Read Online Hurt Machine by Reed Farrel Coleman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
Ads: Link
Brian.”
“I almost wish you couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“You know I love you and Carmella. You guys saved my ass and taught me the ropes and everything, but this bitch Alta deserved what she got.”
I thought about saying that no one deserved a violent death, but I didn’t believe it, not for a second. I’d seen too much, lived through too much to think that there weren’t some people, maybe only a very few, who warranted a violent end: Caveman Kenny Burton, for instance. Besides, I thought, when did deserving have anything to do with it?
“I owe it to Carm,” I said, “and so do you. When you get the information I’m looking for, you can wash your hands of it.”
He wasn’t enthusiastic. “All right. Whatever.”
“Another drink?”
“Nah, just let me know when you get what we need.”
He stood to go, but I grabbed his arm.
“I think I’m dying, Brian.” The words came out of my mouth involuntarily.
He sat back down. “What?”
“Stomach cancer.”
“Jesus. Fuck!”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“It’s bad, huh?”
“It’s not good.”
“Why tell me? I was gonna do the job for you anyhow.”
“It’s not that, Brian. I would never manipulate a friend that way. Weird thing is, I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone, but I think I would have exploded if I didn’t tell somebody. I knew I could tell you. You can’t say a word about it.”
“Not to Devo?”
“I suppose you can tell him,” I said. “But that’s it.”
“Okay, you got my word.”
“Shit, Doyle, lighten up. I’m the one with the cancer. You look worse than me.”
He stared at me for a long few seconds and said, “No, Boss, I don’t.”
After he left O’Hearn’s, I watched him walk away down Church Street. I caught a reflection of myself in the window. He was right.
THIRTEEN
Maya Watson was less than thrilled about doing what I asked, saying that it seemed like getting dirty all over again. I thought that was sort of a strange thing to say, but I wasn’t in her shoes. Reading the hate mail made me feel a lot of things—angry, shameful, disgusted, eventually bored—but not dirty. Then again, I was a third party and the hate and racism weren’t directed at me. Who was I to judge? No matter, Maya said she’d take care of it as soon as she could.
In the meantime, I headed back to Bordeaux in Brooklyn to make sure the wine order for the wedding was ready for shipment up to Vermont. When Sarah and Paul first told me they were getting married in Vermont, I thought it was going to be a relaxed affair in a ski chalet or local bar somewhere. I nearly broke out in hives when they told me it was to be a black tie wedding at Paul’s parents’ country club. The last country club wedding I’d been to was in the early ’80s, just after Katy’s miscarriage. It was at that wedding that the seeds of Katy’s murder were sown. It was impossible for us to know then that those seeds would take seventeen years to sprout and that when they did the world would fall in around us. It frightened me to think I had become my mother’s son. Were we, like she believed, always just one breath short of disaster, one nightfall away from the sun’s refusal to shine? Had she been right all along?
I was also kind of shocked that they had country clubs in Vermont or enough Jews and other ethnic groups to actually form them. What surprised me even more was that tuxedos weren’t contraband. I mean, I enjoyed my time in Vermont. It was a lovely and serene place that made Brooklyn seem like an Earth colony on a distant planet in a far-flung galaxy, but it had its quirks. After only a few trips up there to visit Pam, I was convinced that it was against the law for men to trim their beards or to get a decent haircut. The state police clearly seized most shipments of women’s makeup at the border and banned all fashion magazines from sale. Pam must have smuggled her clothes, jewelry, and makeup in under cover of darkness.
“I almost wish you couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“You know I love you and Carmella. You guys saved my ass and taught me the ropes and everything, but this bitch Alta deserved what she got.”
I thought about saying that no one deserved a violent death, but I didn’t believe it, not for a second. I’d seen too much, lived through too much to think that there weren’t some people, maybe only a very few, who warranted a violent end: Caveman Kenny Burton, for instance. Besides, I thought, when did deserving have anything to do with it?
“I owe it to Carm,” I said, “and so do you. When you get the information I’m looking for, you can wash your hands of it.”
He wasn’t enthusiastic. “All right. Whatever.”
“Another drink?”
“Nah, just let me know when you get what we need.”
He stood to go, but I grabbed his arm.
“I think I’m dying, Brian.” The words came out of my mouth involuntarily.
He sat back down. “What?”
“Stomach cancer.”
“Jesus. Fuck!”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“It’s bad, huh?”
“It’s not good.”
“Why tell me? I was gonna do the job for you anyhow.”
“It’s not that, Brian. I would never manipulate a friend that way. Weird thing is, I wasn’t going to say anything to anyone, but I think I would have exploded if I didn’t tell somebody. I knew I could tell you. You can’t say a word about it.”
“Not to Devo?”
“I suppose you can tell him,” I said. “But that’s it.”
“Okay, you got my word.”
“Shit, Doyle, lighten up. I’m the one with the cancer. You look worse than me.”
He stared at me for a long few seconds and said, “No, Boss, I don’t.”
After he left O’Hearn’s, I watched him walk away down Church Street. I caught a reflection of myself in the window. He was right.
THIRTEEN
Maya Watson was less than thrilled about doing what I asked, saying that it seemed like getting dirty all over again. I thought that was sort of a strange thing to say, but I wasn’t in her shoes. Reading the hate mail made me feel a lot of things—angry, shameful, disgusted, eventually bored—but not dirty. Then again, I was a third party and the hate and racism weren’t directed at me. Who was I to judge? No matter, Maya said she’d take care of it as soon as she could.
In the meantime, I headed back to Bordeaux in Brooklyn to make sure the wine order for the wedding was ready for shipment up to Vermont. When Sarah and Paul first told me they were getting married in Vermont, I thought it was going to be a relaxed affair in a ski chalet or local bar somewhere. I nearly broke out in hives when they told me it was to be a black tie wedding at Paul’s parents’ country club. The last country club wedding I’d been to was in the early ’80s, just after Katy’s miscarriage. It was at that wedding that the seeds of Katy’s murder were sown. It was impossible for us to know then that those seeds would take seventeen years to sprout and that when they did the world would fall in around us. It frightened me to think I had become my mother’s son. Were we, like she believed, always just one breath short of disaster, one nightfall away from the sun’s refusal to shine? Had she been right all along?
I was also kind of shocked that they had country clubs in Vermont or enough Jews and other ethnic groups to actually form them. What surprised me even more was that tuxedos weren’t contraband. I mean, I enjoyed my time in Vermont. It was a lovely and serene place that made Brooklyn seem like an Earth colony on a distant planet in a far-flung galaxy, but it had its quirks. After only a few trips up there to visit Pam, I was convinced that it was against the law for men to trim their beards or to get a decent haircut. The state police clearly seized most shipments of women’s makeup at the border and banned all fashion magazines from sale. Pam must have smuggled her clothes, jewelry, and makeup in under cover of darkness.
Similar Books
