Tower: A Novel by Ken Bruen, Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

answer, she moved her arms round me and kissed me full on the mouth, to the delight of a passing nurse. Pulling back, Shannon whispered
    “I’m so sorry.”
    I blew it off, went
    “Hey, it’s just a flesh wound, no biggie.”
    She was shaking her head, said
    “No, I mean, it’s my fault.”
    I moved a step, looked at her, tears in her eyes, and asked
    “You shot me?”
    She took my hand, said
    “Let’s get a cab, get the hell out of here. I hate hospitals.”
    We got the cab and a surly driver. Shannon gave her address and then slumped back in the seat, said
    “Jeff, my ex. He shot you.”
    Real conversation stopper, that.
    Her apartment was in North Brooklyn, the Polish enclave of Greenpoint. This had in recent years become the über-trendy merging of North Williamsburg and Hasidic South Williamsburg. The building was in good shape, lots of flower boxes on windows, bright painted doors, an air of bohemia but with cash. I asked
    “You afford this?”
    She shrugged, said
    “My dad owns it.”
    I hoped he lived elsewhere, like, maybe Ireland. She added
    “He’s a carpenter, and real smart.”
    He owned this building, I believed her.
    I went to pay the fare. The driver pointed at the meter. I said
    “Bit steep.”
    He hawked some phlegm out the window and if I’d been more focused, I’d have made him eat it. I paid and he looked at the tip. I asked
    “What’s the matter, not enough?”
    He growled
    “Guess it’ll do.”
    And before I could slap the fuck, he burned rubber outa there.
    Cabbies, you gotta love ’em.
    Shannon’s apartment was on the ground floor, clean, full of light and the evidence of her little boy all around. Pac Man, Sesame Street Posters, small sneakers thrown on a couch, miniature baseball bat, and heart rending, a crayon sketch of a stick figure on the wall, with, underneath my mom.
    I said
    “Looks just like you.”
    She couldn’t keep the joy from her eyes then, nervous, asked
    “Get you something?”
    “Jeff’s address?”
    And lowered the tone, brought the boom down on whatever area of peace she had briefly inhabited. She leveled her eyes on me, asked
    “Will you make love to me?”
    I did.
    Right there on the floor, under the crayon sketch. She touched the bandaged wound, asked
    “Does it hurt?”
    Time to be stoic, be macho, shrug it off. I said
    “Like a son of a bitch.”
    She made love with an urgency, with a passion that was ferocious. I, as they say, went along for the ride. Afterward, she rose, and, naked, went to the fridge, took out two beers. Sam Adams, frigging Boston rules but what the hell, a cold one was just the deal. I’d already had the hot one. She uncapped them, handed me one, clinked the bottles, said
    “ Sláinte.”
    What else could I say so I said it
    “Good health.”
    She leaned over my shoulder, took down a pack of Marlboro Lights, lit two and I said
    “I didn’t know you smoked.”
    She put one between my lips, the gesture more intimate than the love making, said
    “There’s a lot you don’t know.”
    Ain’t that the truth? The first hits of the nicotine were magic, that rush to the blood stream, a cross between dizziness, nausea and ecstasy. Mainly, a cross, like in crucify. What I wanted was a line of coke and a double shot of bourbon so I asked
    “You got any bourbon?”
    She indicated a closet, said
    “Top shelf.”
    Of course.
    Self-conscious, naked, I walked to the closet, opened it. Men are no good at that casual stroll without clothes, women can pull it off with grace and us, we do it looking more than a little ridiculous. A bottle of Jim Beam and on the bottom shelf, I saw the butt of a hand gun, and the temptation to check, see it had been fired was nearly overwhelming and reading my thoughts. She said
    “My dad put it there. He says a woman alone can’t be too careful.”
    I grabbed two glasses from the sink, filled them with Beam, asked
    “Water?”
    “No, neat, like my man.”
    Okay, so it’s dumb but it gave me a