost enough.
"How much farther?" said Kyle as he and Skitch headed into the heart of South Philly.
"Just a few blocks," said Skitch. "So will you talk to Kat for me?"
"No."
"This thing we got is going to go gangbusters, and I thought with all the money she's pulling in from that law firm, she might want to get in on the ground floor."
"She's not interested," said Kyle. "And you need to stop asking her."
"All I'm saying," said Skitch, "is it's a great opportunity."
"Dude, get it through your lead-plated skull, she's not interested. Kat's never going to be interested in any of your slimy little get-rich-quick schemes."
"That's harsh, bro."
"But true."
"Maybe, but at least I'm in there pitching. It's easy enough to sit back and smile and let the world collapse around you. When do you ever take a chance on anything?"
"I take my chances, but I'm never going to be like you, dude, chasing money like a greyhound chasing that fake rabbit."
"But you're not chasing anything, except your father's ghost, and that's just sad. I'm only trying to get a step up here. I won't be slaving for Comcast the rest of my life, that's for sure. And it's a legit thing, almost. Talk to her, please?"
"No."
"Bro."
"She's not a frigging bank."
"I guess not for the general public."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It's not like you don't use her as your own personal ATM."
"Screw off."
"I only mean—"
"I know what the hell you mean," said Kyle as something flitted red in front of his eyes and the world slowed down into discrete moments. Without moving a muscle, he felt Skitch's thick neck being throttled in his own tensed hands, saw Skitch's beady eyes bulge and his tongue stretch out of his gaping mouth like a poodle's.
But even as he imagined the sweet pleasure of the throttling, Kyle felt a wave of shame wash through him, not just because he was about to choke his friend to near asphyxiation but because he knew that Skitch was absolutely right. He was using Kat as a bank, and even though his relationship with Kat had roots deeper than Skitch could fathom, the truth of it still made Kyle feel small and angry. There was a moment when Kyle almost lost control, but he regained it again and let the conflicting emotions wash over him and through him, and then he calmed the storm with his all-purpose verbal shrug. "Whatever," said Kyle.
"Okay, yeah, forget I even said it," said Skitch. "There it is, over there."
On the left they passed a small, squalid storefront with a couple of poorly dressed men sitting on the sidewalk on lawn chairs. The men were squinty and overweight, the chairs seemed to gasp under their bulk, and they were situated on either side of the open front door, like the lions at the New York Public Library. A couple of squinty, overweight lions with arms like legs. Painted roughly on the plate-glass window were the words TINY TONY'S TICKET BROKERAGE, with rough approximations of the emblems of Philadelphia's four professional sporting teams underneath. The Phillies' logo was the psychedelic maroon P abandoned by the team during Kyle's childhood.
"A friendly-looking crew," said Kyle.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" said Skitch. "I mean, Tony's outfit, they generally put the little guys out front. How are you going to get past those bulls?"
"Hopefully, that file you found in my dad's office will be the ticket. I still don't know how you squeezed yourself behind those boxes in the storage room before the cops came in."
"It wasn't easy, trust me. I still have an old subpoena up my ass.
Maybe you shouldn't go in alone. Maybe you ought to have someone on your wing."
"You volunteering?"
"I was thinking you might want to give Bubba Jr. a call."
"I'll park around the corner," said Kyle. "Wait for me."
After Kyle parked, he slipped out of the car and stretched, the file Skitch had taken from the offices of Byrne & Toth in his right hand. He gave the contents a quick look, the last will and testament of Anthony Sorrentino and a pile of betting slips. Satisfied, he tapped the file on the hood of the car and made his way around the corner.
"Can I help youse?" said one of the big, squinty men in front of Tiny Tony's Ticket Brokerage.
"Maybe you can," said Kyle. "Is Mr. Sorrentino in by any chance?"
"You looking to buy some tickets?"
"No."
"You looking to sell some tickets?"
"Not that either."
"Then, mister, believe me when I tell you, you is very much in the wrong place."
"Nah, I think this is right. Do you know where Mr. Sorrentino might be?
"
"Pawtucket," said the second man. "Or maybe Piscataway. I get them two confused."
"Anybody send you?" said the first. "Nobody sent me."
"Then why are you here?"
"I have something from my father for Mr. Sorrentino."
"Yeah? Why don't you give it here, and I'll make sure it's delivered."
"I need to give it to Mr. Sorrentino personally. Just tell him that Liam Byrne's son is here."
"I never hearda this Liam Byrne, and I already told you he ain't in."
"He's in Cleveland," said the second man. "Or maybe Cincinnati. I get them two confused also."
"You seem to be confused a lot," said Kyle.
"Well, life's like that, innit? We find ourselves in situations all the time, without knowing how we got there in the first place or what we should do. Look at yourself, for instance."
"Why don't I just go inside and see if Mr. Sorrentino's there?" said Kyle.
"Why don't we just pound on your head until your ears bleed?" said the first man.
"Why don't you try?" said Kyle.
"Wrong answer," said the man as he shook his head with a resigned sadness. Slowly he rose from out of the lawn chair and stood in front of the door, his arms crossed. "This is a private business, and we don't do business with somebody nobody sent."
Kyle looked at the two overweight men, one still seated, one standing but not braced against anything, checked the angles and made the calculation, and then said, "I'm going inside."
"Hey, Vern," the standing man called into the open door, "we got a hard case out here wants to see Tiny."
There was a scrape and a rumble from inside, and then Vern appeared in the front door. As broad as a four-by-four on steroids and wearing a purple velvet sweat suit. Vern loomed over the standing man as he peered out of eyes squashed narrow by the folds of fat in his face.
"What the hell do you want?" said Vern.
"Mr. Sorrentino. I have something he'll want to see."
"Oh, yeah, what the hell's that?"
Kyle thought it through. He could back away like he'd backed away from that lawyer Malcolm at his father's office. He could keep bantering with these behemoths, hoping somehow he'd pull an open sesame. Or he could force his way in, past the two cement lions and through Vern, into the office to find Tiny Tony Sorrentino, who Kyle had the sneaking suspicion wouldn't be any tinier than either of the three goons arrayed before him. Leaving was smart, bantering was useless, rushing these three was clearly a foul mistake. But he hadn't liked the way he'd felt when he let Malcolm push him around. And he was still pissed at the truths Skitch had hurled at him in the car. And the whole scene was getting tiresome enough to engender in Kyle the overwhelming urge to throw a punch.
"What I have here," said Kyle, taking a step back and waving the file even as he knew with perfect certainty the effect his words would have, "is Anthony Sorrentino's last will and testament."
There was a flash of incomprehension on the mugs of these lugs. Then the first man uncrossed his arms. The second man began to stand from his chair. Vern pushed the first man to the left as he moved his right arm to reach for something behind him.
And as Kyle saw them making their moves, the world slowed, and the angles came clear, and he was back on the gridiron with a football in his arm and a goal line in the distance. Quick as that, he raised a straight arm and made his cut.
The first man, briefly off balance from Vern's shove, took a hard shot to the solar plexus and tripped over the second man's chair, collapsing two squinty, overweight men and one lawn chair into a scene of horror as flabby arms flailed and nylon snapped.
And Vern, even as he reached behind with his right hand to grapple for something stuck in his belt, was sent reeling backward by a sharp shoulder slamming into his chest. One of Vern's arms wheeled as he tried to regain his balance, but a forearm shiver to the jaw sent him spinning atop a round table, which shattered under his substantial weight. And before he knew it, his arm, still behind his back, was pinned by a shoe, and a bare knee pressed like an iron bar upon his throat, and Kyle Byrne stared down at him with something dark and empty in his eyes.
"My, my, my," came a soft, gravelly voice from the edge of the room. "What have we here?"
The sound pulled Kyle off the football field and back to the present, where he was stooped over a red-faced fat man, his knee pushing hard upon the fallen man's thick neck. In a now-open doorway at the far end of the dusty outer office stood an ancient man, very small with an ashen face and a loose black suit draped over his emaciated frame.
The old man didn't look near death so much as like death itself. And in his tiny fist was an oversize pistol pointed straight at Kyle's heart.
CHAPTER 19
WHO THE HELL are you?" rasped the small man with the big gun. His voice seemed to bubble up from a deep well of death.
"Kyle Byrne."
"Byrne, huh? Byrne?"
"Liam Byrne's son."
"Of course you are. It's amazing how his name is suddenly on the tip of everyone's tongue. And why are you sitting on Vern?"
"He was rude."
"That's what I pay him for, though I can see now that I pay him too much. What do you want, Byrne?"
"To talk to you. I have a file of my father's I want to give you."
"A file of your father's? To give to me? How marvelous. With the untimely death of Laszlo Toth, I was just thinking about such a file. And now it's as if his ghost has led you straight to me. Be a good boy, Liam Byrne's son, and get the hell off of Vern's chest before he defecates in his pants and stinks up the office for a week."
Kyle lifted his knee from Vern's neck and his foot from Vern's arm and then stood. Vern jerked to a sitting position and rubbed his neck while staring insolently at Kyle.
"Want us to haul him away, boss?" said one of the men from outside.
"A little late, isn't it? Since he's already past the two of you."
"It's just he was quicker than—"
"It don't take much. No, leave him be. If this is Liam Byrne's son, he is always welcome here. Why don't you and Frank stuff another cannoli in your gullets while this boy and I talk about old times. But first, each of you, you need to apologize to our guest."
"But, boss, we was just—"
"He is the son of Liam Byrne. He deserves respect."
"We didn't know—"
"Apologize," screamed the little man, his face reddening, the gun shaking with anger as spittle flew in deranged arcs from his suddenly foaming mouth. Peeling paint flaked off the walls at the sound.
Vern scrambled to his feet, and the three huge men started mumbling apologies like schoolkids caught slipping frogs down the backs of little girls' blouses, complete with slouched postures and toes kicking into the ground. We didn't mean nothing. Sorry about that. We didn't know.
"Okay, enough of your sniveling," said Tiny Tony, shutting off the embarrassing display. "You three make me sick. Come along, young Byrne, and we'll take a look at that file."
Tiny Tony stuck his gun into one of the side pockets of his jacket and ushered Kyle into the inner office, before closing the door behind Kyle and leaving him alone for a moment. While the storefront was shabby and the outer office a bare, dusty wreck of a space, the inner office was as lushly overdecorated as the bar of an Italian bordello. An obscenely red couch, an easy chair covered with a golden throw, velvet wallpaper, a marble fireplace, above which hung a huge painting of a woman lying on a divan wearing a fortune-teller's turban, and nothing else. Kyle was still eyeing the painted woman's fantabulous breasts when the door opened and Tiny Tony Sorrentino reentered the room. "Nice painting," said Kyle.
Tiny Tony turned and stared at it for a moment. "My first wife," he said. "Eleanor. Her breasts were marvelous, but she turned out to be as vicious as a polecat. My second wife was even worse. But we're not here to discuss my catastrophic family life. Sit, sit." He gestured Kyle toward the easy chair and then moved behind an ornate mahogany desk, pick
ed a box off the desktop and flipped open its lid. "Cigarette?"
"No thank you," said Kyle, sitting.
"A man of good habits, then, unlike your father," said Tiny Tony as he pulled a cigarette from the box, tapped it on the desktop, lit it with a crystal lighter the size of a grapefruit. "All my habits are bad, which is why I'm still alive. No one cared enough to kill me, seeing as I was doing such a good job killing myself."
Just then the phone on the desk rang. It was a big black phone, with a heavy handset that lay in a cradle. Tiny Tony put the huge handset to his ear, listened. "Six and a half, five and a half," he said. "How many? Done." He scratched something on a small pad, hung up the phone. For a moment, as a waft of smoke rose from the half-hidden face, he stared at Kyle with eyes burning bright and angry. "I didn't know Liam had any children," he said finally.
"He wasn't married to my mother."
"And that makes you . . ."
"Yes, it does."
"Ahh, I see. But still you were close."
"Not really."
"Yet here you are, like a responsible young son. And you have for me a file."
"I was going through some of my father's old things in his office," said Kyle, raising the file in his hand, "and I found this."
"And the lawyers there, they let you rifle through the files?"
"Well, they didn't quite let me."
"Ahh, a scoundrel. You are indeed Liam Byrne's son."
The phone rang again. Tiny Tony stared at Kyle for a moment as if Kyle were responsible for the ring itself, and then picked up the phone, listened. "Three to one against. Even money the sap doesn't last six. Done."
Tiny scribbled a few more lines on his pad, scratched his nose with a thumb, snuffed out the cigarette, took another from the box, flicked the crystal grapefruit to life, inhaled, exhaled. "Okay," he said, "enough with the suspense."
A greedy little hand reached up from the desk, and its fingers snapped.
"Before I hand the file over," said Kyle, "I have a question."
"A question, hey?" The old man reached into a pocket, pulled out the gun. He slapped it on the desktop, gave it a spin until the barrel pointed at Kyle. "Okay, shoot."
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