Tower

Change is something I never dwelt on. Now it dwells on me.

Remembered my high school physics teacher explaining the myth of solidity. Told us to imagine the distance between the nucleus of an atom and its closest electron as the distance between the sun and Pluto. Not very comforting that. Said that solidity was a rationalization to help us get out of bed every day. Who wanted to live in a world where your next step might sink into the space between Pluto and the sun? Good question. Well, whether I wanted it or not, it was my new world.

When I got back from Philly, the lay of the land had once again changed. Was as if Boyle had waved his magic wand and Nicky was transformed. Presto chango, abra cadabra. Gold Rolex on his wrist, new suits on his skin, new apartment in Tribeca, new distance from me. Oh yeah, there was that freshly broken nose of his. Asked him where he got it.

“Saks Fifth Avenue.”

Cute.

Or was it Boyle at all? Maybe the new woman, Shannon? Had she waved the magic stick? Doubted it. Didn’t strike me as the type for silk suits and style, especially store-bought style. More likely she was the one to have broken his nose.

Frankly didn’t give a rat’s ass about the style changes, but Nicky’s refrigerator friendship was disturbing. Thought we had reached some kind of understanding in spite of our recent troubles, Nick and me. Knew that what I’d done to the deli man had bugged him and my not drinking with Boyle

...Thought I was losing it, getting out of control. Maybe I was. Wonder what he would have thought if he knew I’d just assassinated Rudi and supplemented the diets of several zoo animals with pieces of the bastard’s remains. Wondered if Vinny Podesta would try to knock me down now.

Had my answers soon enough. Met Nicky at Moe’s Tavern in the old neighborhood. Guess our streak at Axel’s had run its course. Moe’s was run by Micky Prada, a good man, bullshit not a word in his vocabulary. Ran Micky’s forever, never seemed to change. We aged. He didn’t.

Nick was at the bar in his Armani suit. Looked good on him, complimented the fading bruises around his nose. Just didn’t seem very comfortable, fidgeting a bit. Said my hellos, grabbed a beer and sat myself down next to the clotheshorse. Took one look at his eyes and understood the discomfort. Coke. Not one of my favorite drugs. Spend the whole evening trying to get as high as you were in the first fifteen minutes. Never works. Only get further away from that original rush.

“Doing lines in the men’s room, huh? Getting a taste for the finer things, that it?”

He made some lame excuse about decent booze.

“Booze my ass. The pupils of your eyes, they’re pinpoints. Only one thing does that.”

Leaned in close to me, sneer on his puss.

“That one of the things they teach you at the Academy, one of those cop instincts you’ve developed?”

Christ. Cover’d been blown. Instead of panic, a kind of peace set in. Fucking relief it was. Didn’t have time to worry how it’d happened.

“So you know about that.”

That set off a chain reaction in Nick that was as good as any laser light show on the planet. Full range of emotions washed over his face in such rapid succession that I lost track. First there was an almost stunned admiration. Point is, rage was at the end and it stayed put.

Signalled to Micky. “Another round.”

Nick nearly exploded. “I’m not freaking drinking with you, you... traitor, damned turncoat.”