Until You

by Sandra Marton

  It had damn near killed him, watching his son go wrong. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, such a fuck-up. In and out of trouble, then the army and a failed marriage to some la-de-da bitch, and even after the boy had finally come to his senses and gotten himself a law degree—and not at City College, either, oh no, that wasn't good enough—even after he had the degree, what had he done with it?

  "Not a thing," John O'Neil said aloud, "not one damn thing!"

  Was Conor an attorney, making a good living at insurance like the Murphy boy or raking in money doing accident claims, like the Donelli kid? Hell, no. Conor still hadn't grown up. He was running around playing spy games for some fancy government agency...

  What the hell?

  The tea sloshed over the dm of the cup and onto his fingers.

  Was that Conor, coming up the block?

  It couldn't be. They saw each other two, three times a year, plenty for the both of them, talked on the phone from time to time...

  By God, it was Conor, come to pay his old man a visit.

  It was a long time since he'd seen his son at a distance. He was tall, was Conor. Good-looking, too, like his mother, and he walked as if he owned the world.

  John O'Neil felt an unaccustomed warmth rise within his chest.

  Who was that, coming down the steps of the next building? Annie Genovese, that old gossip. She said something to Conor, who paused and stopped at the bottom of the stoop.

  John's gaze flickered over Conor again and his expression soured.

  Annie Genovese was always boasting about her sons, all three of 'em. The doctor. The accountant. The college professor.

  What did he have to boast about? Not his son, the junior G-man, dressed like a bum in dungarees, leather jacket and a pair of boots.

  Boots?

  "Mother of God," John O'Neil said, and he drew back from the window, folded his arms, and waited.

  * * *

  "It's lovely to see you, Conor," Mrs. Genovese said. "It's been a long time."

  Conor smiled. "Good to see you again, too, Mrs. Genovese."

  "So," she said, "what are you doing with yourself these days?"

  Ah, he knew this game. It was called, Can You Top This? And he never could, because it would have been rude as hell to have said, Listen, Mrs. Genovese, if your sons are happy, living their lives in their safe little ruts, that's okay with me but I need more than that. I always did.

  "Oh, this and that," he said pleasantly.

  "That's nice." Annie Genovese's plump chest seemed to expand. "I'll be sure and tell my boys I saw you, Conor."

  "You do that."

  "Joey's teaching at Cornell. I suppose you've heard of it?"

  Conor smiled. "I think so," he said. "Well, it's been nice talking with you—"

  "Danny's opening his own business, did your father tell you?"

  "No, no, he didn't."

  "You know how it is. Why should a CPA work for anybody else?"

  "Right," Conor said. "Well, you take care, Mrs.—"

  "And Frank's a partner in a practice up on Pelham Parkway. Of course, he could have gone anywhere, bein' he's such a wonderful doctor."

  "Optometrist," Conor said politely.

  Mrs. Genovese flushed. "It's the same thing."

  "Sure. You tell your boys I said hello, will you?"

  "Certainly," Mrs. Genovese said, and looked coldly away.

  Amazing. He'd managed to silence the old biddy. Conor whistled softly as he headed up the steps of the next building, the one where he'd lived until he turned eighteen.

  Some things never changed.

  Mrs. Genovese, for example, with her incessant boasting.

  Her boys, too. He grinned as he pushed open the door and stepped inside the vestibule of the six-story walk-up. He'd bet his last dollar that Joey was still a nice guy, happier talking Shakespeare than baseball, that Danny could still add up ten numbers in his head before you could blink, and that Frank was still called, by those who knew him and detested him, A Four-Eyed Little Fuck.

  The street hadn't changed much, either. In his time, it had been mostly Irish and Italian; now, it was mostly Puerto Rican but the Irish and the Italians were still hanging in. It made for an interesting mix, typically New York, though he suspected his father didn't think so.

  His father.

  Conor stared at the brass panel on the vestibule wall. There were twenty-five buttons on it, one for each apartment and one for the super, all neatly labeled. You had to ring to be buzzed past the locked inner door but his father didn't even know he was coming. He hadn't phoned to tell him. That would have made it seem too much like a real visit and he hadn't visited the old man in, what, maybe two years.

  The vestibule door swung open. A couple of kids came out, carrying bats and gloves. Conor scooted inside before the door could close and started up the stairs.

  They spoke on the telephone, he and his father, every couple of months or so. And last winter—or was it last fall?—they'd met for supper at a cop bar in the forties, the kind of place where everybody except the waitresses carried a shield and a gun. His father had come as close to having a good time as Conor had ever seen him, though it had had nothing to do with him. It had been being back among men who were still on the job that had made the old man smile.

  Conor hadn't been to the apartment in a long time. His father never invited him and he had no wish to drop by. There was nothing here, not a memory worth keeping or a feeling worth cherishing. There were only old hurts and old angers, and the knowledge that they'd never go away.

  He reached the fourth floor landing. His father's health was good but a man his age would surely feel this climb. Well, that was the old man's problem, not his. He'd mentioned it, the last time he'd come by, and gotten his head bitten off for his trouble. He'd mentioned, as well, that most of the people his father had known had moved away.

  "Maybe you ought to look for another apartment, Dad," he'd said.

  John O'Neil had fixed him with a look Conor knew from his childhood and said that this apartment and this street suited him just fine.

  "Despite what you may think," he'd snapped, "I'm not ready for a rocking chair at some old folks' home."

  Conor had started to say that he hadn't been thinking of that at all, he'd only meant that just because a person had lived in one place most of his life didn't mean he had to stay in that place forever. And then he'd realized that for somebody like John O'Neil, it meant exactly that.

  Change was too difficult. It made for too many uncertainties. His father would stay until either he or the building gave out, and Conor's money was on the building.

  It was a tired old tenement, the sort that you found everywhere in the city, and over the past few years it had lost most of its middle-class pretensions. The stairway walls had been dabbed with graffiti, not anywhere near the amount you'd find in one of the city's slums but enough to make it clear that the residents were fighting a battle they'd probably end up losing. There was even some graffiti on the apartment doors, though there was none on the one marked 4E. Had his father cleaned it off, or were the spray-can artistes afraid to screw around with him?

  Conor smiled, knew what the answer had to be, and jabbed the doorbell.

  To his surprise, the door opened almost immediately. His father was always cautious. City people were, by habit. Cops were, by nature.

  "Well, don't stand there," the older man said sharply. "Come in."

  Conor stepped inside the narrow entry hall and the door swung shut after him.

  "Dad, you know, you shouldn't open the door without asking—"

  "Of course, I know. You think I'm senile? I saw you, coming up the block."

  Conor looked past his father into the living room. It was caught in a time warp, exactly the same as it had been when he was growing up, the orange sofa, the matching club chair, the brown shag rug with a clear plastic runner covering the area you walked on to get to the other rooms. But the high-backed chair that was his father's, the on
e that had stood before the TV for as long as Conor could remember, had been moved closer to the window. The TV had been moved, too.

  His father saw him looking.

  "I like to be able to see out," he said. "Keeps 'em on their toes, down in the street, knowing there's somebody that don't take any crap watchin' em."

  Conor nodded. Had there been a whisper of defensiveness in his father's voice? John O'Neil was still tall and unstooped, with that same look of whipcord strength he'd always possessed, but his hair had gone completely white and there was a prominence to the bones in his face, as if his skin had become too tight.

  "It's good to see you again, Dad."

  "You should have called before you came by." John looked at his watch. "I have an appointment in a little over an hour."

  Conor smiled. There was nothing like a warm greeting to make a man feel welcome.

  "I won't be long," he said, deciding to return tit for tat. "Something came up and I want to check it out with you."

  His father's brows lifted. "With me?"

  "Yeah. If you've got a minute, that is."

  John nodded, turned and marched into the kitchen. Conor followed. His father was filling the kettle with water. Tea, Conor thought, repressing a shudder. God, he hated the stuff, had hated it ever since he could remember, but it didn't matter. His father didn't keep coffee in the house. It wasn't good for you, he said, something about the caffeine, and there'd been no convincing him there was just as much caffeine in tea, nor even in getting him to give over a bit of kitchen space to a percolator and a can of coffee, as Conor had once foolishly suggested.

  Rules were rules, in this house, and John O'Neil made them all.

  "Sit down."

  Conor pulled a chair out from the red Formica table, force of habit making him choose the one where he'd eaten three times a day until he'd turned eighteen. His father dumped tea bags into two thick china mugs, plunked both down on the table, then settled himself across from Conor.

  "So," he said, "what is it that's brought you here?"

  "How've you been, Dad?"

  "I have good days and bad." His father looked him over. "I see you've gained some weight."

  "No, I don't think—"

  "Have to watch that, once you get past thirty."

  "Yeah, well—"

  "What kind of jacket is that? Some fancy new style?"

  Conor glanced down at himself. He was wearing his leather jacket, which was about as stylish as his well-worn jeans.

  "No," he said, "it's not any kind of style. It's just a flight jacket. A bomber jacket, I think they used to be called."

  John O'Neil took a noisy sip of tea.

  "In my time, a man went to work, he put on a suit and a tie."

  Dammit, here we go!

  "Listen, Dad, I know you said you've got an appointment, so why don't I tell you—"

  "Of course, I keep forgetting. Yours isn't that sort of job. You don't report to an office each morning, sit down behind a desk and get ready to face the day."

  "Dad—"

  "But then, you aren't practicing the law, even though you've the right to do so. I've never understood how you could do it, ignore your true profession and dabble in such nonsense instead."

  Conor clenched his jaw. Sidestepping this topic was like trying to sidestep a charging elephant. It was useless, even to try.

  "We've talked about this," he said with deliberate calm, "and you know that's not true. I don't dabble in nonsense. I work for the federal government. And one of the reasons I qualified for this job was because I've got a law degree."

  "Edgar Murphy's boy. Kevin, his name is. You remember him? He took the Bar before you, of course, went straight into college from high school, the way you should have done instead of running off and enlisting."

  "Dad," Conor said, "I didn't come here to—"

  "Kevin's just been made a full partner in a firm specializes in insurance claims."

  "That's nice."

  "Bought himself a fine house in Glen Cove."

  "Yeah, terrific. Dad, listen—"

  "You're letting everybody move ahead of you."

  Conor could feel his patience stretching to the breaking point. "Look," he said, "I didn't come here to argue."

  "I'm not arguing, I'm merely stating facts. You're not a kid anymore. It's time you got a real job."

  "Dammit, I have a real job."

  "You play cloak-and-dagger games with a group of little boys who don't want to grow up."

  "Jesus Christ—"

  "And watch your mouth!"

  Conor slammed his fist on the table, shoved his chair back and stalked into the living room. What in hell had he been thinking of, coming here? He and his father had never managed five minutes without an argument in their lives; why would he have thought today would be different? As far as the old man was concerned, he was still a kid to be ordered around.

  To ask the man for help was crazy.

  Yes, but what choice did he have? If there was even a chance the old man could tell him something about Vincent Moratelli, it was worth eating all the humble pie he could dish out.

  Conor ran his hands through his hair, squared his shoulders and returned to the kitchen. His father was still sitting at the table, stony-faced.

  "I'm sorry if my language offended you," Conor said stiffly.

  "You're a grown man," his father said, just as stiffly. "I've no right to censor your speech but this is my home and I expect you—"

  "—to adhere to your rules." Growing wings and flying would have been easier than mustering up a smile, but Conor managed to produce one. "Yes, sir. I remember."

  "Rules are the basis of a civilized society, Conor. I tried to teach you that."

  "That's one of the reasons I'm here today, because someone's breaking those rules." Go for it, O'Neil, even if it hurts. "And I'm hoping you can help me stop him." He paused. "I'm on an assignment, Dad. An important one."

  "My son, James Bond," John O'Neil said, and snorted.

  Conor started to speak, then thought better of it. He sat down instead and folded his hands on the table.

  "I'm trying to get information on somebody. A man named Moratelli."

  "Yes?" his father said, politely.

  "My sources haven't been able to come up with anything."

  "Wonderful. My tax dollar at work."

  "I thought you might have heard of him," Conor said, refusing to be baited.

  "Why? Do I look as if I have more resources than your pals in Washington?"

  "Moratelli grew up in the Seventh."

  "So?"

  Was he going to have to beg?

  "So," Conor said, fighting to keep his tone even, "I figured maybe you knew him."

  John O'Neil took a drink of tea.

  "Moratelli... I can't say that the name rings any bells."

  "It's important," Conor said carefully.

  "Well, I'm sure it is, if you had to come to me."

  Conor studied his father's stern face for a moment. Then he got to his feet, walked to the window and sat down on the sill.

  "I met a woman during my current assignment. She's become very special to me."

  "A mistake. A man should keep a professional distance."

  "I agree. And I tried to keep it that way, but it didn't work."

  "So?"

  "So, I've reason to believe that this man's going to try and hurt her."

  His father looked at him. "Stop him, then."

  Conor's smile was mirthless. "I've thought about it. I'd love to kill the bastard. But it isn't that simple. I'm convinced he's just the muscle in this deal."

  "You don't know who he's working for?"

  "No. And until I do, the woman would still be at risk."

  His father nodded. "That's probably true."

  "There are other ramifications, too. My assignment involves people in sensitive positions."

  "Politicians," his father said, with a smirk.

  "Believe me, I don't th
ink much more of them than you do, but—"

  "But, you've learned to kiss ass."

  Conor stared at his father. Then he kicked back his chair and marched out of the kitchen.

  "Conor?"

  Conor strode to the front door and yanked it open.

  "Conor! You come back here!"

  He spun around, white-faced with anger. His father was hard on his heels, his face flushed.

  "Don't you dare walk out on me, boy."

  "I'm not a boy. And I don't take orders from you."

  "Conor, you shut that door and sit down."

  "What for? So you can insult me some more? Listen here, old man—"

  "Who are you calling an old man?"

  "I took your bullying for years, but I don't have to take it anymore."

  "I'm your father!"

  "I'm sorry I bothered you. I'm even sorrier I was fool enough to think you'd help me."

  John O'Neil watched his son turn away. To hell with the boy, he thought. Who needs him?

  He reached out, started to slap the door closed—and caught a glimpse of himself in the entry mirror.

  His face was flushed, the bones angular. His hair was white and thin. He'd been in his prime the first time he'd driven his son from this house, wanting only the best for this child born so late in his life. You'll drive him away with your rules and your pride, Kathleen had said when Conor was small, but he was a cop, he'd seen what happened when people laughed at the law. And then, to make matters worse, the boy had said he wanted to become a cop, too, waste his fine mind and quick wit in a useless fight against the slime of the city.

  John O'Neil looked deep into the mirror and saw the ghosts of all the years wasted and gone. He flung the door wide and stepped into the hall.

  "Conor," he bellowed.

  Halfway down the steps, Conor paused, his hand on the bannister, and looked up.

  "Nobody knows the Seventh like I do. I've still got friends there who'll be glad to answer some questions for me." John cleared his throat. "To tell you the truth, Conor, you'll be doing me a favor, handing me something to do. I'm as bored with watching that street outside as I am with watching the tube."