Tick Tock (Michael Bennett 4)
“An Irish jig.”
I turned and glared at the big kid with the even bigger mouth. Trent was even younger than Eddie, an innocent seven-year-old kid who happened to be black. I really felt like knocking the fat kid’s hat back straight with a slap. Instead, I quickly thought of another idea.
“In that case,” I said, staring at the delinquent, “kick his ass.”
“My pleasure,” Eddie said, trying to lunge from my grip.
“No, not you, Eddie. Brian’s not doing anything.”
Brian, six foot one and on the Fordham Prep JV football team, smiled as he stepped forward.
At the very last second, I placed a palm on his chest. Violence never solved anything. At least when there were witnesses around. Twenty or thirty loyal St. Edmund’s parishioners had stopped to watch the proceedings.
“What’s your name?” I said as I walked over and personally got in the kid’s face.
“Flaherty,” the kid said with a stupid little smile.
“That’s Gaelic for dumb-ass,” Juliana said by my shoulder.
“What’s your problem, Flaherty?” I said.
“Who has a problem?” Flaherty said. “Maybe it’s you guys. Maybe the Point isn’t your cup of tea. Maybe you should bring your rainbow-coalition family out to the Hamptons. You know, Puff Daddy? That crowd?”
I took a deep breath and released it even more slowly. This kid was getting on my nerves. Even though he was just a teen, my somewhat cleansed soul was wrestling valiantly not to commit the sin of wrath.
“I’m going to tell you this one time, Flaherty. Stay away from my kids or I’m going to give you a free ride in my police car.”
“Wow, you’re a cop. I’m scared,” Flaherty said. “This is the Point. I know more cops than you do, old man.”
I stepped in closer to him, close enough to head butt, anyway.
“Do any of them work at Spofford?” I said in his ear.
Spofford was New York’s infamous juvy hall. By his swallow, I thought I’d finally gotten through.
“Whatever,” Flaherty said, walking away.
Why me? I thought, turning away from the stunned crowd of churchgoers. You never saw this kind of crap on TLC. And what the hell did he mean by old man?
“Eddie?” I said as I started leading my gang back along the hot, sandy road toward the promised land of our saltbox.
“Yes, Dad?”
“Stay away from that kid.”
“Brian?” I said a few seconds later.
“Yeah, Pop?”
“Keep an eye on that kid.”
Chapter 3
AN HOUR LATE
R, I was out on the back deck of my ancestral home, working the ancestral grill full-tilt boogie. Dogs on the warming rack. Cheese slices waiting to be applied to the rows of sizzling, freshly ground burgers. Blue smoke in my face, ice-cold bottle of Spaten lager in my hand. We were so close to the water, I could actually hear the rhythmic roll-and-crash of saltwater dropping onto hard-packed sand.
If I leaned back on the creaky rail of the deck and turned to my left, I was actually able to see the Atlantic two blocks to the east. If I turned to the right, to the other side of Jamaica Bay, I could see the sun starting its long descent toward the skyline of Manhattan, where I worked. I hadn’t had to look in that direction for over a week now and was praying that it stayed that way until the first of August.