Twenty-Two

I stood on my front stoop and imagined the contents of my refrigerator: eggs, milk, almond butter, orange juice, and a Pyrex bowl of leftover ratatouille. I was starving, disoriented, and depressed. Ratatouille was not going to help. The only solution for this combination of ailments was Bukowski Tavern on Dalton Street, where I could find an endless supply of beer and comfort food.

Bukowski Tavern is a long, low bar, built into the side of the Hilton’s parking garage. The red façade juts out of the concrete walls, like a brilliant ruby set in a steel pinky ring. A bar runs down one side of the space, across from small round windows that overlook the Mass Pike. I’d had enough of the Pike for one day, and sat at the bar.

Mikey the bartender greeted me. “Dude!”

“Hi, Mikey. You still got that Dogfish 90?”

Mikey shot me with his finger, cracked open a bottle of the IPA, and poured it into a tall glass. I took the glass and downed two-thirds of it in one gulp.

“God, I needed that,” I said.

Mikey looked concerned. “Dude?”

“What a shitty day, Mikey. I got shot at, I found out that my dad screwed my babysitter and had a kid with her, and my mother slapped me in the face.” I pointed to the handprint.

Mikey wagged his head and looked down at the bar. “Dude.”

“Exactly,” I said. “I need a Barfly Burger and some sweet potato fries.”

Mikey snapped his finger and pointed at me, nodding. “Dude!”

I downed my ale, relishing its hoppy goodness. “And another one of these.”

Mikey brought me my beer. I reveled in solitude and played Angry Birds. Angry Birds is a game that simulates the eternal struggle between mechanical engineers, who build weapons, and civil engineers, who build targets. In the game, I launched various weaponized songbirds at rickety structures erected by hapless pigs. The swine were doomed. The game rewarded me for wreaking the most havoc possible with the fewest number of birds. It was an engineering problem I couldn’t resist. I forgot about my crazy mother, her disgusting house, and my unremitting guilt and unleashed hell upon the pigs.

I sensed someone standing over my shoulder. I turned to look into the eyes of a small, bald, dark-skinned man sporting a graying goatee beard and a rumpled brown suit. He indicated the seat next to me. “May I sit?”

I said, “Sure,” and went back to destroying the pig homeland.

He said, “I need to speak to you, Mr. Tucker.”

“Mr. Tucker is my father. You can just call me Tucker.” I pressed a button on my Droid and the Angry Birds disappeared. “How do you know my name?”

The guy ignored my question and said, “I am Talevi.”

I drank my beer, waiting to see where this would go.

Talevi continued, “What do you plan to do about the death of your brother?”

My mother was right. Everybody knew this secret but us.

I said, “I plan to avenge him, raining fire and sweet death upon the dogs that took him from this Earth.”

Talevi’s eyes widened. He said, “Really?”

“No, not really,” I said, “I have no idea what to do about my brother. I didn’t even know I had a brother until today.”

“Then why were you in Pittsfield?”

“How did you know I was in Pittsfield?”

“The same way that I knew to find you here,” Talevi said. “I have sources.”

“And what do your sources think I should do about my brother?”

“Nothing,” said Talevi. “Nothing at all. They, and I, would like you to stay away from this sorry business.”

Mikey brought my burger. He looked from Talevi to me, pointed his chin at Talevi, and said, “Dude?”

“Don’t worry about him, Mikey. He was just leaving. Could you bring me another Dogfish?”

Mikey turned to get the beer. I took a fry from my burger plate and ate it slowly. I downed the rest of my beer, and took a bite from my burger.

Talevi said, “So?”

“So what?”

Talevi moved his hand and put it on his hip. The hand caught under his suit jacket and pulled it back to reveal a gun, in a holster, under his arm. I ignored the gun. Depression takes the edge off existential threats.

Talevi said, “Do not worry about your brother. He was a very bad man, you know. You should not risk your safety over him.”

“A bad man, you say. What did he do?”

“This is none of your business.”

“Hey, you brought it up.”

“He got what he deserved. There is nothing more to be done about it.”

“And Cathy Byrd?”

“What about her?”

“Did she get what she deserved?”

“I cannot say.”

“Because I’m figuring that she got royally screwed in this.”

Talevi leaned close. “If you do not become involved, this will end. Are we agreed?”

I said, “You know what, Talevi? There’s nothing I’d like better than to say yes. I’d love to tell you that I’m going to ignore my dead half brother, and my dead babysitter, my dead cheating father, and my crazy mother. I’d like to do nothing more than go back to the life that I had two days ago.”

“This is good.”

“But my mother is being investigated for murder. So even if I told you now that I was going to ignore this mess, I probably wouldn’t do it.”

Talevi shook his head. “Very disappointing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s life.”

Talevi stood. “Ignore this thing, Mr. Tucker. Go back to the life you had two days ago.” He turned and I watched him wind his way out of the narrow tavern.

Two days ago I’d been a guy at a ballgame with a pretty girl. I was worried about the Red Sox bullpen, the lifespan of hermit crabs, and how I was going to spend the impending holiday season. It was my first autumn living in my new place, and my first Thanksgiving alone since my wife, Carol, had died.

I didn’t know what to do about the holidays. Carol and I used to spend Thanksgiving with her family. In December, we’d take my mother out to a restaurant for a holiday dinner, then fly to Barbados for a couple of weeks of warm weather. Christmas in Barbados doesn’t get captured on greeting cards, but it doesn’t suck.

That life was gone. There was no Carol, no need to visit her folks, no pattern or order to the holidays. I was staring down the barrel of a Thanksgiving spent alone in my condo, watching football, talking to crustaceans, and cooking a turkey for one.

Shit. I had become a character in “Eleanor Rigby.”

Of course, I did have family. Sal was clear about that. I guess my mother would go to Auntie Rosa’s for Thanksgiving. Perhaps I could wangle an invitation. There could be Christmas with the Mafia. I’d show up outside Sal’s house in the North End, holding a bottle of wine and getting my picture taken by an FBI guy sitting in a car across the street. I’d have to make sure that Bobby got my good side.

I had finished my burger and downed my third beer. The combination of grease, starch, and alcohol had improved my mood and reduced my inhibitions. If I was going to have Thanksgiving at Sal’s house, I needed to know some things.

I dialed my Droid.

Sal answered, “I’m busy. What do you want?”

I said, “We need to talk.”