14
BOBBY SCALES parked across the street and stared at the church, gray stone washed white in the flecked and fading light. Inside, the air was heavy and still, like someone was holding his breath and hoping for the best. Bobby walked past a cold row of votive candles and knelt in the last pew. He prayed for three people—a decade of the rosary for each—then made the sign of the cross and sat back. Bobby had a small Bible in his pocket and opened it to a random page. He believed in the power of the unknown—fate, instinct, Jesus, Buddha, karma—he bought it all, thought it wove together into a seamless garment that wrapped you up head to toe and cradle to grave. Some people understood what they wore . . . and who they were. Most never had a clue.
Scratches on stone, footsteps. Bobby watched as Father Lenihan came out of the sacristy and began to light candles behind the altar. The old priest performed the same ritual every afternoon at quarter to five. And never knew about the solemn watchman who sat in the shadows. Bobby waited until the priest had finished and the altar was empty. In a city full of Catholics, no one went to mass anymore. Instead, there was talk of churches being shuttered and sold—the money earmarked to pay off the ones who’d been ruined. Bobby had read all the stories in the Globe. Fifty, sixty, seventy priests. Unlike the rest of Brighton, Bobby wasn’t surprised. Not a fucking bit. What he did wonder about were the ones who’d never touched a kid but were branded pedophiles all the same. Did the collar ever burn their throat? Or was it just part of the gig? Cross to bear and all that? Bobby closed up his Bible and walked to the back of the church where he lit a candle, slipped a twenty in the box, and left.
By the time Father Lenihan welcomed the four people who showed up for five o’clock mass, Bobby was back in his Jeep. He parked in front of Brighton Hardware, where they kept faded pictures of old Little League teams in the front window, including one of Bobby’s team when he was eleven. First baseman and pitcher for the Brighton Yankees. Bobby had never seen the picture, but people told him it was there so he took it on faith. Next to the hardware store was the Palace Spa. A long stretch of a man walked out of the Palace, an old dog shuffling behind. The man had a thick shock of black hair with a white streak that ran parallel to the part in his scalp. Bobby knew the face, a miserable strand of Irishman who laid bricks for a living and did his drinking in the Corrib. He loved to get starched on Bushmills and talk about how America was full of cunts and how fucking wonderful it was back in Galway. Of course, he was a Golden Gloves champion back in the old sod . . . weren’t they all . . . until one day when a kid from Allston knocked out three of his teeth and used the toe of his boot to turn the Irishman’s left eye into jelly. Seamus something or other turned his head away from Bobby as he ducked into a parking lot. Bobby smiled at the eye patch. Golden Gloves, my ass. The fucker owed Bobby fifteen hundred from a Man U soccer match. At least another three K from the week before.
The Irishman drove a pickup with a tricolor plastered across the bumper. He opened the door and booted the dog in the ribs just for the hell of it as he jumped in. Bobby watched from across the street as the pickup rolled out of the lot, then slammed his Jeep into gear and followed.
They climbed out of Brighton Center and navigated up and over a humpbacked street called Mount Vernon. The Irishman pulled down a cramped driveway to a cluster of single-story shacks backed up to a fence and a vacant lot. Bobby came up fast, boxing in the pickup. Irish climbed out with a string of oaths. Bobby hit him with a short left and heavy right. The Irishman had his fists up now on either side of his face. There was a small wedged cut breathing at his temple that was a perfect replica of the thick ring Bobby wore on his finger. The Irishman threw a jab or two, for the old sod no doubt, but there was nothing in them. Bobby cracked him once more with a left, then ran his head into the driver’s-side window. Irish grabbed at a mirror and broke it off. Otherwise, the driveway was quiet.
“Fucking cunt,” the Irishman breathed.
“You owe me money.”
“I paid your man three thousand last week.”
Bobby still held a handful of black hair and pulled the Irishman’s face close. “You think I got time for this shit?”
A head peeked from behind a shade in a house to Bobby’s right. The Irishman smiled, a rope of red saliva linking two gray nuggets of teeth. The patch had slipped, and Bobby could see a piece of scarred and scaled flesh underneath. He drove his thumb into the pink pulp at the corner of the Irishman’s good eye. The pupil bulged in its socket.
“How about I take the other one, Seamus O’Toole, or whatever the fuck your name is?”
The Irishman whimpered back in his throat, but otherwise kept his yap shut. Not easy for that breed of folk, but when you’re already down an eye . . . Bobby spied a nail gun in the back of the pickup and pulled it out, kneeling on the Irishman’s arm and forcing his hand flat on the pavement.
“You ain’t got the stones for it,” the Irishman said in that half-proud, half-scared-shit voice the paddies had perfected over the centuries.
Bobby punched two nails through the back of his hand and watched him scream as he rolled down the driveway. Bobby followed to the gutter and pulled his wallet, thick and green, from a back pocket. He took out five hundred dollars, leaving fifty behind.
The Irishman struggled to his knees, hand held close to his chest, pinkie finger bent at an odd angle and quivering. “Take the whole fucking thing . . .” The rest of the sentence dissolved into curses delivered between frothy bursts of spittle. Bobby walked back up the incline and swung open the door to the pickup. The old dog jumped out and rubbed up against Bobby’s legs, looking for food. Bobby nudged him away and watched as he picked his way across the driveway, past his owner, and down the street. He went about ten yards, pissed on a telephone pole, then retraced his steps and jumped back into the pickup.
“You need to smarten up.”
The dog just looked at him, and Bobby realized what he already knew—some things were just born to get beat the fuck over the head. He slammed the door shut and cranked down the window, just in case the dog came to his senses. Then he walked back down to the Irishman.
“Don’t bet with me again. And if I see you touch that dog, the next nail goes through your fucking eye.”
“Piss off.”
Bobby walked back to his Jeep and backed out of the driveway. The last thing he saw in his rearview mirror was the Irishman flipping him off with his crippled hand and wiping blood off his face with the other. Bobby smiled. His pulse had never risen above sixty.
He drove back down Washington and parked across from the Palace Spa. The owner, a Jew named Max, was behind the counter, selling scratch tickets to a ferret-faced old lady in a red cloth coat with long bags under her eyes.
“Bobby, what’s up?”
“The Herald and a pack of Marlboros,” the lady said. “Soft pack.”
Max had already pulled the smokes from a slot above his head. The old lady shoved across some bills and a pile of coins. Max threw the money in the register without counting it. The lady grabbed her paper from a stack and slammed the door on her way out.
“Orders the same thing three times a week. Two scratch tickets, a Herald, and the cigs. Thirteen dollars and twenty-seven cents, exact change, right down to the penny.” Max pushed his stomach up against the register and screamed at the closed door. “Fucking bitch.”
“Jesus, Max.”
“Sorry, Bobby. It’s the job. The pressure, you know?”
Bobby took a look around. Three aisles jammed with staples such as coffee, tea, bread, cereal. Another aisle with pharmacy items—toothpaste, shaving cream, shampoo, soap, a rack of condoms. A cooler with milk, eggs, butter, and cheese. A couple of lonely-looking potatoes beside a bunch of brown bananas and three dried-up tomatoes. A coffee machine. And, of course, the lottery in all its varied forms. No one did the lottery like Massachusetts. A hundred thousand ways to lose your money on scratch tickets and if that wasn’t enough, there was Keno going off ev
ery twelve minutes. Fucking assholes might as well put slot machines in the statehouse.
“You want a coffee?” Max had the pot in his hand, a ribbon of steam curling out of the top. Bobby nodded. Max poured him one with cream and a half teaspoon of sugar. Then Max poured one for himself, cream and five sugars.
“How’s business?”
“Ragheads opened up down the street.”
“They taking your customers?”
“Fuck, no. You ever go in there?”
“Didn’t even know it existed.”
“Place smells like camel shit.” Max took a sip from his coffee and added two more sugars. “They gotta bring in a fucking goat just to use as an air freshener. You want a doughnut or something?”
“Nah. Is he here?”
Max smiled, revealing a row of teeth stained anywhere from pack-a-day yellow to lung-cancer brown. “What do you think? Been waiting ten minutes.”
Bobby walked toward the back of the store. Finn was stalking back and forth in front of a Keno screen hanging from the ceiling. Yellow balls were tumbling, and numbers were dropping into place.
“Give me an eighty. Give me a fucking eighty.”
A sixty-four popped up, followed by a seven, a twelve, and a forty-three. Finn welcomed each number with its very own expletive. Then the game was done.
“CockSUCKER.” He tore up his ticket and threw it on the floor with the rest of the Keno confetti.
“What are you playing?”
Finn’s head whipped around. “Hey, B. I didn’t see you there. Same four numbers all week. First three come in, but I can’t hit the fucking eighty.”
“Go with a different number.”
“Yeah, then the eighty comes in all day long. Fucking ballbreaker, right?” Finn slipped onto a stool. Bobby sat on a long wooden table that ran the length of one wall and let his legs dangle.
“Was reading an article in SI about Michael Jordan,” Finn said. “Did you know he has a brother?”
Bobby shook his head.
“Dude’s five eight. Imagine that. You’re Michael Jordan’s brother and you’re five fucking eight.”
“You think it bothers him?”
“Sure as shit would bother me.” Finn had a folded Herald in front of him and a white paper bag. Bobby ignored the newspaper and opened the bag. He took out a blueberry muffin and broke off a piece.
“Thanks.”
Finn nodded at the Herald. Bobby sighed and pulled it across. Inside the fold was a stack of twenties.
“Three forty. All paid up.”
“You don’t have to do it this way, Finn.”
“It’s smart.”
“It’s fucking stupid. Who’s watching us? Max?”
“You want to go in the bathroom and count it.”
“Shut up.” Bobby took out the money and stuffed it in his pocket. It had been their ritual for the last five years. Once a week, they’d meet at the Palace. They saw each other every day, but this meeting always took place at the Palace. Finn would bring a blueberry muffin and a Herald. If he owed money (the usual case), he’d stick it in the paper. If Bobby owed him (the unusual case), Finn would wait while Bobby tucked his winnings in the paper. Bat-shit crazy? Sure. But it was Finn.
“You work today?” he said.
Bobby hung drywall most mornings starting around six until two in the afternoon. He didn’t need the cash, not with the book operation and everything, but Bobby liked the physical labor. In fact, it was one of the best things in his life.
“Yeah.” Bobby tossed the remains of his muffin in the trash. “I just saw the Irishman outside. The tall one with the white streak and eye patch.”
“Slattery?”
“Is that his name? What’s he owe us?”
“I don’t know. Four, maybe five K.”
“He said he paid in three thousand last week.”
“He’s a liar. Check with Bridget. She’ll tell you.”
“Fuck it. I just went Wayne Cashman on his ass.”
“So what’s he still owe us?”
“Get what you can out of him. Then tell him to take his business elsewhere. If he gives you any trouble . . .”
“I can handle that prick.”
Bobby considered Finn—jowls and belly balanced on a spindly set of grandpa legs. He could handle the weekend bettors from Newton and Brookline. Scare the crap out of most college kids. That was about it. Bobby still paid him like he was a tough guy just because he did. It gave Finn something to talk about on those nights when the Sox sucked and he was sitting outside Fenway with his buddies trying to move a half-dozen grandstand for something close to face.
“I know you can handle him, Finn, but if he gives you any problems, I want to know. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Fuck you, nothing. What is it?”
Finn hitched his shoulders. Bobby knew he scared people. He was the guy who’d put a bullet in Curtis Jordan. And that bought a lifetime of respect among the locals. Not to mention a healthy dose of piss-pounding fear. All of which Bobby put to good use. “You still drink in the Corrib?” he said.
“Place sucks.”
“What’s the matter?”
“They started putting butter and chives on the baked potato they give you with the steak tips. I like to do that shit myself.”
“You still drink there, Finn?”
“A little bit. Why?”
“Just watch yourself and let me know if they give you any problems.”
“Fine.”
“You wanna grab a beer?”
“Supposed to work the game tonight.”
“All right.” Bobby jumped to his feet.
Finn licked his lips like a nervous spaniel. “Fuck it, I’m already late. You wanna smoke a joint first?”
“When was the last time you seen me smoke a joint?”
“Wanna wait for me?”
Bobby looked his friend up and down. “How you doing with the blow?”
“You know I’m off that shit.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Finn’s eyes were turning to water, his lower lip starting to crumble.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Why you fucking with me today?”
Bobby glanced around, then leaned close. “Cuz if you’re on the blow again, I got no choice but to hurt you. Before you hurt me. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Of course.”
“Come on then.”
They walked to the front of the store. Max was drinking his coffee and reading the paper.
“Where’d you get them?” Bobby said, nodding at a chorus line of roasted hens sitting under a yellow light behind the counter.
“People gettin’ sick of the subs and all that crap. Fucking things are delicious.”
“Delicious, huh?”
“Sold out yesterday. You want one?”
Bobby looked at Finn. “Hungry?”
“Thirsty.”
Bobby pulled out a roll of bills. “Wrap one up.”
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a Market Street dive called Joey’s. The bartender put down two Buds and went back to his perch on the cooler, eyes fixed on a muted TV slotted over the men’s room. Family Feud was on. Bobby tipped his beer so it clinked against Finn’s. Then they sat in the quiet, the only sound Finn cracking bones and tearing hen flesh.
“How’s your mom?” Bobby said.
Finn’s mom lived by herself in a subsidized housing complex off Faneuil Street. Finn visited the old woman every day, and every day she left a twenty-dollar bill for her only son under a cookie jar in the kitchen. Bobby knew about the double sawbuck but never hassled Finn about it. Bobby also made sure the old woman’s rent was paid up and kicked in a little extra so the building manager didn’t fuck with her like they did with some of the old-timers in those places. Finn didn’t know about that, either.
“Doc told her she’s got maybe a ye
ar or two,” Finn said.
“They said that five years ago.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Finn.”
“I don’t.”
Bobby could already hear the cracks in his voice and knew he’d be a fucking basket case when his mom finally went.
“Thanks for asking, B.”
“No big deal.”
“Yeah, it is. No one else really gives a fuck, you know?”
The bartender swung by to see if they needed another. Finn was ready. The bartender set him up and drifted away again.
“I’m gonna be putting something on the C’s this weekend. They got the Knicks at home.” Finn began to run through the different permutations of how he might lose his money. Bobby listened to the drone and stared at himself in a clouded mirror that ran behind the bar. He noticed the sag under his chin. A little puffiness around the eyes.
“So what do you think? Bobby?”
“Yeah?”
“What do you think? About Florida?”
Bobby pulled his eyes off the mirror. He had no idea how they’d gotten from Finn’s basketball bets to the Sunshine State, but there they were. “You wanna go next winter?”
“I know. I say it every year.”
“Yeah, you do. Right here, at this bar, sitting on that stool.”
“This time I got the money. It’s all tucked away and not a penny’s going to the gambling. None of that shit.”
“That’s good, Finn.”
“I know I’m too old to play on the circuit.”
“You can still go down and watch.”
“I’m thinking I can coach.”
“Coach?”
“Sure. You ever seen those New York guineas sitting in the stands at the U.S. Open? All I need is to go down there and find a prospect. I was thinking about a girl. Fifteen, sixteen years old. I’ll teach her the game. How to really hit. Not gonna bang her or nothing like that. Just coach.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“You think so?”
“Why not?”
Finn wiped chicken grease off his fingers with a bar napkin and sucked down half his beer in a long, greedy swallow. “Fuck, yeah. Why not?” The thought seemed to warm him. “You’ll come down and visit?”
Brighton Page 8
