The putz was squirming in his blue leather armchair.
Sitting in the police station, Gordy’s back was sore. His wrists were sore. He felt like he was going to shit blood, and no one cared.
His mother’s cell phone rang.
“Here Pun-pun, your father wants to talk to you.”
Great.
“Hi, dad.”
“Hey, Gord. Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I just spent three hours discussing whether to put polka-dots or stripes on a pair of toddler-sized overalls. I got mom’s message. You okay?”
Gordy felt his mother’s arm drape over his shoulder.
“Yeah I’m fine. Just a fight.”
“Your mom says you’re not saying who started it.”
Gordy could only say what he’d already said to everyone else.
“It just…it just doesn’t matter. Okay?”
“Well, you should, and that’s all I’m going to say about it. I’m forty-six years old, and I’ve never swung a punch or been hit in the face. You’ve already got one more story to tell than I do.”
A puff of a laugh went through Gordy’s nose.
“Not much to tell.”
“Fair enough. Look, these yahoos want me back in the room. We’re moving on to which animal to put on a pair of socks. You call me if there’s anything I can do, or if you just want to rap okay? I can be interrupted.”
“Yeah…sure.”
“Excellent. Bye, son.”
Gordy’s back was sore. His wrists were sore. He felt like he was going to shit blood, and…no one cared?
He looked at his mother.
No one? That’s not true.
That single frame would be evermore etched in Gordy’s memory. He wouldn’t put a name to it like Father Leo, yet the moment was no less profound than what the good priest experienced at sailing camp. A sense of lifted burden just beyond his full understanding washed over him. He felt the corners of his mouth go up, and the cause wasn’t a gang insignia or a new track by The Forever Damned. It was an awesome realization…his first adult thought.
His whole paradigm was messed up. Maybe the trick to an easy life wasn’t being a good liar. Maybe the trick was not constantly putting yourself in situations that made the truth an obstacle.
He’d still stay quiet about the UJ, not out of loyalty, but indifference. They could kick him out if they wanted. Fuck ‘em. He had something else to care about now.
Would the feeling last? Only time would tell, but it was a damned fine start.
He leaned back and put his head on his mother’s shoulder.
In a good way, it surprised them both.
14. The Station
Cock sucker! Son of a bitch! Piece of shit! Motherfucker!
Ian Reilly was not pleased with himself.
Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!
He’d bought into their line, fell for their bluff. As a result, he’d jeopardized the success of his son’s first honorable act.
Brainless bastard! Idiot prick!
About his own situation, he was still in denial. He realized they had him dead-to-rights. So what? He’d confess to being the one who delivered the bulk of the beating, and probably the fatal blow to the Jew kid. The cops could twist on the rest.
He wouldn’t tell the truth about whom was with him. Petey, his younger brother, and Quentin, his shop assistant, were not going down. Ian would swear that he went to the shelter on Hamilton Avenue and paid two homeless guys to put on masks and jump in the back of his truck. Easy peasy. He’d give false descriptions; maybe look at a few line-ups. He’d waffle; he’d stutter; he’d be generally fuzzy about the whole evening. His accomplices would never be found.
In the meantime, he’d go to trial.
Kevin told him how things worked in a courtroom. Jurors could be bought. Fake defense witnesses could be found. Real prosecution witnesses could be defamed. The story could be spun at the Herald. The public could be swayed.
It would all make for an inconvenient year, but Ian wasn’t worried. Things would work out.
Goddammit…he was a Reilly.
15. The Station
Someone knocked. Rick felt a cuff button pull out of his cheek as he lifted his head. He’d fallen asleep. They’d let him fall asleep. He hadn’t seen the silly FBI chick for a while. His decaf had gone cold.
Another knock…why? Still in a fog, he put his shoddy focus on the door. He wasn’t sure what to do. It opened. A detective entered. Rick recognized him from the night all this shit started, but he couldn’t remember the guy’s name.
“Hi, Rick. Wasn’t sure who was in here. I’m Sergeant Lynch. Remember me?”
Rick slurped and rubbed his eyes.
“I do remember you, Sergeant. How’s it going?”
Lynch was carrying a random manila folder he’d grabbed from his desk. He also had a pen. Neither item had anything to do with Rick, mere props. He opened the folder exposing some old traffic reports.
“We’ll let you out of here soon. We’re going a little crazy out here in case you couldn’t tell.”
Rick yawned and smiled lazily.
“Beats working.”
“I hear ya. I just need one thing from you.”
“What’s that?”
Lynch clicked his pen.
“Stand up and pull up your sleeves.”
For the first time since Rick entered the station, he became visibly irritated.
“Pull up my sleeves?”
“It’s nothing. I just need to eliminate something from my list here. Pull up your sleeves, and I’m out of here. Okay?”
Good God, Rick hated cops.
“I’m not doing anything until you tell me why.”
“Fine, if you want it straight between the eyes. I need to make sure you’re not a cutter.”
“A what? Is it suddenly 2007?’
“The profiler says I gotta check. Come on; call it a favor.”
Rick stood and belligerently pulled up his right sleeve…then his left…and felt his favorite oversized watch flop around his wrist. With forced ennui, he answered the detective’s question.
“Not a cutter.”
Lynch put a sloppy check mark towards the center of the redundant paper and closed the folder.
Left wrist…got it.
“Didn’t think so. Give me five minutes.”
Rick was, once again, alone. He spoke to the walls.
“Did you enjoy that?”
16. The Station
Lynch took a seat in the hall.
That’s the guy. That’s the one with a conscience. He’s
