Dead I Well May Be (3 page)

Yes? I say.

Michael? a voice says.

Yes, I say, trying not to sound amazed.

It’s Sunshine, he says.

Sunshine. Sunshine, how in the name of bloody Jehovah do you know this pay-phone number? I ask, giving up any attempt to play it cool.

I’m paid to know these things, he says mysteriously.

Yeah but—

Listen, Michael, it’s all off for today. Darkey’s going to see the Boss and he’s taking myself and Big Bob with him. The rest of you have the day off. Scotchy’ll call you tomorrow.

All right, I say, and I’m going to ask him about money but he rings off. The prick. Sunshine is Darkey’s right-hand man, and if ever there
was a more weaselly-looking man-behind-the-man type of character, it’s Sunshine. Thin, thinner than Scotchy even, with one of those skinny mustaches, and a bald head with a ridiculous comb-over that makes him look a bit like Hitler. I had him pegged for a child molester the minute I saw him but apparently that’s not the case. Scotchy says not and Scotchy hates him. I don’t. After you meet him a bit he’s ok. Actually, I think he’s a nice bloke, on the whole.

I hang up the phone and look foolishly at it for a second and one of the kids comes up and asks if it was for me. He’s about ten, braver than the others, or more bored. Big hands that are restless behind him. Neat clothes, newish shoes.

I nod.

And who the fuck are you? he asks, squinting up at me and into the sunlight.

I-I’m the bogeyman, I say, and grin.

You ain’t no boogy man, he says, his American pronunciation half accusing, half scared. After all, I can look intimidating on occasion.

You always do what your mother tells you? I ask.

Sometimes, he says, thrown by the question.

Well, listen. Next time you don’t, don’t be surprised if I’m under your bed or in your cupboard or out there on your fire escape. Waiting.

He turns and wanders off slowly, trying to appear unimpressed. Perhaps he is. Not easy alarming little kids around here. Christ, most of their goddamn grandmas scare the hell out of me.

Ok, home. No point lingering. I suppose it’s impossible to get my token back since I didn’t ride the train. I scope the clerk and she’s a tough big lassie whose fucking shadow could kick my ass. She gives me the evil eye while I’m considering the options, so in the end I don’t even bother. And then it’s step, step, step down the broken escalator, which since I’ve been here has been unrepaired. Slime on the bottom step.

I turn and walk along 125th past the live chicken store and the discount liquor and the horrible doughnut shop and the thinly disguised All-Things-Catholic, but really All-Things-Santería store. Cross the street. A man in a makeshift stall is selling bananas, oranges, and some green fruit I don’t know the name of. It’s all well presented but with all
this pollution and crap around here you wouldn’t eat anything he’s vending, you’d have to be fucking crazy. People are, of course, and there’s a queue.

At the junction you stop and you take a long look. You have to. For it’s all there. The traffic. The pedestrians. Bairns and dogs and men with limps outside under the overhang. The slick off the Jackie Robinson. Public Enemy blaring from the speakers, Chuck D and Flavor Flav out-snapping each other. The hotness and the sizzle and the crack and the
craic
. Dealers and buyers and everyone in between. It’s rich and it’s overwhelming but really, in Harlem, all is sweetness. No one bothers me. They take me in. It’s a scene. It’s like the beach. The moisture, the temperature, the people on the dunes of sidewalk and the great hulking seething city is, in this analogy, the dirty gray Atlantic Ocean.

Up the hill. It’s only two blocks but by some freak of geography it’s really the equivalent of about five.

I reach in my shorts for my keys and turn on 123rd. Vinny the Vet is ahead of me going in the building, having a full, angry conversation with no one at all. His shopping bag clinks. Danny the Drunk is on the corner in the sun propping himself up. That purple face is leaning down over his walking stick, dry retching. And me as the third representative of the Caucasian race on the street, what am I like?

Aye, what indeed.

Keys, pistol. Pistol, keys.

Nerves are bad.

Keys. But the lock is screwed up and I have to jiggle it. Must tell Ratko, not that he’ll fix anything. But guilt-ridden by his laziness, he will invite me down for some foul Polish vodka and Serbian delicacies prepared last year or so by the missus. But at least in my warped brain it’ll be home cooking.

Sounds like a plan.

It’s 1992 and Serbs are beginning to get a bit of a bad reputation. But it’s not so terrible yet. Ratko’ll pour me a full tumbler of something clear and awful and we’ll toast Gavrilo Princip or Tito or the memory of the bloody Knights of Kosovo and I’ll have a cold sausage-and-lard sandwich and another glass and when the drink is sweating me close to a bloody heart attack I’ll slink away and stumble up the three floors to the apartment.

Second thought, no.

Inside, Freddie’s there doing the mail.

Freddie, I say, and we talk for a minute about sports. Freddie can see I’m beat, though, and lets me go. Nice chap, Freddie.

Go up the stairs. The door. Keys again. Inside. Hotter here than the street. I put on the telly for company. Free cable somehow. I look for something familiar and settle on Phil Spector and John Lennon and some irritated long-haired session musicians being lectured by Yoko Ono on chord progression.

Run the bath. Water comes out brown. Sit on the tub edge and have a brief premonition of the phone ringing and me picking it up and it’s Sunshine, come over all ominous, saying that Darkey wants to see me.

I shiver, get up, and take the phone off the hook. Disrobe, climb into the bath. Light a fag. Convince myself that this phone call will never happen. Get out of the bath and actually disconnect the phone from the wall, think for a moment, lock the door, get my gun, check the mechanism, leave it where I can grab it. Climb into the bath again. Sink into nothingness. Sink.

Murmurs, hymnals, and in the vestry quiet whole colonies of insects give me kisses and I’m too buggered to do anything about it. Vodka spills from my mouth. I’m sleeping and on the shores of some immense creature’s back, a giant bovine eye and blue nerves and a labyrinth of tentacles. Jesus. I get up out of the water, which is by now cold, and grab a towel.

Later. The phone, the TV. The heat. Fag after fag until the ashtray is full. The fridge works and brings me vodka with ice. Small mercies but mercies nonetheless. I lean back on the sofa and contemplate my surroundings.

And let me describe the beautiful haven Scotchy and Darkey have picked out for me. Not that I’m ungrateful. Took me in, gave me a place. But it’s not as if I haven’t earned my keep. Only one with two brain cells to rub together. Anyway. They, of course, live in the nice part of the Bronx at the end of the 1 line. But it was full up there, see? Scotchy’s claim, anyway. More fool me to believe him. This place
apparently is five hundred a month, which comes out of my pay. As did the furniture, which Scotchy admitted later he got all for sweet FA in the street. It’s a one bedroom. A toilet whose stink greets you when you come in. Next to it, a bath on little feet and under the bath there are more flora and fauna than David Attenborough could handle with the entire resources of the BBC behind him.

Corridor and kitchen. Forget about swinging a cat, a cat couldn’t swing a mouse in here. Gas stove whose pilot light is perpetually going out. Years, perhaps decades, of grease everywhere. Holes in the walls and skirting.

Living room: TV, free cable, a big wooly yellow disgusting sofa.

Bedroom: futon on the floor, cupboard, table, chair.

There is no natural light anywhere. The living room’s gray windows overlook a tiny courtyard, the bedroom peers onto the backs of the buildings on 122nd. If you go out onto the fire escape (which I often do) and you set up a chair and look up, now and again, through the skunk trees, you can see a plane or a bit of sky. The fire escape is rusted and rickety and will kill us all when the fire comes, but even so it’s the nicest place in the apartment.

The roaches are the big problem. I’ve been here since last December and I’ve been fighting a guerrilla war with them ever since. I haven’t grown used to their existence. I haven’t reached Zenlike tranquillity that allows me and them to share the same territorial and metaphysical space. In Ireland there are no roaches. No creatures of any kind like this. Occasionally, a field mouse would come in the house. Or perhaps a bee or some benign beetle or ladybug. No, nothing like these things.

I respect them now, though. I hate them, but I respect them. I have beheaded them, poisoned them, scalded them, burned them, poisoned them again and somehow they seem to survive. I dropped a liter bottle of Coke once on one big water bug and it lived. I poured a half pound of boric acid on another and put a pot on it that I covered with a brick. I left it there for a week while we all went to Florida for a wake and a funeral for Mr. Duffy’s brother. Got back, removed the brick, bastard cleans its antennae and crawls off into the wall. This was about kill two hundred and I had to go and scratch out the table and make it one kill less. The lesson was chastening. Like the RAF pilots in the
Battle of Britain, you only report your kill when you see the plane hit the ground.

Anyway, they’re everywhere. They crawl on you at night. You hear them in walls. You feed them in the traps. Occasionally they fly. You tell Ratko and he laughs and he shows you his place in the basement. Which if anything is worse.

Still …

The fire escape.

Another fag. Sirens. Dogs barking. People yelling. Smoke, sit there and draw it in and hold it. Hold it. Let it go. Let it all go.

I live on 123rd and Amsterdam. A block away is the edge of the Columbia University security zone and there they call the neighborhood Morningside Heights so that concerned parents don’t freak out, which they would if they had to send mail to bloody Harlem. But this is Harlem. There are projects one block to the north, not particularly bad projects but projects nonetheless, and to the east it’s the real nightmare. The buildings are derelict and most of them seem to be inhabited by crack cocaine addicts. Morningside Park is pretty hairy after dark and all the way up to 125th Street is no picnic. I stick out, too. I have learned some Spanish and have told myself that thus equipped I can pass as a Dominican. However, my paper white Mick skin is not entirely convincing.

I have no air-conditioning and the fan only moves hot air around the room.

I toss the fag and climb back in through the window. I go to the kitchen and get a beer. Milwaukee Great Gold. It’s the worst beer I’ve ever had—they brew it with corn, if you can believe it. But it’s cheap, and if you put the fridge up enough and it gets freezing cold you don’t really taste it anyway.

I go back out on the fire escape and watch a few squirrels and way up in the blue the odd ascending vapor trail. The beer goes down and it’s almost nice now. The day seems to be getting a little cooler.

The phone rings.

I hardly remember reconnecting it but I must have. Duty, responsibility, that’s me.

I let it bleat. It goes on and on and it wears me down. I finish the last of my drink and hurl the can off the side of the rail trying to hit Ratko’s
pit bull, but I don’t and the dog looks up at me and starts barking. I climb in through the fire-escape window and tramp across the bedroom and into the hall. I turn off
Nevermind
on the cassette player. I pick up the phone.

It’s Scotchy. I can tell by that nasally intake of breath before he speaks. He’s excited.

Hey, Bruce, something’s come up.

Name’s not Bruce, I say wearily. Scotchy’s perpetual little joke.

Bruce, gotta get uptown. Andy got a hiding. You know Darkey’s away, right?

I don’t answer him.

Bruce, are you there?

Must have the wrong number mate, no Bruce here. No Bruce, no spider, no cave, no salvation for Bonnie Scotland.

Stop fucking around, Bruce, you dickless wonder, this is serious.

I choose again the path of silent resistance. There is a good fifteen seconds of dead air on the phone. Scotchy starts mumbling and then in a bit of an exponential panic he says:

Hello, hello, hello, oh Jesus, Mike, are you still there?

I’m here, I say with just enough lassitude to irritate the hell out of him.

Well, what the fuck? Christ. Jesus man, I’m holding the fucking ship, you know. Look, Andy got a hiding and Sunshine and Darkey are out of the picture, so I’m the boss, right?

You’re the boss? I say, hoping to convey as skeptical a tone as if he’s just told me that he is, in fact, Anastasia, lost daughter of Tsar Nicholas the Second.

Aye, he says, my clever intonation going over his head.

Is that how the chain of command goes? I ask in a more neutral voice.

Aye, it does.

Fergal’s been with Darkey a wee bit longer than you, hasn’t he? I ask mischievously.

Fergal’s an idiot, Scotchy says.

Pot calling the kettle black? I suggest.