by S. J. Rozan
September 11, 1979
It's Jimmy and Markie, Tom and Jack, on a hot autumn night. Sitting in sawdust, lounging against skeletal walls made from spaced lengths of two-by-four, they sip beer from six-packs scattered at their feet and watch the moon.
No one'll ever see this again, says Tom, gazing through the strips of rafter, the naked wooden lines overhead.
Markie pops a top, wants to know, What are you talking about?
Tomorrow, the next day, says Tom, they'll be putting the roof on. That spot you're sitting on, Markie, man, no one'll ever see the moon from right there again.
Unless the house burns down, laughs Markie. Like if Jimmy's asleep on the truck or something. Then you can see the moon from here.
House burns down, that spot's gone, too, says Tom. Nope, no more moons from here. He lifts his beer can to the moon, to say goodbye.
Jack snorts. This's gonna be the bedroom. Some just-married guy moves in here, you can bet he'll be seeing plenty of moons.
No one answers.
It was Jack's idea to come out here tonight. Everyone else agreed, shrugging, saying, Sure. It's not so often they hang together anymore, the four of them. Tom and Vicky have a kid now, Michael, and Vicky's pregnant again, due in March. Markie's got the job and his family. Jimmy's working a fireman's tours, and anyway there's this strange thing between him and Jack. And a strange thing, too, between Jack and Tom, different from when they were kids, when Tom knew what to say to his brother, when he knew what would work to calm Jack down.
So when Jack says, Let's get some beer, go out to Coleman Road, they all say, Yeah, sounds good. Since they were kids, this was a thing they did, hang out on the construction sites in the neighborhood. It makes them theirs. Jimmy sees it this way: you can't stop people from changing your world. There are too many people, and you never know what they're planning until it's too late. But what you can do, you can make the changes part of you. You can take changes inside you as though you're big and they're small. Instead of letting the changes be something that makes you choke, you can breathe them in.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
He doesn't say this to the others, and he's not sure they have the same reasons why they want to come out to the half-built houses and drink beer (instead of chasing each other around and throwing dirt bombs, that's what hanging out meant when they were kids). Sometimes—always, back then, but now just sometimes—the girls come with them; but mostly, like tonight, as though they'd talked to each other about it (they never have), they don't tell the girls where they're headed. Just, Me and the guys, we're going to have a couple beers.
Even Marian. Jimmy thinks she'd get it; at least, she'd get why he does it. But Marian doesn't hang out with Jack or Tom anymore. She never tells Jimmy not to, she never tells him what to do about anything unless he asks her what she thinks, and the funny thing is, he knows she still likes Tom, everyone does. And Jack, he always made Marian laugh, and Jimmy knows she misses Jack, misses laughing like that. But she doesn't hang out with them anymore.
Tonight it was Jack's idea, but he's been in a lousy mood the whole night. Markie seems a little weird, too, Jimmy can't put his finger on it. Jumpy maybe, and pretending like he's not.
That thing Markie was going to tell Jack about, the thing Mike the Bear asked Jimmy to help him out with that afternoon in Flanagan's, Markie says he told him.
What did he say? Jimmy asked Markie this last weekend, the two of them hammering asphalt shingles back onto the roof of the O'Neills' porch. Old man O'Neill, he can't do this stuff for himself anymore, and Jimmy and Markie don't have much else to do on a Saturday afternoon.
Bullshit, says Markie.
He said Bullshit?
Yeah.
What does he mean, bullshit? He doesn't think it's true?
Uh-uh. Markie leans way over for the bucket of nails that's by Jimmy. He slips, grabs, but gets nothing. He's about to slide, he's headed right for the edge of the roof, but Jimmy's got his foot braced against the tree that leans on the porch, and he grabs Markie, pulls him, and then Markie sticks his foot out against the tree, too.
Jesus Christ, man. Jimmy breathes, waits for his heart to stop kicking his chest. Jesus Christ. You come over here, let me do that part, says Jimmy. Markie grins as he and Jimmy crawl over each other on the roof, so Markie's near the tree.
Jimmy grabs a handful of nails on the way, drops them in his shirt pocket so he doesn't have to lean over for the bucket. He sticks four in his mouth for the first shingle on that side, takes them out one by one, and hammers them in. He waits till he's done before he says, You're telling me Jack doesn't buy it? He doesn't believe it, that the cops are closing in?
I didn't know what the hell else to say, says Markie. I told him. I said man, they're coming to roll you up, Jack, man, you gotta cool it, you gotta be Mr. Clean. He wanted to know where I got it. I said I heard it around. He said, Bullshit. He said, Stuff like that, if it's true, you don't hear it around.
Hmmm. Jimmy's got nails in his mouth again, so he just grunts, pushes hard on a shingle that's supposed to slip under the next one but it doesn't want to go where it belongs. When he finally gets it in and hammered down, he says, Could be he's right about that.
Well, what the hell, where did you hear it? That's what you told me, you heard it around.
Yeah, well, says Jimmy. He isn't sure he wants to say to Markie, Mike the Bear told me, me and him had a drink at Flanagan's and he asked me for help. That seems wrong, Jimmy telling Big Mike's secret: that he'd come up against something he couldn't take care of on his own. Jimmy's thinking what to say when Sally calls from down in the yard, do they want a Coke or something?
We're almost done, shouts Jimmy.
Markie says, Yeah, Jimmy, man, can you give me a hand with this one? Jimmy pulls himself over to where Markie is, and they wrestle the last couple of shingles together.
Now they're sitting, all four of them, on rough plywood sheets in a spill of moonlight under the outline of a roof that'll be getting its own shingles soon. Jack's drinking more than everyone else, and he's talking louder when he talks, but mostly he's quiet.
Just to be saying something, because usually he likes quiet, but this is a kind he doesn't, Jimmy says, I heard they're putting up a subdivision over on Fitzgerald, too, soon. Condos, that's what I heard.
Tom nods, like he knows Jimmy's right, but Jack says, Bullshit. He says, I'm tired of people hearing shit, it's all bullshit. Markie looks real quick at Jack, and then away, but Jack is watching Markie. People hear shit, says Jack. People tell other people. Fucks everyone up, it's all a pile of crap.
Tom says, Fuck, Jack, why don't you yell a little more, I don't think you woke up those people across the street yet.
Jimmy peers into the dark. A faraway streetlight shows where across the street is, where the finished houses are, with people in them. Not so easy to wake those people up from here, he thinks, we might as well be off in the woods. But he doesn't say it, because it would be okay with him if Jack stopped yelling.
Listen, you guys, says Tom. It's too hot out here, let's go get a nightcap at the Bird before last call.
He stands and brushes off his jeans. Jimmy puts his beer can down, but Markie and Jack aren't moving.
People hear shit, Jack says, it's because someone else told them.
Tom says, What the hell's your problem tonight?
Tom's glaring down at Jack.
My problem? And now Jack jumps up, too, faster than Jimmy thought he could, as much as he had to drink. My problem is this asshole is telling me bullshit. He's trying to scare me, how about that shit? Puny Markie Keegan's trying to scare the crap out of Jack Molloy.
Jack laughs, but not like something's funny, says, What the fuck, Markie? You think you can scare me because of some made-up crap? You think that?
It's what I heard, Markie says, spreading his hands, and at the same time Tom says, What are you talking about?
You cocksucker
, says Jack, I swear to God, Markie, you piss me off, who told you to feed me that bullshit?
Markie starts, No one told me.
But he can't finish because Jack's yelling: Fuck, Markie, fuck! Who're you working for?
Working for? Markie repeats the words like he's amazed Jack said them, like when they were kids and Jack said something so dirty the rest of them wouldn't dare even try it; except Markie, Markie always used to try. He says, Hey, Jack.
What bullshit? Tom says in a low voice, each word crammed with dynamite. Jack swings around to stare at Tom. Jimmy thinks for a second about standing up like they are; instead he inches a little closer across the plywood to where Markie's sitting.
Jack says, You want to know what bullshit?
Jack's glaring at Tom, swaying a little to keep his balance. Like he's on a ship, thinks Jimmy. Or like the wind's blowing only where he is.
You want to know what bullshit? Okay, says Jack, I'll tell you. This asshole—he points at Markie—he's been telling me the cops have all this bullshit. Operation Jack or some damn shit, files on me and evidence up their buttholes and if I don't lay off they'll throw me in the fucking can. That's what bullshit.
Tom looks at Markie.
Markie says, It's what I heard.
Where? says Tom, like he doesn't quite get something.
Just, says Markie, just around.
Balls, spits Jack.
Just around? Tom asks Markie. You just heard this?
Markie nods.
Guys? Jimmy says. I heard it, too.
Jack goes wild.
Oh, fuck! Oh, shut the fuck up, Superman! Who the hell's gonna tell shit like this to you? To either of you? Squeaky clean motherfuckers like you? This shit was true, you'd be the last guys in hell to hear it.
But here's the punch line, Jack says, with his hands opening and closing. He takes a step closer to Markie. Markie's looking up. Jack's between him and the moon. The joke about this bullshit, says Jack, it's crap. It's lies. It's not fucking true.
Tom steps up, too, so he won't be behind Jack. He says, How do you know?
Fuck you, little brother. You think you're the only Molloy with cops in his pocket?
Jack's growling now, like a dog warning you to back off. Like King, when they were all kids. When the dog was trapped and couldn't get away.
Tom tries: Jack—
I pay good money to find out shit like this! Jack yells. Markie tells me this shit, I ask my guys, What about it? They say it's news to them. They check around, come back, and say it's bullshit from ass to tits. So what I want to know, Markie, what I fucking want to know is what fucking motherfucker told you to tell me this shit?
I—
Because it fucked me up, Markie.
Jack's voice is suddenly quiet, and as hot as the night is, Jimmy goes ice cold.
It was my time, Markie, Jack says in that soft voice. Dad was ready. Did you know that? he asks Tom.
Tom shakes his head.
Atlanta, next month, Jack says. I was on my way, I was out of here. And now, Jack says, in a whisper, and Jimmy hears it like a crackling flame, like a fire in the walls, you can't see it, but it's devouring everything where it hides. And now he says I'm too hot. He says, if I made so much noise the NYPD is coming after me, even with all the guys I bought, then I'm too hot for Atlanta.
Tom speaks now, but the words he says, he says them like he doesn't trust them. Did you tell Dad? That your guys say it's crap?
Of course I fucking told him! He says where he heard it, it's not crap.
Tom tries again. So you'll cool off, he tells Jack. A couple of months—
NO! shouts Jack. No, that's not what he said! What he said, he doesn't know, he doesn't know if there's going to be any kind of place there for me. For a guy like me. He said he wasn't sure anyway, but I wanted it so much, he figured what the hell, he'd send me. But this shit changed his mind. He said I better plan on staying here. A guy like me.
Jack's looking at the three of them. His shoulders drop. Not yelling now, almost sad, like he's asking them for something, Jack says: You guys. You have what you wanted. Why can't I?
He asks them again, harder: Why can't I?
Jimmy wants to answer Jack's question. He wants to say something to Jack, to help. Marian would know how to talk to Jack, like always when they were kids. Jimmy wishes he'd said to Marian, Come on with us, he wishes Marian were here. He wishes they all were: Marian, and Vicky and Sally. Like it was back then, if you got mad at somebody, you could turn away and hang with somebody else. If the girls were here, Marian would make a joke with Jack, or Vicky would roll her eyes to say to Jack, Oh, please, or Sally would smile at Jack and Jack would do anything, like any of them always would, for Sally.
But the girls aren't here, so Jimmy thinks, what can he do for Jack, what can he say? But like when you're at a call and you can't see or smell anything, everything's dark and quiet and you're not sure what you're supposed to do and then with no warning the fire from the walls explodes in a deadly roar, like that, Jack explodes.
So don't hand me that heard-it-around shit! he howls at Markie. Tell me who it was!
Even in just the light from the moon and the faraway streetlight, Jack's face is red and burning, Jimmy can see it.
It was Spano, wasn't it? Jack yells. You're fucking working for that wop asshole, and he wants to cut me down! Eddie, right? He doesn't give a rat's ass about Tom or Dad, but what I got Eddie wants! That's right, right, Markie? You're lying for that fucking wop?
No, says Markie, Jack, that's stupid.
Stupid? Who's fucking stupid? You're fucking stupid, Markie! You and that fucking wop Eddie!
Jack, says Tom, what are you talking about? Why would it be Eddie?
Who the fuck else? Who's gonna do shit like this to me? Shit! This didn't happen, I'm outta here, Eddie could have it all, good fucking riddance! But he couldn't wait! And what the fuck, Markie, you had to help him? Why'd you do this to me, Markie? Why?
Jimmy says, Jack. Jack, listen.
Oh fuck! Oh fuck, Superman! SHUT THE FUCK UP! screams Jack, and there's a gun in his hand.
Tom says, right away: Jack. Put it down.
This is Tom, the old Tom, he knows everything about you, he's only telling you to do what you want to do anyway, and everyone always does it.
Jack, Tom says again, but Jack doesn't even look at him. Jack, this is fucked up, man, put that thing down.
Jimmy hears something in Tom's voice he never heard before. Jimmy flashes back: a warehouse fire last month, four alarms. A roof collapse takes a guy from a ladder company with it. His brothers on radios, searching frantically; the guy at first responding, but sounding so exhausted; then apologizing; I'm sorry, guys. I can't. Going silent. Jimmy's there when they bring the body up.
Jack, don't, says Tom again, in that guy's voice.
Tom, Jack says, hard and so cold, Little brother, I should've stopped listening to you years ago.
Jack takes a swaying step toward Markie, looks at him. Say it, he screams at Markie. Say it was Eddie! You're sucking that wop motherfucker's dick, and I want to hear you say it!
Markie opens his mouth, maybe he's going to say it, maybe he'd say whatever Jack wants him to, but nothing comes out.
Jack, says Tom.
Jimmy, too, he says, Jack, and he starts to stand.
Fucker! screams Jack, and the gun screams, too, the loudest bang Jimmy's ever heard, the brightest flash he's ever seen. Splinters fly out of the wood above Markie's head. Jimmy dives for Markie, pushes him down flat. Tom grabs Jack's arm, but Jack flings him off. They both stumble. Jack's the one who's stinking drunk, but it's Tom who can't stay on his feet. He thuds onto the plywood, a sawdust cloud flying up around him.
Jack points the gun again. Jimmy's covering Markie, so Jack shoots at Jimmy. The bullet slams into the wood an inch from Jimmy's face. The third shot, Jimmy hears it and thinks he's dead, dead for sure, but he doesn't feel anything. He twists around, looks up
at Jack. Jack is standing over him, and Jimmy waits for him to shoot again, but Jack just says, Fuck. He says, Oh, you fucker.
Then he falls.
Jimmy turns, looks for Tom. Tom's on his belly, covered in sawdust, right arm straight out, and there's a gun in his hand.
It's like some freezing wind came and blasted them all, changed them to ice or to frozen stones and it's been centuries now, forever, and still no one can move.
That's how it feels, but Jimmy knows it can't be true. The echoes of Tom's shot are still fading as he scrambles across the plywood to where Jack's sprawled. He checks for a pulse in Jack's neck, they taught him that in paramedic class, but he doesn't have to do it. He already knows. The dark spot on the front of Jack's shirt is small, but the blood under him is spreading so fast, the sawdust can't soak it up.
Jack, says Tom, whispering. Jack.
Tom, still flat on his belly, stares at his hand, his own hand with his own gun in it, his eyes wild like he's seeing a monster he never knew was there on the end of his arm. Very gently, he puts the gun down on a bed of sawdust, like now that it's quiet he doesn't want to make it mad again. He lurches to his knees and crawls over to where Jack is, leans close to Jack. I'm sorry, he says. Oh, Jesus, Jack, I'm sorry, man, come on.
Jimmy takes hold of Tom's arm, pulls him back. Don't, Jimmy says. Tom, man, there's nothing you can do.
Tom looks at Jimmy like Jimmy's speaking Chinese.
I have to, Tom whispers. I'm supposed to do something.
You can't.
When he gets like that. I'm supposed to do something. Get him to stop. I'm supposed to. Jack? Hey, Jack, hey, man—
Tom, says Jimmy. Tom, he's gone.
Tom looks at Jimmy like he still doesn't understand a word. Markie gets up, moving like he's asleep. He crouches down with them, all three of them next to Jack. Jack's gun is lying in the sawdust, too, like Tom's, two coiled serpents, resting now like they just fought a battle.
Something happens Jimmy's never seen before: Tom starts to cry.
After a while, it's not very long, Tom pulls away from Jimmy, from where Jimmy's been holding him tight. Jesus, Tom says. Shit.
He would've killed us, says Jimmy. Me and Markie. You, too, maybe. Jimmy's shirt is damp on his shoulder, from Tom's crying, and he can't stop shivering.
