The Shadow Box (38 page)

Both Uncle Jake and Moon came out for the graduation
ceremony. Brendan Doyle had to beg off. He was tied up
in court but he sent a nice watch that Michael promptly
lost. He never did have much luck with watches.

Jake and Moon didn't look much like the other parents.
Moon had worn a good suit for the occasion but on Moon,
suits always had a sort of secondhand look. Suits on cops
tend to have the same look for the same reason. Baggy.
A full cut to hide a weapon and to allow free movement.

The other thing about Moon was that he rarely looked anyone in the eye except when he knew everyone in sight.
He would always be looking past them at what else was
going on, at whomever was coming up next. Here again,
it's the same with cops. But it's also the same with thieves.

Uncle Jake was another story. He looked right at you.
And right into you. Even during small talk. In consequence
of the many stories about Moon and Uncle Jake, most of them wildly untrue, quite a few people wanted introduc
tions. A few of these were people with whom Michael
had not been especially close, and some he actively dis
liked. There were smirks behind their smiles. He had al
ready overheard a sampling of their remarks.

“Mike Fallon's uncle . . . politician from N
oo
Yawk
…
.
so you
know
he has his hand out
….
fixes boxing
matches
….
fight game is where Mike gets it
…
nigger's
the bodyguard
….
ex-con, I hear
….
doesn't look so
tough
….
looks more like a wino.”

If Mike was getting angry, and more than a little embar
rassed, his uncle seemed to be having the time of his life.
He kept bragging about his nephew, told New York sto
ries, fight game and mob stories. Some were true, some
invented on the spot, all while he was chewing on a cigar.

Actually, most of the parents seemed to enjoy him. But
one man, dressed in a club-crested blazer, walked away
saying to his wife, “Do you believe that Irish clown?”

Michael wanted to go after him. He didn't. He looked
over at his uncle and saw his uncle looking back. Looking
deep. With a touch of disappointment. Jake then turned and ambled after the man who had made the remark. He
put an arm around his shoulder and whispered into his
ear. The man didn't move for a long moment. When he
did, he had his wife by the arm and was dragging her,
head down, toward the parking lot.

They went to dinner that night. Moon was more than
usually quiet. Over coffee, his uncle handed him an
envelope.

”A graduation present. It's from your father.”

Michael didn't understand.

“Open it.”

He did. There were several documents on Merrill-Lynch
letterhead. They were the earnings statements of a group of mutual funds. The account was in his uncle's name but it was held in trust for Michael Fallon. The amount was just under two hundred thousand dollars. Michael could
only stare.

”I took the cash from the apartment, same day he died.
You knew it was there, right?”

Michael nodded. “But this much?”

“It grew. How come you never asked what happened
to it?”

”I . . . assumed you've been spending it on me.”

“Some, maybe. The rest is for when you get married,
maybe need to buy a house or something. Meantime, it stays put.”

Again, Michael stared. In his mind he saw himself, back
in that apartment on Horatio Street, peeling off bills to
buy groceries. He took only what he needed because he
realized, even then, that it would have to last. He knew
that his father might never hold a job again.

As for its source, he had tried not to think about it.
Certainly it had crossed his mind that his father might
have embezzled it, or had been paid off for cooking some
one's books, or perhaps had simply accumulated it over
the years. Cash payments for services rendered. Under the
table. Tax-free.

He had tried not to think about it because then he'd
also have to think about his mother, who also
must have
known, who had lost all respect for his father, who had
walked out of their lives without taking a dime of this
money. Most of all, he would have to remember that his father had killed himself on the one day when he managed
to stay sober until noon, and after his son had shamed him
by going off with his Uncle Jake. “You go, Mike. Your uncle knows best.” Then, bitterly, “Your uncle
always
knows best.”

“Uncle Jake . . . how bad was it?”

“How bad was what?”

“How dirty is that money?”

His uncle looked at him through hooded eyes.

“Is it drug money?''
Michael asked.

The question seemed to startle him. Even Moon.
“Drugs like what?” Jake asked him.

“You know. Heroin. Cocaine.”

And now he seemed relieved. “No. Nothing like that.”

Moon looked away.

“The money,” his uncle said at last, “was severance pay. T
h
e deal he had with the Eagle outfit, it had what
they call a noncompete clause. That's why he didn't work
after that. Anyway, he didn't have to.”

“But . . . this much severance
...
for a bookkeeper?”

“Lump sum. They were closing up shop anyway.”

“Then why a noncompete clause?”

Jake Fallon grunted. “Mike
...
do you trust your
uncle?”

“You know I do.”

“Then here's all you have to know. Anything that
needed to be fixed is fixed. What's past is past and money
is money. Go live your life.”

“Think you can take me yet, Michael?”

Moon asked this question after Uncle Jake rose to find
the men's room.

“Ah . . , what brings that up?”

“Just
askin'.”

Michael thought for a moment. “It would be
...
closer.”

“Maybe. But not if you got your nose so high in the
air you wouldn't see me comin
’
”

Michael grimaced. “Am I doing that, Moon?”

“Don't you ever again let anyone mock your uncle and
then walk away. He waited, Michael. He gave you time
to step in.”

   
A deep sigh. ”I know he did.”

 
“Just, don't forget who you are. And don't make me
remind you.”

Don't forget who you are?

Okay, who
am
I?

Am I Tom Fallon's son or Jake Failon's nephew? Am
I the son of a drunken dropout who was probably a crimi
nal or am I what Uncle Jake has been working so hard to
turn me into? Do I look for another Mary Beth or do I
keep scouting out the country club Kimberlys?

Dean's list grad from Notre Dame. An officer and a
gentleman.

Don't forget who you are? Don't change?

What
hasn't
changed?

After four months' training in Texas, he was shipped to
Germany, where he joined the 2nd Armored Cavalry,
based in Nuremberg. While there, he studied the language and, because of a compulsion he could not resist, spent a
week's leave following the route along which his father
fought more than thirty years earlier. It took him through
half of Austria and well up into Czechoslovakia. Patton
would have taken Prague if Eisenhower hadn't stopped
him. Hell, Patton would have taken Moscow. And Tom
Fa
llo
n would have followed hi
m.

He spent his third year of active duty in England where,
he was pleased to tell Uncle Jake, he finally got to play
Rugby. The army promoted him to captain in the hope
that he'd extend his tour but Michael had other plans. He
was taking courses toward a graduate degree at the London
School of Economics. If Uncle Jake would advance him
the money from his trust, he would stay to complete it.

Uncle Jake liked the sound of it. The London School
of Economics. Very classy. A clear step up for a former
stickball player from Horatio Street.

Two years later he was on Wall Street, still in his twen
ties and making more than ninety thousand dollars a year.
He had a nice apartment and an active social life.

Moon would drop by every now and then.

Now . . . this was not snobbishness. It really wasn't.

But he would have preferred to meet Moon elsewhere
because, from the looks the other tenants gave him after
ward, Moon was presumed to be his dealer making a
delivery.

Moon, of course, knew this as well as he did. Moon
was no doubt waiting to dump all over him if he should
suggest an alternative arrangement. Once a young woman,
in whom Michael was interested, was there for one of
Moon's visits. He introduced himself as “Mike's Uncle
Moon.” The young woman's interest cooled before his
eyes. She suddenly remembered a hair appointment.