Roast Mortem

Michael straightened. “James shouldn’t have shot off his mouth.”

“Please,” I whispered, “talk to me. Who’s responsible?”

“It’s complicated...”

Somewhere over our heads, an unsettling thunder began. The Number 7 line was just a block away from where we stood. In midtown Manhattan the tracks were buried deep underground, but here in Queens, the subway train was elevated, periodically roaring over neighborhood streets, making quiet talk impossible. (Then again, in my experience, whenever any previously buried thing was brought out into the open, polite talk became impossible.)

The captain untangled his arms as he moved around me. With unsteady steps, he went to the bench, sunk heavily down. When the deafening noise finally died out, he spoke again.

“I got the evidence today, put it in a package addressed to you.”

“Me?” I sat down next to him on the bench.

“I would have sent the thing to Mike, but one look at the return address and he’d surely toss it in the bin. I want you to give the package to my cousin, explain why it’s important. You’ll know once you look it over. Mike will listen to you. And after you’re done convincin’ him, you two call me and we can get this whole thing handled right.”

“You want Mike’s help?”

“Mikey and I have had our differences. But I know he’s a good cop. To a fault maybe, but he’s still my blood — and he’s the only government official in this town I trust.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never let the fire get behind you, darlin’, that’s what it means.”

“English?”

“I can’t give the evidence to any of the brass above me. Someone may have been paid off. There’s no way I can know...”

“What’s in the package? Can’t you tell me?”

“Not here. Not now.” He glanced at the doorway again. Shadows moved past, but none materialized. “I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you. But I noticed you came here alone tonight. And you were lookin’ my way an awful lot this evening... and I thought maybe...”

His eyes held mine. As I waited for him to complete his sentence, an icy breeze touched my hair. I tried not to shiver. “Well?”

“I thought maybe you were havin’ second thoughts about my offer.”

“You mean Atlantic City?”

“I mean me, Clare. You and me.”

Oh brother. “There is no you and me. Is there even a package? Or are you playing me again?”

“What I told you in my office, Clare, that was true. I’ve never met a woman quite like you.”

“Stop it. You’re still trying to get back at Mike.”

“Not this time.”

“Listen to me: I’ve got your number. Mike told me the truth about what happened with your little brother, Kevin. The whole truth. You left out enough of the story to make Mike look like a cold- hearted monster. You told me that story to make me doubt him.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes! I know you’ve been through terrible things in your life, Michael, terrible things... and I’m sorry for that. But it doesn’t excuse your treatment of your cousin.”

“My little brother would have been my brother in the FDNY if it wasn’t for my cousin — ”

“Mike had nothing to do with what happened to Kevin! Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?”

“Your little brother self-destructed right before he was supposed to enter the fire academy because he was afraid.”

“Afraid? Of who?”

“Of you, Michael. I’m a mother! I know!”

He just gawked at me, looking confused.

I sighed. To me it was clear as sunlit glass. Kevin and Lucia had been on the very same unhappy ride, driven by father figures who wanted them to be something they just didn’t want to be.

“Kevin didn’t want to join the FDNY, but he didn’t want to risk your disappointment. He was terrified you’d turn your back on him. So he screwed up royally by driving drunk. He blamed the police, Mike, anyone but himself — and you bought right into it.”

“If my little brother had come to me, told me how he felt, I would have understood. I’d never turn my back on my own flesh and blood.”

“You turned on your own cousin, didn’t you? You’ve been treating Mike like the enemy, but he isn’t. All you did for all these years was twist the real story until it fit into a bogus ‘truth’ you could live with.”

Michael blinked. He suddenly looked less sure of himself. I could only hope it was because a thin wedge of insight was finally penetrating his thick cranium.

“Come on. Don’t you think it’s time that you two buried the hatchet?”

“Aw, darlin’...” He exhaled hard, rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s too much bad blood between us. Years of it. Too much we did to each other. I’d like to be on level ground with my cousin again... I would. But Mike won’t want to bury the hatchet with me — not unless it’s in my skull.”

“How can you say that?”

“You don’t know everything.” He parted his lips, pointed. “You see this gold tooth? That was Mike’s right hook...”

“What don’t I know? Tell me.”

“No...” He held my eyes. “You tell me. Tell me why you’re still sitting here now, talking to me... You must feel what’s between us, Clare, because I can feel it...”

I began to answer, but somewhere above, the Number 7 train was approaching again, the insistent machinery growing louder, drowning out my words.

Michael leaned closer, his breath so saturated with whiskey I could almost feel the burn of the shot. Before I knew what was happening, the man’s iron band of an arm was behind my back, crushing me close.

“Michael, no!”

He was half drunk and fumbling, more sad than dangerous. The rough brush of his handlebar mustache moved over my mouth first then down my cheek. I felt his lips at my jaw line, my neck, a hand groping my breast. I squirmed and struggled.

“Stop it right now! Stop!”

The captain froze, finally hearing me above the subway’s deafening thunder. His lips moved off of my neck, his hand was no longer groping. He lifted his head and was just beginning to release me when —

“You son of a bitch!”

It was Mike — my Mike — standing at the pub’s back door. He’d come to Saints and Sinners after all, his shout of outrage half swallowed by the unrelenting movement of the elevated subway. Before I could say a word, he launched, hauling back and punching his cousin in the side of the head.

“Mike, don’t!”

The fire captain reeled, and Mike punched him again, this time in the gut. The captain’s arms remained at his sides. He took the blows, like he knew he had it coming. Michael wasn’t even trying to defend himself!

“Stop!” I shouted. “Your cousin’s drunk! He didn’t mean it!”

Another punch to the face.

“You’ll kill him! Stop!”

But Mike just kept pummeling his cousin.

I ran to the pub’s doorway. “HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

A mob of firefighters rushed out and pulled the cousins apart. A few swings landed on Mike for payback.

“Leave him be,” Michael shouted, wiping blood from his nose.

The men complied.