at the tabletops. Stefanos dragged on his cigarette and closed his eyes.
Beautiful. When it’s this good it’s fucking beautiful. I’ll never stop drinking. It just feels too fucking good.
He was drunk by the time he made it home. It was only a couple of blocks from Slim’s, but he had driven it with a hand over one eye.
He walked around the back of the house to his apartment. Inside the door, on a small cherry-wood table, he saw the day’s mail. Atop the stack sat an unstamped manila envelope, labeled with his name and address. He opened the envelope and examined its contents: the folder on the Randy Weston case. Elaine Clay had messengered it over earlier in the day.
Stefanos dropped the folder on the table and went into his bedroom. He could see Alicia’s form beneath the blankets of the bed.
“Hey,” said Stefanos.
“Hi,” she said.
He got out of his shirt, removed his wristwatch, and dropped it shy of the dresser top. He bent down, picked up the watch, and put it in place. He unzipped his jeans and stumbled getting out of them.
“You all right?” said Alicia.
“Yeah. I, uh, had a few. I didn’t realize…”
“Come to bed. Come on.”
He got under the sheets. She was naked and warm. He turned on his side, and she pressed herself against him, kissing him behind his ear. He could feel her sex and her hard nipples against his back.
“Alicia?”
“Ssh.”
She rubbed his back, and after a while he fell to sleep.
TEN
Lee Toomey lived on eight acres of woodland ten miles south of Edwardtown, on Old Church Road off the interstate. The old church, hugged by a stand of oak, had been gutted and rebuilt and now carried a new facade of white aluminum siding. Farrow passed the New Rock Church and a half mile later made the turnoff onto Toomey’s gravel drive.
Toomey’s utility truck, boldly lettered with the company name of Toomey Electric, was parked before his house alongside Toomey’s black El Camino. Farrow parked the SHO on the other side of the truck, walked around a bicycle carelessly dropped in the yard, and knocked on the front door of Toomey’s brick rambler.
Viola, Toomey’s wife, answered the door. She had mousy brown hair, a nothing chest, a flat ass, and a buckshot of acne on her chin. Farrow didn’t know how Toomey could stand to fuck her. Viola carried Ashley – a white-trash name for a kid if Farrow had ever heard one – their two-year-old daughter, in her arms.
“Hi… Larry.”
“Viola. Lee asked me to come on out.”
“He’s back in the den.”
She stepped aside, bumping her back on the wall. Viola was afraid of Farrow, and that was good.
Farrow went through a hall to an open kitchen, which led to a den with sliding glass doors giving to a view of thick, gnarled woods. Toomey, short gone dumpy with long hair and a full, red-tinged beard, sat in a recliner, staring through the glass. His chubby, featureless son, Martin, sat in front of the television set, his hand furiously manipulating a joystick as two armor-clad men fought onscreen.
Toomey had been a bad motherfucker up at Lewisburg when Farrow first met him, one of the Aryan Brotherhood who took shit from no one. He was the enemy of Roman Otis then, as well as Manuel and Jaime and T. W., but since he had found Jesus, his racial outlook, and general demeanor, had changed. He had not forgotten the con’s code, though, and when Farrow had first called, he reluctantly told him to come down to the Eastern Shore, where he would introduce Farrow to a straight job and, it was implied, put him on the path to righteousness.
Toomey knew Farrow had been coming off some sort of heist. It was only later, when Farrow told him, that he learned about the extreme brand of heat that Farrow and the others had drawn. Farrow wasn’t much worried that Toomey would rat him out; there was the code, and the penalty for breaking it would always be in the back of Toomey’s mind. Toomey had a family now. Surely Toomey understood.
Jesus was the wild card. Religion was an irrational concept and it bred irrational acts. Toomey had been trying to get Farrow to join the New Rock Church for months now, and Farrow suspected that this was the reason Toomey had summoned him, once again, today. Toomey had gone all the way over for that full-of-shit new Reverend Bob, who had taken over the reins of the church one year back.
“Lee,” said Farrow.
Toomey turned his head. “Larry.”
Farrow stood over him, watched Toomey’s fingers drum the arm of the recliner. “You wanted to see me?”
Toomey looked at his son. “Martin, why don’t you go on out and ride your bike some, give Larry and me a little privacy.”
Martin’s eyes did not move from the television screen. “Chain slipped on my bike, Dad. Can’t ride it.”
“Just give us a few minutes here, son.”
“I’m in the middle of my game.”
Farrow went to the electronic box that sat atop the set and ripped the wires out of its back. Martin stood up, his hands wiggling at his side, and looked at his father.
“Go on, Martin,” said Toomey.
Martin left the room. Farrow had a seat on the couch across from Toomey.
Toomey sighed and forced a smile. “Thanks for coming out, Larry.”
“You can quit all that Larry bullshit, Lee. Call me by my given name. It’s just you and me.”
“Okay.”
“What do you want?”
Toomey clapped his hands together. “Well, the Reverend Bob would like to see you. He’s been asking after you for some time.”
Farrow reached inside his jacket for a cigarette, lit it, shook out the match, tossed the spent match on a glass table set before the couch. The match made a yellow-black mark on the glass.
“What’s he want with me?”
“Wants to bring you into the flock, Frank.”
“He’s a man of the cloth. That means he wants something.” Farrow dragged on his cigarette. “What’s he want? ”
Toomey looked away. “He knows.”
Farrow flicked ash to the carpet. “Knows what?”
“He’s a smart man, Frank. Got all sorts of degrees. He worked at Rikers for a while when he was younger, as some sort of counselor. He picked me out of the crowd the first week he came to town.”
“You telling me he’s blackmailing you?”
“ No, sir. I donate my labor to the church because I want to. I rewired that entire structure, and I’m proud to say it didn’t cost the church a penny. I’d do more if I could.”
“That’s nice. But how did he connect you to me?”
“He’s seen us together this past year, once or twice in town. Seen you goin’ in and out of the liquor store, too, the one on the interstate stocks those fancy wines?”
“So?”
“Like I say, he picked me out as an ex-con. I figure he picked you out, too.”
“I’m gonna ask you again. What’s he want?”
“I told you already, he wants to bring you in -”
“He wants money.”
“A donation would be a part of you joining the congregation, yes.”
