Authors: George V. Higgins
He drove down B in the middle—Cistaro’s maroon Expedition was parked at the left curb next to a N
O
P
ARKING
sign—to the driveway behind Flynn’s Spa facing Old Colony and turned left into it. His headlights caught the silvered reflectors in the headlights of Rascob’s old grey Town Car—the Naughton kid was impassive but alert behind the wheel; he nodded recognition—and the red reflector lenses in the taillights of Cistaro’s black BMW. McKeach backed out again and parked the Pontiac at the curb behind Cistaro’s Expedition.
He got out into the clear darkness that seemed colder after the warm day and as always took a moment to scan the area. Cistaro made fun of his habit. “Arthur—I bet when Arthur gets the soap all rinsed off inna morning, you know, inna shower? Gets through playin’ with himself and makin’ sure that he’s still got at least as many fingers as he had the night before, he came home and went to bed; that before he slides the glass door open first he takes a look around. What is it that you call it, Arthur? ‘Just doin’ a little recon’?
“I bet when Arthur’s bein’ born, you know, he had everybody wonderin’, doctors, nurses, everyone—‘what the hell is goin’ on here? The hell is it with this kid? Had his poor mother here in labor goin’ on three
days
now—when the hell’s he comin’
out
?’ And all it was was Arthur bein’ Arthur, just the same as he is now—takin’ a look around first. Seein’ if there’s any
cops
inna delivery room.”
McKeach stared for a long time at the darkened windows and the porches rigged with clotheslines at the rear of the A Street triple-decker, ivory with white trim, that backed up on the vacant lot across from the spa on B Street, his eyes accustomed to the scant light from the streetlights, watching for motion at the flowered curtains, the glint of light reflected from a telephoto lens or the anodized barrel of a long-range microphone, the brief orange flare of a cigarette lighter. Nothing. Nothing like
the old days, when the bastards smoked, and gave themselves away.
He nodded and walked into the loading area behind the store, nodded to Todd Naughton, and climbed the two cement steps up onto the loading dock. Then he stopped, turned around and went down again, walking over to the Town Car, making a cranking motion with his right hand. Naughton turned the ignition key to the accessory position and powered the driver’s window down. “Uncle Arthur,” he said, and he grinned.
McKeach, grinning broadly, bent over, resting his left hand on the roof of the car and extending his right through the window. Naughton raised his right hand between his chest and the wheel. They shook hands awkwardly. “Understand you’re going to be leaving us soon,” McKeach said.
“So they tell me,” Naughton said. “Say it’s a whole new different way of life.”
“Is that a fact?” McKeach said. “Think you can stand it?”
Naughton widened his grin. “Ah, Uncle Arthur,” he said. “What can I tellya? Never forget old friends and family. Never forget where you came from. That’s the way I was brought up.”
McKeach nodded and squeezed Naughton’s hand. “Attaboy, Todd,” he said, releasing the hand and squeezing his left shoulder before straightening up. “Always’ve felt safer, havin’ you around. Gonna miss you, not seein’ you here.”
“Oh, I’ll still be around,” Naughton said. “I’m joinin’ the force, not the convent.”
McKeach laughed. “Yeah,” he said, stepping away, “I know that. Just make sure, you know, keep in touch, okay?”
“You know it,” Naughton said, and they both nodded.
McKeach turned away toward the loading dock. Then he hesitated, seeming to recollect something, and turned back to the old grey car. He leaned down at the window again, resting his left forearm again on the roof of the car. “Just for an example,”
he said, “why we’re gonna miss you. I’m not sure yet but I will be when I come out—could you be available for me for something I might hafta do pretty early tomorrow morning? Only drivin’ me somewhere, droppin’ me off an’ then pickin’ me up again. You be available, maybe?”
“Sure,” Naughton said. “Just tell me what time and where—I can be there.”
McKeach nodded again, made a fist of his left hand and rapped the first knuckles on the roof of the car. “Okay, good,” he said. “About five, I think. Be through by six-thirty. I’ll pick you up, drop you off at the same place. All you have to do’s say where.”
“White Hen Pantry, all-night store, parkways rotary,” Naughton said. “I’ll pick up a couple ah coffees.”
“Okay,” McKeach said, “large black for me. I give you the thumbs-up when I come out, I see you there. If I don’t, forget about it.”
“Deal,” Naughton said.
McKeach went up the steps and onto the loading dock in a hurry, bringing a double-A flashlight from his pocket and lighting his way through the creaking double door closest to the steps into the shadows and the stairs inside, the light bulb in the passageway at the rear of the upper floor no help in the dark on the rough wooden staircase. The boards creaked softly as he ascended, hearing the rushing sound of the gas stove and the low murmur of several voices in the big office above. As he reached the door he heard Cistaro laugh and say, “Maxie, whatchou saying that for, you’re not sure that’s the reason. Arguing with Rico like that? Of
course
it’s the reason. It’s so fuckin’
obvious
, everybody knows it—has to be. No, Rico’s got you pegged.”
McKeach opened the door and went in. Cistaro sat presiding behind the desk under the high windows at the front of the room. He had tilted back in the wooden desk chair and had his legs
crossed at the ankles on top of the desk. He had the little TV set facing him and tuned to “The Late Show with David Letterman.” “Turn it up, Nick,” McKeach said, his voice tired; he shut the door.
“Why? It’s loud enough,” Cistaro said. “Isn’t like I
give
a flyin’ fuck about the show or anything. All it is’s Clinton jokes, new ways to say ‘blow job’ without saying ‘blow’ or ‘job.’ Got our own sex story right here.”
Rico and Rascob sat facing each other across the eight-foot table, Rico laughing and Rascob looking embarrassed but pleased. McKeach pulled an orange chair from the row against the wall and dragged it over to the table, sitting down at the end facing Cistaro. “Because halfway up the stairs I could hear you guys, is why,” he said. “I could also hear the stove. But I could not hear the TV. Not supposed to be that way, you over the TV anna stove. S’posed to be the
other
way: TV drownin’
you
out.”
“I thought you swept the place today,” Cistaro said. “I thought after we meet with Sweeney, got things straightened out with him, you wanted me and Rico out, you’re gonna sweep the place. That’s why we left you here.”
“And that’s what I did,” McKeach said. “Voltage checks on alla phone lines we got comin’ in building—all the current draws’re normal. Nothing in the TV set, so that when we turn it on we’re talkin’ to the FBI or state police. Nothin’ in the thermostat. Checked all of the baseboard outlets, ceilin’ fixtures, all that shit—nothin’ funny inside them. So, none of the power sources’d been spliced, I checked them out. Seven-thirty, when I left.”
“So?” Cistaro said. “So, what’re we worried, then? Everything’s okay.”
“Not what I said,” McKeach said. “You weren’t listening. What I said was that everything
was
okay when I left at seven-thirty. It’s now after midnight. I don’t know if anything’s happened
since then. I don’t know who was over Congress Street, the phone company at eight, got a court order with ’em lets ’em tie into our lines
here
, onna mainframe over
there.
And I don’t know if someone sneaked in here after I left, which they’ve been known to do, wired a full-time bug into the baseboard, they can now hear us scratch our balls. All I act on’s what I know. What you’re acting on I don’t. Turn up the Korean TV. Make some other kind of cheap noise.”
Cistaro turned up the volume on the set. Letterman was bantering with a female movie star and his bandleader, Paul Schaefer. Cistaro raised his voice to drown out their conversation and the laughter it provoked. “You’re sayin’ that you think they couldah
sneaked
in here, since you left at seven-thirty?” he said, his eyes wide and disbelieving. “Arthur, I do really hate to say this, but I now think you’re losin’ it. You been takin’ your meds lately? You’re not actin’ like a well man. What is it that they call? ‘Paranoia,’ is it?”
McKeach’s eyes stayed flat; his face lost even the expression of weariness. His voice got colder with contempt. “Paranoia’s what the guys in Maximum tell each other guys still on the outside must have. Explains how come they didn’t get sucked into the same asshole deals the guys in jail went to jail for. Why it is that they’re still free. ‘Something’s wrong with them. Can’t be the reason’s that they’re smarter’n we are. Must be
crazy’s
how they did it.’ ”
He paused one beat. “Now,” he said, “lemme just remind you guys—we operate together. One of you gets in the shit, chances are you’ll have
me
inna shit. I do not want that. If it happens I’ll do something to the guy that I think did it to me. Won’t care if he meant to or not. It may take me a long time but I promise you, before I die, I’ll kill him.
“I don’t care who it is. This applies to everybody, guys I never met and guys I’ve known for a long time, been friends with, and
I worked with, and I like.” He stopped, squinting a little, and studied each of them, his lips slightly parted, his tongue working at the upper right-hand corner on his lip as though exploring for chancres. “So, any questions?”
None of them said anything. “Good,” he said. “So, even ’f you think I’m crazy, you can still see how it might be a good idea to humor me. I’ve been in. I was in for a long time. Didn’t like it. I’m not goin’ in again.” He paused for a long moment, looking at each of them in turn. Cistaro snorted but then snuffled, covering it; then he shook his head a little, averting his eyes. No one said anything.
“Okay,” McKeach said “it’s late. I’m tired. Can we now talk business here? What’re you all celebratin’, all that hootin’ an’ hollerin’ I heard comin’ up the stairs? Lemme in on it—I’m interested. Somethin’ must’ve turned out good; we made a lot of money—how much did I make?” He looked at Rascob.
Rascob shifted in his chair. “Ah, no,” he said, “it’s nothin’ like that. They’re just dumpin’ all over me. Givin’ me a bunchah shit, I’m with Jessica.”
Cistaro feigned surprise. “
Nooo
, Max,” he said, “we’re your
friends.
Not shittin’ on you—we’re
congratulatin’
you.”
“Yeah,”
Rico said, “that’s what we’re doin’. Sayin’ how you’re lots more
fun
now, not complainin’ alla time. Don’t look like someone just ran over your dog alla time. Must be now you’re well-
adjusted
, you know?
Much
nicer tah be around.” He laughed. “Just tonight when I come over, I was talkin’ Toddy, downstairs. How he got in the academy, he’s gonna be a fuckin’
cop.
And I says to him, says, ‘Jesus, Toddy, tellin’ you, all this new shit goin’ on? Can’t get used to it. World is changin’ on me here. I don’t know what’s goin’ on. Now pretty soon I see you, you’ll be wearin’ the blue suit—I’ll probably cross the street, avoid you. And son-a-bitch,
gotta
be at least three weeks now, I ask Rascob how it’s goin’, how he’s doin’ and he ain’t got one complaint.
Now all he says is, “
Fine
, how’s it with you?” you ask him. You can tell he means it, too.’
“And Toddy says, ‘You know, you’re right. I didn’t think of it myself, you just mention it to me, but Max’s a much better guy now. More fun to have around. Regular Mister Congeniality. Always glad to see you now, pass the time of day, got a friendly word to say. Gotta tellya, he’s a changed man these days. I didn’t know him before, swear to God, I wouldn’t know him now.’ ” Cistaro was laughing. Rascob looked sheepish.
“ ‘Tellin’ you,’ Toddy says,” Rico said, “ ‘regular pussy’s a wonderful thing, what it can do for a man.’ ”
“And Todd also says,” Cistaro said, “says now that you’re gettin’ some from Sweeney’s sister, not only how glad we are for
you
, but how glad
Sweeney
is, for
himself
,” Cistaro said. “Sweeney is fuckin’ ecstatic. You calmed down Jessica for him.”
“I heard that too,” Rico said. “How Sweeney’s darlin’ sister’s been such a handful for him. Not a bad-lookin’ woman, Jessie, but what a temper on her. Although what Sweeney says, that fuckin’
husband
she had,
geez
, he gave her plenty, bitch about, good-for-nothin’ pieceah shit. But now she finely gets rid of him, and then you get her so she can’t get the smile off her face? Sweeney thinks he died and went to heaven. Says he’s gonna hafta make a novena, thanks to Saint Jude, put an ad in the paper, all his impossible prayers’ve been answered.” He paused a beat and beamed at Rascob. “Maybe you should too, Maxie. Or whatever you Jewish guys do. Just like JFK said, right? ‘Any day I don’t get laid, always makes my back ache.’ ”
“I thought it was his head ached,” McKeach said.
Rico shrugged. “Headache, backache, schmackache—what’s the difference? Important thing is how you feel, and we all know Max feels better. And we know
why
Maxie feels better.
We
should all take Jessica out to dinner sometime. Thank her, all she’s done for us, doin’ what she does for you.”
“Okay,” McKeach said, contemplating Rascob, “so I didn’t make no money. But knowin’ that was all it was, you guys raisin’ hell about up here? Maxie gettin’ laid? That makes me feel better. Anyone
did
bug this place since I left at seven-thirty, all he’s gotten so far’s a lotta shuckin’-jivin’
shit.
Got him pullin’ his hair out by now, got him
screamin’
at his wire team. ‘You’re tellin’ me this’s McKeach anna Frogman? South Boston hard guys? Heavy hitters? You must’ve gotten lost, gone to Roxbury, got me a nigger insurance agency.’ ” He snorted.
“So Nick,” he said, “you now had enough of that lockerroom shit? Wanna talk to me now about business? That fuckin’ Crawford guy—he makes me nervous. Told you last week he’d stay current now—tonight he show up like he said?”