Sweeney on the Rocks Page 22

  “Pragmatist.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. I’m a pragmatist. Do whatever you got to do to get the job done. You didn’t do nothing against me and mine, so far as I’m concerned we’re all in good shape here.”

  Nothing Sweeney hadn’t expected. “Reason I’m back in New York, Mr. Moretti, I got me a problem. I hear you got one, too. So I’m wondering if you’ll let me help you with yours. And I’m hoping maybe you can help with mine. Maybe we can quid pro quo us some solutions.”

  Moretti stares at him with cloudy eyes, dead as a snake shedding its skin. “Do fucking tell.”

  Marilyn is fond of Cal Merchant, but cautiously so. There’s something, something…He makes her feel a bit of a fraud, honestly. She sees measured respect but never anxiety. The sheriff’s outfit, the pistol, the badge: you get used to a certain deference. But Merchant’s default attitude is bemusement. Here’s Sweeney’s ex, playing cop. To her credit, she realizes that she wouldn’t be so sensitive if there weren’t some truth to it.

  Coming up to him, she pulls off her vest, unripping Velcro. She pinches up her sweaty blouse, airing out the sweat under her arms. “Hot day.”

  A ring of ponderosa pine saplings were planted when the asphalt driveway was laid down. Merchant stands among them, inconspicuous, watching the bizarre of flashing red and blue lights. A parking lot of sheriff’s deputies, staties, an ambulance. Slow news day in Rockjaw. “They’re saying it might get up to a hundred.”

  “Where’s your friend? The guy with the braids?”

  “Hitchhiked back into town. Said something about Greyhound.”

  “You got his information? We might need to get in touch.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Might need to.”

  “Don’t.” His face pleasant but his tone cold.

  “Last time I checked, Cal, I wasn’t working for you.”

  “Big day for Park County law enforcement, yeah?” He might be giving her the temperature again.

  She rolls with it, for now. “You heard about the floaters? You ain’t kidding.”

  EMTs emerge from the basement’s sliding glass doors, aluminum gurney between them. On the gurney, Aggie’s unconscious, face hidden by an oxygen mask. Forearm pierced by a saline drip.

  “She was in there alone? Her daughter wasn’t with her.”

  “We found ropes around two poles. But yeah, just Aggie.” She considers for a moment, weighing her words. “And a warm cup of coffee in the kitchen.”

  “Okay.”

  “So he saw us coming. Slipped out the back. Little Dry Creek trailhead’s just over the hill thataway, maybe he kept a car parked.”

  “Ted’s cousin.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He gave me the name. Cousin wasn’t too hard from there.”

  “You’re good at that, I guess.”

  “What I do.”

  Reluctantly, resisting the urge to push back, fighting her own umbrage over Merchant’s missing Indian, she says, “Thank you for helping him.”

  Merchant reaches over to knead her shoulder a bit. “You’re welcome. I’m always here for you and your man.”

  “Well, he’s not…I’m not…”

  “No?” Merchant, pleasant. “Whatever you say.” He touches a forefinger to an imaginary cowboy hat. “Ma’am. I got some things to do. Left a pot on the stove. But you call me when you track down this piece of shit. I want to be there.”

  It all comes down to cell phones.

  Here’s how quickly life changes. You’re standing on a highway berm, listening as a Harley chugs and burps toward you, sound waves compressed into a rising scale. Then the bike flips by, and the waves elongate, descend and disappear. That’s life before cell phones, life after. Miracles.

  No snake without its garden, though; with the miracle comes the digital presumptive guilt called homeland security. Life is reduced to a string of zeroes and ones, and everything about us (Netflix, Amazon, Gmail) available to the suspicious with the click of a mouse. On his bad days, Sweeney considers himself less citizen than subject.

  He drives around Grand Army Plaza a couple full orbits, trying to choose between Prospect Park and the Botanical Gardens. Figures the park’s likely crowded with the last of the lunchtime joggers, decides on a sliver of green space beside the Gardens, a bench looking down on the Eastern Parkway. Right where the cars start to speed up, released from the roundabout. Used to be a favorite place with his sister’s kids. Good set of swingsets.

  He settles in and spreads out a little. Breathes.

  He’s been putting it together from Eddie’s perspective; Maybe he’s got it close to figured out.

  So Eddie steals the stones from Moretti. But the only way he can get away with it, given Moretti’s personality, is if Eddie’s already dead. Otherwise, it’s Jabba the hut and Han Solo. Eddie’s getting hunted down, put in carbonite, displayed behind the throne. Or, very least, dumped in the Hudson.

  Okay, so Eddie’s dead. But if he’s dead, how do you go about moving the rocks? All his old contacts will be kaput. It’s a dilemma.

  But maybe one solved by his old partner, the Laurel to his Hardy, good old Cosmo.

  Who’s apparently got this whole other life now. In Montana.

  So how do we deal with that?

  And this is where Sweeney’s logic breaks down. He doesn’t see it, can’t understand. If Eddie was in a jam, why not just ask for help? Why all the bullshit? Photos in envelopes and Tina’s elaborate lies. It don’t make no kind of sense.

  Sitting on the bench, holding Tina’s cell phone, Sweeney feels like when him and Marilyn were first dating. That nervousness. But now, what’s he got to be nervous about? It’s just Eddie.

  Only of course it’s not. He’s truly got no idea who this guy is.

  Fuck it.

  He lights up Tina’s cell, punches in her code. Dials Eddie’s number.

  A distant bring, bring, bring. A click, background noise, then that familiar, familiar voice: “Tina? Where the fuck you been?”

  ~

  He knows that voice. Knows it. The smooth buildup with a bullying catch at the end. “What’s up, cousin?”

  Eddie, walking fast and breathing hard. Background static of wind and branches slapping. “Cosmo?” It takes him a few breaths, but he eventually manages the warmest kind of chuckle. “Shit man, how are you?”

  “Pretty good, pretty good. How about you?”

  “Not bad at all. So.”

  “So.”

  A chuckle. “So how’d you figure it out?”

  “Tina’s phone.”

  “Her phone?”

  “Password’s the day I died.”

  “Treacherous bitch.” He says it pleasantly enough.

  “Aggie okay? Elizabeth?”

  “Your girls. Yeah, they’re in one piece.” A long pause while he walks. “Speaking of treacherous bitches, though.”

  Sweeney has…Jesus, Sweeney has questions. He’s got questions the way you got forks and knives in a kitchen drawer. Stacked, compartmentalized. Best to go at it obliquely. Opt for light banter. “What I want to know, Eddie, when’d you learn Photoshop like that? That picture with your throat cut? Brilliant.”

  “Photoshop my ass, that shit was real. Took me and Tina something like two hours with her mascara pencil. Three bottles of ketchup.”

  “Well, good job. Well done.”

  “Got the idea from my cousin. This guy, we used to be tight. Die for each other kind of tight. Until the day he skipped town. Made everybody think he died. Can you believe that? Nice funeral, though.”

  “Yeah, I was there.”

  “No shit?”

  “Gray limousine out front.”

  “I remember that. I do. That was you, huh?”

  Something in Eddie’s tone—wistful surprise at a shared memory—makes Sweeney recall Jimmy Rugg. Which in turn forces him to linger, once again, on his guilt, or the absence of it. His principal consolation has been the ima
ge of himself as hero. He’s been sacrificing. For his family, for those Russian kids. And sure, that’s not wrong, but maybe it’s not entirely right, either.

  Sweeney’s next thought? Who is it that put him in that position in the first place? Who introduced him to Bytchkov? Who wanted to kill innocent kids? For that matter, who is it that stole the station wagon?

  Eddie: “Hey Cosmo. One thing I been wondering about? You still got my rocks?”

  “Yeah, I got em.”

  “You feel like walking them over to midtown? Zakayev can move those stones for you slick as snot off a doorknob. Guy’s got cash, and this whole team of cutters in Tel Aviv.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Eddie has anticipated the question. “Now that we’re back on a first name basis and all, I’ll go in for half. Right down the middle. That’s the kind of forgiving kind of guy I am.”

  “Aggie slipped away, huh?”

  Three thousand miles east, Sweeney hears a Montana car door slam. The background noise diminishes. Eddie jingles keys, and the engine starts. “Maybe. But me and Elizabeth—what is her name, by the way? Bess or Betsy or Elizabeth or what?—me and her, we’re still tight. Figured I’d better, you know, diversify my investment, find her a storage shed somewhere. Good thinking right about now, yeah?”

  “Jesus, Eddie. What happened to you, man?”

  “No, no. Don’t lay this shit on me. I been betrayed at every turn. Do not lay this shit on me.”

  “Yeah, we’ll talk betrayals.”

  “You planning on being a good guy, Cosmo? A nice guy? Move those rocks for me?”

  “I’m coming back to Montana, Eddie. First flight I can catch. Best I can do, Eddie, very best, tomorrow night I put the rocks in your hand. You can go move the rocks yourself. Start from scratch. What do you say?”

  The sound of the car engine rises and falls. Tires crunch through gravel, transition to asphalt. “What’s your cut?”

  “Ten percent. Pain and suffering surcharge.”

  Finally: “I’m good with that.”

  ~

  Tina’s call comes just as Sweeney’s stepping onto the curb at Laguardia. He waffles for a second, then decides, screw it. Take the call, Sweeney. Get this over with. “Hey.”

  “Jesus, Cosmo. Finally. Finally. So, you meet with your fence?”

  “Nah, see, here’s the thing. I’m flying back to Montana.”

  “Wait a minute, now just. Huh…?”

  “Heading home.” He hands the driver a pair of folded bills. “Keep the change.”

  “You still got them, though? The diamonds?”

  “What diamonds?”

  Sweeney holds the phone away from his ear, anticipating the screech. Motherfucker sonofabitch bastard cocksucker. Whatdoyoumeanwhatdiamonds?

  “Those diamonds that weren’t ever yours to begin with? Dug up by a ten-year-old in Siberia or some place? Those diamonds?”

  “My diamonds. Mine.”

  “Gone like they never were. Phhsst. Think about it like that. It’ll help. Go home, is my advice. Repair that back door. Start over. Earn some money. Maybe get a master’s degree.”

  “Oh fuck you, you sacrimonious piece of shit. Fuck you…”

  She starts to cry.

  He waits.

  Waits for his own sympathy, for the hard bolus of callused distance to open up into tenderness. The puddle of saltwater he’s recently reacquired for a heart, maybe it’ll shiver slightly. “Sanctimonious, you mean to say.”

  “What?”

  “You said sacrimonious. You meant sanctimonious. Or maybe acrimonious.”

  “Cosmo…” She cries harder.

  “Call Eddie. He’ll explain it better than I can.”

  “Eddie…?”

  Gently, he presses fingertip to screen, ending the call.

  The first trash can he sees, he lets her phone slip from his fingers, tumble down between coffee cups and damp newspapers.

  Sweeney glances away, looks up at the terminal signs. Hangs a left toward security.

  ~

  When were him and Eddie closest? If this is the nadir of their partnership, what was the apogee? Jet Blue to Minneapolis, he settles on the time they stole that taxi.

  A cold night in February, thick heavy flakes falling, they had an Armenian attorney trussed in the trunk. They rode around in Brooklyn and Queens hitting ATMs with the Armenian’s cards. Finally, they’d driven out to Long Island to lean the lawyer up against a boardwalk rail.

  Eddie had photos from the guy’s wallet. “Nice family.”

  Shivering, still cramped into a hunch, the Armenian sobbed. “Please…”

  “Yeah, we got a nice family, too. And you messed with ours. Happens again? You miss another payment? Your kids are taking their own little joy ride in the trunk. But they’ll be riding around with pieces of you for company. Ears, nose, balls. Capisce?”

  That wasn’t the good memory.

  No. The drive back to Brooklyn, that was the memory. Snow falling slow in the headlights and the dawn light gradually pulling a gray curtain over the BQE. So quiet, so peaceful. They might have been in a balloon floating over this sewer of a city, bouncing on a cushion of privilege. They had earlier split the cash into halves, and Sweeney still remembers the weight of that folded paper in his shirt pocket, the sense of accomplishment it brought, the calm arrogance of their entitlement.

  “There are days,” Eddie finally said, “when I regret not going to college. But today, Cosmo, today is not one of those days.”

  ~

  One o’clock in the morning, Sweeney catches the Spur ten minutes from closing. His favorite bartender in the entire world, Rosalee, is eating a spinach salad at the end of the bar. Her husband drinks a beer beside her, shelling peanuts. Both heads tilted up toward the TV. On the tube, late night noir: rain and umbrellas, tears and a tragic sax. The sound of a car crash, breaking glass, a scream.

  Rosalee used to teach Home-Ec at the high school, but gave it up when it became clear that drawing draft beers and rolling out Bud Lite kegs paid better. She’s the mother half these drunks keep forgetting to call on mother’s day. They tip her out of gratitude and guilt. She brings in bran muffins, cookies. In the winter, knits caps for the regulars. The smallest gesture of goodwill tilts these sots over into sobs. Her husband, Ray, is a retired switchman. A beard the color of a red fox dusted with snow, and a SnapOn cap to cover his baldness. Nice enough guy until you see him next to his wife and realize, by the juxtaposition, what a grumpy prick he is.

  Ray nods now, says Sweeney’s name; goes back to the TV.

  But Rosalee is up quick. “Teddy!” Hugs him like he’s her brother stumbling in from a blizzard. “Scotch?”

  “Double.”

  “That kind of night, huh?” She gives her sympathy. The best bartenders don’t have to fake it.

  “You got no idea.”

  Against the back wall, rotating around the nearest of the two pool tables, Sweeney’s cousin Eddie chalks a cue.

  Sweeney’s first view of his cousin in ten years, but he willfully makes it a glimpse, an incidental catch while he passes over the larger landscape. He studies Rosalee instead, pouring his drink. The gurgle of booze through the pour spout, then another. She tilts the bottle upright, and down again. A triple, at least. A veritable schooner of Scotch. Sweetheart.

  Handing it to him, she says, “Any of it true, what that guy’s saying?” She tilts her head toward Eddie.

  “What’s he been saying?”

  “Weird even saying it out loud. But. How you used to be in the mob? or something. How your name’s not really Ted Sweeney. Silly, right?” She waits for his reassurance.

  It’s a moment like trying to start your car on a cold day. The few seconds of uncertainty as the engine stutters and stumbles, works to find a rhythm. That moment when it could go either way. He swallows a good third of his Scotch, says, “True, yeah.”

  “Dude,” she says, and though she’s pushing sixty, the word come
s readily to her lips, “that is bad ass. Ray and me were talking, we can’t believe how you’ve been holding out on us.”

  “Holding out?”

  “I mean, stories, right? The stories you could tell.”

  “Well.”

  “This one’s on the house.” She raps the bar with her knuckles. “Next one, though, you spill some dish. New York gangster kind of dish. Promise?”

  He makes the promise, and takes up his drink. Raises it to her. “Thanks for this.” He puts a little extra on the first word, trying to freight it up with meaning.

  Floats back toward the pool table on a cloud of surreal. Could it be that simple?

  Eddie has dropped the five ball and is eyeing the six, scowling. Chalks his cue again, perhaps out of nervousness (though he hides it well), and blows on the tip. “You’re looking good, Cosmo. Fit.”

  ~

  Eddie Adamo, cousin to Cosimo Aniello, wears a white dress shirt and faded black jeans, a wide leather belt and cheap sneakers. In most of Montana, his dress choices would read as New York hip. Fresh from New York, Sweeney sees panic and improv. Maybe the shirt was starched when Eddie put it on, but that was yesterday. He could use a shave. But these are cosmetic flaws on what is still an essential air of cockiness. His Eddieness. The extravagant self-possession that draws you into his orbit, that forces you to pander to him, perform for his opinion.

  Eddie offers his hand. And here’s a tense moment, each of them considering the gesture. The implications should Sweeney accept, the repercussions should he refuse.

  Finally—it’s his cousin, man—Sweeney steps toward the outstretched hand. He lets instinct and muscle memory make his decision. The two men grip hands hard enough to grind bones, then…

  Then they’re hugging. It happens of its own accord. Eddie pounding Sweeney on the back, Sweeney clutching Eddie tight, saying, “You bastard, you bastard.”

  Eddie coming back: “Cosmo, man. Cosmo.”

  They break apart, and Eddie takes Sweeney by the shoulders. “You know what you did to me? Dying like you did? You got any idea?” He slaps Sweeney lightly on the cheek. “Huh? Cosmo?” Then again, harder. And once more, harder still.

  Sweeney stands there, taking it.