The Book of Virtue Read Free

and read,
    â€œWhat warehouse of the soul awaits me now?”
    I muttered,
    â€œAs long as it’s hot as hell.”
    Thought,
    Scotty, where were you when I needed you?
    Conscious of …
    â€œWhere 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,
    â€œGet the tabs settled.”
    I tried, adding as much steel as I dared.
    â€œScotty would have dealt discreetly with this.”
    He gave me a sneer of such malevolence, like he was crowing, said,
    â€œPity he didn’t learn to swim.”
    Dancing away, he threw,
    â€œD’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,
    â€œYou really want to mess with him?”
    He gave his crooked grin, all malice and spite, said,
    â€œI won’t be.”
    Pause.
    â€œYou will.”
    Then added,
    â€œBefore 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,
    â€œYou 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,
    â€œI 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,
    â€œDig in.”
    Those old timers, the book in their lives was,
    â€œBook ’em, Danno.”
    Once we had the ritual drinks in, eggs demolished, he leaned back, asked,
    â€œHow you holding up, kiddo?”
    I lied, said okay, then asked,
    â€œYou 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,
    â€œPiece 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,
    â€œThis 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,
    â€œHe 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,
    â€œNever 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,
    â€œLemme educate you, son.