A week at home hadn’t done much but make things worse. My nerves were raw, ends frayed by the time I hit the Boston train. Think I would have walked if Boyle had asked. Wanted out, out of my dad’s house, out of Brooklyn, out of my own skin. Settled for out of Brooklyn.
I’d seen Boyle only once again after our dinner in Sheepshead Bay, back at his office, Griffin, as always, by his side. It was then he handed me my ticket and an envelope fat with cash.
“You mind yourself,” he said. “Rudi’s a tough son of a bitch, but do what he says and you’ll be well served.”
“What’s the money for?”
“Think of it as an advance.”
“An advance?”
“Don’t worry, boyo. You’ll earn every penny.”
Griffin curled his lip at that. Nodded his head slightly in agreement. This was serious. For Griffin this was practically a display of fear. I didn’t give a shit. Thought, bring it on. Bring the fucker on. Went back to Brooklyn, laid in my bedroom for days trying not to think about what I couldn’t stop thinking about. Memory is the curse of humankind. Wondered did dogs or cats torture themselves this way? Christ, hoped not, the poor fuckers. Nicky kept calling. Went drinking with him again, but only for an hour and not at Axel’s. Tried to bring Leeza up once. Saw the look on my puss and segued quickly to another subject. Smart man, my old pal Nick. My dad steered clear. The only time in my life I appreciated his near invisibility. Thanks, pops!
Dreamed a lot during the week. Kept picturing Leeza swinging from the big old oak in front of our house. Could never see her face in the dreams, but I knew it was her. The neighbors didn’t seem to notice or, if they did, they didn’t care. Apparently, as long as it wasn’t that miserable bitch Sophie, any naked woman could hang herself in front of my old house. Wonder what Robert Frost would have made of my neighbors. And yeah, fuckhead, I know who Robert Frost was.
The whole train ride up I occupied myself by thinking of just how O’Connor knew I’d be asked up to Boston. Was he like psychic? Maybe he’d called the Psychic Hotline and they’d seen it in the stars. You’ll meet the woman of your dreams. You’ll have a bright future if you invest in high tech start-ups. And, by the way, that schmuck you’re training will be asked to work in Boston. Somehow doubted that’s the way it went.
O’Connor had a snitch on the inside in Boston. That gave me cold comfort. Meant that someone up there would know who I was, what I was. Didn’t need police training to know that a rat has a peculiar sense of loyalty, loyalty to self. If the rat was willing to flip on a guy who scared Griffin, he wouldn’t think twice about rolling on me to save his own neck. Brooklyn schooled me on that.
Boston, Philadelphia, anywhere: all equals to me. A fat, unshaven bastard with a wind-fucked comb-over met me at the station. Smelled like beer and onions and his jeans rode low enough to reveal the top of his plumber’s crack. Delightful. Said his name was Finney. Guess I believed him. Didn’t offer to shake my hand. Worked for me. Wanted as little personal contact with old Finney as could be managed. Just sitting in the front seat of his 1979 Buick Electra 225 made me want to shower. The vinyl stank worse than the driver and the carpeting, what was left of it, was covered in cigarette filters, beer cans, and porno magazines.
“Watch the hole in the floor,” was the other sentence Finney had uttered.
Oh, didn’t I mention the fucking floor had rusted through and I could see the streets of Boston close up as we went to wherever it was we were going? Well, I thought, it was only up from here. Shows you what I knew.
Rode into a dingy area of crooked streets, wood row houses, and bleak faces. Was like the sun didn’t shine on this part of town. Reminded me of the pictures from my history textbooks of nineteenth century England. The kids on the streets moved like snakes, wary and coiled to strike. Knew the posture well. Thought Nicky might have liked it here, Nicky or the Artful Dodger. Finney stopped in an alleyway behind a small brick warehouse.
The fat man pointed at the backdoor like the ghost of Christmas Future pointing at my grave. He was his usual talkative self. Wondered who’d win the debate between him and Griffin. Griffin, no doubt. He’d just cut Finney’s fat throat. Stepped through the door into New England’s contribution to my personal hell.
Inside was musty, dank, but an improvement indeed over close proximity to Finney. There was no one around. A step van that had been crudely painted brown with rollers and brushes was backed up to a quiet loading dock. Then above me, at my back, I heard a muffled knocking. Turned to see a man at the window of a second floor office gesturing me to come up. Found the stairs.
Satan was a skinny fucker with wispy gray hair, keen blue eyes and a happy mouth too big for his gaunt face.
“Take a load off, fella.” He smiled broad and bright as the gates to heaven. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lower lip as he spoke. Must’ve been glued on as it never once seemed in danger of falling. “Jaysus, ya must be wrecked from yer trip. Sorry ya had to suffer Finney’s company, but I had no one else available to send for ya. A beer.” It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure.”
He handed me a Sam Adams, cold as Griffin’s heart. Sat myself down in an ancient office chair.
“Love the stuff me own self,” he said, taking a bottle. “That Harp shite from home is but blond piss for pussies.” And like Griffin, this guy was a native speaker, not the cartoon equivalent. “I’m Rudi. It’s not me given name, but it’s who I am. And you’d be Todd?”
“I would.”
“I know you boys down there in Brooklyn are tough fookers, but this is a different world. The rules of the road don’t apply.”
“Figure that’s why I’m here.”
“Boyle told me ya were a smart bastard. I like that. The less I need explain, the greater the benefit. Better to say nowt to a man who can read a map for himself.”
Just shook my head and drank.
He smiled that smile at me again. The sun might not shine outside, but it did in here. Rudi seemed as fierce as a twig and with as much heft. Guessed he liked it that way. Always better to be underestimated. He could see me sizing him up. Read my mind.
“Prefer to be underestimated, I do, and never to make the same mistake about my enemies. You’d figured by now that I’m not sweet as cane sugar and you’d be right. Did Griffin not say anything about me to ya?”
“Griffin doesn’t say anything to anyone about anybody, but his face speaks sometimes. That was enough for me.”
“Good. Let’s be off. I’ll drop you at your place in Cambridge.”
“Cambridge?”
“Yer no Southie,” he said, showing me out to his ’85 Coupe de Ville. “Besides, you’ve already served half yer purpose in me having ya up here.”
“Finney,” I said.
“Jaysus and his blessed mother, yer even smarter than advertised. Before we get halfway to yer flat, he will have told me boyos about ya.”
“They’ll figure I’m outside talent brought in to see to one of them. You wanna see who runs and who stays. You’ve got a rat problem.”
“Feckin’ rodents. Easy to kill ’em, but tough to flush the fookers out a their holes. If ya were ever to tire of working for Boyle, I’d take ya on.”
Ignored that. “Funny thing about Finney, you say he’s a talker, but he said no more than ten words to me from the time he picked me up at the station.”
“He wouldn’t talk to ya, now would he?”
“You think he’s the snitch?”
Rudi had a good laugh at that. His laugh, like the rest of him, could fool you. It was deep and resonant. “Not Finney. He’s a stupid bastard. Good for collections and the occasional muscle, but would have neither the stones nor the wherewithal to parlay what little he knows into transit fare. No, it’s one of the smart ones. Always is,” he said, staring right at me.