"Goddamn meds. Got me so looped up…" He hadn't had one yet, but Dr. Singh had told him that mild hallucinations were a possibility. There was nothing mild about his hallucination, Joe thought. He could see the type of knot the guy wore on his tie (Windsor). He could smell the cigarette smoke.
As if reading his thoughts, the man says, "I'm not a hallucination."
Joe chuffs. "Well, if you're the tooth fairy, you're a couple decades too late. My dentures are in the glass by the nightstand."
The man laughs warmly. "Not quite. I'll give you another guess, though."
Joe slumps his head back onto the stiff hospital pillow. "I'm outta guesses, buddy. So why don't you just tell me who you are?"
He takes one last drag off the filter and drops the butt into the miniature ginger ale can with a sizzle. "I'm the Angel of Death, Joe."
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
"You gotta be kidding me."
"I'm afraid not. It's your time, my friend."
"Really? Where's your black robe? That sickle thing?" Joe is laughing hard now. It hurts, but it feels good, too. "Why do you look like every wop button man I ever met in my life?"
Death smiles at him. "Did you imagine that I would come to you in a black robe? Carrying a… I believe it's called a scythe."
"To be honest with you, I never imagined it at all. I dunno, I just always imagined it was…I dunno. Lights out and that was it."
"That's not entirely true. There were many times when you thought that someone—someone who looks like me—was going to end your life."
"What are you talking about?"
"1974?"
Joe narrows his eyes. "How do you know about that?"
"I know all about you, Joe. You and Sal Bustimante had quite the dispute about who was supposed to be paying who?"
Joe is silent. In shock.
"You thought that he might send some, excuse me, 'wop' to take care of you." Death makes a pistol from his thumb and forefinger and fires it, making a pop with his lips.
"Yeah. I was real scared."
"And there was Nino Valleta in '81"
"Hey, Mr. Death Big Shot. I didn't have anything to do with Nino disappearing. You know so much, why don't you know that, huh?"
Death smiled. "I do know that, Joe. I also know that you were terrified that Mr. Bustimante would hold you responsible—and again, that someone like me would come sneaking up behind you on Boylston. Your strongest visions of your own death have always been someone like me, Joe. That's why I'm here like this." He splays his hands wide, presenting himself.
"So you--"
"I appear in whatever form of death the near-deceased have always feared."
"You gotta be kidding me."
"You already said that, Joe"
"Sorry. But I can't be the first man on earth to call bullshit on you."
Death smiles. "Not everybody knows who I am, what I am when they see me. I don't often have to explain myself."
"What do you mean?"
I've been a lot of things over the years. I've been jealous husbands. Drug dealers selling the last hits. I've been dogs—hell, once I was a Buick Electra."
Joe can't help but laugh, doubling over when he does. Half from the humor he now sees in it all and half from the pain that the laughter generates in his ruined stomach. But he doesn't care. One way or the other, he knows it will all be over soon.
"What's so funny?"
"I…I'm kinda mad at myself for never imagining that I would get banged to death by Charlie's Angels. Instead I get you—freakin' Angelo Death." Joe wipes away the tears that are streaming from his eyes.
Death laughs again. "That's a good one. Don't know how much I would have enjoyed that scenario."
Despite the broken glass roiling in his stomach, Joe can't suppress his whoops of laughter. "Stop it, you're killing me."
Death's laughter subsides. He clears his throat and smiles wanly, sadly. "Yeah, that's what I'm doing, Joe." Death taps a finger to his nose.
"Little on the mark there, huh?" Joe finally gets his giggles under control, but the tears won't stop rolling down his face. It feels like the force of his laughter has chipped something else loose.
Quietly, Death says, "What's the matter, Joe?"
"I dunno. It's…I never got to make right." Joe points up towards the heavens. "Y'know? I never…I never got to make Confession or nothing."
"Are you sorry for the things you've done? Are you truly sorry for the life you've led?"
Joe thinks about it, trying to associate the acts most vivid in his memory to an emotional response within himself. He's a little surprised at what he finds. "Y'know what? I am."
Death stands up and opens his suit jacket. With one hand, he reaches in. With the other, he points upward and smiles. "Then He knows, too."
Joe turns his head into the antiseptic smelling pillow and closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't want to see."
"You don't have to. Goodbye, Joe."
"Goodbye."
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
hissssss-click
Joe Shannon smiles, even though his tears are still flowing.
hiss-pop
And the pain is over.
The visitor buttons his coat back up and walks out of the room. He stops at the nurse's station. "You received the money?"
"Yes sir. Thank you." The pasted smile never moves.
"And tell your fiancée that he's clear of his debts."
"Yes sir."
"You know what I have to do?"
"Yes sir."
"Close your eyes."
She does. The man in the black suit winds up and delivers a vicious punch to the nurse's temple. She crumples to the floor, unconscious, blood streaming along her hairline from the gash his ring made—a convincing enough injury.
He drives back to Southie, parks in front of an Irish Shebeen called Conor's. He knows they'll be in the back room. The red-haired hostess nods at him as he passes. He walks through the kitchen into the room marked Employees Only.
Five old men are seated around the poker table, cards and chips in front of them. One of them has an oxygen tank strapped to his wheelchair.
hissssss-click
The passage of time hasn't been much kinder to the other four. One holds his cards with knobby fingers ravaged by arthritis. Three of them look up at him with glasses thicker than storm windows.
"Is it done?" one asks, his voice still tinged with the light brogue he brought to Boston fifty years earlier from Galway.
"It's done."
The man in the wheelchair starts to weep softly. Arthritis-Fingers lays an arm over his withered shoulders. "He was suffering, Seamus."
"I know. I know." He takes a deep breath, blows it out with a shudder. "It's a good death."
"Damn right," says another old-timer. "Joe Shannon deserved to go out like a man. Not wasting away in cheap hospicthckkk-" The old-timer's dentures catch on the sibilants and are halfway out his mouth before he catches them. "Gawdammit."
Those who can do so, stand. They all raise their glasses towards one of their own. "We'd like to thank you, Mr. Bustimante, for letting us use your man for this."
Sal Bustimante raises his glass of red wine into the air. He's met with four pints of Guinness. "Agli amici più con noi. To friends no longer with us."
To friends no longer with us.
Delivery
"I got Northern Lights, Grape Ape, Kryptonite, Silk, White Rhino, White Widow, Emerald Gold, Bubble Gum and Double Bubble," Jamie said to the skinny doe-eyed girl leaning on the doorjamb of her apartment.
She bit her lip nodding, mulling over her options. "Don't you have any more of that Kush I got last week?"
"Was Kush in that long list I just recited?"
The girl blinked, confused by the question. "I don't remember."
Jamie gritted his teeth. "It wasn't." Goddamn pothe
ads. Their short-term memory was more often than not blown to the four winds anyhow. Hell, his own wasn't much better. Even though he could feel his patience burning away with the girl, Jamie appreciated the reprieve from the chill fall rain outside..
"Oh. I liked that one. Real mellow smoke." The girl nodded into her statement, like a pecking bird.
"Might have some next week."
"Got any G-13?"
Despite the fact that Jamie hadn't included the pharmaceutical grade strain in his list, he always carried two packets, in case. He just didn't think that this girl, answering the door in her beat up U-Mass sweatshirt, had the scratch to buy the stuff. It was the premier, top of the line weed ever produced. Thank you, Uncle Sam. "Yeah. It's a hundred-fifty."
"Whoa."
He knew it. He'd delivered to this girl four times in the last month and had never sold her anything better than Kryptonite or Kush. None too expensive. She acted like he was one of the Fenway hustlers who sold teenagers baggies cut with oregano. Jamie only sold weed rated from really good up to G-13, but the girl obviously had no idea what the hell she was talking about. "Try the Silk. The high is pretty close."
"To the G-13?" Her eyes widened in hope.
"No, to Kush. Nothing is close to G-13. If there was, you couldn't afford it."
"Fuck you, I can afford it." The girl bobbed her head in an attitude more appropriate for a guest on Maury than college student. From bird to trailer trash in one neck swivel.
Jamie was tired of the exchange. He wanted to make the sale and get out of Dodge. He didn't need to get into an argument with the twit about her budget. "Listen, you buying today, or not?"
"Give me the Silk."
"Fifty." Jamie reached into his pocket and drew out the small bag. The girl handed him a rolled-up mess of singles and fives. She held her hand out impatiently.
"Wait," Jamie ordered as he unfolded the bills and counted. The girl sighed with annoyance. Jamie was ready to chuck the money in her face and walk, if Hugh wouldn't chew him out for blowing a sale. Fifty even. Thank God, Jamie thought as he slapped the bud into her hand. She made no effort to close the door gently.
Bitch.
Jamie waited at Model Bar for his next call, sipping a Heineken. Most days, he didn't mind riding his bike. Some of the other couriers on Hugh's payroll bought themselves scooters or dirt bikes to motor around in. Jamie still liked riding his bicycle. It was slower than anything motored, but not by much. On his bike, he could still choose which traffic laws to obey, which lights to run, any route he wanted. The guys on motors had to be double careful not to catch the cop's attention. That was one thing Jamie was good at. On the street, he was the Flash, the Invisible Man and Keyser Soze all rolled into one. You think he's there and poof…gone.
Except in the rain. And it was cold. Summer rain wasn't so bad, could even be refreshing, but this crap just flat-out sucked. From his messenger bag he pulled out one of his old man's ancient Travis McGee books to pass the time, but the rain had warped the pages. The cigarette-yellowed paper stuck together, making it impossible to read. Jamie thought he could still smell the old man's Camels between the wet pages.
Then his cell phone rang.
"Yeah"
"22 Cabot Street. Roxbury."
"Dammit, Hugh. Don't be sending me to Roxbury in this weather." Jamie thought; Don't send me to Roxbury at all, but didn't say it. The day could have been sunshine and kittens, Roxbury was still a shit run.
"Bring the G-13."
"What? Aw, hell no. Have you looked outside?"
"Apartment 2-E." Click. Hugh didn't argue, much less with his employees. You made the delivery, or you returned to the base, handed over your stash, and never returned.
Jamie was aware of his place. Yeah, he was a scumbag drug dealer, but he was positive nobody ever O.D.ed on what he sold. Gateway drug, my ass. Jamie smoked weed regularly since he was old enough to roll and he never felt the urge to upgrade his high.
Yeah, Jamie knew his place. Knew the game, and he didn't like rolling his dice in that neighborhood. Suddenly, Jamie was appreciative of the freezing rain. In better weather, nearly every corner in Roxbury had a crew on it. They weren't necessarily Crips or Bloods, but those guys were out there too, mostly dealing themselves. Sometimes looking for the next sucker to jack. All of them dangerous. Even though they tended to deal exclusively on the higher-potency end of the drug spectrum—crack, horse, coke—they didn't appreciate Jamie and the other couriers on their turf. They'd throw bottles as he sped by, calling out "Hey White Boy!"
Jamie got jumped once on the lip of Roxbury. That night, some gangbangers recognized him from return trips and mugged him. Only they weren't content with a simple robbery. Jamie spent three weeks hospitalized, a month before he could get on a bike again. Hugh, not offering any health plan, was decent enough to cover Jamie's hospital costs. The lost merchandise and money came out of Jamie's pocket, though.
The one time Hugh visited him, his condolences were, "Watch your back next time."
Jamie didn't respond. One, his back wouldn't have mattered. They'd swarmed him from all sides. Two, his jaw was wired.
22 Cabot didn't look like too bad a building for the hood. Like having a skybox in Hell, Jamie thought.
The inside was another matter. The checkered floor looked like it hadn't been washed in years and Lord, the smell—cooking odors, sharp spices mixed with a stench of wet decay that made Jamie's stomach churn.
Jamie pinched his nose walking up the stairwell. Somebody was yelling in Russian. Another had their television turned way loud. Alex Trebek said, "Monticello."
Who the hell would be living in this dump and buying G-13? Maybe somebody called and they were going to rob him again, knowing he was going to be carrying the best stuff.
He had no choice. Make the delivery or be out of a job. Some of the other guys armed themselves, and for a moment, Jamie reconsidered his negative stance on carrying a weapon. But in the event of a po-po shake, he didn't need weapons possession added to the charges he would already be carrying in his messenger bag. He though about bringing his bike chain with him, but shit, leave his bike unchained? In Roxbury?
Besides, he knew his capabilities. Jamie wasn't a brawler, but he could run, given the right reasons. And once he was on his bike, he was gone.
2-E. Jamie knocked. He heard rustling inside and a deadbolt click. The door opened a crack and a small Hispanic woman peeked out. "Can I help you?" she asked softly. Her voice was tinged with an accent. What Jamie could see was pretty as hell. The eye in the crack was a deep brown, long lashes.
For a second, Jamie forgot what he was there for. "Uh, yeah. Delivery?"
"You bring pizza?" She peeked a little further and looked at Jamie's empty hands.
"Huh?" This had never happened before. Jamie looked at the door number again. Somebody screw up the apartment numbers? "No, I…"
"Jen! Who you talkin' to?" a male voice yelled behind her.
"Is a delivery," she replied.
Jen fell away from the door, pulled roughly back. "The fuck you doin' answering the door?"
Aw no... Jamie knew the voice. Fucking Trezza.
Trezza swung the door wide. He was shirtless, muscles twitching at Jamie. He'd grown a gut, but he was still huge. And all things equal, he was most likely still a psychopath, too. Through the door, Hugh could see into the apartment. Considering the building, the neighborhood and all, the apartment was clean. Big flat-screen. Furniture that didn't look like it had been picked off a curb.
"S'up?" said Trezza. "You one of Hugh's boys?"
"Yeah," Jamie said. Thank God for small favors. Trezza didn't recognize him. Not that there was any beef, but Jamie preferred anonymity where Jude Trezza was concerned. Jamie had delivered to Trezza a couple times, years ago when Trezza had a pad in Jamaica Plains. The guy was a nightmare.
"What you got?"
"I got Northern Lights…"
Trezza grabbed him and pushed him hard into the wall,
held Jamie by the collar of his windbreaker. "I'm talkin' G-13, bitch. You think I can't afford the good shit? Save the skunk for the sororities, bitch."
Jamie's legs went weak, remembering what Trezza had done to Ike. "Yeah. I got two packets," Jamie croaked. He tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but heard it trembling anyway. Self-loathing coursed through Jamie. His nerves told him to run. His pride said fight back. The brain won. Fighting back would be suicide, at least more hospital time. Jamie wasn't eager for either.
Trezza smiled crookedly at Jamie. "You scared, Pee-Wee?" Jamie didn't have to respond. Trezza knew that he was. "You should be. You know what happened to the last guy tried to rip me off?"
Jamie nodded.
Trezza let his collar go. "Damn, only got two? I got my boys coming over. Two packets ain't gonna do it."
"I only got two."
"What's the next best?"
"Depends. Kryptonite and Silk are both…"
"Gimme it all." Trezza waved his hand and pulled a wad of hundreds from his pocket.
When Jamie went to his pack, he saw around Trezza's legs. Jen sat on the couch. She and Jamie locked eyes for a moment. Well, locked eye was more appropriate. Her left eye, the one that Jamie couldn't see through the crack was swollen shut. The biggest part of her was her stomach. She was really, really pregnant.
"What?" The sharpness of Trezza's tone snapped Jamie back. Again, he had no response. Trezza's gaze hardened as he looked back and realized just what Jamie was looking at. A backhand clipped Jamie across the face; lightly, but enough to humiliate him. "Mind your own."
Jamie noticed tracks in the crook of Trezza's elbow.
"I can't believe you sent me there." Jamie was pissed. Hugh knew Trezza's history. Not only was Trezza one of the biggest heroin dealers in Boston, but a year ago he beat down another member of Hugh's delivery crew. Jamie was pissed not only that they were still delivering to the prick, but that Hugh sent him.
Adding to that aggravation was Jamie's difficulty finding Hugh's new base of operations. Hugh kept his operation mobile, ever since four armed guys hit his place in Brighton. It was a righteous paranoia, but he'd forgotten to tell Jamie where he moved to. Jamie had to ride an extra hour in the rain while he tried to connect with Hugh in order to bitch at him. Hugh finally answered on Jamie's sixth attempt. Hugh didn't like being called. Hugh was the man who made the calls.
Dirty Words Page 10
