justice started peeking under the blinds.”
“When people say ‘hear, hear’ like that,” Whelan said, “do they mean ‘hear’ like to hear something? Or like, ‘Hey, over here.’”
“Whoa, wait.” Billy held up his hand. “Brian Tomassi? What happened to him?”
“Are you serious?” Whelan said. “Do you not read the papers?”
“Just say.”
“You know that stretch of Pelham Parkway by Bronx House where him and his crew chased Yusuf Khan in front of the cab?”
“Yeah, and . . .”
“Take two giant and one umbrella step south of there, Tomassi, two a.m. in the morning, tweakin’ like a beacon, steps off the curb and becomes one with the 12 bus.”
“When was this?”
“Last month.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Laughing, Billy nodded to Whelan. “You push him?”
“I would’ve, you better believe that.”
Billy remembered, the day after it happened, Whelan telling him that when the panic-stricken Khan, running blindly across the four-lane northbound parkway, had been struck by a muscle car doing sixty-five, the sound of the impact had been loud enough to set off car alarms for blocks around.
“Hey, what’s the last thing that passed through Tomassi’s mind after he got creamed by that bus?” Yasmeen asked.
“His ass,” Pavlicek grunted, his first words since they had all sat down. “Christ, if you’re going to tell stupid fucking jokes . . .”
Once again Billy noticed that he seemed on the verge of tears. “You OK, big guy?”
“Me?” Pavlicek brightened a shade too fast. “You know what I was doing today when I called you? Going through one of my buildings with an exorcist. I got a Chinese contractor to gut the place, his people go in, they come right back out fifteen minutes later saying it’s haunted, no way they’re going back in. So I went and hired an exorcist.”
“The Chinese are the worst,” Yasmeen said, “they’re so superstitious.”
“You ever see a Chinaman commit suicide?” Whelan added. “They don’t believe in quick and painless.”
“Where’d you get the exorcist?” Billy asked.
“This lady runs a smoke shop near my house. She’s some kind of Wiccan with a sideline in ghostbusting.”
“She’s for real?”
“She knows what’s expected of her, puts on a good show. Comes with flashlights, humidifiers, wind chimes, Enya tapes . . .”
“Who you gonna call . . .”
“Only thing is, they have their gods and we have ours.”
“We have gods?”
They waited for Pavlicek to continue, but he seemed to have lost interest in his own story.
“So did it work or not?” Billy asked.
“What.”
“The exorcism.”
“It’s ongoing,” Pavlicek said, looking off.
“So, Billy, how’s your family?” Yasmeen catching his eye—Let it be—then downing her third or maybe fourth shot.
“Good, you know, I mean my father’s not getting any better, but . . .”
“My dad once tried to talk me into letting him come to live with us? I had his ass in a home before he got the first sentence out.”
“You’re all heart there, Yazzie,” Whelan said.
“What do you mean, I’m all heart? The guy was a psycho. He used to get drunk and burn us with cigarettes. I got a heart. Why do you always want to make me feel so bad?”
“Yasmeen, I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re not,” she slurred. Then, after a too-long beat: “Fucking Whelan. You always make me feel bad. What did I ever do to you?”
She then proceeded to descend into one of her legendary sulks, Billy knowing from experience that there was a good chance they wouldn’t hear from her for the rest of the evening.
Yasmeen was the only woman Billy knew who could match his wife mood swing for mood swing. They even looked alike, although Yasmeen’s coloration came from her Syrian father and Turkish mother, which had made being constantly addressed as mami and automatically spoken to in Spanish out on the street agitating enough for her to
“When people say ‘hear, hear’ like that,” Whelan said, “do they mean ‘hear’ like to hear something? Or like, ‘Hey, over here.’”
“Whoa, wait.” Billy held up his hand. “Brian Tomassi? What happened to him?”
“Are you serious?” Whelan said. “Do you not read the papers?”
“Just say.”
“You know that stretch of Pelham Parkway by Bronx House where him and his crew chased Yusuf Khan in front of the cab?”
“Yeah, and . . .”
“Take two giant and one umbrella step south of there, Tomassi, two a.m. in the morning, tweakin’ like a beacon, steps off the curb and becomes one with the 12 bus.”
“When was this?”
“Last month.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Laughing, Billy nodded to Whelan. “You push him?”
“I would’ve, you better believe that.”
Billy remembered, the day after it happened, Whelan telling him that when the panic-stricken Khan, running blindly across the four-lane northbound parkway, had been struck by a muscle car doing sixty-five, the sound of the impact had been loud enough to set off car alarms for blocks around.
“Hey, what’s the last thing that passed through Tomassi’s mind after he got creamed by that bus?” Yasmeen asked.
“His ass,” Pavlicek grunted, his first words since they had all sat down. “Christ, if you’re going to tell stupid fucking jokes . . .”
Once again Billy noticed that he seemed on the verge of tears. “You OK, big guy?”
“Me?” Pavlicek brightened a shade too fast. “You know what I was doing today when I called you? Going through one of my buildings with an exorcist. I got a Chinese contractor to gut the place, his people go in, they come right back out fifteen minutes later saying it’s haunted, no way they’re going back in. So I went and hired an exorcist.”
“The Chinese are the worst,” Yasmeen said, “they’re so superstitious.”
“You ever see a Chinaman commit suicide?” Whelan added. “They don’t believe in quick and painless.”
“Where’d you get the exorcist?” Billy asked.
“This lady runs a smoke shop near my house. She’s some kind of Wiccan with a sideline in ghostbusting.”
“She’s for real?”
“She knows what’s expected of her, puts on a good show. Comes with flashlights, humidifiers, wind chimes, Enya tapes . . .”
“Who you gonna call . . .”
“Only thing is, they have their gods and we have ours.”
“We have gods?”
They waited for Pavlicek to continue, but he seemed to have lost interest in his own story.
“So did it work or not?” Billy asked.
“What.”
“The exorcism.”
“It’s ongoing,” Pavlicek said, looking off.
“So, Billy, how’s your family?” Yasmeen catching his eye—Let it be—then downing her third or maybe fourth shot.
“Good, you know, I mean my father’s not getting any better, but . . .”
“My dad once tried to talk me into letting him come to live with us? I had his ass in a home before he got the first sentence out.”
“You’re all heart there, Yazzie,” Whelan said.
“What do you mean, I’m all heart? The guy was a psycho. He used to get drunk and burn us with cigarettes. I got a heart. Why do you always want to make me feel so bad?”
“Yasmeen, I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re not,” she slurred. Then, after a too-long beat: “Fucking Whelan. You always make me feel bad. What did I ever do to you?”
She then proceeded to descend into one of her legendary sulks, Billy knowing from experience that there was a good chance they wouldn’t hear from her for the rest of the evening.
Yasmeen was the only woman Billy knew who could match his wife mood swing for mood swing. They even looked alike, although Yasmeen’s coloration came from her Syrian father and Turkish mother, which had made being constantly addressed as mami and automatically spoken to in Spanish out on the street agitating enough for her to
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