Read Online The Town: A Novel by Chuck Hogan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chuck Hogan
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“Talking about your meetings again?” Jem said. “Like fucking church with you.”
Doug said, “It’s in a church.”
Jem gave up on his niece and turned to the gored table, rolling an Irish-flag Zippo lighter over and over in his hand. “Hey, I go dry. Days at a time. Good to step back now and then, reset the clock. Healthy. But this is, what, you’re on like a year or more? That’s fucking hitting pause, kid.”
“Two years next month.”
“Key-reist almighty. Real comfortable up there in the front seat of that wagon. I’m remembering one time you fell off—Dearden’s wedding.”
Krista smiled at the memory. Doug wondered why this always came up. “That was a mistake.”
“A mistake where you rocked the house, buddy. That was a night.”
“I had almost a year in, until that slip.”
“Slip? Yo, a
slip
? That was a high-dive, Rodney Dangerfield. A
Back to School
Triple Lindy belly flop. My point is, Duggy—you went right back. Look at you. Unshakable. Better, stronger, faster. So what’s the fucking harm now and then, breaking down and getting a little wet with your poor, misguided, dry-throated friends?”
The phone rang and Jem snapped it up, answering, “Monsignor Kid-Toucher, what’s the word?” again jumping to his feet and wandering away.
Krista sat there with her arms crossed, watching her daughter, lost in thought. “You’re no priest,” she said.
Doug turned to stare at her. “The hell are you talking about?”
“Even the Monsignor, Desmond the Nearsighted—the Pope of the Forgotten Village—even he lowers himself to drink with the boys.”
“Because he can handle it. I can’t.”
“’Cause you’re an
alcoholic
.”
“Right. ’Cause I’m an
alcoholic
.”
“So proud, though. Proud of your disease.”
“Jesus, Kris,” said Doug. “You were asking why I don’t come down anymore?”
“So what’s your high now? Just banks? Being the prince of these thieves?”
Doug frowned, done. He never talked about this with her, and she knew he didn’t like her talking about it at all. “Any more shots you want to take before I go?”
Krista wiped some cracker mush from her daughter’s mouth before turning on him. “Yeah. What’s it gonna take to wake you up from whatever dream it is you’re dreaming?”
When he didn’t answer, she stood and carried her crossed arms into the kitchen, leaving him alone with Shyne’s staring eyes.
T HEY DROVE SOUTH THROUGH Rhode Island into Connecticut in Gloansy’s tricked-out ’84 Monte SS, black with orange trim. With three convicted felons on board and riding with a lot of cash, Gloansy couldn’t be trusted to keep his Halloween-mobile under the speed limit, so Dez had the wheel. Doug sat up front with him, working the radio and using his side mirror now and then, idly checking for tails, while Jem and Gloansy split a six in back.
Two hours to Foxwoods, door to door. Careful as they were on the job, even a circulated bill could be marked, and washing the money was one of Doug’s rituals. Insisting on it had the added benefit of slowing Jem’s and Gloansy’s spending.
Jem liked the roulette wheel and usually ended up dropping half of what hecame to wash, drinking Seven and Sevens on the house and overtipping like a fifteen-year-old out on a date.
Gloansy bought a $12 cigar and set out to lose at high-min poker.
Dez floated back and forth between rooms, paranoid about pit bosses and floor managers with their cop eyes.
Doug worked steadily at the blackjack tables. He started by laying out sixty twenties on the felt of a $50 table and watched the dirty bills get dunked, forty-eight $25 chips pushed over to him. He drank Cokes without ice and played not to win but
to not lose,
which is different. Not losing means staying in every hand as long as possible, sitting on fifteens and sixteens and letting the dealer do all the busting. When he cashed in thirty minutes later, he was down only six chips. He folded the clean
Doug said, “It’s in a church.”
Jem gave up on his niece and turned to the gored table, rolling an Irish-flag Zippo lighter over and over in his hand. “Hey, I go dry. Days at a time. Good to step back now and then, reset the clock. Healthy. But this is, what, you’re on like a year or more? That’s fucking hitting pause, kid.”
“Two years next month.”
“Key-reist almighty. Real comfortable up there in the front seat of that wagon. I’m remembering one time you fell off—Dearden’s wedding.”
Krista smiled at the memory. Doug wondered why this always came up. “That was a mistake.”
“A mistake where you rocked the house, buddy. That was a night.”
“I had almost a year in, until that slip.”
“Slip? Yo, a
slip
? That was a high-dive, Rodney Dangerfield. A
Back to School
Triple Lindy belly flop. My point is, Duggy—you went right back. Look at you. Unshakable. Better, stronger, faster. So what’s the fucking harm now and then, breaking down and getting a little wet with your poor, misguided, dry-throated friends?”
The phone rang and Jem snapped it up, answering, “Monsignor Kid-Toucher, what’s the word?” again jumping to his feet and wandering away.
Krista sat there with her arms crossed, watching her daughter, lost in thought. “You’re no priest,” she said.
Doug turned to stare at her. “The hell are you talking about?”
“Even the Monsignor, Desmond the Nearsighted—the Pope of the Forgotten Village—even he lowers himself to drink with the boys.”
“Because he can handle it. I can’t.”
“’Cause you’re an
alcoholic
.”
“Right. ’Cause I’m an
alcoholic
.”
“So proud, though. Proud of your disease.”
“Jesus, Kris,” said Doug. “You were asking why I don’t come down anymore?”
“So what’s your high now? Just banks? Being the prince of these thieves?”
Doug frowned, done. He never talked about this with her, and she knew he didn’t like her talking about it at all. “Any more shots you want to take before I go?”
Krista wiped some cracker mush from her daughter’s mouth before turning on him. “Yeah. What’s it gonna take to wake you up from whatever dream it is you’re dreaming?”
When he didn’t answer, she stood and carried her crossed arms into the kitchen, leaving him alone with Shyne’s staring eyes.
T HEY DROVE SOUTH THROUGH Rhode Island into Connecticut in Gloansy’s tricked-out ’84 Monte SS, black with orange trim. With three convicted felons on board and riding with a lot of cash, Gloansy couldn’t be trusted to keep his Halloween-mobile under the speed limit, so Dez had the wheel. Doug sat up front with him, working the radio and using his side mirror now and then, idly checking for tails, while Jem and Gloansy split a six in back.
Two hours to Foxwoods, door to door. Careful as they were on the job, even a circulated bill could be marked, and washing the money was one of Doug’s rituals. Insisting on it had the added benefit of slowing Jem’s and Gloansy’s spending.
Jem liked the roulette wheel and usually ended up dropping half of what hecame to wash, drinking Seven and Sevens on the house and overtipping like a fifteen-year-old out on a date.
Gloansy bought a $12 cigar and set out to lose at high-min poker.
Dez floated back and forth between rooms, paranoid about pit bosses and floor managers with their cop eyes.
Doug worked steadily at the blackjack tables. He started by laying out sixty twenties on the felt of a $50 table and watched the dirty bills get dunked, forty-eight $25 chips pushed over to him. He drank Cokes without ice and played not to win but
to not lose,
which is different. Not losing means staying in every hand as long as possible, sitting on fifteens and sixteens and letting the dealer do all the busting. When he cashed in thirty minutes later, he was down only six chips. He folded the clean
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