Shamrock Alley (29 page)

“Sounds like a real fun guy,” Silvestri responded. “What do you need?”

“I wanna turn the tables on him,” he said, “spin his head a little bit. I was wondering what you guys might have down there that I could sell to this guy—seized cigarettes, swag, whatever you got.”

Laughing, Silvestri said, “Always doing things your own way, huh?”

“That’s the
only
way,” he said.

“I think we might have just the thing you’re looking for,” Silvestri said. “Two days ago we seized thirty cases of Canadian whiskey, real high-quality shit. You wanna sell something to a bunch of street punks, you can’t go wrong with quality booze.”

Though he hadn’t found the idea as charmingly amusing as Robert Silvestri had, Brett Chominsky had agreed to the operation the following day. A deal of this magnitude, John assured Chominsky, was certain to flush out some more of Mickey’s guys, and maybe even Jimmy Kahn himself—though John silently doubted Kahn would show. Plus, if Mickey went for it, they would have another three grand to play with.

Chominsky made his own phone call to the airport’s customs department, then quickly dispatched two agents to pick up the Ryder truck and stow it in the underground garage beneath the field office.

Now, all that was left to do was meet with Mickey and push the deal. He phoned the candy store, and the man who answered the phone told him Mickey was not around. John left a message and his cell phone number.

Reenergized by the thought of turning the tables on Mickey and keeping him aloof, he hit the office gym and ran two miles on the treadmill.

By 1:30, he was in SoHo meeting Katie for lunch before she went to class.

“I’m so big now,” she told him as they munched on sandwiches and drank Cokes, “I feel ridiculous walking across campus.”

“Why?”

“Everybody stares. I feel old. I’m an old lady to those kids.”

“That’s not true.”

“It
is
. You should see how young some of them look.”

“You look beautiful.”

“Hmmmm.” She smiled. “You’re in a good mood today. What set you off?”

He shrugged. “Nothing,” he said.

“Well,” she responded, “whatever pills you’ve been taking, keep it up. You just may be salvageable yet.”

“Lucky for me.”

By three o’clock, Mickey still hadn’t returned his call. John tried the candy store a second time, and the guy who answered once again told him that Mickey was not around.

By four o’clock, he’d run two more miles on the gym’s treadmill.

He found himself sitting at his desk, staring at the digital readout of Bill Kersh’s clock from across the office. Hands folded in his lap, he sat reclining in his chair, the small radio on the corner of his desk broadcasting the Knicks game. Outside, the sky was once again turning to night, and that slipping feeling of time being pulled away was all around him, like the hum of live circuitry.

Mickey had not returned his calls.

Kersh ambled into the office, tugging his coat on while trying to balance a Starbucks cup with the same hand. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m calling it a day.” He kicked one of the legs of John’s chair. “Don’t look so bummed. He’ll call tomorrow. Rats like Mickey always come scurrying at the smell of cheese.”

“I know.”

“Then go home,” Kersh said.

“I’m waiting for you to leave so I can go through your desk.”

“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 53
^rd
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 57
^th
Street intersection and another stationary wedge of automobiles. Veering off Tenth Avenue, he turned right onto 57
^th
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?”