Tower: A Novel (12 page)

Oh, didn’t I mention the fucking floor had rusted through and I could see the streets of Boston close up as we went to wherever it was we were going? Well, I thought, it was only up from here. Shows you what I knew.

Rode into a dingy area of crooked streets, wood row houses, and bleak faces. Was like the sun didn’t shine on this part of town. Reminded me of the pictures from my history textbooks of nineteenth century England. The kids on the streets moved like snakes, wary and coiled to strike. Knew the posture well. Thought Nicky might have liked it here, Nicky or the Artful Dodger. Finney stopped in an alleyway behind a small brick warehouse.

The fat man pointed at the backdoor like the ghost of Christmas Future pointing at my grave. He was his usual talkative self. Wondered who’d win the debate between him and Griffin. Griffin, no doubt. He’d just cut Finney’s fat throat. Stepped through the door into New England’s contribution to my personal hell.

Inside was musty, dank, but an improvement indeed over close proximity to Finney. There was no one around. A step van that had been crudely painted brown with rollers and brushes was backed up to a quiet loading dock. Then above me, at my back, I heard a muffled knocking. Turned to see a man at the window of a second floor office gesturing me to come up. Found the stairs.

Satan was a skinny fucker with wispy gray hair, keen blue eyes and a happy mouth too big for his gaunt face.

“Take a load off, fella.” He smiled broad and bright as the gates to heaven. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip as he spoke. Must’ve been glued on as it never once seemed in danger of falling. “Jaysus, ya must be wrecked from yer trip. Sorry ya had to suffer Finney’s company, but I had no one else available to send for ya. A beer.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Sure.”

He handed me a Sam Adams, cold as Griffin’s heart. Sat myself down in an ancient office chair.

“Love the stuff me own self,” he said, taking a bottle. “That Harp shite from home is but blond piss for pussies.” And like Griffin, this guy was a native speaker, not the cartoon equivalent. “I’m Rudi. It’s not me given name, but it’s who I am. And you’d be Todd?”

“I would.”

“I know you boys down there in Brooklyn are tough fookers, but this is a different world. The rules of the road don’t apply.”

“Figure that’s why I’m here.”

“Boyle told me ya were a smart bastard. I like that. The less I need explain, the greater the benefit. Better to say nowt to a man who can read a map for himself.”

Just shook my head and drank.

He smiled that smile at me again. The sun might not shine outside, but it did in here. Rudi seemed as fierce as a twig and with as much heft. Guessed he liked it that way. Always better to be underestimated. He could see me sizing him up. Read my mind.

“Prefer to be underestimated, I do, and never to make the same mistake about my enemies. You’d figured by now that I’m not sweet as cane sugar and you’d be right. Did Griffin not say anything about me to ya?”

“Griffin doesn’t say anything to anyone about anybody, but his face speaks sometimes. That was enough for me.”

“Good. Let’s be off. I’ll drop you at your place in Cambridge.”

“Cambridge?”

“Yer no Southie,” he said, showing me out to his ’85 Coupe de Ville. “Besides, you’ve already served half yer purpose in me having ya up here.”

“Finney,” I said.

“Jaysus and his blessed mother, yer even smarter than advertised. Before we get halfway to yer flat, he will have told me boyos about ya.”

“They’ll figure I’m outside talent brought in to see to one of them. You wanna see who runs and who stays. You’ve got a rat problem.”

“Feckin’ rodents. Easy to kill ’em, but tough to flush the fookers out a their holes. If ya were ever to tire of working for Boyle, I’d take ya on.”

Ignored that. “Funny thing about Finney, you say he’s a talker, but he said no more than ten words to me from the time he picked me up at the station.”

“He wouldn’t talk to ya, now would he?”

“You think he’s the snitch?”

Rudi had a good laugh at that. His laugh, like the rest of him, could fool you. It was deep and resonant. “Not Finney. He’s a stupid bastard. Good for collections and the occasional muscle, but would have neither the stones nor the wherewithal to parlay what little he knows into transit fare. No, it’s one of the smart ones. Always is,” he said, staring right at me.

“Hey, don’t look at me! I just got here.”

He laughed again. Good thing one of us did.

My flat was a one bedroom rented apartment on the top floor of a small Victorian just off Massachusetts Avenue. It was as close to Harvard as I was likely to get. My destiny, always a few blocks from the Ivy League. Handed me an envelope not nearly as fat as the one Boyle had given me.

“The key’s in there along with a small wedge. I own the building under another name, so no one will bother ya here. It should be a while till I call again, so relax a bit. Learn the city’s charms, which are legion. Catch a ball game at Fenway. Locally, there’s a fine barbeque establishment just down the block and bookstore around the bend there on Mass Ave.”

“Thanks, Rudi.” Shook his hand.

“If things work as I hope, please God, it’s me that’ll be thanking you. By the way, feel free to use the phone and the appliances. Enjoy yer time in Boston.”

Watched him drive away, the taillights of his old Cadillac disappearing around the corner. Between Finney and Rudi their rides were older than time itself. At least Rudi’s Caddy had solid floorboards. And they call Jews cheap. No, it was real estate above all else made an Irishman feel wealthy. The rest of the trappings were inconsequential. Boyle too had most of his holdings in real estate. Guess maybe they had a point.

The apartment had its own entrance in the rear and was spotlessly clean and stocked with furniture older than manned space flight. But it was good solid furniture, if not exactly trend-setting in style. The appliances, however, were bizarrely incongruous. There was like a huge flat screen TV in the living room. There was a restaurant quality Viking stove and a Sub Zero fridge in the kitchen. Assumed all the appliances had fallen off the truck at Logan Airport or on the piers. It was just the same at JFK. If it fell off the truck on Monday, I was wearing it, using it, or selling it by Wednesday.

Unpacked my suitcase and checked out the fridge. It was empty but for a six pack of Sam Adams. Took one and plopped myself down on the plaid cushions of the colonial couch and learned the ins and outs of my big screen TV. Strange, but an hour had passed without me once thinking of Philly or Leeza or O’Connor. Thought I might get to like Boston. Even fell into the first dreamless, peaceful sleep I’d had in some time.

Waking, I felt as if I could breathe again. Leeza was there, front and center, but some of the bitter edge had been bevelled off. The windows had darkened and, for a change, the hunger was in my belly instead of my heart.

After a half rack of ribs, pulled pork and a beer at the barbeque joint Rudi had recommended, walked past my new house on the way to the bookstore he’d mentioned.

It wasn’t like any kind of bookstore I’d ever been in before. It was on the ground floor of a red clapboard house and the only stuff they stocked were mysteries and detective novels. Never been much for fiction, let alone crime novels. I mean, like I didn’t have to make it up, right? The occasional book next to my bed would be about WWII or the building of the atomic bomb or some such shit.

Felt more lost in that bookstore than I did in Philly. It was like wall to wall books with huge stacks piled up in the aisles. The paperbacks were squeezed so tightly together you wouldn’t’ve been able to fit a dancing angel between any two of them.

“You seem like you can use some help,” an invisible voice called to me.

Looked around and there, seated behind the counter, was a big earth momma with a friendly face. She wore glasses, let her hair straggle, but had a presence that was hard to explain.

“Not much for fiction,” I said.

“Don’t read this stuff, huh?”

“Never.”

She called out to someone lurking in the stacks.
“Continental Op. Maltese Falcon. Red Harvest. The Long Goodbye. Farewell, My Lovely. The Little Sister.”
Then she turned back to me. “Visiting?”

“Moved in around the corner.”

A spinster-ish woman appeared before us with six paperbacks in her hands. She placed them on the counter and receded into the shadows.

“Here,” the earth momma said, putting the books in a bag. “You take those and see what you think.”

Reached for my wallet, but she waved me off. “You’ll be back. Pay me then.”

“Seem pretty sure about that.”

“I been in the business a long time. I’ll take my chances on you.”

Didn’t argue. Thanked her and dropped the bag at the apartment. Stared at the phone and thought about calling Nick. Didn’t. What would I have said? That I had bought books? Might have impressed Nick’s dad, but not Nicky. Wasn’t sure what would impress him anymore. Felt the walls closing in. Like I said, the edge was off a bit, not gone.

Found a bar near Harvard Square, an Irish pub. Big surprise, right? Like finding salt in the ocean. It was pretty empty. Ordered a Harpoon Ale, turned to watch the Red Sox game on the tube. Didn’t actually give a fuck about the Red Sox. No Yankee fan could say that. Sometimes, it seemed Yankee fans like Nick cared more about the Red Sox failing than the Yankees winning. Failing, now there’s something I was well acquainted with, being raised a Mets fan and all.

When I turned away from the game, noticed a cute blonde in jeans and a Red Sox sweatshirt had seated herself two stools away from me. She ordered a Jack Daniel’s with no back and began chatting with the barman. He didn’t seem terribly interested. Under normal circumstances I would have shared his lack of enthusiasm. Short, perky blondes with cropped hair, a little thick through the hips, aren’t usually my type, but she had such fiery blue eyes that I found myself staring at her. Suppose I wasn’t doing a very good job of disguising my curiosity.

“Fah chrissakes, mista, ya stare any hadah at me and ya’ll see into my childhood.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, just buy a girl a drink.”

Told the bartender to put her drinks on my tab. Between Rudi and Boyle’s scratch, I was well set for cash. She moved over to sit beside me. We clinked glasses.

“New Yawka, huh?” she said.

“Brooklynite.”

“Yankees?”

“Mets.”

“Both bad answers in this town, but ya got some stones on ya fer saying. Here’s to ya.”

“To the Sox,” I said.

We both emptied our glasses. Gave the sign to the bartender for another round.

“Kathleen Dolan.”

“Todd Rosen.”

We shook and finished the second round at a reasonable pace. Explained that she worked at Harvard as a square badge. It bored the shit out of her, but it paid the rent. I ad-libbed some crap about being a consultant to a computer company and that I had a couple of weeks in town before I started.

“Evah been to Fenway?”

“Nope.”

“Friday night. They’re playing Detroit. I got two tickets, wanna come?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me here at five-thirty.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it.

Three beers later, headed back to my new place. Kathleen was finishing her last Jack when I left. She’d probably have come home with me if I asked. Didn’t. The more I drank, the more present Leeza became. If I ever bedded Kathleen, didn’t want Leeza looking over my shoulder. That night in bed it was just me and Raymond Chandler.

Kathleen and I went to the Sox game that Friday night and sat next to the foul pole in the right field corner. Baseball in Fenway was a much more intimate experience than at Shea or Yankee Stadium. There was a charm to it. Charm is not a New York thing. The grand scale of everything in New York suffocates charm in the crib. The Sox won like fifteen to twelve, a real fucking pitchers’ duel.

Kathleen had a beer an inning until the fifth and slowed to one every other inning for the rest of the game. Good thing there were no extra innings. When the game was over, I suggested we find a local bar. She suggested we go fuck. Liked her suggestion better.

We went back to her place, a first floor apartment in a non-descript neighborhood.

Kathleen’s definition of foreplay was another two beers. When she was done with the second, she just pulled her clothes off and sort of shoved me into the bedroom. Fucked for hours. She had to be raw about halfway through, but I don’t think she cared. It was her nature to just carry on. It wasn’t the greatest sex, certainly not the most tender, but it was completely without pretense or baggage. When she wanted something, wanted to be touched in a particular spot in a particular way, Kathleen just told me. I did the same. The sex, as it rarely ever is, was about the sex.

There was no cooing or hand holding come the morning, no whispers or soft kisses on the ear. We had fun. We fucked. Now one of us had to go to work. When I opened my eyes, Kathleen was wearing her rent-a-cop get up.

“The hot watah’s not great,” she said. “Can ya get back to yer place from here?”

“I’ll find my way. Thanks for the game.”

“Thanks fah the beers and the ride.”

“Anytime.”

“Next week sometime?”

“Sure.”

And that was it. Kathleen became part of my routine, my rebound fuck buddy. Twice a week, we’d get together, get drunk and just fuck our brains out. Knew less about her than I knew about Leeza. Ninety-five percent of what Kathleen knew about me was a lie. Perfection.

Varied from our usual gig only once. Took her niece Bonnie to the zoo. Cute as a button, precocious as hell, but it was Kathleen who was the real kid. Between our beer, baseball, and balling, Kathleen and I didn’t get around to our childhoods much. Knew why I avoided the subject. Didn’t have to be a fucking genius to see that her childhood had been rough. My guess, she’d never been to a zoo before. Caught a contact buzz from being around her she was so juiced by it. Two hours in, Bonnie was asleep on my shoulder. Kathleen just had to experience the whole place. Made me see Kathleen in a different light. Was she Leeza? No. No one would fill that space, ever. But a man could do worse than settling into a comfortable life with her. I was apt to do much worse. That night, the sex got as close to tender as it was ever going to get between us.