Shamrock Alley

by Ronald Damien Malfi

  “Just don’t touch the porn.”

  “Go home, Bill. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, John,” Kersh said, moving slowly out of the office.

  John remained at his desk for some time, watching the blaze of city lights through the windows and glancing occasionally down at his cell phone. If he left the office now, he’d make it home in time for a late supper with Katie. And given enough time, he could even swing by his father’s place. For some reason, his mind summoned the image of the rotting ground beef in his father’s sink that night he’d gone to the house to retrieve his father’s coat. The old house on Eleventh Avenue … what would happen to it once his father passed on? Could he just sell it, just like that? Surely he couldn’t live there.

  Mickey … where the hell are you?

  Two agents wearing pressed suits and carrying shotguns walked past his desk. He watched them with little interest.

  Where are you?

  He left the office five minutes later, his mind still on his wife and their tiny little apartment in Brooklyn. He did not head home, however. Instead, he took his car through the heart of the city toward the West Side. The traffic was unbearable, all major roads congested, and he abruptly knew right at the beginning of his trek that he would not be having that late dinner with his wife or stopping in to see his father after all. Tonight, like most nights, was going to be long. And while part of him wanted to be home, a larger part would not allow it. Could not allow it.

  It was completely dark when he pulled onto Tenth Avenue and slowly cruised along with the traffic heading through Hell’s Kitchen. Just before the 53rd Street intersection, he slowed his car to a near-stop directly in front of Calliope Candy. Inside the shop, lights were on and a few people milled about: a father in a tweed coat was holding two young girls by their hands; a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy wearing a backpack and holding a skateboard was fingering the little door on one of the gum ball machines. He could see no one behind the counter.

  No Mickey O’Shay.

  As he drove north along Tenth Avenue, he watched the looming silhouette of Mickey’s high-rise recede in his rearview mirror.

  He hit the construction at the 57th Street intersection and another stationary wedge of automobiles. Veering off Tenth Avenue, he turned right onto 57th Street. Though the street was somewhat less congested, there were still enough cars to impede his movement. Up ahead, the traffic lights appeared to be on the bum.

  Looking around, he was reminded of his Thanksgiving Day meeting with Mickey. It had happened right here on this street.

  An hour late and that bastard was still here, waiting for me to show up, he thought now. What kind of guy stands around on the street corner for a full hour?

  Looking out his window, he noticed what looked like a small, nameless pub behind him, just beyond the intersection. A Guinness sign hung in the darkened window. Below that glowed a green neon clover.

  Because hanging around is easy, he thought, when you can watch a guy through a bar window.

  Maneuvering the Camaro through the traffic, he managed to make his way to the small alleyway that led to the back of Roosevelt Hospital—where Mickey had told him to drive that day. He turned his lights off and parked midway along the darkened alley. Stepping out of the car, he shivered against the cold and pulled his leather jacket closed. Moving back toward the street, he was conscious of the rustle of city rats beneath discarded newspapers and inside the giant dumpsters that lined the alley.

  The pub was warm and small, accommodating only a few tables and booths toward the back, and a selection of mismatched bar stools along the front of the bar. A decorative mirror in the entranceway had the word Cloverleaf stenciled on it in calligraphy, which he assumed to be the name of the pub. Across the room, an old-fashioned jukebox was rolling through an old Johnny Cash number.

  Tonight, the tables and booths were empty. Only the barstools were occupied, the company diverse. He claimed the closest stool, seating himself next to a meaty woman with red, blotchy forearms and a face that looked like someone had massaged it with the business end of a rake. Beside her, a muscular man in a leather coat and a handlebar mustache puckered his lips around the head of a bottle of Killian’s. They were relatively quiet, compared to the stifled laughter and drumming of fists coming from the opposite end of the bar.

  The bartender stepped in front of him, placing his hands on the bar, and asked him what he wanted.

  “Gimme a Guinness.”

  “See your ID?”

  “Seriously?”

  The bartender looked irritated. “Come on, pal.”

  John removed his undercover wallet from his pants and showed him his forged driver’s license. Satisfied, the bartender made his way down to the other end of the bar to pour the drink.

  Leaning forward, he peered down toward the opposite end of the bar. Huddled there, standing, were four guys with twice that many glasses of beer in front of them. Out of the four guys, John only recognized one: Mickey O’Shay.

  The rest of the guys in Mickey’s company looked just as young, just as degenerate. They coalesced in a semicircle around O’Shay, who stood among them not as a peer but as their better; this was obvious in the stately bravado exhibited by him in his mannerisms, his facial expressions, the way he carried his body. Watching Mickey O’Shay at the end of the bar, John was back in college, peeking up during an exam to study the faces of the classroom cheaters. And Mickey, secure in familiar company, was the biggest cheater he’d ever seen.

  A thought occurred to him. Could one of the other guys be Jimmy Kahn? He remembered how disappointed he’d been upon meeting Mickey after the way Tressa Walker had talked about him. Couldn’t one of these losers be Kahn? They all looked equally unimpressive.

  Mickey’s eyes shifted in John’s direction. A look of distraction swam across his face. It was the look of uncertain recognition, stimulated by a change in surroundings. John returned the look, held it steadier than Mickey seemed capable of, and did not look away until Mickey did. Mickey’s companions did not even seem to notice.

  “Four fifty,” the bartender said, placing the beer in front of John.

  He paid the bartender, aware now that Mickey’s eyes continued to dart over in his direction. He didn’t have to look up, look over at him, to know that. Facing forward, he sat and sipped his beer. It was too thick, mostly head, and tasted like motor oil.

  In the mirror behind the bar, John watched Mickey’s reflection approach, step around him. A second later and Mickey appeared on his right, leaning against the bar.

  “Mickey,” he muttered.

  “The hell you doin’ here?”

  “Drinkin’. What’s it look like?”

  “You come all this way for a beer?”

  He took another sip of the beer, set it down on a cocktail napkin. “Actually, no. I came here lookin’ for you. You’re like the Invisible Man, Mickey. Been tryin’ to call you at the store all day.”

  “Yeah? Well, ya found me.”

  Mickey O’Shay was drunk. And not only drunk—John could tell he’d recently snorted something up his nose or shot something into his arm. He’d been around enough drug abusers—both during his career and growing up in Brooklyn—to recognize the hollowed eyes and quivering cheeks of the recently blitzed.

  “Irish tell you I was here?” Mickey said.

  “Who?”

  Mickey shook his head, blinked his eyes. “Never mind. What’d you want?”

  “You gonna piss off your friends, ignoring them like this?”

  “Don’t worry about them. What’d you wanna see me about?”

  John picked up his beer and lifted himself off his stool. “Come on,” he said, moving toward a booth at the back of the tavern.

  Mickey pushed himself off the bar and somehow managed to close the distance between the bar and the booth without falling on his face. Back at the bar, Mickey’s friends shouted something in unison, downed a shot of whiskey each, then hollered at
Mickey for abandoning them. Without the courtesy of vocalization, Mickey shot out a single hand in their direction, palm out, but did not take his eyes off John. The crowd of hoods at the far end of the bar broke out in more laughter and ordered another round of shots.

  Mickey climbed into the booth and sat opposite John, who was now lighting a cigarette with a candle from the table. He looked at Mickey from over the top of the candle, raised his eyebrows.

  “Want a smoke?” he offered.

  Mickey licked his lips. “Gimme one.”

  No matter how grand or how insignificant, the giving of an object to someone else subconsciously created a hierarchy between the two people. John, being aware of this, readily handed over one of his cigarettes to Mickey. Holding the candle up to Mickey’s face while he inhaled, he lit it for him. The flame threw the skel’s face in stark relief.

  “Uh,” Mickey sighed, taking a deep drag. With his fingers, he pulled his hair back out of his face.

  “You all right?” John said. “You don’t look so hot.”

  Mickey took another drag. His eyes looked like divots in a skull. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “I’m doin’ you a favor,” he said. “Opportunity just fell into my lap, and I’m throwing it your way before I go someplace else.”

  “What is it?”

  “I just got my hands on thirty cases of Canadian whiskey. Real good stuff. Thought you and your friends might be interested …”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “Canada. What the fuck difference does it make?”

  “How much?”

  John shrugged, pinched another hit from his cigarette. “Hundred bucks a case. Three grand, all in. Whattaya say?”

  The pale husk of his cigarette dangling from his mouth, Mickey rubbed his hands together in a parody of slow motion. Behind him back at the bar, his friends cheered and pounded down another shot.

  “That good?” Mickey said.

  “Less than half price. Ask around.”

  “Sounds good,” Mickey said. His dead eyes clung to John through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. “That’s a good price. You wanna be paid in the gaff?”

  John considered, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “This deal’s for somebody else. I need cash.”

  “I can let you know tomorrow.”

  “Don’t waste time on this,” he said. “It won’t be around long.”

  The gears were turning in Mickey O’Shay’s head.

  See how far you can push him, a small voice spoke up inside John’s head. He’s as burnt as a fuse right now. See what else he’ll say …

  “Come on, I’ll buy you and your friends a drink.”

  Mickey finished his cigarette and tossed the butt to the floor, crushing it beneath his heel. More casually than John would have expected, Mickey turned to shoot a glance over at the rowdy group of guys at the end of the bar. Sniffling once, he turned back to John and said, “They ain’t my friends.”

  “I’ll buy ‘em a beer anyway.”

  Whatever trace of accessibility he’d seen just moments ago in Mickey’s dead eyes was now gone. The man who returned his gaze was again the cold, unreceptive delinquent he’d been during all their prior meetings. Whatever door John had thought he’d managed to open had just been slammed shut in his face.

  Mickey did not say another word. He simply stood from the booth, his greasy hair falling in front of his face like a veil, and hovered above the table for a disquieting length of time. His eyes were again hard, sober, alert… and distrustful. Borrower or lender—all of a sudden, none of that seemed to matter. In all, the look on Mickey’s face was one John thought he recognized, if only for a brief moment.

  Then Mickey turned away and sauntered back to the bar. As he approached, one of the guys in his group clapped him on the back while a second guy began chanting what sounded like an old Irish drinking song in a whiny soprano.

  And it suddenly dawned on him where he’d seen Mickey’s expression before …

  On himself.

  It was the hardened, suspicious stare of a street kid.

  John was nearly home when his cell phone rang. It was Mickey.

  “Let’s do the deal,” Mickey told him. His voice was flat. John could hear wind whipping against the receiver. “Get your shit ready and I’ll call you tomorrow, let you know where to bring it.”

  John glanced at the car’s clock. It was pushing eleven o’clock. “That fast, huh?”

  “You said you wanted to move on this,” Mickey said. “So let’s move.” A dull click, and Mickey hung up the phone.

  Somehow I knew this was going to be a long night, he thought, quickly dialing Kersh’s cell phone from memory. It rang several times before a groggy voice muttered, ‘“Lo?”

  “Get your shoes on, sweetheart,” John said. “You’re going back out.”

  JFK International Airport is consistently hectic. Even in the deepest hours of night, people drift about like patients in a psyche ward, their eyes unfocused from a lack of sleep, their arms and shoulders overburdened with suitcases and duffel bags and brown paper shopping bags. As a child, John had been fascinated by airports, and had found enjoyment in watching the planes take off and land through the great panels of windows that looked out across the runways. Visits to the airport had been infrequent back then, limited to the few times out-of-state relatives would come to visit him and his father. Now, as an adult and an agent, he no longer appreciated airports for their ability to challenge the minds of preadolescent youths; the spell had been broken the first time he’d boarded a plane heading for Glynco, Georgia, to begin his Secret Service training.

  It was dark now, the runways indistinguishable from the night except for the tails of guide-lights that ran their lengths. Waiting for Kersh to exit the bathroom, John leaned against a support post and gazed introspectively out the bank of large windows. He could see himself in the window’s reflection, his arms folded about his chest, his hair too long, his posture still frighteningly similar to the young boy he’d once been. He was standing too far from his reflection to make out the details of his face, but he was fairly certain he still even looked like that little boy. Did he look anything like his father? And would his son—if he had a son—someday look like him?

  Kersh’s reflection appeared beside his. “You okay? “John asked him.

  “Uh,” Kersh groaned. Wearing a shirt and tie, his slacks hiked too high above the tops of his socks, Kersh pushed one sweaty hand against the support post and took some weight off his feet. “Got the runs.”

  “Why the hell did you put a shirt and tie on, anyway?”

  “I take pride in my appearance,” Kersh said, leaning forward against the support post.

  “Yeah,” John snickered, “right.”

  “John!” a voice shouted from farther down the corridor.

  “Rob,” John said, meeting the man halfway and giving him a one-armed hug. “How you been?”

  Robert Silvestri, hands on his hips, nodded fervently up and down. “All right, man, all right.” He was tall and slender, with a fine crop of curly black hair at the top of his head. His eyes were dark and beseeching, his jaw perfectly squared.

  “Rob,” John said, “this is my partner, Bill Kersh.”

  “A pleasure,” Kersh said, peeling himself from the support post and shaking Silvestri’s hand.

  “Rob and I grew up in the same neighborhood,” he explained. “This guy hit the longest home run on Shore Road I’ve ever seen. Swear to God, the thing flew for miles. To this day, I don’t think anyone’s ever found the ball.”

  Silvestri laughed. He had a strong, masculine laugh that suited his face and body well. “That’s only because you were the lousy son of a bitch pitching that game,” Silvestri said.

  John shook his head and told Kersh not to pay any attention to the man.

  “Come on,” Silvestri said, turning back down the corridor. John and Kersh followed—Kersh a little bit slower. “You cook this plan up all on your o
wn, Johnny?”

  “It was Kersh’s idea,” John said.

  “Don’t pass the buck to me, buddy,” Kersh murmured from over John’s shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Silvestri continued. “I have a few papers for you to fill out just to cover all the bases, but that’s really about it. I also got a couple guys to give us a hand loading the stuff. They’re packed in some heavy crates. At least a two-man job. Did you pull your truck around to the hangar like I said?”

  “Right around back.”

  “The guards give you any trouble?”

  “Yeah. Had to shoot and kill ‘em.”

  Silvestri brought them to a set of locked double-doors. He slipped a large key into the lock, twisted it in two complete revolutions, then bumped one of the doors open with his hip. Leaning against the door, he motioned John and Kersh through, his eyes lingering on Kersh as he passed.

  “You okay, pal? You look green.”

  “I get airsick at airports,” Kersh said, stumbling through the doors.

  Silvestri closed the door behind them, washing the room in darkness. Then, following a series of loud clicks, giant floodlights installed in the high ceiling came on one by one, filling the room with light. They were standing in a large cargo hangar. A concrete walkway wove through the hangar, bookended on either side by stacks of wooden crates and large boxes wrapped in plastic Bubble Wrap. Some of the stacks nearly scraped the ceiling, towering above them like buildings. A forklift the size of a large truck stood silently in one corner, The Old Heave Ho stenciled in black on its side.

  “Some sight, huh?” Silvestri said, scratching casually behind one ear. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of crap some bastards try bringing into the country. Never in my life did I ever imagine there were so many colorful ways to smuggle drugs into this great nation of ours. I could tell some stories.”

  Two strong-looking men appeared from behind a column of wooden crates, their brows already beaded with sweat, the armpits of their matching white polo shirts stained yellow. One of them—a dark-skinned guy with bad teeth—carried a number of leather weight belts over one arm.