Tower: A Novel Read Free

said
    “I was going for a heart shot. Next time, I bring a Glock.”
    Next time?
    The guy was lying in the doorway, his ruined head in the corridor. Todd walked over, grabbed one of his feet, said
    “Gimme a fucking hand.”
    I did.
    We stashed him in the bathroom, having dragged his ass across the carpets, blood trailing. The smell of cordite was heavy in the air and I went to the drinks cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Makers Mark, drank from the bottle. Todd protested
    “Hey, not while we’re working.”
    I pointed the bottle at him, asked
    “What you gonna do, shoot me?”
    He was hefting the gun in his hand, said
    “If I have to.”
    I don’t think he was kidding.
    We put our haul in a black garbage bag and as we moved to the door, I asked
    “Did you have to kill him?”
    Todd, unruffled, glanced up and down the corridor, said
    “Probably.”

“Since the house is on fire, let us warm ourselves.”
    —Italian proverb
    WE BROUGHT THE HAUL to Boyle. I was still reeling from the casual way Todd had offed the guy. Todd said
    “There’s a nice chunk of change in that.”
    He was driving with that total concentration, like he did most everything those days. I asked, sarcasm dripping,
    “You got time to count it?”
    He caught it, looked at me, asked
    “What’s with you?”
    I wanted to lash out, grab him, shake some sense into him, tried
    “You just killed a guy and you don’t even mention it. We’re going to act like it never happened?”
    He reached into the glove compartment. For a mad moment, I thought he was reaching for his piece. Got his cigarettes out, fired one up, all fluid motion, his eyes never leaving the road, said
    “It’s over. What’s to discuss? You want to dwell on it, replay it, do it on your own nickel.”
    I wanted a cigarette, a drink, some weed and mainly, the hell away from him. I cracked my knuckles, knew it annoyed the shit out of him, asked
    “What happened to you in Boston, sorry, South Boston? I don’t know you any more.”
    He shrugged, went
    “Maybe you never did.”
    We were pulling up at Boyle’s. Todd was sliding into a space right outside the warehouse that Boyle conducted business in, said
    “Don’t mention the shooting.”
    I laughed, not with any humor, asked
    “You think Boyle’s not going to hear about it?”
    Todd was easing out of the seat, said
    “No need to get into it now.”
    Boyle was known as Biblical Boyle but not to his face. We called him Mister Boyle. His tag came from his fondness for the Good Book. On his desk was a battered bible and he quoted from it, a lot. Pain in the ass is what it was. He was a comer, moving up from penny ante stuff to major league, had at least ten guys in his crew and had ambition. How he got to wherever the fuck he was going, he didn’t care.
    My life was crammed with Micks, my family and most of the guys I knew. Boyle was one of the most irritating. Third generation, he’d been to Ireland a few times and had more than once told me to get my arse over there, touch my roots. I assured him it was one of my goals but the only place I wanted to go was Miami. The warehouse had posters of Dublin and Galway, Galway with that Bay, and Boyle wasn’t above singing a few bars of the song, “If I ever go across the sea to Ireland” and he sang like a strangled crow. In his late fifties, he had that barroom tan, the bloated face from too much Jameson, the busted veins along his cheeks. Small eyes that darted like eels and it would be a huge mistake to think the booze affected his attention. If anything, the drink seemed to work on him like speed for anyone else, got him cranked.
    He always wore a crisp white shirt, tie and vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, show he was a working stiff. He was running to fat but the arms were still formidable. He was sitting behind a massive desk, a wooden harp on the side and a family snap beside it, a team of kids and his wife, looking frightened. Probably with good reason.
    Couple of