Tower

“Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin; and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death.”

He looked up, his face shining, a mix of grease, sauerkraut and fervor. Mad bastard. He asked

“You got a copy of this here volume?”

Oh sure.

I was going to say

“Caught the movie.”

But went with

“Yes, sir.”

I have no reason, no explanation for my next action. I shot my cuff and looked at my watch.

Fuck.

Few insults to equal it.

Instead of taking offense, Boyle squinted, asked

“What’s that you’re wearing?”

Was he blind? I nearly said

“Like, hello, it’s a watch, one of those items, got little hands, like you. And you know what, tells you the time, how cool is that?”

I said

“A Timex, sir.”

Bought it off a guy in Times Square, cost me all of ten bucks but what the hell, it did the job. Boyle sat back as if he’d never heard such a thing and I was thinking, hey fellah, it’s far from any freaking watch you were reared, sounding eerily like my old man, not a good thing. Boyle got a toothpick, dug deep into his teeth, extracted some meat, popped it back in his mouth, said

“Be-Jaysus, no one in my crew is going to be a cheapskate. Lemme see.”

Pulled open a drawer, rummaged round then took out a watch, offered it across the desk.

My jaw dropped. I thought that was an expression, like in books and shit, but I could feel my face droop.

A gold Rolex.

Griffin was amused at my reaction. Boyle said

“Don’t just gape at it, try it on.”

I did.

It fit, like sin.

I shook my wrist the way you do and the thing slid nicely along my wrist. Was it my imagination or did it sparkle?

Boyle said

“’Tis yours, I look after my lads.”

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me was thinking

“Is it one of those knockoffs?”

Boyle said

“’Tis the real McCoy, none of that cheap imitation with me.”

I said

“I dunno what to say.”

Griffin said

“Thank you would be nice.”

The fuck.

I muttered

“Mr. Boyle, I’m very grateful.”

He was taking the wrapper of a cigar, lit it with a Zippo, blew a cloud of smoke at me, asked

“How grateful?”

What?

His tone had completely altered, his mood swings as mercurial as Irish weather. A nasty edge had leaked all over his words. I wanted to ask

“How grateful am I supposed to be?”

Boyle scribbled something on a sheet of paper, handed it over, said

“This is my tailor. Get yer arse down there, get some decent suits. He’ll be expecting you.”

I did some more lame gratitude and he waved it off, asked

“You gonna grease this cop for us?”

I wanted to sling the Rolex at him, said

“He’s my buddy.”

Boyle grimaced, looked at Griffin, then

“Cops ain’t nobody’s buddies. He doesn’t know we’re on to him. We’re gonna let him run a bit then I want you to put a cap in his head. You do that for me?”

Stalling, I said

“I’ll do it for the Yankees.”

He loved it.

He tossed a set of keys across the desk, said

“Welcome to Tribeca.”