Read Online The Ninth Step by Gabriel Cohen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gabriel Cohen
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ended up on the rug. The taste was like an instant time machine back to his childhood. Which, of course, reminded him of the reason for his visit. “I don’t mean to bug you, but have you had a chance to think over what we talked about? You got any leads for me?”
Cosenza sat deep in his chair, dug a finger in his ear, then turned and looked out the window. “ Leads . Christ.” He turned back to Jack with an embarrassed look. “I’m sorry, but nobody around here wants to rehash ancient history.”
Jack felt all his own amiability ice over. “I told you: there’s nothing ancient about this for me. I’ve been living with it every day since I was a fucking kid.”
Cosenza grimaced. “I’m sorry for that, Jack. Really I am. But you asked for my help, and I’m helping you. I’m telling you the best course of action here: you need to let sleeping—”
Jack nearly launched himself out of his chair. “Don’t say it, Larry. Don’t ever say that. We’re talking about my brother.”
Cosenza raised his hands in apology. “I’m sorry. But I’m looking out for you.”
Jack stood up. “Did somebody tell you something, Larry? Did somebody ask you to warn me off?”
Cosenza sat back and raised his hands. “Just let it go. There’s no good going to come of this, not for you, not for anybody.”
Jack stood silent for a minute. “All right. I get it. You still live here. You’ve got a wife and kids, a business.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Cosenza stood too, a pained expression on his face. “Hell. Don’t go away mad.”
Jack just gave him a disappointed look, then turned and walked out.
HE DIDN’T GO FAR.
He got back in his car and drove a short distance west through Carroll Gardens. On Court Street, he passed the old hiring hall, once presided over by the Longshoremen’s Union in close conjunction with a string of Mafia capos; the big boxy building had even featured a stained-glass portrait of Albert Anastasia, chief executioner of Murder, Inc.
The place was now a medical center for elderly dock-workers. The rest of the area had not changed much, though: old Italian bakeries remained, a butcher’s, a coffee shop, the St. Mary’s Star of the Sea Church. Jack continued on toward Red Hook, toward the waterfront, toward his childhood.
As soon as he crossed the elevated Gowanus Expressway, the rows of small but dignified brownstones, homes to generations of Italian families, gave way to the rough and tumble world of the Red Hook Houses, big redbrick hives, booming with gangsta rap. Deeper in, nearer the harbor, he passed vacant lots full of weeds; parking lots full of yellow school buses; small factories and machine shops. To the south, the old Todd Shipyards lay fallow, a wasteland of crumbling brick.
Jack dug down in his memory, trying to dredge up names of neighbors from long ago, or people his father had worked with. There was Pat MacEgan, pipefitter, one of his old man’s drinking buddies—Jack remembered coming across him one night on Van Brunt Street, rooting around in the backseat of his car. Jack asked what he was doing; the man answered, “I can’t find the goddamn ignition.” And there was Al Garbarino, shipyard purchasing agent. (Al’s big story, repeated way too many times over shots of Seagram’s: how he had bet the same number for six years in a row, then given up in disgust—only to have that number hit big the very next day.)
Other names eluded Jack, like minnows in murky water, partly due to his middle-aged memory but mostly because he had gone to such lengths to dissociate himself from Red Hook after Petey’s death.
He soon discovered just how well he had succeeded in losing touch. At what had been Pat MacEgan’s house, a tousled hipster girl with black-rimmed eyes and a nose ring answered the bell. Another stranger—an old woman—answered the door at Al Garbarino’s house: she informed Jack that the unlucky gambler had died back in ’87.
He drove
Cosenza sat deep in his chair, dug a finger in his ear, then turned and looked out the window. “ Leads . Christ.” He turned back to Jack with an embarrassed look. “I’m sorry, but nobody around here wants to rehash ancient history.”
Jack felt all his own amiability ice over. “I told you: there’s nothing ancient about this for me. I’ve been living with it every day since I was a fucking kid.”
Cosenza grimaced. “I’m sorry for that, Jack. Really I am. But you asked for my help, and I’m helping you. I’m telling you the best course of action here: you need to let sleeping—”
Jack nearly launched himself out of his chair. “Don’t say it, Larry. Don’t ever say that. We’re talking about my brother.”
Cosenza raised his hands in apology. “I’m sorry. But I’m looking out for you.”
Jack stood up. “Did somebody tell you something, Larry? Did somebody ask you to warn me off?”
Cosenza sat back and raised his hands. “Just let it go. There’s no good going to come of this, not for you, not for anybody.”
Jack stood silent for a minute. “All right. I get it. You still live here. You’ve got a wife and kids, a business.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”
Cosenza stood too, a pained expression on his face. “Hell. Don’t go away mad.”
Jack just gave him a disappointed look, then turned and walked out.
HE DIDN’T GO FAR.
He got back in his car and drove a short distance west through Carroll Gardens. On Court Street, he passed the old hiring hall, once presided over by the Longshoremen’s Union in close conjunction with a string of Mafia capos; the big boxy building had even featured a stained-glass portrait of Albert Anastasia, chief executioner of Murder, Inc.
The place was now a medical center for elderly dock-workers. The rest of the area had not changed much, though: old Italian bakeries remained, a butcher’s, a coffee shop, the St. Mary’s Star of the Sea Church. Jack continued on toward Red Hook, toward the waterfront, toward his childhood.
As soon as he crossed the elevated Gowanus Expressway, the rows of small but dignified brownstones, homes to generations of Italian families, gave way to the rough and tumble world of the Red Hook Houses, big redbrick hives, booming with gangsta rap. Deeper in, nearer the harbor, he passed vacant lots full of weeds; parking lots full of yellow school buses; small factories and machine shops. To the south, the old Todd Shipyards lay fallow, a wasteland of crumbling brick.
Jack dug down in his memory, trying to dredge up names of neighbors from long ago, or people his father had worked with. There was Pat MacEgan, pipefitter, one of his old man’s drinking buddies—Jack remembered coming across him one night on Van Brunt Street, rooting around in the backseat of his car. Jack asked what he was doing; the man answered, “I can’t find the goddamn ignition.” And there was Al Garbarino, shipyard purchasing agent. (Al’s big story, repeated way too many times over shots of Seagram’s: how he had bet the same number for six years in a row, then given up in disgust—only to have that number hit big the very next day.)
Other names eluded Jack, like minnows in murky water, partly due to his middle-aged memory but mostly because he had gone to such lengths to dissociate himself from Red Hook after Petey’s death.
He soon discovered just how well he had succeeded in losing touch. At what had been Pat MacEgan’s house, a tousled hipster girl with black-rimmed eyes and a nose ring answered the bell. Another stranger—an old woman—answered the door at Al Garbarino’s house: she informed Jack that the unlucky gambler had died back in ’87.
He drove
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