The Book of Virtue (2 page)

“If you don't adapt to thinking outside the box, you'll be in one.”

Right.

Scotty had earned a shit-load of cash, from, as he put it,

“Creative stealing.”

Creative, I could do.

We began to hang out on our Sundays, the only day the club closed. I coerced him into coming to Shea Stadium. I didn't convert him from a Yankees fan, but I did get him to at least appreciate Reyes.

Scotty had taken on my choice of Jameson. Our final Sunday, he'd taken me to a pub he frequented, The Blaggard, West 39th Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. They had Guinness on tap. What more recommendation could you need? Scotty looked more tense the more he knocked back, said,

“Brady is connected to the Russian gangs.”

One thing I'd absorbed fast was those mothers made the Italians seem tame. And were regular customers. Always with the incredible dames. They carried a built-in smirk, the one that whispered,

“Fook with me, we'll bury you.”

I believed.

He asked me,

“You ever see the Korean movie,
I Saw the Devil
?”

Nope.

I didn't do Oriental unless it was a hooker. Scotty laughed, said,

“You're a piece of work, but hear this: if I disappear, you can be sure, Brady is behind it.”

What?

I went,

“What?”

He explained.

He claims to be American as cover for his gang ties. The cocksucker is from Minsk … fooking Minsk, yah believe it?

Scotty was so ultra cool, so in freaking control, I couldn't imagine anyone getting the jump. As if he read my thoughts, he added,

“Brady has a small country's money in his apartment. I know because he showed me. The fook is a showboat, almost daring me to rip him off.”

I was saturating this, a silence of foreboding over us. Scotty said,

“If, if, you have to step up, and I'm in the wind, amass a pension, then take Brady out before he buys you the farm.”

I was so immersed with my father's book that I put this rap down to the Jay. Changing the subject, I told him about my “inheritance.”

He laid a mess of twenties on the counter, to the bar lady's delight. No wonder they liked him—and they did. He knocked back his last shot, said,

“Some men, they think if they can give the impression of goodness despite being a first class son of a bitch, then they have rewritten the book of their life.”

Deep, huh?

I wasn't buying, asked,

“That's what you figure my father tried to do?”

He stood, shucked on his shearling coat, a cool three thousand bucks worth, looked at me, with something like warmth, said,

“Oh, yeah, his very own
Book of Virtue.
”

We walked down Fifth, a wind blowing across our backs like the dead prayer of despair. We stopped at the intersection and Scotty hailed a cab, turned to me, registering my expression of alarm as he raised his arms, and laughed. Asked,

“What, you think I'm going to give you a hug?”

Paused.

“One thing I learned about the Micks: they don't do affection.”

I regret very little of the life I've lived, not even the heavy crap, but oh, Sweet jaysus, why didn't I at least say,

“Thanks for being my buddy and hey, you know, you needn't worry, I've got your back.”

I didn't.

Didn't have his back, either.

And that's a true Micked pity.

Monday was one of those stunning New York days. A bright, sunny afternoon, cold but crisp. Reason you never left.

Ever.

Scotty didn't show up for work. Two days later, they fished his beaten body out of the East River.

I had literally read in
The Book of Virtue
, as I now termed the book,

“When the incredible happens, add credible to your account.”

Brady was in hyper spirits that evening, dancing around, treating the mob factions to champagne, was almost civil to me.

Like that would last.

It didn't.

He sneered at me,

“Scotty has moved on.”

And, as if it was a real award,

“You're the new boss.”

Did I start checking on Scotty's death then?

Nope, I was too busy amassing my own fortune.

Months trickled by, I read my father's book, went to bed, frequently with Cici.

Did her sleeping with Brady bother me?

Take a flying guess.

Was near the end of
The Book of Virtue
and read,

“What warehouse of the soul awaits me now?”

I muttered,

“As long as it's hot as hell.”

Thought,

Scotty, where were you when I needed you?

Conscious of …

“Where was I when he went in the East River?”

And the days moved on until Brady began his dismantling of me.

With an awareness of unpaid tabs circulating in the club.

Brady had literally grabbed my arm, hissed,

“Get the tabs settled.”

I tried, adding as much steel as I dared.

“Scotty would have dealt discreetly with this.”

He gave me a sneer of such malevolence, like he was crowing, said,

“Pity he didn't learn to swim.”

Dancing away, he threw,

“D'Agostino owes me, that's what you need to get your focus with.”

Meaning, the old Mafiosi whose running bill was getting seriously out of hand. I asked,

“You really want to mess with him?”

He gave his crooked grin, all malice and spite, said,

“I won't be.”

Pause.

“You will.”

Then added,

“Before Tuesday.”

My father's cop buddies were like a vile extension of him. Save for one, Casey. Yeah, second generation of cop and Mick. Almost a caricature.

Boozy

Hard ass

Harp-ed

If Gene Hackman were Irish, he'd be Casey. But he treated me good.

Very.

After my father passed, he'd said,

“You ever need anything …”

So.

So met with him, in an Irish bar off Madison Square Garden. He was dressed in a thick off-white Aran Island sweater, heavy pea jacket, tweed cap, as if he were auditioning for a part in
Mick Does New York.
A shock of wiry white hair and hands that could cover Manhattan and you had the essence of the Irish NYPD legacy. It wasn't that these guys took life as it came. Hell, no. They grabbed it by the throttle, kicked its ass, and, if that failed, they beat the living shit out it.

Casey had the end booth, shielded from prying eyes, though you'd need some
cojones
to stare at Casey. He welcomed,

“I got you a Jay, lad. Sit yer own self down.”

The Jay was at least a double, no ice, heaven forbid. Those Micks weren't hot on blasphemy. He didn't reach over and ruffle my hair but the vibe was there. Even if I reached eighty, I'd always be “the kid” to these dinosaurs.

I knew the drill: get some shots down, then approach the subject in a creep-up-on-it fashion. If you were in a hurry, park it elsewhere. Casey ordered a side of fries and a bunch of pickled eggs. He ordered, I swear, by pounding the table, just once. And, you guessed it, offered/commanded,

“Dig in.”

Those old timers, the book in their lives was,

“Book 'em, Danno.”

Once we had the ritual drinks in, eggs demolished, he leaned back, asked,

“How you holding up, kiddo?”

I lied, said okay, then asked,

“You know anything about Brady, my boss at Khe Shan?”

He sighed. The guy could have sighed for the entire U. S. Shook his huge head, said,

“Piece of shite, connected to the Russian mob. Animals.”

Paused.

Gave me the cool slow appraisal, fine-honed in nigh twenty years of staring down the enemy.
Enemy
covered just about the whole planet save cops and family.

He asked,

“This about the schmuck they pulled out of the East River?”

You might ridicule these throw-back nigh vigilante cops but Holy shit, they were on the ball. You didn't trawl the five boroughs for two decades and be stupid.

I advised, if quietly,

“He was my buddy.”

Casey snorted and, when you have a Jameson shooter half way to your lips, it's doubly effective, but he never spilled a drop. Drained it, crashed it down on the table with,

“Never had you down as a bollix, much less a stupid one.”

I did the smart thing: shut the hell up. Dense silence over us and … few things more lethal than a brooding silent Mick. He finally said,

“Lemme educate you, son. Scotty was well known to the Detroit PD, but a slick fook, so they never nailed him. He headed west, hooked up with Brady, another piece of work who'd adopted an Irish name to make him thug-friendly. They made a lot of cold cash and ploughed it into the club to make it seem legit. The past year, Scotty began to make inroads into his own crew to oust Brady.”

Paused.

“You get the picture?”

Yeah.

Then he added,

“Brady will let you run the club for a year, tops, then whack you and bring in some other naïve schmuck.”

I excused me own self, headed for the restroom, ordered up a fresh batch of the Jay, and punched the wall, hurt the living crap out of me hand. On my return, I changed tack, asked,

“You ever have my old man down for a reader?”

We clinked shots, downed them, and Casey answered,

“No way. You kidding?”

I told him about
The Book of Virtue
and he let a low whistle, said,

“Me, I never was much for no book learning.”

Sounding like he was in a bad Western.

We mulled it over, then he went,

“My mother, Lord rest her and all the bad Caseys, she used to sing a Yeats poem, yeah,
sing
it. All I got is,

“The world is more full of weeping than we can understand.”

God is good; he didn't sing it. I hadn't enough Jay to ever endure that. Then he leaned over, put his large hand on my shoulder, said,

“Frank had his faults but, deep down, he was a decent guy.”

I felt the bile rise, spat,

“Oh, like,
he meant well
?”

He sat back, stunned by my venom, tried,

“Jaysus, Tommy, c'mon, he loved you.”

I said,

“That weeping world …
Frank
caused his fair share.”

And that was the end of the chat.

He warned me to watch my back, and to call if I needed anything.

I got out of there, had a moment of vague regret that I'd busted his balls, then thought, “He was my Dad's buddy, so the hell with him.”

My father's book

Was diverted by a note on the binding. Read,

“Sewn binding, the strongest yet the most expensive. The pages are sewn into the book manually with a sewing machine.”

Followed by a note, in my father's hand,

“Check out Moleskin diaries, used by Hemingway and Chatwin.”

Now I was seriously perplexed.

Too, the oddest thing, just holding the book, it gave me the strangest sensation of, hell, I'm slow to admit this,

Peace?

WTF?

I went online, put in,

www.realbooks.com

Trawled through a ton of sites until I found one dealing exclusively with the physical qualities of a book, not the contents.

Read long-winded boring passages about the creation of a book, the printing, art of binding, and muttered,

“Bibliophiles.”

Come the final Wednesday of the virtue saga.

The last page of my father's book had passages of two poems, Francis Thompson's
The Hound of Heaven
and Cafavvy's
Alexandria.
The gist being, he'd been pursued all his life in dread and terror and, secondly, no matter what he did, he couldn't escape his life, as if you fooked up in one place, so you would always do.

If cops were secretly reading this stuff in their leisure time, no wonder they ate their guns.

Cici had the day off and came to my apartment, the top floor of a brownstone that I lavished my savings on. She had a mouth on her, kidding I ain't. She asked,

“How much are you ripping off from the club?”

A lot.

I said,

“As if I would.”

She let that slide.

Gave me the hot look.

It burned.

Followed with a blast of white radiance.

After, I had one of my rarest cigs and, God forgive me, one supplied by Cici.

Virginia Slims.

Not too macho. She pulled on one of my faded denim shirts. I had it longer than I had sense. Looked good, looked in heat. Trailing smoke, she went to mix up a batch of Vodka Spritzers.

Most appetites nigh sated, she picked up my dad's book, asked,

“You read?”

What?

Like I was a dumb bastard?

Hello.

She flicked through it, said,

“Now there's a word.”

I followed her to the main room, an XL Yankees T-shirt on, asked,

“What's that?”

She read,

Schadenfreude.

I asked,

“The hell does that mean?”

She pulled a battered dictionary from my battered book collection, found the entry, intoned,

“A pleasure taken from another's misfortune.”

Looked at me,

Added,

“Brady.”

Got my vote.

Handed me a glass of the freshly blended batch, it tasted,

Cold

Good and

Like

Hope.

As artificial as that.

And as long lasting.

I said,

“Or my old man.”

She sat lotus style on the sofa, looked at me for a long beat.

Then,

“We need to deal with Brady.”

Sure.

How?

I asked,

“How?”

She took a deep gulp of her drink, her eyes watching me over the rim of the glass. And,

“We need to cash his check.”