Dirty Words - [19]

Nathan started inhaling for what I could only assume was a great scream when I stuffed the sock back in.

"My husband used to beat me a lot, buddy. He broke my ribs twice." Cecilia undid Nathan's belt.

She couldn't be serious.

Could she?

She opened the button on his jeans. Nathan's eye bulged. "He knocked out all my front teeth. See?" She removed her upper and lower plates and wiggled them in front of Nathan's face. She put them back in her mouth and unzipped his pants. "I wanted kids. I really did. He beat me so hard I had three miscarriages." She roughly pulled his pants and underwear down. "I can't have kids now."

Then she grabbed his junk and squeezed hard. For a second, I thought Nathan's last remaining eyeball was going to come popping out.

Cecilia pressed her nose right up against Nathan's, fury ablaze on her face. "So I made sure he couldn't have any either."

She raised the knife.

Nathan made a lot of noise under the sock. I yanked it out. "Take the money! Take the money!"

"And Matilda?" I asked.

"Go! Go! God in heaven, please. I never want to see any of you again. Please just let me go." He was sobbing uncontrollably, snot and tears running down his cheeks.

"Too late." Cecilia drove the blade down with enough force to drive it into the floor two inches.

But about a half-inch from the ol' cock n' balls.

Nathan fainted dead away. His head made a pleasant thump as it hit the floor.

Cecilia stood and shook out a deep breath. With a wicked smile, she said, "Well, that was more fun than it deserved to be."

We split the money. Five grand each way was hopefully enough to cover our medical expenses and should have been enough for Nicky and Matilda to get to Michigan.

Junior and I dropped the unconscious Nathan by Fenway Park's C Gate minutes before the Sox game ended. We kept his eye. And his pants

Junior and I waited side by side into the emergency room. It wasn't the first time.

"You think he'll leave them be?" Junior asked as he flipped through an Us Weekly.

"I'll be shocked if he stays in Boston."

"Yeah. Wouldn't want Cecilia coming after me."

"Me either." Cecilia declined any money. Making Nathan cry was payment enough.

I looked at the lump on the back of Junior's head. "Doesn't look like he got you too hard."

"Nah. The puss swings a bat like a Yankee."

"Hard enough to knock you out a few minutes, though, didn't it?"

He didn't look at me. "I wonder if twenty-five hundred would be enough to hire the Dragon Lady for a freelance gig."

I shut it.

Last Call

I wait.

The bar is too clean, all pristine oak tables and shiny brass fixtures. The people are also too clean. The dudes all wear blue denim shirts with tan slacks. The chicks are decked-out uniformly in trendy black dresses and bottle-blonde hairdos like the girl on T.V. Hair By Stepford.

It's not easy being the pecan in the peanut gallery, surrounded by a hundred Brians. I miss the bars with the air so choked with cigarette smoke that the air hung in front of your face. They're all like this now. I've become less a man without a country than a drunk without a bar. This is not my New York. My New York is almost gone

The bartender checks my glass. I nod for another. She smiles, more for the tips than my charm. So far I've ordered four bourbons, but drank none. Despite self-awareness regarding my too-often consumption, not drinking is easier than you'd think. Without getting too Descartes-ian about it, I'm working. It's a personal job, but I'm still working. You fuck up in my vocation, the boss doesn't humiliate you in front of the cute secretary you're trying to bang. Nope. I fuck up and I spend a few decades in a concrete cage. Or in a box for eternity.

The barmaid leans over when she pours to give me a better view of her already ridiculously public boobs. It's her game, and it's not a bad one. I'm just not in a boob mood. Never thought I'd say that

"Love your shirt," she says.

She'll remember the shirt more than my face.

Friend of mine lives in the Upper West. Tells me he regularly sees this huge dude in the neighborhood-guy is like six-four, six-five-wearing a bright pink baseball cap. It's kinda weird, seeing this big guy in that hat. Fourth time my buddy sees the guy, he realizes that the guy is Liam Neeson.

Isn't that something? All that time, and all he saw was that pink fucking hat.

Liam Neeson is a man who knows how not to be seen.

The devil is in the details.

I smile my best harmless, bland grin at the bartender. "Can't go wrong with hula girls on a shirt."

She giggles, takes the money and mouths a "thank you" at me with a sexy pout that probably made the frat boys drool in their Jager Bombs. I pour the liquor into the glass next to mine and sip my Coke. The night drags like church on Super Bowl Sunday. I wait some more.

I'd heard about Brian before I met him. Nothing good.

My day had already started out badly. My favorite watering hole, The Lady Luck Saloon, still had its metal shutters down when I arrived for my first libation of the day. I stood outside like a moron for fifteen minutes before I remembered that Andy, the owner, had "some bidness" to take care of in Jersey the night before.