Paddy
How fares the noble beast?” Paddy asked Caitlin.
“Frankie said he’ll be all right, lion that he is. No internal injuries, according to the vet, but he’ll be way sore, so he’s on heavy-duty painkillers. Not as sore as that guy. He’ll be lucky to walk a straight line again, if he ever could.”
There was commotion in the kitchen downstairs. Hilda was banging pans, rattled about what had taken place tonight, distraught not only for poor Dickens but for the girls, what they went through.
“Hilda’s frying up a steak for Dickens,” he said.
“He’ll love that, and I don’t know what would have happened without him. Frankie’s going to spend the night here with him. She’s trading shots of Irish with Colly right now, we better have a spare bottle.”
“You know what would have happened, and so do I, and I told you not to open your store in that rat-infested part of town. Jesus, Caitlin, Jesus.”
“I don’t think you did, and for the record, I’ve never seen a rat anywhere near the store.”
“Some people, they’re rats.”
“And I’m going back, and nobody, and no way that freak, is going to intimidate me.” She had been hitting the Midleton hard herself. “I gotta go to bed.”
“It’s your new girl’s stepfather?”
“Let’s call the cops, Paddy.”
What a quaint concept, the police. “This is not a job for John Law. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”
“Nobody should promise that. That’s not the way life works.”
“Especially with the Great Blue Line—they protect nobody. Me, I will take care of you. I’m not Baxter, either, and speaking of him, the young man and I seem to officially have a new problem. He doesn’t take instruction well, which is unfortunate. I know I’m supposed to be thankful for what he did, but it’s going to be hard. For him.”
“Baxter may be a fool, but he was the one running into the burning house, he was putting himself between me and a loaded gun. Damn it, Paddy, he should get a pass, risking his life.”
“I will consider options available to him, man-to-man, and I give him credit, partial credit for tonight. In any case, I got my guys coming to the bookstore tomorrow, from now on.”
“My customers will feel so secure.”
“I’m just beginning. My people’ll sit on the store from outside, that better?”
“You’re scaring me, Paddy.”
“You never need to be scared of me, never. Everybody else? Different story.”
“What are you going to do to him?”
“Who?”
“Stop, really, stop.”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t care if I ever see him again, but you can’t eliminate everybody who gets in your way.”
“Caitlin, darling, not so sure about that. But I’m more concerned about you. You should take something, get some sleep. The watch, not important. I’ll get you another one just like it. What matters is you’re okay.”
When he hugged her tight, she trembled, fatigued, and allowed him to hold her up, which underscored for him he had work left to do.
—
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Fitzgerald.” That was Slip McGrady the following morning, calling from the sanctuary of his Limerick Jewelry & Loan back room. “A man of extravagantly sketchy disposition has befouled my establishment, offering an extraordinary watch, a timepiece I could never have forgotten—and that could never have been legitimately in his possession. The ignorant loon begs four hundred dollars in exchange, if you can feature that. I thought you should be promptly advised.”
“This would be the beautiful Piaget that originated with you.”
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
“I appreciate your alert concern, Mr. McGrady. Would you please stall till my associate Jonesy arrives to address this nuisance?”
“Always a pleasure to see Mr. O’Dell, so I eagerly look forward to his imminent arrival. Because, Mr. Fitzgerald, I don’t care to boast, but I can be, when called upon, a world-class procrastinator. On that score, if I may also respectfully add, sir, I will never forget the artful delaying tactics practiced to my advantage in court by your dear son Anthony, whose loss I still keenly feel and will always lament. And so with your permission, I will discuss the vagaries and intricacies of our unpredictable weather patterns with this most dubious specimen of the human race for as long as required. For it indeed appears he is unaware a nasty storm is on his horizon.”
“That does seem to be in the forecast, and you are a prince, sir.”
“You’re too kind, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
—
Paddy’s construction company, after the deal had been struck months earlier, had swung into action with a fury borne of a tight building timeframe. A few short hours from now, around sunrise, his crew would be laying down rebar for the main school building foundation, and Paddy was supervising a different sort of job here in the darkest predawn hours. The steel supports were laid nearby, grid readied for installation, after which, at some point, cement would be poured. Timing couldn’t have been more fortunate for structural purposes, though not for Dash’s.
Jonesy illuminated the situation for the ultimate edification of the barefoot, limping speed freak: “If we had world enough and time, this dumbness, bitches, were no crime, etcetera and so on. Be brave, man up, it’ll be over before you know it because world enough and time, my man, world enough and time.” They stood next to the deep pit that had been dug. Three others in Jonesy’s crew held Dash, and one was loudly complaining the guy fucking reeks of horse piss, could they get this over with already before we hurl?
“It’s organic physiological processes at work,” explained Jonesy, “for the man is fearful, the body has its own logic and demands.” In his gloved hand he held the man’s weapon, retrieved from the store’s floor that night.
In addition to Paddy and Jonesy and those reining Dash, there were crew members on either side of another man on the scene, one who appeared similarly distressed but in his case rendered incapable of speech, for a change: Baxter.
Jonesy and company had picked up Dash at the pawnshop, reclaiming the watch in the process. They had dragged him outside by his greasy hair and thrown him in the trunk.
“As Jesus promises us sinners,” fulsomely intoned Jonesy in his baritone, “the last shall be first and the first last. Luke Chapter 13, your lucky number. And we are all sinners, but no one more sinning than you. So look at it this way, boyo. You are indeed a sinner. And you’re certainly finishing way back of the pack, far out of the money, so this could be a big opportunity for you if you play your cards right.” Jonesy found mixing his metaphors to be one of the hallmarks of his creativity.
Arrayed before the pit was when and where the man tried to apologize, but he stammered and stuttered, so it was hard to determine ultimate intent. They did catch a mumbled, aggrieved complaint about the infection he believed was swiftly coursing up his leg from the rabid dog bite.
“Now you’re insulting that dear old beast? Bad mistake, we love that magnificent canine, who doesn’t have rabies, though you probably do and might have infected him. Tell me, what is your suit size? I’m saying you’re a fifty, fifty-two.”
“What the fuck?”
“Suit size, not a trick question. What is it?”
“Never owned a suit.”
“But if in your forsaken existence you ever owned a suit, I’m going with fifty-two.”
“Whatever you say, motherfucker.” Then Dash addressed Paddy: “Said I’m sorry, sir, whoever you are. I’ll never do that again.”
“I know, man, I know,” Paddy said, “but some things cannot be papered over. Besides, your exit won’t be tearing a hole in the fabric of the universe, and nobody’s going to miss your presence. Look at the bright side, you won’t be chasing your next fix, either, and your foot won’t be causing you further discomfort.”
“Then you can fuck the fuck off, too.”
“Now, now. Be careful, we could spare the bullet, so what would you like, your choice, last choice you’ll ever make. You can scream if you need to get it out of your system, nobody within a mile can hear.”
“Told you, I didn’t know what I was doing, high as a fucking kite.”
“So you’re ready to turn over a new leaf, that what you’re telling me?”
“Yes, I am, I really am, and I’m fucking goddamn sorry.”
“I know, I know. But I’m not a big speculator in the rehabilitation business and besides, you and I both know that you won’t turn over a new leaf, right?”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I feel like shit, what I put those women through.”
“Taking responsibility is a pure bitch, isn’t it? But it’s okay, you’ll feel better soon enough. Question: Did you get off on humiliating, terrifying my girls like that?”
“I was wrong, said I’m sorry, give me a chance, would you?”
“That would be considerate on my part, you’re right. Let me think about it.”
“I won’t let you down no more.”
Paddy paced awhile in a circle and returned to where he had been. “Well, let me alleviate the suspense. I’ve given you all the consideration you’re ever going to get, and more than you gave the girls.”
“But I didn’t kill nobody!”
“That’s what I call a technicality, because you could have and they indeed feared you might.”
Paddy turned on his heels and headed off toward the waiting car, calling out to Jonesy to do whatever he determined advisable, because he was finished with this little problem. But Paddy did have some brief last words for Baxter: “Next time, have a nice trip and stay there.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald…” he tried.
“You’ve said and done enough,” said Paddy.
That’s when they both heard Jonesy reminding Dash: “Troublemakers? They all inherit the wind. Book of Proverbs, man, reflect on Holy Writ while you can.”
But Paddy was pondering nothing less than the purpose of his life as he slowly walked back to his car, down the hill, beside a stand of trees that would soon be cut down. What was he accomplishing here tonight? Because the fact was, by taking this course of action he wasn’t being true to himself. He had no dread of being caught, because nobody was going to miss the guy, and he had zero apprehension about the body ever surfacing once construction was underway. But even so, this was retaliation, a disproportionate administration of justice or, when you got down to it, nothing but unalloyed revenge. The loser made a legitimate case, it was true. He didn’t deserve to pay with his life because he had not taken a life—though he had taken the watch Caitlin loved, and which he was looking forward to returning to her once Mr. McGrady professionally cleaned and polished it, good as new. Nonetheless, Paddy had hopped on the road to reckoning and couldn’t take the off-ramp toward forgiveness, and not because he was concerned Jonesy and the others might privately begin to question his resolve, which was something he wasn’t worried about. He himself was questioning his own judgment. Paddy took no delight in this circular self-interrogation. He knew that Caitlin would be horrified if she found out, not that she would, because that’s the sort of soft-hearted person she was, but she was both at the center of his response and irrelevant. That pathetic junkie had violated Caitlin and Colleen and the girl who worked there, whose name he forgot. But he also violated Paddy, challenged his power, not that the guy specifically intended this, but that was also immaterial. When a man like Paddy reaches this intersection in his life, he cannot double back. Paddy wanted blood. He earned blood. He would shed blood. When a man rationally decides to take a life, the way Paddy did, rationality is the secondary victim.
When he was a much younger man, he knew what he would have done. Employing his fists and a billy, he would have personally caused the man to bleed all over himself, to hear a few bones being crunched, to spit out a couple of teeth—and in order to make a point, he would keep him alive, so that the guy would survive to always remember who it was who put the beatdown on him. That association led him to deciding what Baxter deserved, which was different from what Dash deserved, perhaps harsher.
Over the next couple of days, the foundation of the new Holy Family High School main building would be laid and the cement poured and probably nobody would remember Dash ever again, except, that is, for Paddy in the years he had left to live on earth.
Pop pop pop. He heard the reports in the near distance. He was not startled.
Matters needed to be addressed swiftly, directly, even when strictly speaking there was no absolute need, and not while there existed no genuine future threat that needed to be eliminated. And yet there was a kind of need he felt inside that would never be quenched. He would waste no opportunity to exercise his power, not as long as he could, and he would because he could, and because he could, it was right, or right enough.
It was remarkable that Jonesy chose to put a few of the man’s own rounds in him first. Kindness was always a matter of context, a relative, contingent proposition.
—
Jonesy returned to the car, near where Paddy was standing, and he was both downcast and upbeat, as he always ambivalently felt after he completed such a task. Taking a life was taking a life, however miserable and worthless and dangerous that life had been. He had left the crew to finish up at the site, and he had not returned alone. He had Baxter in tow.
“So,” Paddy said, “this has been a busy, busy night, and we’ve all been through a great deal. But Baxter, we have arrived at your moment of truth now. Now, man up, no need for tears, hear me out, young man.”
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I saved Caitlin, don’t that count for nothing?”
“Shut the fuck up, you whimpering dribble dick,” said Jonesy. “You disobeyed a direct command never to return to town or have anything to do with Miss Caitlin.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes. You have a choice, Baxter. You can take Door Number One, and you watched for yourself where that leads. Or you can choose instead Door Number Two.”
Baxter trembled, shook his head, side to side, up and down. He’d witnessed a murder, and could easily pick out from a police lineup the henchmen, if it came to that. But that’s what gave him greatest pause: that was at the heart of Paddy Fitzgerald’s plan, to have him see everything with his own eyes, so he would have no doubts about what was in store for him tonight—not that he had a doubt. But why psychologically torture before killing him, what was the point? Why didn’t they throw him in the pit with that idiot who robbed and shot up the store?
Paddy allowed Baxter a few minutes to ruminate before resuming. “You curious as to Door Number Two? Let me help. Door Number Two: from now on you work for me. You’ll get paid when and whatever your boss, Mr. O’Dell, feels like paying you. You do what he tells you to do for as long as we need you, and you won’t ask any questions or free-lance or make any quote helpful unquote suggestions. And if Miss Caitlin ever hears from you, or if you ever so much as utter her name and I hear you, or if the day should come when you enter a room where she and I both may be and your eyes meet for a second—for a split second—that’s when we will escort you to Door Number One.”
“Too good of a deal,” said Jonesy, “if you ask me, for a wankster sport like you.”
“I do have to acknowledge it took some bravery to risk your life in the bookstore, or maybe I’m feeling generous. What do you say, Baxter? Sport? It’s getting late, I want to go home. To my Caitlin.”
Baxter had no option, of course, but he could imagine the sick pleasure Paddy would enjoy, seeing him in bondage, twisting anxiously whenever Caitlin—whenever Miss Caitlin was nearby, whose name he would never speak again. What was both impressive and perverse to him was that Fitzgerald had no concern over Baxter’s ever flipping. It was purer than that. The man wanted him to witness for himself the type of fate that he could visualize awaited him should he disobey him again or rat him out. A case could be made that he was an accomplice to the murder. And yet it was more intricate than that. He had new employment, doing exactly what, no idea, except he could make a few educated guesses. In his life he’d held dozens of jobs, none for long or with anything resembling distinction, but nothing like this. He would be enslaved to serve the man who had taken his wife, his ex-wife, he should qualify. It seemed to him more than a little bit vile—and more than a little bit brilliant on the part of Paddy Fitzgerald. This was a means of killing him every single day without putting a bullet in his head. He begrudgingly admired this plan. So there Baxter was again, as ever, in his default life stance: walking a fine line, servile between stupidity and big balls. Which was all along what Paddy counted on.
A smile must have flickered because Paddy asked what he found amusing.
“Can’t believe I’m saying this to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, but,” and he took a deep breath, “when do I start?”
“Right now. Go back to the site and grab a shovel, so you can never forget where you can locate Door Number One.”
Once he was out of earshot, Jonesy said, “Let me know when you want to be done with him once and for all, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“Patience is a great virtue of yours.”
“Yet another scurrilous, baseless rumor, sir.”