Jennifer looks at her watch. I’m the appointment that’s supposed to end soon. She says, “I will. Where is your father now?”
“He died when I was five.”
“I’m sorry.” She looks at me, puts me under glass, and says, “Tell me what narcolepsy is like.”
“I can’t tell you. I’m in it all the time. No basis for comparison. I might as well ask you what not having narcolepsy is like. I certainly don’t remember what I felt like before I had it, before the accident.” I stop. She doesn’t say anything. She was supposed to. Some dance partner she is. I can’t follow if she won’t lead.
I say, “Do you remember what you felt like eight years ago?”
“No. I guess I don’t.”
“Neither do I.” I’m getting mad. I shouldn’t. If I could be rational for a moment, I should appreciate her interest in the state of the narcoleptic me. Very few people share this interest.
“How often do you fall asleep?”
“Depends on the day. Good days, I can make it through with one or two planned naps. Bad days, I’m falling in and out of sleep as often as some people change channels on their TV. And then bad days become bad nights.”
“Is today a good day?”
“I don’t have a lot of good days. I guess that makes me a pessimist. I’d care and try to change if I had the energy.”
“You can’t stop yourself from falling asleep?” Another statement question, one I know everyone thinks but doesn’t have the guts to ask.
“Sometimes I can; if I recognize the feelings, I can try to change what I’m doing and fight it off. Coping strategies are hit-or-miss. Usually I’m so used to getting along with my gas tank needle hovering on empty that I don’t realize I’m about to go out. And then I’m out. Caught in the little sleep.”
“How do you feel right now?”
I say, “Tired. Tired of everything.”
Jennifer puts down her fork and stands up slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement would spook me. I’m a frail bird she doesn’t want to scare away. Or a cornered and wounded animal she’s afraid might attack. She says, “Thanks again for meeting me here, Mr. Genevich. I’m sorry, but I really have to go now.”
I make a move to stand up. She says, “Please, stay, finish your meal. It’s all taken care of. I’ve already put it on my father’s tab.”
“He won’t mind?”
“No. I do it all the time.” She smiles. It’s her first real smile of the evening. It’s okay. I’ve seen worse. She edges away from the table, adjusts her jean jacket and her glasses, and leaves without looking back.
I finish my dinner. How do I feel right now? I feel like I missed something, something important. I always feel that way.
SIXTEEN
I should go straight home and try to find out what, if anything, happened to Brendan Sullivan. But I don’t. I stay and take advantage of the tab. I drink three beers, a couple or three shots of whiskey, and two more coffees. At the bar, the townies are on one side and the trendies on the other, and both groups ignore me, use me as their barrier, their Thirty-eighth Parallel.
All right. It’s time to go. I’m fine, and I’m taking half the shepherd’s pie home with me. It’ll make a good breakfast or midnight snack. There’s no difference for me.
There’s a cabstand down by the Red Line stop, but I’ll try and flag a ride in front of the restaurant. It’s dark, late, and raining: my perpetual state. I pull up my collar, but that only redirects wind and water into my face and inside my shirt.
I raise the hand that isn’t holding a cigarette at a cab, but a black limo cuts it off and pulls into the Amrheins lot, angled, an angry cross-out on a piece of paper, black limo takes the square. Droplets of water on the windshield shine under the streetlamp, making little white holes. Maybe the whiskey shots were overkill.
A rear door opens and the DA thrusts his head out. “I can give you a ride home, Genevich. Jump in.”
I know there’s no such thing as a free ride, but I take the invite anyway. The door closes and I’m inside the limo with the DA. So are my two friends the goons. I’m not surprised, but it’s crowded in here. There are no ashtrays.
I say, “Evening, boys. Have a safe trip up from the Cape?” I blow smoke, smoke and words.
Redhead says, “Hey, retard, remember me?” He’s grinning like a manic comic-strip villain, all teeth and split face, flip-top head, a talking Pez dispenser. Ellen still stuffs my Christmas stockings with Pez dispensers, usually superheroes like Spider-Man and the Hulk.
I say, “I missed you most of all.” The three of them wear matching blue suits, no wrinkles, and the creases are sharp, dangerous. “Hey, you guys gonna be catering somewhere later? Or maybe you’re starting a band. I got a name for you: The Dickheads. Best of luck with that.” My anger feels good.
The DA has his legs crossed and hands folded over his knees. If he was any more relaxed he’d be narcoleptic. He says, “I trust you had a nice dinner with Jennifer.”
Like I told Jennifer, I’m tired of everything. I knew she was lying to me. There was no appointment she had to keep. Her dinner with the sideshow freak was a little job for Daddy. She set me up, put me on a platter. The only thing missing is an apple in my mouth.
All right. I’m through playing the nice guy, the clueless schmuck. I’m nobody’s fall guy. I’m nobody’s cliché. I say, “Nah, the food sucked and she talked too much. I’m glad she lost. The Limey judge was right about her.”
The bald goon punches me in the stomach, one for flinching. It doesn’t hurt. He says, “Watch your mouth.”
“Need to work on that uppercut. Saw it coming from last block,” I say. The cigarette hangs off my bottom lip and I’m not controlling it anymore. Whether it’s sticking around during a tough time or getting ready to abandon ship, I don’t know. “Don’t get me wrong, DA. The free beer was great. It’ll help me sleep tonight.”
Redhead laughs. “We can help you with sleep.” His eyes are popping out of his head, showing too much white. He’s on something serious. I get the sense that if he throws me a punch, I’ll break like a porcelain doll.
The DA furrows his brow. He’s so concerned. He says, “You have an odd way of expressing appreciation, Genevich.”
I’m not nervous. I’m still on my first ball and nowhere near tilting. I should be nervous, though. The momentum of the evening is not in my favor. Must be the beers and booze helping me out.
I say, “I’ll thank you for the ride home if I get there. Unless you’re expecting something more. Sorry, but I don’t put out on a first date.” The interior light is on in the limo but everything is still dark. I think we’re headed toward West Broadway.
The DA says, “You should be expressing appreciation for my patience. It wouldn’t take more than a phone call and a few computer keystrokes to have you locked up. Or worse.” He uncrosses his legs and leans toward me, a spider uncurling itself and readying to sprint down the web.
The goons sitting across from me, they’re in the heel position but twitching. Hackles up. Ready to go.
The DA is bluffing. He’s all talk and no chalk. Otherwise his threatening little scenario would’ve already happened. Nothing is going to happen. They’re going to drop me at my apartment with another tough-guy act and another warning. Warnings. I’m collecting them now like stamps, or butterflies.
Then again, that’s not to say that the DA can’t do what he said. It’d be suicide to assume otherwise. I’m going to try this out: “Sounds like you’re putting me on double-secret probation. What would my dear old dad say about you harassing his son like this? It’s not very Southie of you.”
He squints, eyelids putting on a mighty squeeze. I got to him. Not sure how. Can’t be just the memory of my father, can it? He says, through a mouthful of teeth, “Your dad isn’t around anymore, is he? Hasn’t been around for a long time, not sure if you’re aware.”
“I’m always aware.” I sound stupid. He gives me threats and doom, and I give him a s
elf-help life-affirmation aphorism.
He says, “And don’t tell me what’s Southie, Genevich. You have no idea.”
I hold up my hands. The DA is getting too hot. No telling what his goons might do if he starts to smoke. I say, “If you say so. Still not sure why all the fuss here. I’m not in your way now, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m clean, as in squeaky.”
He smiles. “When has that ever mattered?” His regained polished tone and delivery is a gun pointed in my face. It holds that much potential for damage. I have no chance.
The bald goon says, “Let’s hurt him.”
I say, “Jeez, DA, do your constituents know that you run with this kind of crowd? I’m shocked and more than a little disappointed.”
He doesn’t go for it. He says, “What do you say you just give me the photos, Genevich. The negatives—and don’t look surprised, I know there are negatives—and any copies you might’ve made, digital or otherwise. Give me everything, and that’ll be the end of this and any further unpleasantries.”
“Or what? You’ll call my mommy again?” Things are happening too fast. I add, “You don’t need the photos. I’ve said my mea culpas. They’re not of Jennifer. I told her as much during dinner. She’s out of the picture, so to speak. And she’s fine with it. You should be too.”
The DA and the goons laugh. Apparently I’m funny. He says, “The photos, Genevich. I want them. Now is not soon enough. We can take them by force if necessary. It wouldn’t bother me. The funny part is we could hold your hand and take you home, sit on your couch, and just wait for you to fall asleep.”
I say nothing. His last line robs me of both cool and machismo. Not that I have any.
The DA says, “Tell our driver to turn left onto D Street, and we’ll all just enjoy the ride.” Redhead follows through on the instructions.
Might as well lay it all out right here. “So how is our friend Brendan Sullivan these days?”
The goons laugh. I’ve said something incredibly smart or stupid. Likely both.
Baldy says, “He ain’t doing too good right now.”
Redhead says, “He did answer our questions though, poor guy.”
The DA says, “You don’t even know what you’re saying half the time, do you, Genevich? I suggest you cut the tough-guy PI act, leave the big-boy stuff to us big boys, and give me the photos.”
The limo slows and stops. I look out the tinted window and see a Burger King. We’re at the D Street intersection. The D Street projects are on the other side of the street. The buildings look like gravestones.
Baldy slaps my face. I hang on to the cigarette but things go fuzzy. I might just go out now, but I pull it together.
“The patty-cake shit is getting old, goon.” I fill my lungs with smoke and it stokes a fire in my chest. I exhale a smoke ring that haloes Baldy’s head, and I say, “I buried the photos on Boston Common, under the roots of a sapling. The tree will sprout pictures instead of leaves. Harvest in the fall. Good luck with that.”
Baldy tries to slap me again but I catch him by the wrist and stub out my cigarette on the back of his hand. He yells. I pull him into my knee, right in the balls, and then push him over, into Redhead. The DA does nothing. He barely looks interested.
I try the limo door, expecting it to be locked, but it opens and I spill out onto the wet pavement and the other lane. Just ahead is a double-parked and idling cab. It’s white with some black checkers on the panels. No driver. He must be inside the fast-food joint taking a leak. I look over my shoulder. Redhead crawls out of the limo after me. A gun is in his hand, big as a smokestack.
There’s isn’t much time. I scuttle around the cab and jump into the driver’s seat. The steering wheel is warm and too big. There’re too many places for my hands to go. They don’t know what to do. The instruments in the dashboard are all in Japanese.
A bullet spiderwebs the rear passenger window. The glass bleeds and screams. Didn’t think they’d shoot at me out in the open like this. Must be a mistake, but one that can’t be reversed. A chain of events now set into motion until there’s one conclusion: me with extra holes. I fumble for the automatic transmission shift. Goddamn it, it’s on the steering wheel. It shouldn’t be there. I pull on it but it doesn’t move. I don’t know its secret.
There are loud and fast footsteps on the pavement. Two footsteps become four and multiply rapidly until there’s a whole city of footsteps running at me. Redhead appears at my window. He’s yelling some crazy stuff, doesn’t make any sense. Maybe he’s reading the dashboard labels. The gun barrel snug against the glass doesn’t have any problems communicating its message.
I’m pulling as hard as I can and the gearshift finally gives in to my demands, which weren’t all that unreasonable. I drop the transmission into drive and squeal the wheels. I’m moving forward and I duck, down beneath the dash; there’s another gunshot, this one sending glass snowflakes falling onto my head, and there’s . . .
SEVENTEEN
“We’re here.”
I come to in the back of a cab. I’m still buzzed and my mouth tastes of vomit. I bolt upright like a rake getting stepped on. The Johnny Rotten of headaches lurches and struts around my brain. God save my head.
The cab and me, we’re at the corner of Dorchester and Broadway, idling in front of my office and apartment building. I want to go digging back under, into the brine, find me some real sleep, the kind that makes my body glad it’s there to support me. But I won’t find any in here, and I probably won’t find any upstairs in my apartment.
“Don’t be sleeping on me now,” the cabbie says. His voice is full of fuck you, but he really cares about me. I can tell.
I’m awake now. I have no idea how much of the DA, the limo ride, and the goons happened. My left cheek, where Redhead slapped me, is sore and puffy. Maybe I did escape their limo and jump into this cab and then dreamed the rest. I don’t know.
The cab’s heat is on furnace blast. The muscles in my hands feel week. I open and close shaky fists. They’re empty and tired, like me. The little sleep was and is too hard.
I pull a crumpled bill out of my pocket and throw it at the cabbie. It’s not a good throw. “Keep the change.” Don’t know if it’s enough, and don’t care. Neither does he apparently.
I open a door, leave without a further exchange, and manage to land standing on the curb. The cab leaves. It was white and had black checkers on the panels. It’s late. There aren’t any black limos or red cars on the street. It’s still dark and raining.
I need time to process the evening: what happened, what didn’t happen, what any of it means. I have my keys out, but the front door to my office is open. The door is thick and heavy, probably as old as the brownstone building, and it sways in the wind and rain.
I step inside the front entryway. The stacks of local restaurant menus are all wet and turning to pulp under my feet. This isn’t good. I walk into my office. I don’t need to turn on a light to see that everything is all wrong, but I turn it on anyway. Never did like surprises.
Someone picked up my office and shook it around like Daddy needed a new pair of shoes and rolled snake eyes. And then the shaker took out his frustration with the undesired result on my fucking office.
Flat-screen computer monitor is not quite flat anymore and is on the floor, where my client chair used to be. That chair is huddled in the corner of the room, licking its wounds. It saw everything and is traumatized. It’ll never be the same.
My file cabinet has been stripped of its contents. Its drawers are open, metal tongues saying ah, and the files spread out on the floor. My desk drawers are open and empty too. They didn’t want to feel left out. I step on paper and walk over to my desk. My phone is gone. So is the hard drive and backup flash drive. I don’t see my yellow notepad, the one with the narcoleptic me notes. It could be buried in here somewhere, but I doubt it. Good goddamn mercy. And Christ, the negatives, they’re not in the empty drawers.
I leave the office and walk up
stairs in the dark. It occurs to me that the ransackers could still be here, maybe in my apartment, waiting for me, the ransackee, to come home. I don’t care. I have no weapons and I’m no brawler, but if there really are goons and they’re upstairs, I’ll hit as hard as I can give. And then hit them harder.
My apartment got the same treatment. Door is open. This entry was rougher. The door is splintered by the knob and hangs by one hinge. I knock it off its last thread, put it out of its misery. I turn on the lights. I’m alone, I can tell. The TV is gone and so is my laptop. CD towers, bookcases, pictures, lamps, and everything else flipped, kicked, or stomped over. Into the kitchen, and all those drawers are turned out on the floor. The dish didn’t run away with the spoon.
I can’t face the crime scene waiting for me in the bedroom, so I stumble back to the living room and my couch. I brush off the debris of my life and sit. Cigarette comes out next. Guess I can just use the floor for an ashtray.
I still have the pictures in my coat. I still have my cell phone. I’m going to make one personal call before letting the police know about the sledgehammer tap dance through my building.
I call Jennifer’s number. Yeah, I still have that too. She doesn’t answer. I wasn’t expecting her to. I get her voice mail.
I say, “Hey, thanks for the setup tonight, Jennifer. I hope your dad and his boys had a great time tearing through my place. I knew that was the only reason why you’d eat dinner with me. Tell those guys sorry I didn’t have anything good in the fridge for them, and that they had to leave empty-handed.”
My voice sounds drunker than I thought. I’m crying too. Practically in full blubber mode, but there’s no stopping my message from a bottle.
The Little Sleep Page 8
