Bosstown

by Adam Abramowitz

  “Can I see it? I mean, I’m sure it’s, like, good but—”

  “Ray didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?” The girl’s grip on the money is tight, her knuckles white except where the blood’s streaked across her fingers.

  “I don’t carry the shit. It’s money first and then I come back with it. Fucking Ray. He didn’t tell you that? I’m outta here.”

  “You don’t have it on you?” She grabs at my sleeve.

  “It’s too risky. You want it or not?”

  “Is it close?”

  I give her a reassuring smile that tugs my stitches and brings a cloudy tear to my eye. My father always claimed I was a lousy liar—which is to say, unlike him—that I possessed an assortment of tells he could easily decipher. Just what those particular tells were, he never said, preferring to let me puzzle it out on my own, as he did most things. But I imagine it has something to do with the eyes, those windows to a cliché, and right now mine are swimming and, if not unreadable, at the very least smudged.

  The girl peels off sixteen fifty-dollar bills, and I fold the money and stick it in my bag as she leads me back down the hall. The man in the bedroom curses loudly as something shatters on the floor, a woman yelps theatrically as her Hollywood dream slips away, while another failed thespian at least gets her line right and says, “On my face, baby, on my face,” followed by more of the music reaching a crescendo. I look at the girl in the slip. Blood stains the edge of the fabric. The only thing blushing is her nose.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I tell her, and slip out past the carnage.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Those,” I say, tapping the glass case, directing the salesman’s attention toward a pair of silver-framed orange-tinted Oakley Iridium sunglasses. I know I don’t look like money, but the salesman turns a key and slides the glass door on his side. Before I can ask how much they cost, I’m serenaded on the joys associated with owning a pair of Oakley sunglasses. I slip them on and look in the mirror.

  “State-of-the-art styling, urbanized materials redefining eyewear today as we know it,” the salesman says.

  The world is one big tangerine. The glasses fit just fine and cover most of the stitches and bruising around my eye. They also, I have to admit, considerably up my cool quotient. “I’ll take them.”

  They’re damned expensive. I pay with six crisp fifty-dollar bills; to hell with Boston Edison and my student loans.

  “You did what?” Martha’s mouth hangs slack, a phone cradled between shoulder and ear, a bag of Cracker Jack open on her lap.

  “Chew and swallow,” I tell her.

  “Dude, I love it when they chew and swallow,” Damien croaks from the couch, his bag propped behind his head. “Well, less chew and more swallow.” He looks hungover but peaceful, not exactly a poster boy of industry.

  “Go back to sleep,” I tell him.

  “I can’t. The phones keep waking me up.”

  “You wouldn’t hear them if you were out there working, douchebag. No, not you,” Martha says into the receiver. “I’m soo sorry!” Martha shoots Damien the finger, but he’s too busy curling into a ball to notice.

  Our cozy bomb shelter of an office comprises two rooms, which you have to duck into after descending three stairs from the alleyway and dodging the severed pipes, potentially lethal to vital bodily organs, sticking out from various points in the walls and low ceiling. As a safety precaution, we covered the ends with foam rubber and spray painted them in Day-Glo colors, but every now and then, especially when we’re tired or stoned, we still manage to impale ourselves.

  There’s a set of battered gym lockers beside the stairs, a bike stand attached to a cement block with a red Fuji frame awaiting repairs, built-in shelves covered with cannibalized bike parts. The walls are plastered with overlapping stickers and posters of naked women and other things that go fast.

  The sunken second room is largely Martha’s domain, a large desk running the width of the far wall, covered with paperwork in an order known only to Martha—touch at your own risk—and the couch where Damien now resides, reeking of alcohol. Strings of multicolored Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. There aren’t any windows, so we usually keep the door open for air and whatever natural light we can squeeze from the shadow-draped alley. Martha doesn’t mind the dearth of vitamin D. She works on her pale the way other people work on their tans.

  I settle in and help answer phones until the rush passes. With Damien out of commission and Gus AWOL, only Owen is working, forcing Martha to siphon the bulk of our runs to Flash Couriers, our main competitor. Even though Martha gets a commission for every job, regardless of whom it goes to, she’s not happy about it. The risk Martha, and by extension, all of us run is that if a client develops a relationship with one of the Flash messengers, they’re likely to change services altogether. Once you lose an account, it’s practically impossible to get it back, and it’s no secret the Flash messengers project a more corporate-minded image and actively recruit our customers, so none of our clan can really afford to lose any business. Only you wouldn’t know it looking at us.

  In between calls, I crush scrap paper and pepper Damien snoring into the folds of his bag, a sloppy crown beginning to form around his head. Martha hangs up the final call and glares at me. I hadn’t noticed before, but she’s been holding the same card Detective Wells gave me, angrily flicking it between her fingers.

  “Hey, you never said you liked my shades.” I opt for diversionary tactics.

  “They’re fantastic.” Martha reaches into the bag of Cracker Jack she’d set aside during the rush. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “You don’t like them,” I say.

  “You really don’t care, do you?” A wet sheen slides over Martha’s eyes. The Oakleys definitely not at issue anymore.

  “About what?” I say.

  “That Gus is dealing coke and God only knows what else through this office. Through me.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that,” Martha apes, bitterly. “And you lost a delivery yesterday, which might end up costing you your business. That the police have come around asking questions, and you just don’t seem to give a damn. What the hell is wrong with you, Zesty?”

  “I never said I don’t give a damn.” I slip the sunglasses back on, mindful of my father’s poker-face rebuke, my telltale eyes.

  “You don’t have to. You stole, what, like a thousand dollars from some ninny and then just shrug it off like it’s no big thing. Hey, I’ll pretend I’m Gus and take this girl’s money while her nose runs on the carpet. I mean, why not, right? What’s to lose? Isn’t that what you said?”

  I don’t really have an answer, so I don’t say anything for a change.

  “And if that shit list isn’t bad enough, I just farmed out half the jobs to Flash while you’re sitting around answering phones, which is my job, not yours, and Damien here sleeps another one off, and nobody knows where Gus is.” Martha takes a deep breath, two solitary drops racing down her cheek.

  “Don’t touch me!” She swats my hand as I reach for her cheek, her eyes bright with anger, her index finger leveled toward my face. “And you … you almost died yesterday, and you act like it never happened. Like you’re indestructible, and here you are, still no helmet, back in the saddle and not even to goddamn work, but to fuck around in Gus’s place.”

  “What do you want me to do, Martha?”

  “I don’t know! I want you to care.”

  “About what?”

  “About yourself. About the shit you do so cavalierly, the choices you make. All this.” Martha sweeps her arm around the room. “Your business and friends. Doesn’t it bother you, even a little bit, that Gus is dealing blow, putting everyone here at risk? Did you think of that, Zesty?”

  “No,” I admit. “I didn’t. Because don’t you think it’d be just a little hypocritical for me to come down on Gus when I’m running weed all over town? You ever consider that?”

  “As a matter
of fact I have, and they’re entirely separate issues.”

  “How’s that?” I ask, not in the least enjoying playing devil’s advocate against what I consider my most gentle of vices.

  “Because it’s Dani, and we know where her stuff comes from and how they live up there in organic Hippyville. And don’t even get me started on the politics of it.”

  “Wow,” I say. “When did you join NORML?” But in fact, I’ve never even seen Martha smoke a joint, and I thank God for that. I’d hate to see the damage she’d do with a bad case of the munchies.

  “Is Gus your friend?”

  “Sure.” I hesitate, Martha’s sudden switch in gears throwing me, which I guess says it all. “I don’t know, Martha. According to you, I’m the only fool in town who didn’t know Gus was bi, so what does that tell you? And you know what? If this is confession time, truth is maybe I’m a little jealous of Gus and his band and all that gets you in this town. I’m tired of this fucking place. It’s starting to grind on me.”

  “You’re jealous of Gus?” For some reason, Martha finds this hard to believe.

  “Martha, look at me. I’m practically homeless, broke, morally ambivalent, and a borderline pothead. What’s not to love?”

  “Zesty—”

  “Martha, you’re asking me to think through something I just don’t generally put a frame around.” I throw up my hands. “Gus is a musician and a good one. He gets a lot out of that, and if he’s lucky, he’ll go someplace with it. I don’t begrudge him for it, but yeah, I guess I’m a little envious. Shit, I’m even envious of Damien, and look at him—he’s a fucking mess. But we both know he can fix a bike like there’s no tomorrow. He can lean on that. What am I good at?”

  “You know how to talk to women.” Martha comes out of her seat to kiss me on the forehead.

  “Sweet. Like that never gets me into any trouble.”

  “And let’s not forget you’re Boston’s fastest messenger, with the hardware to prove it.” She points to my trophies gathering dust amidst cannibalized bike parts.

  “There’s that,” I concede. “But I’m not feeling so speedy at the moment.”

  “No? Feel like working anyway?”

  “Do I really have a choice?” I frown at the sight of Damien curled on the couch.

  “Not if you want to stay in business. But first go see your dad. We’ll manage a few more hours without you. And before I forget, call Sam. He’s been trying to reach you. Something about music in your head. Care to explain?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “He said it was important.”

  “I got it.”

  “Yeah, well, then one more thing. Grab Damien’s Motorola and a helmet on the way out. Your glasses are sweet, but your new hair’s a hot fucking mess. Honestly, I can’t look at it anymore. And when you get back out there, Zesty, find Gus before the police do. You hear me? I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Beacon Street into Kenmore Square is flat and wide, and I burst into sunshine zipping past the behemoth BU Bookstore, working up an easy sweat, the pain draining from my pores as I click into lower gears, the amalgam buzz of the city distilled to the steady rhythm of my breath and the hiss of my tires on hot asphalt. The stolen Trek’s starting to grow on me too. It’s not as sleek or light as my Fat Chance, but the frame is rock-steady and easy to handle as I let my legs do their work, hopping a few curbs here and there to get back into sync, building momentum as I cross into Brookline, my postcrash static dialing in again, the search-and-destroy frequency driving a nail behind my eyes, filling my ears with hornets. I try outracing the signal until I recognize the thunder roll of Public Enemy dropping in off the dial, making it work for me now.

  Bring da noise! Bring da pain!

  White dashes blur beneath my wheels. Milky red roses bloom through gauze bandages.

  Sid, a long-standing crew chief in Zero’s moving company, crushes me in a hug before I take two steps through the back door into my father’s home. In his early fifties, Sid is generally considered old for a mover but runs at a higher RPM than guys half his age and, despite his towering build, has a nimble grace that serves him well on the winding staircases and narrow doorways of many a Boston residence.

  Sid is patient with my father, gentle even, probably because of his experience dealing with his own father, whom he suspects died of Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s-related dementia, though it hadn’t been diagnosed as such back then. “He was off his nut” is how Sid once explained his father to me. “But it’s hard to say when it really started ’cause my old man was always a little off his nut, the crazy bastard. The fruit don’t fall far from the tree, right?”

  “Least you have a built-in excuse,” I told him.

  “You should talk.”

  In what must seem like another lifetime, Sid drove a bus for the MBTA, but came undone after a case of commuter suicide on an early morning route. When the mandatory postcrash test turned up traces of cocaine, Sid was convicted of manslaughter and served a two-year bid in MCI–Cedar Junction at Walpole, where his oldest son, Pete, now resides. Therefore, Sid generally prefers to talk about women, which is what he launches into as soon as he releases me from his grip.

  “Zesty! How’s it hangin’?”

  “I’m good, Sid.”

  “Not as good as me, brotha!” Sid ignores my cuts and stitches; he’s heard enough crash-test-dummy stories to last a lifetime. “You shoulda seen this broad I was with the other night. I’m tellin’ you, I would have made love to this woman if she was stone dead she was so beautiful.” Sid pauses to contemplate what he just uttered. “Actually, if that there was allowed.… Whattayacallit?”

  “Necrophilia?” I say.

  “Ya. There’d be a lot of dead women out there in the bushes calling my name!”

  “Sid, that’s fucked up.”

  “Ya, well don’t tell Petey I said that. What’s up? You’re early.”

  “I don’t think I can stay today, but I wanted to look in on him. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s all right, but it ain’t one of his best days. I mean he had breakfast this morning with his father, your grandfather, that would be. You ever meet your grandfather, Z?”

  “No, he died before I was born. Good conversation?”

  “One-sided to my ears, but your dad had a lot to say to him.”

  “He eat anything? I mean my dad.”

  “What, because I’d fuck dead women in the bushes, I’m crazy? I know who you mean, Z. Yeah, he ate a little. Toast. An egg. He’s okay, except…”

  “What is it, Sid?”

  “I dunno. Zero’s been acting all cagey lately, got us on high alert on account of these crank calls we been getting? And then this lady visited, and your dad’s been all agitated ever since.”

  “Lady from the nursing service?”

  “Nah. Van Gogh said she had a face looked like it was melted wax and stitched with barbed wire. Nice, right? Anybody you know?”

  “Not offhand. My dad see her?”

  “Ya. Let her in and told Capizo to make himself scarce. Only he’s been talkin’ wackadoodle since then.”

  “My dad answer any of these calls, Sid?”

  “Nah. You know the house phone’s off-limits to him.” A precaution we took to protect him from bottom-feeding scammers who target the elderly, fishing for personal and financial information. “Your pop’s just doing his thing, watching one of his movies.”

  “Rounders again?” I can hear the TV playing in the living room, Matt Damon saying, Listen, here’s the thing. If you can’t spot the sucker in the first half hour at the table, then you are the sucker. There are no reruns in the Alzheimer’s mind—the film’s poker scenes probably ignite a neural party somewhere deep in his brain, his gambler’s instinct still alive in there.

  “Snatcherally. You know how your dad fuckin’ loves Matt Damon.”

  “The poker son he never had.”

  “You can’t always co
me up aces, right? Listen, Z, I was thinking, I know a guy patched into Damon, like, his agent’s agent? Maybe we can get him up here, play a few hands with the old man, splash a little blood in the water. Whattaya say?”

  “It’s a nice thought, Sid.”

  “Take some of that Hollywood money, right?”

  “You know it.” If he still recognizes the cards.

  “Ya, well, listen, after one of those calls I back-dialed the number? Only whoever answered wasn’t saying nothin’. I called a couple times, and there was always different sounds in the background, so like, I’m assuming it’s a cell phone, the prick on the move?”

  “You say anything to him?”

  “Ya. I told him if he keeps calling, I’ll rip his fuckin’ head off and piss down his neck.”

  “What if you don’t have to go?” I say.

  “Shit, Zesty, at my age I always gotta go.”

  I follow Sid into the living room, where the shades are drawn. My father’s reliance on daylight has been eclipsed by a permanent fog that’s rendered his circadian rhythms obsolete. Scattered on the table next to him are a few of the many framed photos spread throughout the house, each one affixed with a piece of tape on which Zero and I have painstakingly written small reminders: This is you and Mom getting married on the lush outfield grass at Fenway Park. This is you as a child. These are your two sons, Zero and Zesty. These are your parents. This is you as a young man.

  I’m not sure the tape makes a difference anymore. His Alzheimer’s at this point produces a daily theater of the absurd, my father conjuring up children he never had, historical and minor characters appearing for walk-on roles and one-liners, ghostly extras whom he directs and addresses and never mentions again.

  “Hey, Mr. Meyers, look who’s here to see you—your boy, Zesty.”

  My father doesn’t respond, and I sit beside him on the couch, listen to his labored breathing, hard and raspy as if he’s just climbed a flight of stairs. He lets me take his hands and hold them, his palms cornstarch smooth, his nails longer than they should be.