Fresh Kills by Bill Loehfelm Read Free Book Online Page B

Joyce’s and Scalia’s was the Optimo deli where my father liked to buy his beer and cigars, the place where he’d been shot. I straightened on the stool. That deli was practically next door. Only the pharmacy and the hair salon stood between it and Joyce’s. What was Purvis doing, bringing her to the crime scene? I wanted to strangle him. I thought maybe I would next time I saw him, which explained why Julia hadn’t told me much about it.

    “What did she see?” I asked. “What was out there when they came by?”

    Joyce hemmed and hawed. “Probably not much. Of course, he was long gone, your father, by then. The meat wag—ambulance— came right away. There was nothin’ left but a bunch of cops, some police tape.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

    “Had she been there? To the corner? Did Purvis take her there?”

    “I dunno,” Joyce said. “I didn’t talk to her. I recognized her, you know, of course, but what do you say?” He rubbed some stray ashes into the bar. “They came in and they left together. I poured her drinks. I didn’t know what else to do.”

    “Fair enough.” I drained the last of my Harp and asked for another, with a shot of Jameson on the side. Joyce hesitated. “Please. I’m not gonna wreck the place. I’m not my old man. I don’t give a shit about Ulster.”

    Joyce raised his eyebrows at me.

    “What?” I said. “Both sides have been throwing bombs at each other so long, they probably don’t even remember what for. It’s fucking pointless.”

    He looked at me for a long time. “Seems they’ve been getting somewhere in the past few years. No one’s thrown any bombs in a while. Sure, there’s been Omagh, the murder, the robbery. But even Paisley finally retired. People are trying.”

    “Trust me,” I said. “It’ll never end. Not there, not with the Arabs and the Jews, not with the Sunnis and the Shiites. People love to hate each other. It’s too easy.”

    He set the beer down in front of me and next to it an empty rocks glass. “It’ll end. Either they’ll work something out, or they’ll just get tired of fighting.” He tilted the whiskey over the glass, pouring me what was easily a double shot. “One way or another, every fight eventually ends.”

    I started to say something else but thought better of it and reached for my wallet. This time, Joyce wouldn’t take my money. He walked over to the drunks. A rerun of M*A*S*H played silently on the television over my head. I wondered who had lost the ball game.

    At closing time, outside the bar, I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and looked down the street. I shivered. The weather had changed. Heavy clouds blocked the stars and moon. The wind blew hard and steady, and way too cold for May, even at half past midnight. I could smell the rain on it, and a hint of the Dump.

    When he turned from locking the door, Joyce caught me staring at the torn yellow police tape that cordoned off the corner. Loose ends snapped in the wind.

    “You all right?” he asked, taking my elbow.

    I jerked my arm free, my eyes locked on the corner. “Fine. I hadn’t really thought about it being so close.” I turned to him; he had backed a few steps away. “What did you see?”

    “Nothing,” he said, his fingertips worrying his beard. “I was still at Mass when it happened. The cops were already here when I came to open up.”

    “You see him carted off?”

    “Nah. Who wants to watch something like that?”

    I thought Joyce might make his escape but he just stood there. “What did you hear?” I asked. He looked away. “C’mon, Joyce. Your bar was full of cops and people from the neighborhood all day. People who knew my father. I wanna know what they’re saying.”

    He sighed through his nose. “It happened real fast. Car screeched up to the curb. Guy got out, hit your father twice in the back of the head, drove away. There were people around, but everybody ducked at the shots. Nobody