CHAPTER 42
DID YOU SEE his face, boyo?" said Liam Byrne, peering into the car after Kyle had sped from the meeting to pick him up. "It was like someone had taken hold of his heart and squeezed the squirmy little frog until it leaped. Jumping Jehosaphat, I don't remember whenever I've had so much fun."
"Neither do I," said Kyle, both astonished and delighted that it was true. "It was freaking bold."
"Indeed it was, boyo. Truly it was."
"Get in," said Kyle, and when his father did, they sat there, side by side, not moving for a moment, thinking, both of them, about the appearance of Liam Byrne's ghostly apparition in the corner of Sorrentino's mysteriously darkened office during negotiations over the file. And then, in that car, starting with restrained, almost amazed, chuckles and ending with belly-jostling guffaws, they laughed together, father and son.
"Did he buy it all the way?" said Liam when they had caught again their breaths and Kyle started driving. "Was he as scared as he looked?"
"I think so," said Kyle. "Calling him a 'marinated piece of malfeasance' from the grave and promising to 'crush his skull like a dung beetle' seemed to do it."
"It was more the tone than the words," said Liam. "I put the ringing tone of righteous retribution in my voice."
"It even scared me, and I knew what was going on," said Kyle. And then, in imitation of Tiny Tony's deathly rasp, he said, " 'Lamb? Burnt lamb?' "
And the words set off another round of laughter. Before the appearance of Liam Byrne's ghost, there had been a strange phone call with abysmal reception, as if the call had come from some nether region. "What the hell?" had said Sorrentino. "Lamb? Burnt lamb? Who the hell is talking about burnt lamb? This ain't no Greek restaurant." It had taken every ounce of his self-control for Kyle not to burst out laughing right there in the office.
"But did he keep threatening you?" said Liam after the second bout of laughter had subsided. "Did he insist on still getting the file?"
"No," said Kyle. "Not after. He looked up at that painting of his first wife, let a shiver roll through him, and told me to get the hell out of there."
"Ah, Eleanor." In his mock ghost voice, Liam said, " Should I summon Eleanor to convince you? She's here. She says your new wife is a bigger whore than the last one' That was the final touch that put it over, I believe."
"How did you think to bring her in?"
"It was the painting. When he lit his lighter and backed away from my ghost, I saw it in the glow of the flame. I knew Eleanor. No one in life had ever frightened that scoundrel more. It's good to know that some things survive the scythe. So you're off the hook?"
"It appears I am. Thanks."
"Ah, think nothing of it, boyo. What else could a father do? But we put it over together. You and me, father and son. And we still have that Truscott in our crosshairs. It's a grand night for the Byrnes, yes it is. We need commemorate the event with a celebration worthy of the achievement. Pull over there."
"Where?"
"There. Right there. The state store. It still seems to be open. Pull over, and I'll grab us some libations, and we'll toast to the budding partnership of Byrne & Son."
Kyle sat in the car, suffused with an exuberant joy. He did feel good, great, free. Part of it was getting out from under the thumb of Tiny Tony Sorrentino, but it was more than just that, far more. These last two nights and a day with his father, first coming through the fire, and then the altercation outside Kat's place, and now this supernatural trick played on the bookie bastard who had beat the hell out of him a few days before, all of it had been the realization of the secret dream of his life. His father was back, and it wasn't working out horribly, it was working out well—hell, it was working out great. He almost liked the old guy, and the old guy almost liked him, and they actually seemed like a pretty good team. What could be better? He had a father again.
Yes, a celebration was in order. His father would come out with a bright bottle of champagne. They'd go back to their motel room and fill a couple of glasses with the bubbly. They'd make a toast to their successes in the past twenty-four hours, to their blinding boldness. And as they sipped and celebrated, they'd talk to each other about all the hours of each other's lives they'd missed and all the hours together still to come. Kyle's eyes grew unaccountably misty as he thought about it.
When Liam Byrne danced out of the state store, there was a gleam in his eye and a large paper bag in his hand. He smiled his broadest smile yet and winked as he stood in the headlights of the car and pulled out a gallon of something, its amber color swallowing the light.
And later . . .
"It is what I miss so much about the law," said Liam Byrne, as he paced around the motel room, waving his arm in emphasis, the cheap scotch sloshing wildly in his water glass. The rumpled bedspread had a brown and red checkerboard pattern that failed to hide the stains. The place smelled of ammonia and piss. Liam Byrne was walking around in his socks, and there was no champagne.
"The drama of it all, the oratory," said Liam Byrne. "To be armed only with your words and your wits, but all the while keeping the audience rapt as you push it to do your will. That's what it is to be a lawyer. And that's what we did tonight, boyo. It was an audience of one, true, but we had him believing in the impossible, and he did as we bade. It was my one great talent, to be a trial lawyer, and I miss it. But you have it in you, all of it. You should find a place for yourself in the law."
"You're kidding me, right?" said Kyle, holding his own glass of scotch as he sat in the chair. Kyle was still on his first, his father had poured three times. Kyle could drink to distraction, but he didn't like the taste of the cheap scotch, and he didn't like drinking in a motel room. There was something about it that gave him the skives. These rooms were made for bad sex and hard, hopeless drinking, and though he preferred the first to the second, he didn't really want any part of either. So mostly he nursed his drink and watched as his father poured from the rapidly emptying bottle.
"I'm serious as the devil," said Kyle's father. "You have it in you."
"I don't want to be a lawyer," said Kyle. "I can't get churned up about other people's money."
"Oh, it's not just money, my boy. Money's only the marker. It's right and wrong, it's passion and anger and love, it's the world with all its dramas playing out in a single confined space: the courtroom. It is a grand profession, a noble profession. Losing the law is my greatest regret about leaving like I did."
"I know how much it meant to you."
"Ah, do I detect a pout in your voice?" Liam shook his head and took a long swallow. His eyes fluttered as he smacked his lips. "I thought we were beyond that."
"It's hard."
"I know, but it's time to move through the resentment to something better." A fist pump, a quick swallow. "Something together."
"Okay," said Kyle. "You're right. Cheers."
"Cheers back to you, boyo. Cheers back to you." And later . . .
"Don't doubt that you were marvelous in there, boyo," said Liam Byrne after a few more drinks. The old man's breathing was heavier now, his anxious gait slowed as he shuffled about the room. "You had that popinjay believing in your evident sincerity all the while you were playing your part in our little joke. It is a talent, yes it is. Don't turn your back on it. The law is a possibility. And if not the law, then something else. You could be an actor. A politician. My God, man, you could even be a mortgage broker."
"You're sending me lower and lower," said Kyle.
"Now, when you meet the senator, you have to play the same kind of role. You can't come right at him, he's far too dangerous. Remember what I said about giving a feint?"
"Yes, I remember," said Kyle. "But I wasn't sure what you meant."
"You have to let him think we're after the commonest thing, the one thing he'll be sure to believe. The one thing men like that think everyone is after."
"Sex?" said Kyle.
"Well, it is always that or money, isn't it? But for this it makes more sen
se to go with money. And lots of it."
"How much?"
"Half a million, I think."
"You're cracked."
"No, it's enough for him to know we're serious, but not too much to get his hands on."
"I don't want his money."
Liam looked at his son for a moment, then sat on the stained bedspread right across from Kyle and put his free hand on Kyle's knee.
"I know you don't. We don't, I mean. It's just a feint, remember. But he'll be sure to believe it, and that's the point. What other motive could he hope to find other than sheer venality? We have to let him think he can buy the file and buy your silence. It's the way to keep him interested, the way to keep his violence at bay. And then, when he comes to make the payment, that's when we have him."
"How?"
"With a wire."
"You're really cracked."
"We need more than your word about what he tells you. With a wire we can hoist the mealymouthed fish on his own petard. I'll tape it onto your chest myself. He's got more crimes to cover up now than what he perpetrated upon poor Colleen O'Malley. There's what he did to Laszlo, too. And your mother's house, don't forget that. When he hands over the money, he'll admit it—that kind always does—and we'll record it all. And then we'll turn everything over to the police. It's the only way. And only you can do it."
"I don't know, Dad."
"Oh, boyo, don't underestimate yourself." He took a drink, patted Kyle's knee, struggled a bit to stand again, lurched to the left as he tried to catch his balance. "You told me how you pushed that Malcolm into arranging the meeting. I saw what you did to Sorrentino. There is no limit to what you can achieve, if only you believe in yourself. Believe in yourself, boyo. You're a Byrne, never forget it."
"I never do," said Kyle, taking a sip of his whiskey.
"Good boy," said Liam as he moved to refill his glass. "So how about a toast? To a successful partnership and one burned senator. More for you, boyo?"
"I'm good."
"Yes, I know you are." He poured. "To the partnership of Byrne & Son."
"Here, here," said Kyle. And later . . .
"It's quite a town, San Bernardino," said Liam. He had grown weary enough from the sound of his own voice to find respite atop the checkerboard bedcover, his head propped on a pile of pillows, his legs straight out, the tips of his socks flopping over his toes. His voice was soft with reminiscence, and his drink, still in his hand, rested upon his belt buckle. "Nice, friendly, sunny. I've lived a fine life there after I was forced to flee. And yes, it's been hit hard by the real-estate slump, but that only means it's ripe for easy picking. Have you ever thought of coming out to California?"
"I guess everybody does," said Kyle.
"You ought to, boyo. The sun. The girls. The girls lying in the sun. It's a land of opportunity. Especially now. Why, there are banks so laden with bad loans they are practically giving away houses just to get the losses off their books. A bit of money, a bit of shrewdness, the ability to close a sale, that's all it would take for a partnership to make a fortune."
"I don't know much about real estate."
"But I do, boyo. I do. After this you could come out, take a vacation, look around. And if the place captures your fancy, maybe we could go into business together for real. Byrne & Son. You know, my father was in real estate. Tenements and the like. He came over from the old country and made a roaring success of himself. Not such an easy thing. A hard man he was, and many was the time I was on the wrong end of his belt. But I was his boyo, his only one. He tried to bring me into the business, I opted for the law instead. But I understand him now in ways I never did before. The human desire for a legacy. There is nothing I'd like better than to work with you, side by side, to build our empire."
"That's nice, Dad."
"So you'll come on out?"
"I'll think about it."
"Byrne & Son. Our signs will be all over that town, like a plague, striking fear in every timid heart playing at the real-estate game.
Byrne & Son."
"Sounds good."
"That it does, boyo. That it does." And still later . . .
As Liam Byrne lay sleeping noisily on the bed, the garbage disposal cycling on erratically, Kyle stepped out of the room and stood in front of the door, leaning on the railing that overlooked the parking lot. The traffic on the highway was intermittent, the sky was gray, the cement under his feet was stained with all manner of foul fluid. A car pulled into the lot, and a mismatched couple fell out, laughing as they collapsed on each other. Kyle watched as they struggled to their feet and made their way, in fits and starts, to their door, the thin old man staggering, the heavy young woman holding him up, a brown paper bag clutched in her hand.
Just as the night was being burned away by the encroaching dawn, Kyle felt the exuberant joy he had experienced earlier in the evening being burned away, too. Maybe he was just tired, or maybe deeper truths were roosting in his psyche. There was something his father had said in his nightlong soliloquy that had stayed with him. To be armed only with your words and your wits, but all the while keeping the audience rapt as you push it to do your will. That's what it is to be a lawyer. And tonight, Kyle knew, he was the audience.
But his father need not have bothered with the shimmering oratory. Earlier Kyle had decided to trust his father, and the wild success with Sorrentino hadn't done anything to change his mind. He would trust him tonight and tomorrow and again; he would give himself wholeheartedly over to the relationship. Byrne & Son.
He was getting a sense of where this partnership might lead. To motels much like this one, with different names, perhaps, and in different states, but with the same bedsheets, the same drinking glasses for the same cheap scotch, the same drunken neighbors with their strident attempts to rut. To other bold schemes devised by his father to grab opportunity by the horns and wrestle it to the ground so that Byrne & Son could have its way with it. To a life where his role was laid out for him and the decisions were made for him and his ambitions set for him by the father he had decided to trust.
Even as the sun peeked over the desolate New Jersey landscape with a terrible brightness, Kyle Byrne peered into his future with eyes as wide as Speed Racer's. He saw it all unfold, a life determined by the schemes and fancies of the old man sleeping now his dreamless, drunken sleep. And he reached for it, greedily, like a man dying of thirst reaching for a bottle of malt liquor.
CHAPTER 43
BOBBY HATED BLOOD.
Not the spilling of it, that he had learned he liked fine. It was the stains that it left. The whole right sleeve of his shirt was spattered with it. He had gone a bit too far, maybe, in learning what he needed to learn. He was sure she would think so. But this was no longer the sober and careful Robert Spangler running her errands. This was Bobby Spangler, the new man, born of fire, and for Bobby Spangler too far was barely far enough.
"Bobby dear, we have a problem."
"You, maybe. I'm doing just fine."
"Be nice."
"I'm done being nice."
"I like it when you talk fresh. It means there's still a spine buried in all that mush. There was a young man in Laszlo's firm named Malcolm. In exchange for keeping an eye on the old goat, I promised him a job with the senator. And I always deliver on my promises."
"Not always."
"Don't be bitter, it's unbecoming. You haven't held up your end of the bargain the way I had hoped. But there is still time. Now, this Malcolm received his new job as promised. Quite a step up for the young man. But since he started, he hasn't been taking my calls."
"Perfectly understandable. He doesn't need you anymore."
"It is simply rude, Bobby. And I don't tolerate rudeness, of any form. I have it on solid information that this young man had some sort of conference with our Kyle Byrne. But now Malcolm is avoiding me. I can't get in touch with him, which means I haven't been able to learn what the conference was about."
"It's obvious, isn't it? It
means the kid found the file, or at least is pretending to have found the file. He wants to trade it for money. He's trying to set up a meeting to lay out his terms."
"But where, Bobby? Where?"
"Ask Francis."
"No, dear, no need to trouble him with such trifling matters. I want you to ask Malcolm."
"He might not like the question."
"I don't care what he likes, as long as he gives an answer."
It was an assignment to his taste. Bobby Spangler had waited outside the senator's office until this Malcolm left for the day. The cleaners and then home and then out for a run along a secluded path in Wissahickon Park. A perfect place for Bobby to ask his questions. And he had gotten his answers, too. Quickly, actually. Malcolm caved at the first sight of the blade. That should have been satisfactory, but Bobby was rarely satisfied these days.
So now he stood over the kitchen sink, in his white Jockey shorts and T-shirt, trying to scrub out the blood. But no matter how much he rubbed the detergent into the cloth, filling the sink with bubbles, the dark blotches wouldn't disappear. Gouts of blood staining his shirt for all eternity. And his soul, too. Which he didn't mind so much. There was no turning back from what he had become. But the stains on his shirt were a different matter entirely. It was European cut and almost new. And it would be Kyle Byrne who paid.
Byrne was meeting the senator at a dive in Queens Village at four o'clock. When Bobby had told her the location and time, she had given him orders not to interfere. All she wanted to know was when the senator went into the bar and when he left. The rest she preferred to take care of on her own. She was pushing him aside. But these days he cared little for her preferences. He had given Kyle Byrne his best and heartfelt advice, and Byrne had shown him only the back of his hand. Go to hell, Mr. O'Malley, the boy had said. And, in his way, Bobby had. And now he'd take the Byrne boy with him.
After the near miss at the house, Bobby decided this was no time for the subtlety of his .38 automatic. His aim wasn't what it once was. So he had bought himself a Remington 870 Express HD twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun from the Wal-Mart with a tube-type magazine and a dozen boxes of high-velocity loads.
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