Live by Night (Coughlin 2)

Joe had watched him strangle Harvey Boule, though. It had been over opium, a woman, or a German shorthaired pointer; to this day Joe had only heard rumors. But Harvey had walked into the casino and he and Tim got to talking and then Tim snapped the electric cord off one of the green banker’s lamps and wrapped it around Harvey’s neck. Harvey was a huge guy and he carried Tim around the casino floor for about a minute, all the whores running for cover, all of Hickey’s gun monkeys pointing their guns right at Harvey. Joe watched the realization dawn in Harvey Boule’s eyes—even if he got Tim to stop strangling him, Tim’s goons would empty four revolvers and one automatic into him. He dropped to his knees and soiled himself with a loud venting sound. He lay on his stomach, gasping, as Tim pressed his knee between his shoulder blades and wrapped the excess cord tight around one hand. He twisted and pulled back all the harder and Harvey kicked hard enough to knock off both shoes.

Tim snapped his fingers. One of his gun monkeys handed him a pistol and Tim put it to Harvey’s ear. A whore said, “Oh, God,” but just as Tim went to pull the trigger, Harvey’s eyes turned hopeless and confused, and he moaned his final breath into the imitation Oriental. Tim sat back on Harvey’s spine and handed the gun back to his goon. He peered at the profile of the man he’d killed.

Joe had never seen anyone die before. Less than two minutes before, Harvey had asked the girl who brought him his martini to get him the score of the Sox game. Tipped her good too. Checked his watch and slipped it back into his vest. Took a sip of his martini. Less than two minutes before, and now he was fucking gone? To where? No one knew. To God, to the devil, to purgatory, or worse, maybe to nowhere. Tim stood and smoothed his snow-white hair and pointed in a vague way at the casino manager. “Freshen everyone’s drinks. On Harvey.”

A couple of people laughed nervously but most everyone else looked sick.

That wasn’t the only person Tim had killed or ordered killed in the last four years, but it had been the one Joe witnessed.

And now Tim himself. Gone. Not coming back. As if he’d never been.

“You ever see anyone killed?” Joe asked Emma.

She looked back at him steadily for a bit, smoking the cigarette, chewing a hangnail. “Yeah.”

“Where do you think they go?”

“The funeral home.”

He stared at her until she smiled that tiny smile of hers, her curls dangling in front of her eyes.

“I think they go nowhere,” she said.

“I’m starting to think that too,” Joe said. He sat up and gave her a hard kiss and she returned it just as hard. Her ankles crossed at his back. She ran her hand through his hair and he looked into her, feeling if he stopped looking at her, he’d miss something, something important that would happen in her face, something he’d never forget.

“What if there is no After? And this”—she ground herself down on him—“is all we get?”

“I love this,” he said.

She laughed. “I love this too.”

“In general? Or with me?”

She put her cigarette out. She took his face in her hands when she kissed him. She rocked back and forth. “With you.”

But he wasn’t the only one she did this with, was he?

There was still Albert. Still Albert.

A couple days later, in the billiards room off the casino, Joe was shooting pool alone when Albert White walked in with the confidence of someone who expected an obstacle to be removed before he reached it. Walking in beside him was his chief gun monkey, Brenny Loomis, Loomis looking right at Joe like he’d looked at him from the floor of the gaming room.

Joe’s heart folded itself around the blade of a knife. And stopped.

Albert White said, “You must be Joe.”

Joe willed himself to move. He met Albert’s outstretched hand. “Joe Coughlin, yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“Good to put a face to a name, Joe.” Albert pumped his hand like the pumping would get water to a fire.

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Brendan Loomis,” Albert said, “a friend of mine.”

Joe shook Loomis’s hand, and it was like putting his hand between two cars as they backed into each other. Loomis cocked his head and his small brown eyes roamed over Joe’s face. When Joe got the hand back, he had to resist the urge to wring it. Loomis, meanwhile, wiped his own hand with a silk handkerchief, his face a rock. His eyes left Joe and looked around the room like he had plans for it. He was good with a gun, they said, and great with a knife, but most of his victims he just beat to death.

Albert said, “I’ve seen you before, right?”

Joe searched his face for signs of mirth. “I don’t think so.”

“No, I have. Bren’, you seen this guy before?”

Brenny Loomis picked up the nine ball and examined it. “No.”

Joe felt a relief so overpowering he worried he might lose control of his bladder.

“The Shoelace.” Albert snapped his fingers. “You’re in there sometimes, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Joe said.

“That’s it, that’s it.” Albert clapped Joe on the shoulder. “I run this house now. You know what that means?”

“I don’t.”

“Means I need you to pack up the room where you’ve been living.” He raised an index finger. “But I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting you on the street.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just this is a swell joint. We have a lot of ideas for it.”

“Absolutely.”

Albert put a hand on Joe’s arm just above the elbow. His wedding band flashed under the light. It was silver. Celtic snake patterns were etched into it. A couple of diamonds too, small ones.

“You think about what kind of earner you want to be. Okay? Just think about it. Take some time. But know this—you can’t work on your own. Not in this town. Not anymore.”

Joe turned his gaze away from the wedding band and the hand on his arm, looked Albert White in his friendly eyes. “I have no desire to work on my own, sir. I paid tribute to Tim Hickey, rain or shine.”

Albert White got a look like he didn’t like hearing Tim Hickey’s name uttered in the place he now owned. He patted Joe’s arm. “I know you did. I know you did good work too. Top-notch. But we don’t do business with outsiders. And an independent contractor? That’s an outsider. We’re building a great team, Joe. I promise you—an amazing team.” He poured himself a drink from Tim’s decanter, didn’t offer anyone else one. He carried it over to the pool table and hoisted himself up on the rail, looked at Joe. “Let me just say one thing plain—you’re too smart for the stuff you’ve been pulling. You’re nickel-and-diming with two dumb guineas—hey, they’re great friends, I’m sure, but they’re stupid and they’re wops and they’ll be dead before they’re thirty. You? You can keep on the path you’re on. No commitments, but no friends. A house, but no home.” He slid off the pool table. “If you don’t want a home, that’s fine. I promise. But you can’t operate anywhere in the city limits. You want to carve something out on the South Shore, go ahead. Try the North Shore, if the Italians let you live once they hear about you. But the city?” He pointed at the floor. “That’s organized now, Joe. No tributes, just employees. And employers. Is there any part of this I’ve been unclear on?”