Brooklyn Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  “Let’s go get it,” Stella suggested, her face lighting up like we were planning a trip to Disneyworld.

  “In a minute,” I said. “I got some business with you first.” I pressed my body against hers, ran my hands down her sides, then tucked them under the slopes of her ass cheeks.

  A half hour later I told her I was going to get the bus over to the tow place. She wanted to come but I told her no, without offering an explanation. She pouted a little. She’d never done that before.

  I went and gave the horses an early supper. Figured I’d use my one phone call to tell Cornelius, the cowboy who owned the stable, that he’d have to feed and muck in the morning.

  I walked up the slope of 78th Street and out to North Conduit Avenue to head to the bus stop.

  The sky was still violently blue.

  The people at the tow facility didn’t do anything quickly. There was a lumpy white woman who was mad to be alive. By the time she’d gone through all my paperwork and I’d been taken to my car, night was coming on like a headache. My skin felt cold even though it was hot out.

  I got into my car and saw that all the trash was gone. I’d had empty soda cans and candy wrappers in there and they were no more. There was one big muddy boot print near the gas pedal.

  I pulled the car out onto the road. Expecting some kind of ambush. Dozens of cops, maybe even the feds. Nothing happened. I drove two miles, then finally, when it seemed certain no one was following me, I pulled off onto a side street not far from Aqueduct. It was a narrow road choked with vinyl houses. American flags stood guard over flatline lives. Some kids were throwing a ball at each other. I drove a ways, till the residential area surrendered to a strip mall. Went around the back of the shops and parked the car. Got out and unlocked the trunk. There was nothing there. Not only was Dwight’s body gone, but so was all my crap. The empty feedbags, the horseshoe, the cooler, and the panties. I closed the trunk, got back in the car, and drove. I decided to head on over to the upscale stables off the Belt Parkway. Whenever I felt rich, I went there to buy nice alfalfa hay for Culprit.

  For once, I had plenty of room in the trunk.

  FADE TO … BROOKLYN

  BY KEN BRUEN

  Galway, Ireland

  Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.

  Man, isn’t that a hell of a title. I love that. Pity it’s been used, it’s a novel by Thomas Boyle. I read it years ago when the idea of moving to Brooklyn began to seriously appeal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m going, got a Gladstone bag packed. Just the essentials, a few nice shoirts. See, I’m learning Brooklynese, and it’s not as easy a language as the movies would lead you to believe. I’ve had this notion for so long now, it’s “an idée fixe.” Like that touch of French? I’m no dumbass, I’ve learned stuff, not all of it kosher. I don’t have a whole lot of the frog lingo, so I’ve got to like, spare it. Trot it out when the special occasion warrants. Say you want to impress a broad, you hit her with a flower and some shit in French, she’s already got her knickers off. Okay, that’s a bit crude but you get the drift.

  I’m hiding out in an apartment in Salthill. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking … but isn’t that, like, in Galway, Ireland? I like a challenge.

  Phew-oh, I got me one right here. If only I hadn’t shot that Polack, but he got right in my face, you hear what I’m saying? So he wasn’t Polish, but I want to accustom myself to speaking American and if I don’t practice, I’m going to be in some Italian joint and sounding Mick. How the hell can you ask for linguini, fried calamari, cut spaghetti alla chitarra, ravioli, scallops with a heavy sauce, and my absolute favorite in terms of pronunciation, fresh gnocchi, in any accent other than Brooklyn? It wouldn’t fly. The apartment is real fine, huge window looking out over Galway Bay, a storm is coming in from the east, and the waves are lashing over the prom. I love that ferocity, makes me yearn, makes me feel like I’m a player. I don’t know how long this place is safe, Sean is due to call and put the heart crossways in me. I have the cell close by. We call them mobiles—doesn’t, if you’ll pardon the pun, have the same ring. And the Sig Sauer, nine mil, holds fifteen rounds. I jacked a fresh one in there first thing this morning and racked the slide, sounds like reassurance. I’m cranked, ready to rock ‘n’ roll. Sean is a header, a real headbanger. He’s from South Armagh, they grow up shooting at helicopters, bandit country, and those fuckers are afraid of nothing. I mean, if you have the British Army kicking in your door at 4 in the morning and calling you a Fenian bastard, you grow up fast and you grow up fierce.

  I was doing a stretch in Portlaoise, where they keep the Republican guys. They are seriously chilled. Even the wardens give them space. And, of course, most of the wardens, they have Republican sympathies. I got to hang with them as I had a rep for armed robbery, not a very impressive rep or I wouldn’t have been doing bird. Sean and I got tight and after release, he came to Galway for a break and he’s been here two years. He is one crazy gumba. We had a sweetheart deal, no big design—like they say in twelve-step programs, we kept it simple. Post offices, that’s what we hit. Not the major ones but the small outfits on the outskirts of towns. Forget banks, they’ve got CCTV and worse, the army does guard detail. Who needs that heat?

  Like this.

  We’d drive to a village, put on the balaclavas, get the shooters out, and go in loud and lethal, shouting, “Get the fuck down, this is a robbery, give us the fucking money!”

  I let Sean do the shouting, as his Northern accent sent its own message. We’d be out of there in three minutes, tops. We never hit the payload, just nice, respectable, tidy sums, but you do enough of them, it begins to mount. We didn’t flash the proceeds, kept a low profile. I was saving for Brooklyn, my new life, and Sean, well, he had commitments up north. I’d figured on another five jobs, I was outa there. Had my new ID secured, the money deposited in an English bank, and was working on my American.

  Sean didn’t get it, would say, “I don’t get it.”

  He meant my whole American love affair. Especially Brooklyn. We’d been downing creamy pints one night, followed by shots of Bushmills, feeling mellow, and I told him of my grand design. We were in Oranmore, a small village outside Galway, lovely old pub, log fire and traditional music from a band in the corner, bodhrans, accordions, tin whistles, spoons and they were doing a set of jigs and reels that would put fire in the belly of a corpse. I’d a nice buzz building, we’d done a job three days before and it netted a solid result. I sank half my pint, wiped the froth off my lip, and said, “Ah, man, Fulton Ferry District, the Brooklyn Bridge, Prospect Park, Cobble Hill, Park Slope, Bed-Stuy, Bensonhurst, Bay Ridge, Coney Island.”

  These names were like a mantra to me, prayers I never tired of uttering, and I got carried away, let the sheer exuberance show. Big mistake, never let your wants out, especially to a Northerner, those mothers thrive on knowing where you’re at. I should have heeded the signs—he’d gone quiet, and a quiet psycho is a fearsome animal. On I went like a dizzy teenager, saying, “I figure I’ll get me a place on Atlantic Avenue and you know, blend.”

  I was flying, seeing the dream, high on it, and he leaned over, said in a whisper, “I never heard such bollixs in me life.”

  Like slapping me in the tush, cold water in my face. I knew he was heavy, meaning he was carrying, probably a Browning, his gun of choice, and that occurred to me as I registered the mania in his eyes. ’Course, Sean was always packing—when you were as paranoid as him, it came with the territory. He’d always said, “I ain’t doing no more time, the cunts will have to take me down.”

  I believed him.

  The band were doing that beautiful piece, “O’Carolan’s Lament” … the saddest music I know, and it seemed appropriate as he rubbished my dream, when he said, “Cop on, see that band over there, that’s your heritage, not some Yank bullshit. You can’t turn your back on your birthright. I’d see you dead first, and hey, what’s with this fucking Yank accent you trot out sometimes?”

  I knew I’d probably have to kil
l the cocksucker, and the way I was feeling, it would be a goddamm pleasure.

  Clip

  Whack

  Pop

  Burn

  All the great terms the Americans have for putting your lights out.

  Sean ordered a fresh batch of drinks, pints and chasers, and the barman, bringing them over, said, “A grand night for it.”

  I thought, little do you know.

  Sean, raising his glass, clinked mine, said, “Forget that nonsense, we have a lot of work to do. There’s going to be an escalation in our operation.”

  I touched his glass, walloped in the Bush, felt it burn my stomach, and wanted to say, “Boilermakers, that’s what they call it. You get your shot, sink the glass in the beer, and put a Lucky in your mouth, crank it with a Zippo, one that has the logo, ‘First Airborne.’”

  What I said was, “God bless the work.”

  And got the look from him, supposed to strike fear in my gut. He asked, “You fucking with me, son?”

  Son … the condescending prick, I was five years older, more probably. I raised my hands, palms out, said, “Would I do that? I mean, come on.”

  Sean had the appearance of a starved greyhound, all sinewy and furtive. He didn’t take drugs, as the Organization frowned on it, but man, he was wired, fueled on a mix of hatred and ferocity. He belonged to the darkness and had lived there so long, he didn’t even know light existed anymore. He was the personification of the maxim, retaliate first, always on the alert. His eyes bored into mine and he said, “Just you remember that.”

  Then he was up, asking the band for a request. I was pretty sure I could take him, as long as his back was turned and preferably if he was asleep. You don’t ever want the likes of those to know you’re coming. They live with the expectation of somebody coming every day, so I’d act the dumb fuck he was treating me as. The band launched into “The Men Behind the Wire.” Sean came back, a shit-eating grin in place, and as the opening lines began, “Armored cars and tanks and guns …” he joined with, “Came to take away our sons …” Leaned over, punched my shoulder, said, “Come on, join me.”

  I did, sounding almost like I meant it.

  * * *

  Maybe he’s found out by now dat he’ll neveh live long enough to know duh whole of Brooklyn. It’d take a life-time to know Brooklyn t’roo an’ t’roo. An’ even den, yuh wouldn’t know it at all

  Thomas Wolfe said that in “Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.”

  I’d never been out of lreland but I was getting to know Brooklyn. I had a pretty good notion of it. In my bedroom there is a street map, place names heavily underlined in red. I’ve pored over it a hundred times, and with absolute joy. Using my finger, I’d take a few steps to the corner of Fulton and Flatbush, check the border between Downtown and Fort Greene, I’d glance at Brooklyn’s tallest building, the Williamsburg Savings Bank, smile at the idea of taking it down, but I’d be a citizen then, running a small pastry shop, specializing in babka, the polish cake. I learnt that from Seinfeld. Then maybe stroll on Nassau Street to McCarren Park, heading for the south end to the Russian Church of the Transfiguration, light a candle for the poor fucks whose money I stole.

  As well as the books on Brooklyn, I managed to collect over a long period the movies. Got ’em all I think.

  Whistling in Brooklyn.

  It Happened in Brooklyn

  The Lords of Flatbush

  Sophie’s Choice

  Moscow on the Hudson

  Waited ages for the top two to come on TV, I mean those were made in 1944 and 1942.

  Saturday Night Fever? … Bay Ridge, am I right or am I right? Last Exit to Brooklyn, book and movie, yeah, got ’em. Red Hook, a fairly barren place is … lemme see, give me a second here … Ah, that’s easy, On the Waterfront.

  Writers too, I’ve done my work.

  Boerum Hill? Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper lived there. I’m on a roll here, ask me another. Who’s buried in Greenwood Cemetery? Too easy, Mae West and Horace Greeley.

  When I was in the joint, other guys did weights, did dope, did each other. Me, I read and reread, became a fixture in the library. I didn’t get any grief from the other cons. Sean had my back, better than a Rottweiler. What happened was, he’d got in a beef with the guy running the cigarette gig, the most lucrative deal in the place. I heard the guy was carrying a shiv, fixing to gut Sean in the yard. I tipped off Sean only as this guy had come at me in my early days. He was trailer trash, a real bottom-feeder—if it wasn’t for the cigs, he’d have been bottom of the food chain. Mainly I didn’t like him, he was a nasty fuck, always whining, bitching, and moaning, bellyaching over some crap or other. I hate shivs, they’re the weapon of the sneak who hasn’t the cojones to front it. Sean hadn’t said a whole lot when I told him. He nodded, said, “Okay.”

  Effusive, yeah?

  The shiv guy took a dive from the third tier, broke his back, and the cigarette cartel passed to Sean’s crew. From then on, he walked point for me.

  Back in the eighties, a song, “Fade to Gray,” blasted from every radio—it launched the movement, “New Romantics,” and guys got to wear eyeliner and shit. You knew they always wanted to, but now they could call it art.

  Gobshites.

  But I liked the song, seemed to sum up my life, those days, everything down the crapper, a life of drab existence as gray as the granite on the bleak, blasted landscape of Connamara. That’s when I met Maria.

  Lemme tell you straight up, I’m no oil painting. My mother told me, “Get a personality ’cos you’re fairly ugly.”

  I think she figured the “fairly” softened the blow.

  It didn’t.

  Nor was I what you’d call a people’s person. I didn’t have a whole lot of them social skills.

  I was at a dance in Seapoint, the massive ballroom perched on the corner of the promenade, the Atlantic hurling at it with intent. Now, it’s a bingo hall. That night, a showband, eight guys in red blazers, bad hairpieces, with three bugles, drums, trombone, and a whole lot of neck, were massacring “Satisfaction.” They obviously hated the Stones. Those days, there was a sadistic practice known as “ladies’ choice.”

  Jesus.

  Pure hell. The guys used it to nip outside and get fortified with shots of Jameson. I was about to join them when I heard, “Would you like to dance?”

  A pretty face, gorgeous smile, and I looked behind me to see whom she meant. This girl gave a lovely laugh, said, “I mean you.”

  Hands down, that is the best second of my life. I haven’t had a whole line of them, but it’s the pinnacle, the moment when God relented, decided, “Cut the sucker a little slack.”

  ’Course, like all divine gifts, he only meant to fuck with me later. That’s okay, I’ve lived that moment a thousand times. And yeah, you guessed it, she was American … from Brooklyn. I loved her accent, her spirit; hell, I loved her Miracle two, she didn’t bolt after the dance, stayed for the next one, “Fade to Gray.” A slow number, I got to hold her, I was dizzy.

  Walked her back to her hotel. I stood with her, trying to prolong the feeling, and she said, “You’re kinda cute.”

  Put it on my headstone, it’s all that counts. She kissed me briefly on the mouth and agreed to meet me at 7 the next evening.

  She didn’t show.

  At 10:30, I went into the hotel, heard she checked out that morning. The clerk, a guy I went to school with, told me her surname, Toscini, that she was traveling with her mother. I palmed him a few notes and he let me see the register—the only address was Fulton Street, Brooklyn, New York.

  I wrote letter after letter, all came back with, “Return to sender, address unknown.” Like that dire song.

  I began to learn about Brooklyn. I’d find her. Her not showing or leaving a note, it was some awful misunderstanding. Her mother had suddenly decided they were leaving and Maria had no way to contact me. Yeah, had to be that. I made it so. Got to where I could see her pleading, crying with her mother, and being
literally dragged away. Yes, like that, I know

  Mornings, like a vet, I’d come screaming, sweating outa sleep, going, “Maria, hon, I’m on my way!”

  Shit like that, get you killed in prison. They’re not real understanding about screamers, though there’s plenty of it.

  No more than any other guilt-ridden Catholic Irish guy, I’m not superstitious. But I tell you, the omens, they’re … like … there. You just gotta be open to them.

  Listen to this: A while ago, there was a horse running at the Curragh. I’m not a gambler but read the sports pages, read them first to show I’m not gay. At 15/1, there was one, Coney Island Red. How could I not? Put a bundle on him, on the nose.

  He lost.

  See the omen? Maria wouldn’t want me gambling, lest I blow the kid’s college fund. Over the years, if I was asked about girlfriends, I’d say my girl was nursing in America, and came to believe it. She was caring and ideal for that. ’Course, when the kids arrive, she’ll have to give up her career—I wouldn’t want my wife working, it’s the man’s place to do the graft—know they’ll appreciate those old values in Brooklyn.

  Sean came to see me about the new plan. He was wearing one of those long coats favored by shoplifters or rock stars. The collar turned up to give him some edge. I made coffee and he said, “Nice place you got here.” I sat opposite him and he launched: “We’re going to do the main post office.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, said, “Don’t like the sound of that.”

  He gave the grin, no relation to warmth or humor, said, “It’s not about what you like or don’t like, money is needed and a lot of it. This Thursday, there is going to be a massive sum there, something to do with the payment of pensions and the bonus due for Social Benefit. It’s rare for them to handle such a large amount so we have to act now.”

  I went along with it, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice, he wasn’t asking me, he was delivering orders.

  We went in hard and it was playing out as usual, when I took my eye off the crowd, distracted for one second, and that’s when the guy came at me, grabbed my gun, and it went off, taking half his face. Then we were out of there, running like demented things, got in the stolen car, then changed vehicles at Tuam and drove back into town, the exact opposite of what would be anticipated. Sean was breathing hard, said, “You fucked up.”