Sweeney on the Rocks Page 23

  “You got no idea. No idea.”

  Sure, they used to be tight. Tighter, maybe, even than Sweeney had thought. He’s touched.

  But no, Sweeney’s misreading it. “Me and Bytchkov were this close, this close, to having our own thing. Italians and Russians? We were making history, man. Till you fucked it all up.”

  “Just trying to do the right thing.”

  Eddie bares his teeth. For a moment, he’s speechless. What the hell just came out of Cosmo’s mouth? He visibly inhales. Lets it out slow. Says, “You still shoot pool?”

  “Of course.”

  “Rack em. I’ll break.”

  “Eight ball?”

  “Why not.”

  Eddie’s got five bucks worth of quarters on the rail. Sweeney drops in a dollar’s worth. Fills the rack.

  “I love this game. Love it.” Eddie breaks hard. “Lot of guys, they only shoot for money. But me, I’ll shoot anytime, anywhere. The game. Know what I’m saying?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  Eddie has improved his stick in ten years, but so has Sweeney. Eddie drops three balls on the break, then runs the stripes down to the eight ball. Sweeney takes over, empties the table. Pops the eight in the side from three inches away. The good players make it look easy.

  “Nice.”

  “Rack ‘em.”

  Eddie deposits his quarters then bends over the table, placing balls into the rack. “So. My rocks?”

  Sweeney digs into his pocket. Sets a Ziploc bag on the rail.

  Eddie lets it sit there. “Second half when that girl’s safe?”

  “Minus ten percent.”

  “Trunk of my car. Black Mazda on the corner of Callender and Second. Keys on the left front tire. Mind if I break again?”

  “Help yourself.” Sweeney has his cell phone. He speed dials a number. “Yeah, hey. It’s me.” He passes along Eddie’s directions. Then: “Look in the trunk.”

  Eddie chalks his cue. Breaks hard. The one and three drop. “Not about money, not about getting laid, living an extra year or two, gluten free diets, some such shit. I mean, our lives are gone like that.” He snaps his fingers. “The game. And if not that, then what?”

  “Eddie and his theories.”

  Eddie considers an angle on the four ball. “I want you to go back to New York with me.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re dead. Me too, for that matter.”

  “That’s what’s so perfect, right? Me and you, the ghosts in the machine.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Breetvah, he’s alive, though. And now that we got some scratch, we can set up our own little army. Eddie and cousin Cosmo, kicking ass again.” A pause, then: “Not like you got anything left for you here.”

  Sweeney has an epiphany like an overinflated balloon popping in his face. “So that’s why all the envelopes, why all this…” He makes complicated, mixing-bowl gestures with both hands. “You been trying to burn my bridges.”

  Eddie touches fingertip to nose. “But I mean, hey, turns out, I did you a favor.”

  “I don’t know what…”

  “That girlfriend of yours, man.”

  “Aggie’s all right.”

  “You want to know how I found you? She ratted you out, man. Called the New York Times to sell a story. Guy she talked to, the reporter, nice guy, he owes me a favor, he passes her name along. I call her up, offer her fifty grand for your address. And she gives it to me, Cosmo. Has no idea who I am, what I might do. You ever want to know what your life’s worth? That’s it. Fifty grand. What kind of woman pulls that shit?”

  “She’s had a hard time.”

  “Fuck, man. Who hasn’t? That’s no excuse.” Flustered, Eddie scratches. “Shit.”

  Sweeney’s phone buzzes. He glances at a text. “Elizabeth’s good.”

  “Right. So. Second half?”

  “They’ll be bringing it.”

  “They?”

  ~

  As choreographed by karma, the front door opens on the beat. A whiff of cold night air, a wedge of streetlight, and Marilyn. Out of uniform in Wranglers and a Carhartt sweatshirt, she glances at Eddie and Sweeney, turns to the bartender. “Hey Rose. Mind if I ask a favor?” She bends close to the bartender. Slips her a folded bill.

  Rose, half offended: “You just need to ask, sweetie.” But takes the bill. They always take the bill.

  Eddie watches as Rosalee and her husband step out of the bar, leaving him alone with Sweeney and Marilyn. His eyes ping pong between them. Going for insouciant, he steps around the table, picks up the bag full of stones. He gets the sense, this ain’t entirely his game anymore.

  And yeah, no kidding. Behind Marilyn, the door opens again. Lukey Ray. And behind him, Mike Patriso.

  Eddie says, under his breath, “Fuck!” And spins toward the back door.

  But more bad news, that door is opening as well. Sweeney’s buddy comes, that black guy Cal Merchant, followed by Jake Leon and, behind him…who’s the kid? Maybe a Moretti. There’s that same unfortunate recession of a chin, overshadowed by the eaves of a thick, Tom Selleck mustache.

  Eddie makes a motion, reaching behind him toward his belt, toward the inside of his back.

  The good news about those hide-a-holsters? They’re hidden. Bad news, they’re awkward. The furthest thing from a fast draw.

  Merchant sees Eddie going for a gun and rushes forward three or four paces, wraps his arms around Eddie in a bear hug, trapping Eddie’s arms next to his body. The momentum carries them both against the cue rack. Sticks tumble and bounce, rattling to the floor.

  Eddie stands quiet, head low. Merchant inches his arms down until he can grab Eddie’s piece. Eddie says, “Love you too, brother.”

  “Cracker.” Merchant comes out with a snubnosed .38.

  Eddie looks past Merchant. “Cosmo. What’d you do to me, man?”

  Marilyn slips in under Sweeney’s arm. “You’re looking good, Eddie. Fit.”

  “I just said the same thing about Cosmo.”

  The out-of-towners all have pistols, and they’re all pointed his way. Four barrels, and Marilyn hasn’t even produced hers yet. Eddie raises his arms without being asked, touches the back of his neck.

  Lukey Ray steps forward with cuffs.

  “Hey Lukey.”

  “Eddie. You got the stones?”

  “Hip pocket. No, the other one.”

  Lukey passes the Ziploc to the kid with the mustache, pulls Eddie’s arms behind him. “Let me know if these are too tight.”

  Eddie says to Sweeney, “Moretti giving you better than ten percent?”

  “I’m not getting a dime.”

  “The fuck, then, Cosmo.” Eddie, genuinely flabbergasted. “Other things are on the table.”

  “Hope it’s worth it, whatever.”

  Sweeney takes a breath. Starts forming the first syllable of his justification. It’s important that he gets this right. He wants it to start with not-my-fault, ramble around to making-the-best-of-a-bad situation, then add something about responding in kind. It’s important to him that Eddie should see his side. But Sweeney’s only just opened his mouth when the Moretti kid blindsides Eddie with a hard right. Jumping up slightly to put his weight behind it.

  Eddie, hands behind him, has no room to maneuver, to defend himself. The punch opens up his eye to the bone and sprays thick drops of blood across the green velvet of the pool table. He drops like he’s been shot.

  Sweeney flinches hard on Eddie’s behalf. Has to fight every urge, every ingrained twitch and jerk, not to jump to his cousin’s defense.

  The kid grins wide, makes a pained motion with his hand, like flicking off water. “Wow!” Heavy accent. “That is a good clock.”

  Cocky little shit. Sweeney, on the balls of his feet, clenches his fists. Okay, okay, settle back. Easy now. Swallow.

  His reaction gives him some glimpse into the upcoming legion of sleepless nights marching his wa
y. Fuhhuck.

  Sweeney? Can’t win for losing, man.

  Marilyn, who knows him better than anyone—after all these years, why deny it—tightens her fist on his back, fingers clenching at the fabric of his shirt.

  Eddie pulls himself to his feet, straightens, but with limited success. His eyes focusing some other kind horizon, one knee not locking too well. “Cosmo…”

  Sweeney says, “Yeah, Eddie. Me too.”

  ~

  Eight o’clock in the morning, Sweeney sits splayed on his couch, fallen in the posture of a man punched in the nose. Every stool in the world’s been slipped treacherously out from under him. Staring for hours at this empty, empty goddamn life, Zeke asleep beside him. The dog blowing at his cheeks, paws twitching. Chasing rabbits. Envy the creature his obliviousness.

  Through the window, past the grime on the glass and the blur of his own sleeplessness, he watches as Marilyn’s cruiser eases up next to his truck. A car door slams. Ten seconds later, her knuckles are dancing a cheerful shave-and-a-haircut rap on his back door. “You awake yet?”

  He swallows. Tries to call out her name but manages only a croak.

  She’s not bashful about unlatching his bungee cord, though, letting herself in.

  Six hours now it’s been. Six hours’ worth of maudlin memories, scrolling newsreels of disappointment and self flagellation. He’d like to cry. A good sob might be healthy right about now. Balance out the humors. But no. He’s got a problem with tears. Like nausea, he resists it. The mechanism is missing, or rusty from disuse.

  Certainly, he can’t cry in front of a woman. Even (or especially) this one.

  “Jesus, Ted.” Marilyn stands in the doorway, taking stock. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, closer to empty than full; a shoebox full of snapshots, photos scattered like chips from a burst bag; the polished bone-handle of his old .357 half-hidden under the sofa.

  She hunkers down low, lifts away the Scotch glass. Takes the hand, skin chilled by the drink, and pulls him to his feet.

  “Marilyn.” He resists.

  “None of that.” She leads him toward his bathroom.

  “Marilyn…” His mouth works around the next words: I killed Eddie.

  “He had it coming.” She starts water in the tub. Then, in the gathering steam, undresses him. Pulls his arms through their sleeves, unbuttons his pants, slips them down his narrow hips.

  He stands naked before her. Her gestures oddly sexless, those of a sister rather than a lover. She’s tending to him, taking care of him.

  He had it coming. Four words, five syllables. As absolutions go, of course, they leave something to be desired. But he’ll take them.

  He slips into the bath with an animal’s dumb sense of release. A few minutes later, he’s dimly aware of the sounds of Marilyn tidying up. The rattle of glasses, the running of water. A pan clanging.

  The bath comes close to sobering him up. He can, at least, manage a shave. Stare at himself in the mirror. He swings the hinged wings forward to create an infinite series of Ted Sweeneys. Through the steam, he considers the lopsided inconsistencies. Left profile, right profile. His boxer’s nose. Getting old, Sweeney. Which is more than you can say now about Eddie.

  Sweeney closes the paired mirrors, pulls himself together again.

  In the days to come, he will be carried along in the gradual recoupling of his life, the hemispheres brought together in a bloodless but painful series of affirmations and denials, handshakes on the street, a few firm rebuffs from the church-going crowd. A front page story will give a modest condemnation of his criminal past counterbalanced by a flattering take on his community work. The soup kitchen, the library. Things will change for him, of course, but only time will tell how profoundly. The jury is out.

  Tomorrow he’ll pay a visit to Aggie in the hospital, find Elizabeth dozing beside the bed. Elizabeth, who will come into his arms with the innocent eagerness of a twelve-year-old. “Teddy…” Hugging him at the neck, pulling him down toward her, toward her tears. “He’s gone? Marilyn told me he’s gone. He’s really gone?”

  Aggie will refuse to meet his eyes. The hottest accelerant for outrage? Guilt, of course. Aggie with her hand pierced by an IV drip, her wrists bruised by Eddie’s zipcuffs, squares of white tape over the cuts above her eyes. “Get out of my sight.”

  He used to believe that the friendship of men is built on an armature of respect hidden under a veneer of disdain. But if there’s anything to be learned here, perhaps it has something to do with the inevitability of betrayal. The biological mechanism of it. Back when the species was new, right after our first handshake, the first vow, there was that first broken promise. You’d have to say that the friendship of men, then—while including respect and disdain, sure—is all balanced finally on a circus ball of forgiveness.

  Sweeney’s got to work on that.

  Grigory Bytchkov’s a well-liked man. Cheerful. Which people appreciate, corrections officers and inmates alike. The most genial turd in this particular bowl. Sing Sing, A-Block, M-Gallery. A cavernous, echoing space of angst and anger, petty revenge and tiny scandal, all of it pinched up into a stone-walled mason jar and shaken hard.

  Coming out of the tunnel entrance, dig the four stories of cells looming overhead. Stare up too long, they want to avalanche down. Take a half step back. To the right and left, the block disappears into hazy distance. Six hundred and eighty men housed here. Six hundred. And eighty. Murderers, rapists, pedophiles. Each floor is sectioned into galleries, and at least four times a day (three meals, plus rec time) these men are herded back to their cells. Gray bars grind close.

  And these cells, man. Seven feet long, a toilet, a sink, a cot. Maybe a clothesline for laundry, wet t-shirts, extra pair of pants. Run your fingers up the wall, count the cracks. Do the math until your bid is up. Number your grievances. Ten locked metal doors between them and us.

  Out in the hall, the corrections officers in their grey uniforms rotate through, clipboards held up like breastplates. Head count four times a day. Slow as third graders most of these guys, moving their lips as they count. Batons clipped to their belts. Notepads in shirt pockets. After the first few minutes of a shift, you fail to notice the odor of bodies, the testosterone stink in the air. If you’re a corrections officer, you’re too busy fretting the clerical details to consider, yet again, whether this is maybe the best possible way you could be earning a living. Ball breakers up the ladder, murderers down.

  If you’re an inmate, and after you get used to it, life could be worse. Nights are noisy but the food is free. And if you understand the most efficient oil for these sadistic gears, you can pass your time reasonably well. Bytchkov eats with the whites (as he must) but makes it a point to sit closest to the blacks. He doesn’t smoke, but gets cartons of Newports from his wife, passes the decks out as favors. He’s well liked and mildly feared.

  Like everyone else in Sing Sing’s max wings, after breakfast, lunch, dinner, he’s reluctant to step back into his cell. Give me an extra five minutes, CO. Another two minutes. Sixty, seventy men milling around, knotting together to slap hands, exchange god knows what sort of contraband. Cigarettes and dope, mostly. It’s chaos and confusion. A college dorm room meets a street riot.

  This particular day, after lunch, there are two COs on the gallery. Half a dozen guys under keeplock, but the rest out in the corridor. “Back in the cells, back in the cells, back in the cells.” A CO walks along, dragging baton against bars. Turns on his heel at the far end, starts making his way back. “Step it up, hurry it along. I ain’t asking twice.” His voice dull with routine.

  Behind him, at a moment when his body blocks the vision of the second CO, a handful of prisoners tightens together into a knot. There’s a guttural scream, a shout, a babble. And the men flare again, flushing like birds.

  To reveal Bytchkov flat on cement, one hand held to his neck, mouth working. Under his hand, the stub of a plastic toothbrush. One end of it melted and sharpened to a point, hard enough to scratc
h cement. A skewer that’s violated Bytchkov’s carotid artery as readily as room-temperature butter.

  The first initial spray of blood hit a dozen different men. No telling who might have been responsible, who might have first held Bytchkov’s head, his arms, who might have worked the shank. And by the time the two COs reach his side, Bytchkov’s well past being able to point a finger.

  Shame. Nice guy.

  Thirteen hours later, one o’clock in the morning, the night shift CO pauses three times in front of three different cells, passing along three packs of smokes, slipping them through the bars. Under the cellophane, dime bags of high-octane coke and folded, twenty dollar bills. Her whisper, three times in a row: “Moretti says thanks.”

  Walking to his truck in the parking lot of the Rockjaw hospital, just after visiting Aggie, Sweeney’s phone rings. He glances down. A 212 number. New York. Maybe it’s Tina, maybe his sister, maybe even The New York Times. The last isn’t inconceivable. He’s got a pretty good story to tell.

  The number, and the number of names that could be associated with it, reminds him unpleasantly of the duties that his resurrection will now insist he perform. He’ll have to get hold of his sister, for instance. And sooner rather than later. Perhaps tonight, perhaps tomorrow. After the initial shock, she’ll have to be kind to him, won’t she? She’ll have to allow him back into her life, yes? He’s uncertain. Not sure he’d do the same, if he were in her shoes.

  Normally he’d ignore the call, check his voice mail a few minutes later; but he’s inclined now to get this over with. To start as soon as possible swiping an eraser at the ghostly marks of his various misjudgments. “Yeah, hello, this is Sweeney.”

  The voice, grumbling and phlegmatic, knocks all his other concerns off the table. “That what you’re calling yourself these days?” Donnie Moretti says. “I was wondering about that.”

  “Donnie, what can I do for you?”

  “No chit chat, huh, Cosmo? No how-you-doing, niceday, sun-shining-where-you-are?”

  “What can I do for you.”

  “You can tell me where my fucking goods are, for one thing. Yeah, you can do that for me.”