Jimmy watches as the machine pulls itself forward, lurching over the mud; he thinks hard, the way the hill is, the way the machine's leaning, and he runs in front, around, and yells for them to jump now! out THIS side, now! Markie laughs, slaps Jack on the back, the dinosaur's still roaring, but then Markie sees Jimmy's face, and Markie's face changes, maybe he feels how far over he's leaning, and suddenly he leaps. It's a high fall now, into the dirt, and Markie lies there forever before he gets up. All the kids stare at him and stare at the dinosaur as one side of it starts to sink into the mud. Slowly, still moving downhill, it tilts more and more, the side Markie jumped from is almost straight up in the air. Jimmy and Tom are both yelling for Jack, and then there Jack is, standing on the edge, then flying through the air, his legs pumping like he's running. He hits the ground at the same moment the dinosaur, mad because it lost its balance, roars, starts to fall, and smashes onto the corner of one of the houses. The kids hear wood splintering. Tom hauls Jack out of the mud—Markie's already on his feet—and everyone runs like hell. Jimmy's heart's pounding, Tom looks mad. But Markie's grinning as they run away, and Jack grins at Markie, too, and Jimmy sees that happen, remembers it.
This morning? We were down by the rocks, Tom says later, when the grown-ups ask. We were fishing. Yeah? says Jimmy's dad. Good morning for it, bet the bass were running. Catch anything? Jimmy shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything. Anything he'd say wouldn't be true, and he doesn't want the words to mess him up.
So when Markie looks down at the grass now, in his own backyard, like he needs to check it out, Jimmy knows.
Yeah, says Markie. Yeah, I guess I saw Jack around. How come?
Just wondering, I don't know, says Jimmy. Just, I heard something.
Something like what?
Jimmy drinks some beer. That crew Jack's got, Jimmy says. They fly kind of high.
I don't get you.
Yeah, says Jimmy, shaking his head. Like, Mr. Molloy? He stays pretty much under the radar. You know? Doesn't embarrass anyone.
Embarrass who?
Anyone. You're a mosquito, you sneak up and bite someone, fly away, you could do okay for yourself like that. You buzz around their ear, they're gonna squash you.
Jimmy drinks some beer, thinks that that's not exactly what he means. Still, it's close enough.
I'm gonna tell Big Mike, says Markie. That you said he was like a mosquito.
They both grin, but Markie's is the grin that makes Jimmy worried, the one he's been seeing since they were kids, seeing more of lately, when Markie's got a family and Jimmy thought he ought to be seeing it less. The grin Markie had just before he and Jack climbed into the dinosaur all those years ago.
And Jimmy's saying Mr. Molloy, same as since they were kids. But Markie's saying Big Mike.
But I'm talking about the buzzing, says Jimmy. That's Jack's problem, that's what I heard about.
Markie says again, I don't get you.
The cops, Jimmy says. The cops are getting ready to roll up Jack, his whole crew.
For a few seconds Markie says nothing. The water's not running in the sink anymore, but Jimmy hears Marian's voice, she's singing a song to Kevin. Jimmy loves Marian's voice: when he listens to her sing, he believes the words in the songs.
Shit, says Markie finally. Oh shit, you sure?
Jimmy shrugs. I don't know that much, he says. I mean, maybe I didn't hear it right. Somebody said somebody said, you know how it goes?
What about Big Mike? Does he know?
Maybe. But if he does, what's he gonna do? Everything he could do, he must've done already.
Markie nods. Jimmy watches him, sees that Markie knows that what Jimmy's saying is true, that Mike the Bear can't help Jack out anymore.
Jack's crew, they don't keep their heads down.
For one thing, they operate too close to home. Some of the businesses Mike the Bear runs—the shylocking, the bookmaking out of Flanagan's—are in the neighborhood, they have to be. And everybody always said Mike has some girls, in a boring-looking two-family you'd never notice, in the old section. But when Mike's crew takes off a truck or second-stories some fancy house, you can bet it's not around here. Not on Staten Island at all, usually, but someplace like Brooklyn or Queens or New Jersey, where the bridges go. (Jimmy remembers when the Verrazano Narrows Bridge opened, how he heard Mr. Molloy say that was the best thing the city ever did for him. Jimmy was a little kid then, but he already knew Mr. Molloy was Mike the Bear: didn't know yet what that meant, but was not surprised to hear the city did things for him.)
But Jack, ever since Mike the Bear gave him the go-ahead to put a crew together, to get something started on his own, Jack doesn't keep a lid on it. Even when they boost goods from somewhere else, there's usually stuff, watches or whatever, sometimes a car, that ends up in the neighborhood. Or some guy, from some other crew, from outside—maybe a Puerto Rican from Harlem, something like that—gets beat to shit, everybody's asking each other what the spics are doing in the neighborhood: but knowing he came to do business, he wouldn't take No for an answer, this is just Jack's way of saying he means No. It's trouble: it's not the way it's done. Over the years there've been lots of people Mike the Bear doesn't want to do business with: they get talked to, roughed up a little if they have to be, but not like this. And if it has to be this, you use the bridges, the guy gets found somewhere else.
Markie and Jimmy both know this, everyone does.
Tom and Jack have argued about it more than once, evenings in Flanagan's, Tom tight-jawed, low-voiced, while Jack leans back, drains his beer, says, Yeah, yeah, all right, like Tom's making a big deal out of nothing. These arguments leak from Flanagan's into the surrounding streets, get passed from neighbor to neighbor over backyard fences or in the aisles of the A&P.
And sometimes something even gets in the paper; the Advance runs a story, “Crime on the Rise.” Sometimes things flare up, then suddenly go quiet, and you know Mike the Bear's had a word with someone, cash has changed hands somewhere, something has been promised, or delivered.
But that has its natural limit. Cops are like anyone else: you can pay them to protect your ass, but not if it costs them theirs. Sooner or later, if there's enough complaining, something has to be done, or at least it has to look that way.
And this is what Mike the Bear told Jimmy in Flanagan's yesterday, and this is what Mike wants Jack to learn. From wherever he gets things, Mike the Bear got this: the cops are coming for Jack, and Mike can't stop them. Jack's only chance is to back off, cut his crew loose, turn into Mr. Model Citizen, at least for the duration. Of what? Until the NYPD forgets about him. However long that is.
Jimmy looks up from his beer, realizes Markie's asking him a question he asked once already.
What's gonna happen? Markie wants to know.
Jack's got to go straight, Jimmy says. He's got to start going to church and helping little old ladies across the street. He has to quiet down.
He's gonna hate that. Like wearing a tie.
Jimmy smiles, because he's remembering Jack yanking off his tie at the party after his first communion, and every time since that he had to wear one, funerals and weddings and every time, saying, I'm smothering, this thing's gonna choke me, man, I got to get out of it. Jack, always afraid of smothering, always needing to get out.
Jimmy says to Markie, But that's what's got to happen.
You think he'll do it?
Only, Jimmy says, if someone tells him to.
Who? Big Mike? Tom?
Jimmy shakes his head. If they did that, he says, Jack'll just say it's because Tom wants his operation.
Tom? What does he want that for? When Big Mike retires to Florida or something, Tom's gonna have everything. What does he want what Jack has for?
I didn't say he does. I said Jack'll think he does.
Markie frowns, then looks up. You, Jimmy. You gotta tell Jack. You gotta warn him.
Yeah, I guess, I guess I better. Trouble is, all the people
around here, I'm the one he's most going to think is bullshitting him. What the hell does a fireman know about this shit? You know what, I'll bet he'll think Tom told me to. Or even I thought it up by myself, because now I'm too straight, I don't want guys like him having any fun.
Markie laughs. Yeah, it's true, he thinks you got pretty uptight since you went on the Job.
Jimmy shrugs. Probably I did.
Yeah, says Markie, Jimmy, man, you don't hang out no more. Markie's using Jack's growly voice, has his jaw stuck out the way Jack's gets. All's you do anymore, man, Markie says, still being Jack, you sit in front of the firehouse with that old fart McCardle, like the two of you, you're in charge of looking at stuff.
Jimmy flips his empty beer can into the air, swats it over so Markie has to duck.
Oh, man, says Markie, you're lucky the girls took the potato salad inside.
What, you're telling me you'd start a food fight? In your own backyard?
You started it already! Anyway, it's not my backyard, it's old man O'Neill's.
Marian comes out onto the porch right then, asks if Jimmy's ready to go. Markie says, Marian, you just did a really good thing, you just saved Jimmy's ass.
From what? Marian says, looking around to the back of Jimmy, like she needs to see what's wrong with his ass.
Potato salad, says Markie, nodding darkly, like that's his most serious weapon.
Oh my God, says Marian, her eyes getting wide.
Yeah, says Jimmy, I'm getting scared, we better go.
Markie walks with Jimmy and Marian up the driveway to the front of the house. When they get to the sidewalk, Markie says, Jimmy, man, that stuff we were talking about? Maybe I could do it.
Jimmy looks at him. Maybe, he says.
Yeah, why not?
Jimmy nods. Just, you have to not say you got it from me. Because he'd blow it off then.
Got you.
What are you guys talking about? Marian wants to know.
Boy talk. I ask you what you and Sally were cracking up about in the kitchen? Jimmy kisses Marian on the nose.
No, but if you had, I'd have told you.
That's because you're nicer than me.
Marian smacks him on the arm, lightly.
Markie says, Jimmy, you're in trouble now.
Yeah, says Jimmy, but I know a way out. He wraps his arms around Marian, presses her close, kisses her in a way he doesn't usually do out on the street. Finally he moves his face an inch away from hers, asks, Am I still in trouble?
You sure are, says Marian, but now it's a completely different kind.
PHIL'S STORY
Chapter 11
Abraham Lincoln and the Pig
October 31, 2001
Four tables bodyguarded by two chairs each lounged on the sidewalk outside the Bird. Phil thought, Nice day to sit outside. Too bad Kevin probably wouldn't see it that way. He pushed through the door and sure enough spotted Kevin in the far corner booth, the one most shadowed.
The Bird, Phil saw, was his kind of saloon. Atmosphere-free. No concession at all to Halloween, not a ghost or goblin. Scratched tables, mismatched chairs, neon beer signs. Though the five-foot flag above the bar, he'd give odds that was new. A scattering of solitary drinkers drifted foggily through the afternoon, staring at nothing, lost in private reasons. On the walls, photos of Little League teams down the years. Phil wondered, as he made his way to the back, which of those smiling uniformed boys was Jimmy McCaffery, which was Eddie Spano, which was Jack Molloy. Which was Markie. Boys with their teammates, shoulder to shoulder, squinting and smiling into the bright future. Two dead at twenty-three, one dead last month. The one still living, a career criminal. Ah, youth.
“Your team photos here?” he asked as he slid into the booth opposite Kevin.
“What?” Kevin sat off-kilter, favoring his right leg. His crutches leaned in the corner.
“Didn't the Bird sponsor your Little League team?”
Kevin said, “What are you asking that for?” but he pointed across the room. “Those.”
Phil turned to look, saw Kevin as he'd been at nine, at ten, at twelve.
The boy he'd never disappointed.
“Uncle Phil—”
The waitress materialized, hovered beside them. Her bleached-blond presence felt like a reprieve. Phil wanted her to stay. But after she'd run down the list of beer on tap and in bottles, what was there to keep her there? He supposed he could ask about scotches, gins, five-star brandies, but he'd always despised opponents whose delaying tactics were that obvious, that desperate. You're not prepared, don't show up. He asked for a Guinness and watched her leave to get it. Kevin was already working on a bottle of Bud.
“Uncle Phil—” Kevin said again, but Phil raised his hand.
“Kev, listen.”
Kevin stopped, did as Phil said. All right, now you have to tell him something. In a minute. When the beer comes. No, now, before he starts again. “I don't know what's going on, okay?” The look Kevin gave him, it wasn't okay. “I don't know what happened to that reporter, if he killed himself or someone killed him. But—no, wait—but there are a couple things I never told you, or your mother. I'll tell you now if you want.”
Kevin nodded.
Jump, Phil told himself. The net will appear. Or it won't. Looking into Kevin's eyes, so like Sally's, he said, “I met with Jimmy McCaffery every couple of months for eighteen years. Sometimes in a bar like this, sometimes in my office. Once at one of your games. The Tornados, a play-off game. You tripled. Do you remember?”
Kevin looked blank, then he shrugged. “They were always good. The Tornados. We played them lots of times.”
Phil nodded. The waitress brought his Guinness, but she didn't stick around. Story of his life.
Kevin said, “Why'd you meet with Uncle Jimmy?”
A sip of beer. “He gave me money. Cash. I'd put it in a bank account, an escrow account in your mother's name, and write her a check every month.”
“From the State.”
“Well, obviously not. But yes, those checks.”
“Why?”
“Your father was dead. You were a baby. Your mother needed the money.”
“Goddamn it, Uncle Phil!” At Kevin's shout the waitress's head whipped around like a searchlight. The bartender's, too, in case something was blowing up he'd need to take care of. Phil raised an apologetic hand, shook his head. The bartender nodded: Okay, but watch yourselves. Screw you, Phil thought, that was more action than you've seen in here all week.
Kevin leaned forward. If this were a negotiating session, Phil would have pulled back and also leaned a little to one side. That way he'd control the distance between them and make it clear, too, that he was the one controlling it. But he didn't do any of that. There was too much distance already.
“I mean, why you and Uncle Jimmy?” Kevin lowered his voice, but now it wore a sharp and ragged edge. “I thought you didn't even like each other. Why the bullshit?”
Of course that's what he meant. “Jimmy said your mother wouldn't have taken the money from him. From anyone.”
“Bullshit,” Kevin repeated.
Kevin drank. Phil waited. Never offer information, never answer the question that wasn't asked. “Why did the paper say the money might have come from Eddie Spano?” Kevin demanded.
“It had to come from somewhere. They don't think it could have been Jimmy's. It's too much money.”
“Where did it come from?”
Answer half the question: “What Jimmy gave me, I don't know where it came from.”
“What the fuck do you mean, you don't know?”
“I never asked him.”
“He just hands you thousands in cash every couple months for eighteen fucking years, and you never ask where it comes from?”
“Kev, I work with criminals. There are a lot of things I'm better off not knowing.”
“Criminals?”
“I don't mean Jimmy!” Like hell you don't. “Generally, always,
all I want to know is that I'm not involved in anything illegal. Beyond that, sometimes the less information I have, the better.”
“If you were thinking like that, you were thinking there was something bad to know.”
Phil said nothing, spiraling down.
“If you never asked him”—this sarcastically, a tone he'd never heard from Kevin before—“how could you know you weren't involved in anything illegal?”
“My job . . .” Phil drank, a stall while he tried to find a way to regain altitude. “Your father asked me to look after you and your mother while he was gone.”
“I still—”
“Your father was my responsibility, Kev.”
Kevin's answer was what he'd been taught, but with a new, unsure note. “You did everything you could. Mom always said.”
Okay, Kevin. It's been nice knowing you. “I let him—I encouraged him—to plead to something I was sure he didn't do.”
Phil watched that hit Kevin like arctic air. Then he said: “I don't think he shot Jack Molloy. I never did.”
“If my dad—then who do you think did?”
It wasn't really a question, just an automatic reaction. Like a blink to clear your eyes when you're not sure what you're seeing. Phil let it go, waited for the next one.
“No one else was there,” Kevin said. “Just them. Jack Molloy and my dad.”
“I think someone else was.”
Kevin stared, and drank, and stared, and said, “Uncle Jimmy? You think Uncle Jimmy was there? You think Jimmy did it?”
No answer from Phil.
“Oh, fuck you, Uncle Phil! Fuck you, that's nuts!”
“It was his money.”
“Or someone else's. You just said.”
“Or someone else's. But it came through Jimmy. Why? If he didn't know something?”
“Something like what?”
“If he didn't do it, he knew who did.”
“My dad did it. By accident. Uncle Jimmy was my dad's best friend!”
“Everyone says that.”
“You don't believe it?”
S. J. Rozan Page 28
