Screwed (29 page)

Bullshit. I chose myself. I walked the soft road.

I am not so bad. No, no, no.

I think that guy’s name was Mike too.

Is that an omen? Should I let Irish Mike off the hook?

I look into the wannabe godfather’s deep-set eyes and it strikes me that he would probably drop the hammer on Sofia himself.

Screw mercy. I gotta get myself out from under this guy.

“Where the hell is that video, Calvin?” says Mike, pouting. “I got stuff on, you know.”

Power makes children of grown men. My dad was the same. His trick was to build up a head of steam then invent a flimsy reason for it. He couldn’t just throw a tantrum because he was an evil bastard. No, there had to be justification and God help whoever challenged his reasons. I remember him coming home from the track with a thundercloud on his shoulders, having thrown a bundle at a nag that ran into the first fence and broke her own neck. He accused my mother of flirting with the milkman and gave her a ferocious slap, or a cross-court backhand as he often referred to the blow when he had a few whiskeys warming his gut.

The milkman on our street was eighty seven, with an honest-to-God wooden leg. For ten years I thought the guy was a retired pirate. You don’t see wooden legs anymore. Everything is carbon fiber these days.

Maybe it’s thinking of my father that does it, but I am suddenly in a quiet rage.

“Hey, Mike,” I say. “Before we look at this video, I want you to know that either way, I am done with your shit.”

Mike isn’t sure how to react. He wants to laugh it off but I think he hears the wire in my voice.

“Really, laddie? Done with my shit, are you? That’s possible. That is entirely possible.”

I don’t say anything but I get ready to come out of the chair because there is an excellent chance that Mike will lose it once this movie starts rolling.

“Here we go, Mr. Madden,” says Calvin, unaware that he could soon be the shot messenger of legend. “See, what I did was add the video to a mail then send it from the phone to my computer. Seeing as you have Wi-Fi in here it was literally no problem. What took so long was the size of the video, I didn’t want to compress it and sacrifice quality as we’re putting it up on the screen.”

Mike looks so bored by this explanation that his head might roll off his shoulders.

“Kids,” I say and Mike’s eyes reply, Tell me about it.

It’s nice that we’re connecting. This will definitely be our last chance.

“Here we go, boss,” says Calvin, pressing the space bar with the same gravitas as the president launching a nuclear attack with the football.

Shit. I’m nervous. Giddy. I feel like giggling. Also I’m embarrassed for Mike, you know ’cause he’s a human being after all. And no son wants to look at what Mike’s about to see. Except maybe that Greek guy Oedipus.

A video box appears on the screen.

“Ta dah,” says Calvin, stepping back from the screen, trying to ramp up the importance of playing a video to compensate for his earlier faux pas. He is almost certainly going to regret that.

The film is excellent quality. Amazing what you can do with a phone these days.

As a techno-fool, Mike’s default setting during any sort of computer activity is boredom. If someone were to ask Mike Madden whether he was a Mac or a PC he would probably say that he had some cousins in Waterford who were McDonalds. In spite of this I am not surprised when something on the screen slices through his ennui.

“Hang on,” he says brightly. “That’s mammy’s room.”

On-screen we see a bedroom that could have been lifted from an Irish Mammy’s Room catalogue, complete with patchwork quilt on the four poster and enough throw pillows to choke a whale. There is an embroidered platitude hanging behind the wrought-iron headboard.

It is his mammy’s room. I know because I have watched this clip and the big soft grin Mike’s sporting is about to get wiped clean off his mug.

The camera swivels a little, bringing an elderly lady into the shot.

“Mammy had her hair done,” Mike breathes. “And she has teeth.”

Mrs. Madden coughs delicately then stares down the eye of the camera.

“This is a message for my son, Michael,” she says, and she is Irish Mother incarnate to be ignored at one’s peril.

“Yes, Mammy,” says Mike automatically, and if any of his men want to get themselves gut shot, now is the time to snigger.

“Michael, a dear friend of mine reliably informs me that you are up to all sorts of shenanigans in the United States of America. Now a man’s business is his own and I am proud of what you’ve made of yourself and I am fully aware that sometimes eggs need to be broken to make an omelet.”

“Yes, Mammy. Exactly, Mammy. Thanks, Mammy,” recites Mike, a beatitude of obedience.

“But Thump . . . my good friend has a good friend himself, and you are holding a gun to this man’s head.” Mrs. Madden’s tone ratchets up an octave into the hysterical bracket. “And he an Irish soldier.” The elderly lady sits forward. “A soldier, Michael, like two of your own possible fathers.”

I’ve seen souls laid bare before but rarely with such brutal efficiency. For all intents and purposes, Mike is an eight-year-old boy weeing down his own leg.

“Mammy,” he says, pleading, as though this is live. “All the boys are here.”

“Now you listen to me, Mikey boy,” says his mother, her eyes hard. “You let this Daniel person off the hook. Throw him back, son, and kill yourself a couple of English boys if you have to get it out of your system.”

“I can’t, Mammy,” whines Mike. “I gave my word.”

Mrs. Madden steamrolls over him. “And I don’t want to hear any old rubbish about debts or duty. I am your mother and I am telling you to call off the dogs. I never asked you for anything, Mikey, and I’m not asking now.” She leans toward the camera. “Just do what your mammy tells you or I will haunt you for all eternity. Good-bye, Mike. Call me on Friday.” Mrs. Madden smiles demurely at whoever is holding the camera. “How was that, Thumper?”

“Thumper?” says Mike.

A male voice off-screen says, “Perfect, Bunny.”

This voice has a Kerry accent, though sometimes it goes all Belfast if he needs that extra oomph of menace.

“Bunny?” Mike coughs the word. “I . . .”

Words fail him. If I were him I would shoot the computer or Calvin before things got worse, but his wits are not about him at the moment.

And there’s worse to come. Mucho worso.

“Turn off the camera,” says Mrs. Madden.

“Oh sure I turned that off already,” lies Tommy Fletcher.

Tears spring into Mike’s eyes and he stuffs his hand into his own mouth to stop a sob jumping out.

I feel guilty suddenly. Mike has seen enough. No son deserves to see what’s coming up on this tape.

Okay. Point made. I had intended to rub Mike’s nose in it, but honestly I would prefer to shoot Mike than inflict this on him.

“That’s fine, Calvin,” I say. “You can hit the pause.”

Calvin’s eyes do not leave the screen. “Shut the hell up, McEvoy. You ain’t the boss of me.”

There isn’t time to argue. Every second this video rolls is another nail in Mike’s soul, so I rise and take two quick steps toward Calvin, and hit the space bar on his keyboard, freezing the video on Mrs. Madden’s face.

“You don’t wanna see the rest of it,” I tell Mike. “Trust me.”

“Mammy,” says Mike. “Mammy.”

Manny and his nose beard choose this moment to pop in. “Hey, Mike. Nice MILF. She dancing later?”

Mike reaches into his pocket and his hand emerges with the dull glint of brass adorning the knuckles.

“Get the hell out,” he says to me and I swear to Christ I would not bet against this man right now even if he was going into the ring with Mike Tyson in his heyday.

I wink at Calvin and mouth I’ll just get my phone.

Five seconds later and I am outta there, not letting the door swat me on the ass and so on and so forth.

I hope Manny Booker doesn’t get dead because I like how his name rhymes with tranny hooker. The sound of breaking glass slides under the door and I know at the very least Manny’s gonna be eating through a straw for a while.

Who cares? Let them prey on each other. Maybe Manny will come out on top.

I don’t care, I tell myself. It was me or someone else who was not me.

The sharp crack of splintering wood spills out on to the street.

I check my phone for weirdly appropriate Tweets. But there is nothing. Even my gadgets refuse to give me comfort.

Abandon Wii.

Chapter 12

T
HE KEY TO STAYING ALIVE UNTIL YOU DIE IS TO NOT GET
yourself killed.

I saved this nugget till close to the end on account of how bleeding obvious it reads, which might bring on a little gnashing of teeth. But to most people not getting yourself killed involves nothing more than just doing what you’re already doing and maybe cutting down on mayonnaise, which is more or less liquid fat.

Not so for Daniel McEvoy. Lately, it seems that I gotta go far out of my way just to avoid the clusterfuck hot spots that are springing up all over this New Jersey picture-postcard town, which seems to be an oasis of calm and safety for almost everyone else.

I gotta admit to being a little aggrieved by all this attention from the grim reaper. Okay, you’re on the front line wearing a flak jacket, you expect your daily dose of missiles and shrapnel, but I’ve been out of that game for nearly two decades now and still I’m dodging bullets on a daily basis.

At least I’ve earned some sort of reprieve from Irish Mike Madden, though I have no doubt it’s temporary. Mike will figure a work-around soon enough and send me off on some other hare-brained suicide mission. I cannot keep this up indefinitely. I need to put a full stop on the Mike situation.

My Twitter bird chirps and I check Simon’s latest characters of wisdom.

Normal is all about perspective. Unless you’re killing people or exposing yourself to schoolgirls. That ain’t normal.

When is it my turn to be normal?

I stand on the sidewalk outside Sofia’s building and feel my heart pound just from proximity and I think:

If you want to be normal, Dan, walk away now.

I don’t walk away. I am not even tempted.

Sofia answers the door in a robe, hair wet and face scrubbed. I don’t really know what to make of this. Usually when Sofia isn’t playing a part then she’s lost to me in the shadowy folds of depression. These are the nights I bunk on the couch, just to make sure nothing bad happens. Sofia made it solo so far, but I feel responsible because I have allowed her to become dependent. My broad shoulders have taken some of her massive burden, and without me this beautiful lady would be utterly alone.

Or maybe it puffs up my ego to kid myself that Sofia Delano depends on craggy old war vet Daniel McEvoy.

“Hey, Dan,” she says and I can tell two things from this short greeting. One: Sofia knows who I am. And two: She’s calm, which means she’s taken her lithium.

It’s easier for me when Sofia is on her meds—I’m not saying it isn’t—but part of me wishes there was a place where her particular brand of electric crazy was acceptable right out on the street. When she turns on that personality I am drawn in like a moth to the neon.

Maybe we should move to Hollywood. Or Galway.

“Hi Sofia, darlin’,” I say, laying my hands on her shoulders, like epaulettes. “How are you feeling?”

She leans into me, pressing her cheek to my chest and if we could stay like this forever it would be fine with me, but sooner rather than later little Dan would start to get ideas. I savor the moment while it lasts, brushing her blonde hair flat to her crown, thinking that cradling a woman’s skull is about as intimate as it gets, and also thinking that I will not be voicing this theory to Zeb, who would laugh it out of court.

“I’m feeling better,” she says. “Still cloudy in my stupid head, but better. I had a dream about a hammer.”

I pull her closer. “That was a dream. No hammers around here.”

She shudders in my arms. “Good. I’ve done stuff, Dan, but hammers? It’s time to jump off the bridge when hammers come into it.”

“No hammers,” I say again. “Just a nightmare. You need to keep taking your pills.”

Sofia backs off a few steps and I’m sorry I brought up the meds.

“You don’t understand, Daniel,” she says, frowning. “I’m not myself with the pills. They drain the life right out of me. Maybe I don’t have the strength to hurt anyone but I can’t really love anyone either. What I am is a cardboard cutout. You can’t understand how that feels but it’s not your fault.”

She holds out her hand, an olive branch, and I let her draw me inside.

“You’re the only one, Dan. If it wasn’t for you coming around, I don’t know what would become of Sofia Delano. Nothing sunny, that’s for sure.”

I shut the door with a swipe of my heel. “I am coming around, darlin’, for as long as you want me. Don’t worry about that. Things will get better.”

She laughs because this is such a crappy line, but I don’t mind because laughing has gotta be good, right? Better than hammers.

“Better? Oh, Dan, you Irish asshole. How long you been around here? Things don’t ever get better. All the nasty shit topples out of New York and whatever doesn’t drown in the Hudson ends up in Jersey.”

This is a pretty grim metaphor and a little close to home for me, so I argue even though I know I’m wasting my time.

“It’s not like that anymore, darlin’. We’re upmarket now. Cloisters is a fashionable satellite town. Property prices have barely dipped here at all.”

This argument is too boring to survive in a room with Sofia Delano.

“Oh my God, lighten up, Danny. Let’s watch a couple episodes of that cowboy crap you like and have a beer.”

“It’s Deadwood. And you shouldn’t drink too much on lithium. It affects your levels.”

Sofia is already halfway to the fridge. “Beer ain’t drinking, Dan. I thought you were Irish.”

Beer and Deadwood, with Sofia snuggled into my chest. That sounds pretty idyllic, or as Zeb would say, sweeter than a honey-coated hooker, which may be offensive but makes a lot more sense than most of his chestnuts. I could sure do with an early night, with the grand reopening of Slotz coming up tomorrow.