The golden doors slide across and I see my own reflection looking dumb and defeated. I notice that the elevator panel has two close-doors buttons but no keep-doors-open button, which is a little strange. Maybe rich folk are generally in a hurry. Faces don’t glycolically peel themselves, I suppose.
Well, it’s true, but I’m thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be worth it.
I think that’s the nicest thing Ronnie has ever said to me.
The elevator dings for the parking level and I wedge an old video-store card into the runner to prevent the door from closing.
It’s puerile I know, but I am desperate for the fleeting heart balm of lighthearted mischief.
Mom and Ev.
Dead.
To me.
On the bright side I have a Cadillac packed with cash that Freckles ain’t gonna have much use for where he’s parked.
CHAPTER 9
THE CADDY IS IN THE PARKING GARAGE WHERE I LEFT IT WITH the starter fob two inches inside the exhaust pipe. I don’t know why I decided to hide the keys here, maybe my subconscious figured Edit out before I did. I fish the fob out of there and sit in the car for a while, just being cradled by the leather seats. Those plush leather seats are pretty darn comfortable and I want to take a minute just to appreciate, to enjoy something, even if it is the stolen car of a guy I just saw cut in half underwater. I got stuff to do, I know that, but some kind of news must be leaking through to Mike by now. He must know that the Masterpiece gambit pretty much played out exactly as he’d hoped. So why not let him enjoy his smugness a little longer while I sit here and stroke the soft kid leather.
The leather is so soft I want to cry. Why did they have to stitch it? Why would someone do that? All those pinholes of pain.
Balls. I think I’m having another breakdown.
Soldiers have this mind-set that they gotta be tough as nails twenty-four seven. So we dampen down all the poison in our chests, forging a rancid cannonball to be fired at a later date, possibly at people who don’t deserve it, in a crowded restaurant shortly before our divorce. Things got a little better with The Sopranos. Those therapy sessions really helped Tony, especially in season two. And if it’s good enough for a Mafia don, then surely regular soldiers can’t be accused of weakness for booking a few sessions.
Simon Moriarty was my savior. If it hadn’t been for that guy, I don’t think I would have made it through six months of civilian life. I haven’t called him in more than six months but I think now’s the time.
I patch my phone through the Caddy’s system and dial the Irish number. The international double brrrp is comforting and a little nostalgic so I drift off for a while waiting for Simon to pick up.
I’m halfway into a dream where I’m calling a school friend of mine and hoping his mom will pick up when I realize someone is shouting at me.
“Huh?” I say, then. “What?”
“Daniel,” says a familiar voice. “Sergent McEvoy.”
I’ll be damned. That’s Simon Moriarty’s voice. “Hey, Simon. What’s up?”
“No,” he says. “That’s my line. You called me, remember?”
These shrinks are so perceptive.
“Yes. That is technically true. I did call you.”
Simon doesn’t respond to this ridiculous time waster. He just waits. He was always a bollocks for the waiting. I don’t like a sound vacuum in a conversation so I’ll generally dive in with any old shite. Not this time though. I ain’t no punk newcomer to the couch game.
Screw you, I’m gonna wait you out, Simon.
Simon hangs up.
Feck. I been played.
I redial.
“Who is it?” says Simon, making me feel like a naughty kindergarten student.
“Simon, please. I ain’t got time for this.”
I hear the clunk/rasp of a Zippo being fired up, then a long crackle as Simon lights one of his tipped cigars. This is followed by a lengthy and horrible bout of coughing as Simon dislodges a pint of smoker’s phlegm.
“Okay, Dan. I’m all yours, for ten minutes. The girls are with me this afternoon and I promised them no interruptions.”
Girls? “I didn’t know you had daughters.”
“I don’t,” says Simon, straight faced I imagine, and I hear two voices in the background singing Abba’s “Mama Mia” and I wonder if the owners of those voices are wearing the outfits. I must listen for a few seconds too long because Simon speaking jolts me out of my reverie.
“Daniel. Come on, snap to it, soldier.”
“Oh, yessir. Sorry.”
Simon likes to throw in a bit of Pavlovian military jargon to get things moving, even though with his eighties rock-star mullet, Cuban-heel boots and faded T-shirts he is about the least military person I know. In all the time he treated me, Simon never once arrived either on time or completely sober.
I’m not saying Simon Moriarty ain’t good. In fact I doubt there is anybody better. Most shrinks I’ve done time with are all about the big revelation, but Simon is great for coping strategies that are of immediate use. And oh my God that’s what I need today.
“I’m all tied up, Simon. Not really, like with ropes and stuff, but seeing as we’re on the subject, I’ve been cuffed twice already today.”
“Big deal,” says Simon. “I have one foot cuffed to the bedpost right now.” He barks a couple of times then, which I hope is not for my benefit.
I press on. “There’s a guy I work for who has me doing unsavory stuff for him, which I do to get out from underneath but it never ends. Unsavory stuff begets more unsavory stuff and before I know it, there are a bunch more guys all looking to take payment from me for something I did not start.”
Simon is silent for a long moment and I hear the girls are back around to the chorus.
“Could you be a little more vague?” he says eventually.
“I know I’m not giving you much to work with but some of these things I’m being forced to do ain’t exactly legal.”
“Okay. These unsavory things. Is there any end in sight?”
I try to imagine Mike good-naturedly canceling my debt and the picture won’t take shape in my head.
“No. No, he’s never gonna let me off the hook.”
“Okay. And do you have any roots in the community, anywhere you can turn for help?”
“My roots. There’s this girl I know.”
“Ah yes, the delusional girlfriend. How is Sofia?”
I picture Sofia with a hammer in her delicate fingers, blood dripping from the claw. That picture takes shape no problem.
“Good days and bad days. She does recognize me occasionally, which has gotta mean something, right?”
“It’s progress,” says Simon. “But back to your problem. This man, who I’m guessing from our previous talks is Mike Madden, has you in a bind. All we ever talk about is this sadist Mike Madden. It seems to me that you are dealing with the symptoms rather than the root cause.”
I think Simon is trying to tell me something without telling me something.
“I don’t follow.”
“Let me tell you a story. A parable if you like. If they were good enough for Jesus, they’re good enough for me.”
“Amen, brother.”
“This guy lived in a tent beside a bush.”
This is starting off real cryptic.
“Okay. Tent-bush. Got it.”
“Only the guy is allergic to the bush.”
“Is the bush flowering?”
Simon sighs. “Stop dicking me around, Daniel. Just take it as read that I will include all relevant information. So, if I don’t say it, you don’t need to know it.”
Is the bush flowering? What the hell is happening to me? Hanging with Zeb has turned me into a pain in the ass.
“Sorry, Simon. Continue.”
“Thank you. So the guy is allergic to the bush and wakes up every morning covered in hives. So he starts taking pills to get rid of the hives. Every night a fistful of pills. These are big
horse pills, so it’s a pain.”
“Okay. I’m seeing it.”
“After a while the pills aren’t so effective anymore so he’s gotta cover himself in lotion before bed. The stuff gets all over the sheets and stinks.”
“Am I the guy? Just tell me that much.”
Simon ignores the interruption. “So its pills and lotion and eventually an injection once a week. This bush is ruining the guy’s life. So one day the guy calls his good-looking, lady-killer friend who lives across the ocean.”
Aha, the mist is clearing.