Until You

"Nice to look out and see folks," Brady had said, when he'd come knocking on the door, looking for a contribution to the Block Association.

John grimaced. Did Brady take him for a fool? He hadn't been dumb enough to give the man money but he'd set him straight, made sure he understood that he didn't give a crap what "folks" were doing and never had. He wasn't sitting at the window for the scenery. It was so he could keep an eye on things. He was a man who believed in law and order. People knew that, and respected it.

He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. Was that the boy from 4D? What was the kid's name? Juan, probably, hell, they were all named Juan. Kid was lounging against the doorway across the street, eyeing the girls, looking for trouble. Well, why not? Kid didn't have any rules to live by, none of 'em did anymore. No wonder everything was coming apart.

You had to raise your kids to know right from wrong, paddle them on the tail when they needed it, tell 'em what to do and how to do it if you wanted 'em to grow up right. Even then, there were no guarantees. Just look at what had happened with his very own flesh and blood.

Not that it was his fault. Conor had been born late in their lives and his wife, God rest her soul, had spoiled him rotten.

"Can't you be gentle, John?" she'd say when the kid would fuck up and need a lick or two with the belt. "Show the boy you care for him."

"I know what I'm doing, Kathleen," he'd tell her.

But it hadn't mattered. The boy was defiant, even more so after Kathleen, God rest her soul, had passed. He'd done what he could, tried to teach the kid to be obedient and God-fearing, but the more he'd tried, the worse things had gotten. Conor had run wild, got himself into one scrape after another, done his own thing and ignored his father's good advice. Finally, he'd announced he wanted to go on the job.

On the job, hell, John had said. He hadn't raised the boy to walk a beat. He'd put his foot down and said that would happen only over his dead body so the kid ran off and joined the fuckin' army, for crissakes, instead of going to college and becoming a lawyer, the way he was supposed to.

John O'Neil rose to his feet and went into the kitchen. The water in the kettle was still hot enough, and there was another dunk or two left in the tea bag from breakfast. He refilled his cup and went back to his chair, slurping down the lukewarm tea, watching as the kid—Carlos, that was his name—leaned away from the building and swaggered towards some pretty little thing with tits just starting to fill out her blouse.

It had damn near killed him, watching his son go wrong. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, such a fuck-up. In and out of trouble, then the army and a failed marriage to some la-de-da bitch, and even after the boy had finally come to his senses and gotten himself a law degree—and not at City College, either, oh no, that wasn't good enough—even after he had the degree, what had he done with it?

"Not a thing," John O'Neil said aloud, "not one damn thing!"

Was Conor an attorney, making a good living at insurance like the Murphy boy or raking in money doing accident claims, like the Donelli kid? Hell, no. Conor still hadn't grown up. He was running around playing spy games for some fancy government agency...

What the hell?

The tea sloshed over the dm of the cup and onto his fingers.

Was that Conor, coming up the block?

It couldn't be. They saw each other two, three times a year, plenty for the both of them, talked on the phone from time to time...

By God, it was Conor, come to pay his old man a visit.

It was a long time since he'd seen his son at a distance. He was tall, was Conor. Good-looking, too, like his mother, and he walked as if he owned the world.

John O'Neil felt an unaccustomed warmth rise within his chest.

Who was that, coming down the steps of the next building? Annie Genovese, that old gossip. She said something to Conor, who paused and stopped at the bottom of the stoop.

John's gaze flickered over Conor again and his expression soured.

Annie Genovese was always boasting about her sons, all three of 'em. The doctor. The accountant. The college professor.

What did he have to boast about? Not his son, the junior G-man, dressed like a bum in dungarees, leather jacket and a pair of boots.

Boots?

"Mother of God," John O'Neil said, and he drew back from the window, folded his arms, and waited.

* * *

"It's lovely to see you, Conor," Mrs. Genovese said. "It's been a long time."

Conor smiled. "Good to see you again, too, Mrs. Genovese."

"So," she said, "what are you doing with yourself these days?"