Angels of Maradona

by Glen Carter

  “We’re worried about you,” Lou said, using the back of his hand to stifle some kind of intestinal event that made his eyes widen. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

  Jack ignored him, pulled at the corner of his sandwich like he was picking the wings off a dead fly. “How are Maris and the kids?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Lou said, watching Jack fuss with his meal. “I’ll eat what you don’t. So stop picking at it. Maris and the kids are OK.”

  “I’ve decided to take some time,” Jack said as he reluctantly lifted his sandwich and tested it for weight and balance. He took a small bite and was surprised at the taste. In smaller portions the fatty spicy meat would probably have been all right.

  “Time’s good,” Lou said, pausing. A worried look. “How much time?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Jack replied, dropping his sandwich with an audible thud.

  “That might complicate things,” Lou said.

  “Why?”

  Lou stopped talking, pointed his chin past Jack to the reason the floor was shaking. Jack turned and saw Ronny Donnigan stomping towards them, working a bum leg like it was a badge of honour and wiping club-like hands on a stained apron. Jack stood. Donnigan opened his arms and stooped to swallow him in his embrace. “Jesus, Doyle. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Ronny,” Jack said sincerely.

  “Dirty rotten bastards, those Colombians,” Ronny said, releasing him. Sympathy etched a face that looked like raw meat, a marbling of various disfigurements. “Never seen the like.” Vapours of fried onions and garlic hit Jack like a wake. “You give me the word, Jack. Your say so.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said, “but–”

  “I mean it. We’ve already been talking. A dozen of the lads. We go down there, teach them cokeheads about fuckin’ with the Irish.” Ronny looked at Jack hard, a mist over eyes like wet stones. He clasped his hands around Jack’s head, a reminder that before a bullet shattered his knee, Ronny Donnigan performed this exact maneuver with entirely different results as a union enforcer. “You remember Clancy and his cousin?” Ronny looked around, hair like the shavings from a stump of red cedar. He lowered his voice. “Did special stuff for the IRA. Still good at it. You get my meaning?”

  “Thanks, Ronny. I appreciate it.” Jack eased back, breathed. “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Fuck that. Gained ten pounds. Sheilagh’s threatening to leave me and go back to Dublin.” Ronny tilted his head at Lou, who smiled weakly. “You still alive? I told that wop in the kitchen to lay on the fat and you’re still suckin’ in good oxygen.”

  “The stink in this place will kill me before the pastrami,” Lou shot back, popping half a limp pickle into his mouth, smacking his lips smugly. “Good oxygen, my fat ass.”

  Jack knew the affection between the two men stretched back decades. The Irishman and the Jew were sons of knuckle-bruised Teamsters who wound up on opposite banks of the East River, one because of his temper, which was valued as an asset when you were busting limbs, the second because of his magical talent for negotiating his way into and out of almost anything. If souls were strapped of flesh, Jack thought, Ronny Donnigan and Lou Perlman would have been conjoined.

  Ronny looked out through the door where Lou had parked his Mercedes. “Lou Perlman, the fancy agent. Fucking car takes up two parking spots. Goddamn Jew in a Kraut car. Go figure.”

  “It’s called irony,” Lou said, smiling more broadly now. “I-R-O-N–”

  “Don’t get me going, Perlman,” Ronny said shaking a fist. Then to Jack. “Don’t let him go without leaving a big tip, OK?”

  “I won’t, Ronny.”

  “I sent flowers. Get’em?” Ronny asked.

  “Her favourite, Ronny. Thanks.”

  “That’s what they said. Roses and lilies, right?”

  “Roses and lilies.”

  “I remember her, Jack, like it was yesterday. Table number four.” Ronny looked to his right, towards the window, half raised a thick hand to point. “Yuppie salads for both of you, right? The guys in the kitchen wouldn’t know a hot-house tomato if they shit one.”

  “Great salads.” Jack winced, remembering when he’d made good on a promise to bring his new producer to lunch. Kaitlin thought the place charming – retro, she called it. “It’s all original,” Jack had told her.

  “Nice dame, Jack,” Ronny had whispered to him as he and Kaitlin were leaving that day. “You sly bastard.”

  Jack had simply smiled.

  Ronny was now looking at Jack with a worried expression. “I gotta get back to work. You stay in touch, OK?”

  “Sure, Ronny.”

  “And stick with the hot-house tomatos. You’ll live longer.” Ronny tilted his large head at Lou. “Not like this tub.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Lou piped up. “Maybe I’ll order the spinach. Get healthy like you.”

  “A pox on your house, Perlman,” Ronny barked, “and don’t be late for poker next week. I got mortgage payments.”

  Lou rolled his eyes.

  Ronny dropped a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Jack, anything you need you let me know. The boys still remember the coverage you gave them during the walkout.”

  “Thanks, Ronny.”

  “Anything,” he repeated conspiratorially. “I mean that.” Ronny shot a look at Lou. “Thursday night at eight. Don’t forget to bring your wallet. The Giants are playing.”

  “Gotcha,” Lou said with a wink as he watched Ronny turn on his heel and lumber back to the kitchen.

  Jack sat down. “A real lamb.”

  “Play poker with him sometime.”

  The lunch crowd had thinned, the din silenced like a battlefield armistice. A waitress wandered over to inspect their plates, then left again without saying a word, stopping at a nearby table to light a cigarette and to scoop up a handful of change lodged between some dirty glasses.

  They both watched her.

  Lou spoke first. “I’ve gotten a couple calls from Carmichael. He’s still steamed.” Lou’s face became earnest. “I’m getting worried.”

  “Worried about what?”

  “He’s hinting they may not be interested in us anymore.”

  “Us or me?”

  “You.”

  “Just noise,” Jack said. “Carmichael rearing up on his hind legs. Normal bullshit at contract time.”

  “Ordinarily I’d agree. Not this time, Jack. They’re pissed off big time. The O’Rourke fellow’s got lawyers involved now. They’re in a spot and they think you put them there. If it comes to a lawsuit, you become a liability to the network on judgment. Cause you’re still on the payroll.”

  Jack suspected Argus wanted his blood. Not money.

  Perlman attacked his sandwich again, left Jack to taste the warning.

  “Maybe it’s time anyway, Lou,” Jack finally said.

  “Time for what?”

  “Time for a change.”

  “Maybe you still like the bang-bang, Jack. It’s made you famous and fairly well-off, I might add.”

  “You’re a nutcase,” Jack said.

  Lou wiped his mouth again and looked at Jack’s hand. “How’s it doing?”

  “Hand’s fine,” Jack said, flexing his fingers.

  “You got lucky.”

  “Got lucky after getting stupid.”

  “What’s important is you got lucky,” Perlman said, reaching for the second half of his behemoth sandwich.

  “Looks like maybe my luck ran out,” Jack said.

  “Let’s focus on Carmichael.” Lou looked around and then stuffed half of what remained of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing noisily while he talked. “He basically thinks you’re damaged goods now. Maybe even lost your nerve.” Perlman crunched on a pickle, shooting a stream of vinegar and brine across the table. “What should I tell him?”

  “Tell Carmichael I did my job, brought in the stories and the numbers like they wanted, and that I should have been handed the anchor desk w
hen it became abundantly clear Frank Simmons was going to run his network into the ground. Tell Carmichael that, Lou. Tell them they missed their chance.” Jack stopped what he was saying, a look of surrender crossed his face. “Tell Carmichael their senior correspondent who’s been breaking his balls for them for what – ten years now in every shithole on the planet – considers himself a free agent.”

  Perlman stopped chewing. “Hold on a second. No one said they’re not interested. All I said is they’re pissed at you right now. And frankly I can’t blame them. Colombia was your call, Jack. Your decision. No one’s blaming you for Kaitlin–”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “It’s my truth, Jack.” Perlman leaned forward. “You’re my friend. Have been since I got your tape, remember? Market number sixty-two.”

  Lou had seen Jack’s talent immediately in that first brag tape. He didn’t have to shop it around for long. Market thirty-two bit first. Then after a couple of years number nineteen came calling. A couple of years after that, Lou called Jack with New York. “Jackpot. CNS wants someone who likes the road and they really like your style.”

  That was ten years ago. Jack Doyle was now the senior correspondent, able to pick and choose his assignments. Problem was he had a habit of picking the ones that meant at least fifteen hours in an airplane, usually to war zones.

  “You were still hungry then. Still are. But when you made the decision to skip out on New Orleans it was your ass you put on the line. Your ass and Kaitlin’s and everyone else’s – including mine.”

  “Jesus, Lou, I pay you eight percent for this?”

  “Ten percent,” Lou said. “Kids and college to think about. Mandy’s thinking about med school.”

  “Lou, all I’m saying is I’m taking a break,” Jack said. “I need some time.”

  For a moment both men remained silent.

  The waitress kept her distance, like someone not wanting to intrude on a lovers’ quarrel.

  Jack looked forlornly at his food and surrendered the last of his appetite, watched as Lou locked his eyes onto a steaming plate of fries smothered in gravy two tables over. “Carmichael will probably cut me loose.”

  “Let me worry about Carmichael,” Lou said.

  “Tell him I apologize for screwing up his network.”

  “He’ll get over it.” Lou wrapped a meaty hand around a large glass of iced tea, swallowed half its contents. Belched. “So, Ahab, where ya headed?”

  Jack smiled at Lou. “There’s this whale.”

  “Now there’s a story. Maybe a documentary in it.”

  “Big white whale.”

  “Sounds like Jack Doyle’s first Oscar.”

  “No whale stories where I’m headed, Lou,” Jack said. “Just me and Scoundrel and clear sailing from here on in, I hope.”

  “I’m your agent and your friend. I’ll live with whatever you decide about future earnings. Though my kids will never see college. Mandy faints when she sees blood anyway,” Perlman said. “Not to worry. They’ll always have me.”

  “You can hock my Emmys.”

  “Keep’em.”

  “You’re a good man, Lou Perlman.”

  “I’m a shmuck…a fat shmuck.” Lou finally wiped his mouth, and then looked over at Jack’s plate. “And you need to get your shit together.”

  “Thanks for the understanding.”

  “Whatever…heal thyself. You done with that?

  THIRTY-THREE

  Jack locked up the New York apartment and flew back to Boston the next day. Two hours later he was parked in the crushed stone driveway outside his house on Bark Island. He sat in the SUV for ten minutes listening to the clicking and pinging of the cooling engine, thinking about what Lou had said – Kaitlin’s death, his life. Colombia might have been a career killer, the kind of retirement he didn’t want. But what the hell? The game was changing anyway, wasn’t it? More room for people like McCoy who had no brains and less heart. The smooth-faced “B” team, Jack thought, who cost the bean counters plenty less, and who failed to understand that what they did was a calling, not just a career. Jack rubbed at the fatigue on his face and exited his vehicle.

  Three days later he saw Argus O’Rourke at McGonagall’s Rope and Tackle. Kaitlin’s father looked no better. Their eyes locked for a second and it was long enough for Jack to see that Argus was still full of pain and anger. Kaitlin’s father buried his head in a copy of Fisherman’s Monthly while Jack paid at the counter and walked out.

  The next day – four weeks after the bombing in Colombia – Jack compressed his world into gunny sacks and cardboard boxes. “The plants, Tommy…once every couple of days. And if you get a moment, there’s that leak–”

  “I know, bud…I know. The one over the sofa.” Both of Tommy’s thick arms were full and he was using his chin to steady the load. “Got it.”

  “Be careful with that stuff, Tommy,” Jack said. “Charts are expensive.”

  Tommy had heard it a dozen times already and didn’t need to be told again. He had already turned and headed out the door. “Jesus, you’re worse than my mother.”

  “Your mother’s a saint, Tommy,” Jack called out, chuckling to himself. “Don’t you forget it.”

  They’d spent the morning making trips from the house to the dock where Scoundrel bobbed like an impatient child. Jack checked his list, scratched off another half-dozen items and wondered whether he was forgetting something.

  Anything he wasn’t taking was packed or covered. The house was full of ghostly shapes and for a moment he stood very still and tried to conjure the echoes of the past, the sounds of old conversations and laughter that seemed to be trapped beneath white cotton sheets.

  Jack had spent two nights charting the legs of his trip. He planned to ride the Gulf Stream to the Caribbean Sea, loiter through the Dutch Antilles and the Virgin Islands. No schedule. No agenda.

  “Don’t even go there,” he’d said to Lou when his friend suggested a satellite phone would probably be a good idea. “You might want to order in. Check the Red Sox. Cry on my shoulder, who knows?”

  “Funny boy,” Jack told his agent. “I’m incommunicado, Lou.”

  “Take the phone,” Lou demanded. “For safety,” he added like it was an afterthought. “It’ll be there in the morning. The service provider already has you hooked up. Have a good trip.”

  It was nearly all loaded now. Provisions for a month, a hundred pounds of books and CDs that Tommy hoisted on his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, a huge pile of foul-weather gear, about half of which Jack knew he’d never use. Better safe than sorry. Jack carefully loaded the weather vane from his father’s trawler which he hung next to his navigation table.

  That morning Jack visited the cemetery, knelt at her stone and rubbed away a thin coat of dust with the sleeve of his shirt. Told her he was sorry – Jesus, he was so sorry – his guts like a knot of rubber bands.

  Jack looked around that dear saltbox house one more time before he stepped into the sunlight and trudged to the wharf where Tommy had his head down checking a locker that held his safety gear.

  “Looks good,” he said. “Flares are here too.”

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  “Vincent over at the supply store says everything looks clear down to Brig’s Point. After that you’re on your own.”

  “That’s real good, Tommy.”

  “But of course you’ll probably be swept overboard before that… sailing single-handed. You sure you wanna do this, Jack?” Tommy was looking at him now, an amalgam of worry and sadness had crept over his face. “Look what happened to my Uncle Dorm.”

  “You know me better than that,” Jack replied. “Uncle Dorm was unlucky.”

  “Yeah, he was that, and plenty more.” Shanks came up on the wharf and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, thankful for somewhere to put them. “Mulligan said she didn’t want to be here.”

  “Mulligan’s a cry baby.” Jack smiled. “A walking faucet. I saw her last nig
ht.”

  “Yeah…well she said to give you this.” Tommy produced a photograph. The four of them, Kaitlin included, at Frenchman’s Quay the night last year when they all got drunk and like fools went in the water in sight of a sign that said “No swimming, Riptide.” Hamming it up, full of crab meat and beer in front of the driftwood fire, embers floating through the air like fireflies.

  “Thanks,” Jack said, placing the picture in his pocket.

  “Be careful, Jack,” Tommy said after an awkward moment.

  “I know, Tommy. Thanks.” Jack smiled at him and then reached up to touch his shoulder. “Mess tent or not, you earned that medal fair and square. Remember that.”

  “Yeah. Shit happens, Jack, and everyone knows that it always happens to us good people. Doesn’t matter how careful you are. Uncle Dorm was careful.”

  “And drunk.”

  “Yeah. Drunk and unlucky.”

  They both chuckled.

  On Scoundrel’s transom a flag fluttered on wind born a hundred miles out to sea, spawned by the warm saltwater currents and cooler air that had swirled up and down the coast since the beginning of time. The same wind carried his father and grandfather to the Grand Banks off Newfoundland. His grandfather used to say that when he was a boy the cod were so plentiful you could walk on their backs to shore. A lot had changed since then.

  Jack looked up at his saltbox house at the top of the stairs, wondering whether his father ever forgave himself for losing his boat and his crew. He guessed not.

  Doyle said goodbye to Tommy with a back-slapping hug that had lasted a fraction too long for the both of them, and as Jack pulled away from the wharf with Tommy still waving, he felt a sudden wave of melancholy. The boat’s exhaust stood ghost-like on the water’s surface, a blue veil behind which the scene seemed meaningful but suddenly cheerless. Doyle swung Scoundrel’s compass in the other direction.

  The sound of her engine echoed across undulating ridges of spruce and fir which dipped like fingers into the cool black water. Doyle fixed his eyes on a point far out to sea and spun her wheel to widen the distance from shoreline bedrock which buffered Bark Island against a millennia of destructive Atlantic moods. The truth was he couldn’t get away fast enough as he carved his way through the buoys that guided him safely through Ragged Hole Bay and out to sea.