Tower: A Novel Read Free Page A

guys were piling boxes and shooting the shit. Sitting in a hardchair, to Boyle’s left, was his main guy, a genuine Mick, born in Belfast and rumored to have been with the Provos. Name of Griffin, he never said much, just stared at you with dead eyes. He’d never spoken to me but I had the feeling he didn’t much care for me. I gave him lots of distance. Not that I was afraid of him, just, who needed the aggravation? Todd had cautioned
    “Keep your eyes on Griffin.”
    And being contrary, I’d asked
    “Why?”
    Todd had sighed, as if he had to explain every damn thing, said
    “Because he’ll be watching you.”
    Boyle stood up, stretched out his arms as if he was going to hug us, and maybe if he’d had enough hooch, he might have. He said
    “Me lads, back from their big adventure.”
    His accent grated on me. It was stage Irish. I was sure not even the Irish spoke like this. Todd put the garbage bag on the desk, the loot piled in. Boyle nodded to Griffin who moved slowly, took the bag, spilled the contents on the floor, began to sift through it. Boyle took a brief look, said
    “Did good.”
    Then indicated two chairs in front of his desk, said
    “Take the weight off, fellahs.”
    He sat down, reached in a drawer, took out a bottle of Jameson, said
    “Wet your whistle?”
    He placed three shot glasses on the desk, filled them. I reached over, took one. Todd didn’t move. Boyle had his glass raised, looked at Todd, asked
    “You’re not drinking?”
    Todd, in a lazy gesture, waved his hand, said
    “Little early for me.”
    A look passed over Boyle’s face, a tiny peek into what went on behind his eyes, and it was dark, malignant. He was still for a moment, then casually swept the glass off the desk. It narrowly missed Todd, the liquid spilling onto the cheap carpet. Todd never flinched, just sat there, his face without expression, as if dramatic gestures were so much smoke. Boyle said to me
    “Sláinte.”
    I knocked it back, waited for the burn. Boyle made a grimace, said
    “Hits the spot.”
    Then to Todd
    “Back home, you refuse to drink with a man, might be seen as an insult.”
    Todd gave a long look at the glass beside his boot, said
    “We’re a long way from Tipperary.”
    I thought Boyle might come over the desk but went with it, laughed, said
    “Aye, you’re right there, boyo.”
    Griffin was laying wedges of bills in piles and I saw a tiny smile. Fleeting but it was there.
    Boyle stood up, said to Todd
    “Get your arse down to the pier 80, I got some freight coming in.”
    Todd moved and I stood. Boyle said
    “Not you laddie, I need you.”
    Then to Todd
    “You can manage your own self. You have a mouth on yah for two men.”
    Todd had reached the door when Boyle shouted
    “Any problem with that apartment?”
    Todd gave it some thought, then
    “Nothing major, Nick. Your laddie… had to shoot the owner.”
    Then he was gone.
    Griffin was watching me, definite interest showing and Boyle turned to me, asked
    “That right, you put a cap in some guy?”
    My mind was reeling and I got out
    “He walked in on us.”
    Boyle looked at Griffin, said
    “Doncha hate when that happens?”
    Griffin, as usual, said nothing. Boyle was putting on the jacket of his suit, an Armani, the real thing, you could tell by the way the jacket hung. He fixed the lapel, asked me
    “You like the suit?”
    I did.
    On him it looked cheap. He was just a cheap guy, not all the clothes in the city were going to alter that. I said
    “Class.”
    It was the right answer. I didn’t look at Griffin. I knew he’d have the smirk in place. Boyle smacked me on the back and I don’t mean a friendly pat, a hard wallop, said
    “Stick with me boy, you’ll have one yer own self.”
    I loved being called boy.
    A gray Caddy was parked in the alley. Boyle threw me the keys, said
    “Let’s see what you got.”
    The fuck sat in the back, lit up a cigar, a Cuban he said, and it smelled cheap. Not unlike the cologne that he smothered