Part 6 (2/2)

Redhead laughs. ”We can help you with sleep.” His eyes are popping out of his head, showing too much white. He's on something serious. I get the sense that if he throws me a punch, I'll break like a porcelain doll.

The DA furrows his brow. He's so concerned. He says, ”You have an odd way of expressing appreciation, Genevich.”

I'm not nervous. I'm still on my first ball and nowhere near tilting. I should be nervous, though. The momentum of the evening is not in my favor. Must be the beers and booze helping me out.

I say, ”I'll thank you for the ride home if I get there. Unless you're expecting something more. Sorry, but I don't put out on a first date.” The interior light is on in the limo but everything is still dark. I think we're headed toward West Broadway.

The DA says, ”You should be expressing appreciation for my patience. It wouldn't take more than a phone call and a few computer keystrokes to have you locked up. Or worse.” He uncrosses his legs and leans toward me, a spider uncurling itself and readying to sprint down the web.

The goons sitting across from me, they're in the heel position but twitching. Hackles up. Ready to go.

The DA is bluffing. He's all talk and no chalk. Otherwise his threatening little scenario would've already happened. Nothing is going to happen. They're going to drop me at my apartment with another tough-guy act and another warning. Warnings. I'm collecting them now like stamps, or b.u.t.terflies.

Then again, that's not to say that the DA can't do what he said. It'd be suicide to a.s.sume otherwise. I'm going to try this out: ”Sounds like you're putting me on double-secret probation. What would my dear old dad say about you hara.s.sing his son like this? It's not very Southie of you.”

He squints, eyelids putting on a mighty squeeze. I got to him. Not sure how. Can't be just the memory of my father, can it? He says, through a mouthful of teeth, ”Your dad isn't around anymore, is he? Hasn't been around for a long time, not sure if you're aware.”

”I'm always aware.” I sound stupid. He gives me threats and doom, and I give him a self-help life-affirmation aphorism.

He says, ”And don't tell me what's Southie, Genevich. You have no idea.”

I hold up my hands. The DA is getting too hot. No telling what his goons might do if he starts to smoke. I say, ”If you say so. Still not sure why all the fuss here. I'm not in your way now, and I haven't done anything wrong. I'm clean, as in squeaky.”

He smiles. ”When has that ever mattered?” His regained polished tone and delivery is a gun pointed in my face. It holds that much potential for damage. I have no chance.

The bald goon says, ”Let's hurt him.”

I say, ”Jeez, DA, do your const.i.tuents know that you run with this kind of crowd? I'm shocked and more than a little disappointed.”

He doesn't go for it. He says, ”What do you say you just give me the photos, Genevich. The negatives-and don't look surprised, I know there are negatives-and any copies you might've made, digital or otherwise. Give me everything, and that'll be the end of this and any further unpleasantries.”

”Or what? You'll call my mommy again?” Things are happening too fast. I add, ”You don't need the photos. I've said my mea culpas. They're not of Jennifer. I told her as much during dinner. She's out of the picture, so to speak. And she's fine with it. You should be too.”

The DA and the goons laugh. Apparently I'm funny. He says, ”The photos, Genevich. I want them. Now is not soon enough. We can take them by force if necessary. It wouldn't bother me. The funny part is we could hold your hand and take you home, sit on your couch, and just wait for you to fall asleep.”

I say nothing. His last line robs me of both cool and machismo. Not that I have any.

The DA says, ”Tell our driver to turn left onto D Street, and we'll all just enjoy the ride.” Redhead follows through on the instructions.

Might as well lay it all out right here. ”So how is our friend Brendan Sullivan these days?”

The goons laugh. I've said something incredibly smart or stupid. Likely both.

Baldy says, ”He ain't doing too good right now.”

Redhead says, ”He did answer our questions though, poor guy.”

The DA says, ”You don't even know what you're saying half the time, do you, Genevich? I suggest you cut the tough-guy PI act, leave the big-boy stuff to us big boys, and give me the photos.”

The limo slows and stops. I look out the tinted window and see a Burger King. We're at the D Street intersection. The D Street projects are on the other side of the street. The buildings look like gravestones.

Baldy slaps my face. I hang on to the cigarette but things go fuzzy. I might just go out now, but I pull it together.

”The patty-cake s.h.i.+t is getting old, goon.” I fill my lungs with smoke and it stokes a fire in my chest. I exhale a smoke ring that haloes Baldy's head, and I say, ”I buried the photos on Boston Common, under the roots of a sapling. The tree will sprout pictures instead of leaves. Harvest in the fall. Good luck with that.”

Baldy tries to slap me again but I catch him by the wrist and stub out my cigarette on the back of his hand. He yells. I pull him into my knee, right in the b.a.l.l.s, and then push him over, into Redhead. The DA does nothing. He barely looks interested.

I try the limo door, expecting it to be locked, but it opens and I spill out onto the wet pavement and the other lane. Just ahead is a double-parked and idling cab. It's white with some black checkers on the panels. No driver. He must be inside the fast-food joint taking a leak. I look over my shoulder. Redhead crawls out of the limo after me. A gun is in his hand, big as a smokestack.

There's isn't much time. I scuttle around the cab and jump into the driver's seat. The steering wheel is warm and too big. There're too many places for my hands to go. They don't know what to do. The instruments in the dashboard are all in j.a.panese.

A bullet spiderwebs the rear pa.s.senger window. The gla.s.s bleeds and screams. Didn't think they'd shoot at me out in the open like this. Must be a mistake, but one that can't be reversed. A chain of events now set into motion until there's one conclusion: me with extra holes. I fumble for the automatic transmission s.h.i.+ft. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, it's on the steering wheel. It shouldn't be there. I pull on it but it doesn't move. I don't know its secret.

There are loud and fast footsteps on the pavement. Two footsteps become four and multiply rapidly until there's a whole city of footsteps running at me. Redhead appears at my window. He's yelling some crazy stuff, doesn't make any sense. Maybe he's reading the dashboard labels. The gun barrel snug against the gla.s.s doesn't have any problems communicating its message.

I'm pulling as hard as I can and the gears.h.i.+ft finally gives in to my demands, which weren't all that unreasonable. I drop the transmission into drive and squeal the wheels. I'm moving forward and I duck, down beneath the dash; there's another gunshot, this one sending gla.s.s snowflakes falling onto my head, and there's . . .

SEVENTEEN.

”We're here.”

I come to in the back of a cab. I'm still buzzed and my mouth tastes of vomit. I bolt upright like a rake getting stepped on. The Johnny Rotten of headaches lurches and struts around my brain. G.o.d save my head.

The cab and me, we're at the corner of Dorchester and Broadway, idling in front of my office and apartment building. I want to go digging back under, into the brine, find me some real sleep, the kind that makes my body glad it's there to support me. But I won't find any in here, and I probably won't find any upstairs in my apartment.

”Don't be sleeping on me now,” the cabbie says. His voice is full of f.u.c.k you, but he really cares about me. I can tell.

I'm awake now. I have no idea how much of the DA, the limo ride, and the goons happened. My left cheek, where Redhead slapped me, is sore and puffy. Maybe I did escape their limo and jump into this cab and then dreamed the rest. I don't know.

The cab's heat is on furnace blast. The muscles in my hands feel week. I open and close shaky fists. They're empty and tired, like me. The little sleep was and is too hard.

I pull a crumpled bill out of my pocket and throw it at the cabbie. It's not a good throw. ”Keep the change.” Don't know if it's enough, and don't care. Neither does he apparently.

I open a door, leave without a further exchange, and manage to land standing on the curb. The cab leaves. It was white and had black checkers on the panels. It's late. There aren't any black limos or red cars on the street. It's still dark and raining.

I need time to process the evening: what happened, what didn't happen, what any of it means. I have my keys out, but the front door to my office is open. The door is thick and heavy, probably as old as the brownstone building, and it sways in the wind and rain.

I step inside the front entryway. The stacks of local restaurant menus are all wet and turning to pulp under my feet. This isn't good. I walk into my office. I don't need to turn on a light to see that everything is all wrong, but I turn it on anyway. Never did like surprises.

Someone picked up my office and shook it around like Daddy needed a new pair of shoes and rolled snake eyes. And then the shaker took out his frustration with the undesired result on my f.u.c.king office.

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