“I didn’t plan it!” the boy squealed, showing his age.
Raphie drank his coffee and watched the young teenager.
The boy looked at the Styrofoam cup Raphie had placed before him and wrinkled his nose. “I don’t drink coffee.”
“Okay.” Raphie lifted the Styrofoam cup from the table and emptied the contents into his mug. “Still warm. Thanks. So, tell me about this morning. What were you thinking, son?”
“Unless you’re the fat bastard whose window I threw a bird through, then I’m not your son. And what’s this, a therapy session or an interrogation? Are you charging me with something or what?”
“We’re waiting to hear whether your dad is going to press charges.”
“He won’t.” The boy rolled his eyes. “He can’t. I’m under sixteen. So if you just let me go now, you won’t waste any of your time.”
“You’ve already wasted a considerable amount of it.”
“It’s Christmas Day, I doubt there’s much else for you to do around here.” He eyed Raphie’s stomach. “Other than eat doughnuts.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Try me.”
“Some idiot kid threw a turkey through a window this morning.”
He rolled his eyes again and looked at the clock on the wall ticking away. “Where are my parents?”
“Wiping grease off their floor.”
“Those people are not my parents,” he spat. “At least she’s not my mother. If she comes with him to collect me, I’m not going.”
“Oh, I doubt very much that they’ll come to take you home with them.” Raphie reached into his pocket and took out a chocolate candy. He unwrapped it slowly, the wrapper rustling in the quiet room. “Did you ever notice the strawberry ones are always the last left over in the tin?” He smiled before popping the candy in his mouth.
“I bet nothing’s ever left in the tin when you’re around.”
Raphie ignored the jab. “So I was saying, your father and his partner—”
“Who, for the record”—the boy interrupted Raphie and leaned close to the recording device on the table—“is a whore.”
“They may pay us a visit to press charges.”
“Dad wouldn’t do that,” the boy said with a swallow, his eyes tired and puffy with frustration.
“He’s thinking about it.”
“No, he’s not,” the boy whined. “If he is, it’s probably because she’s making him. Bitch.”
“It’s more probable that he’ll do it because it’s currently snowing in his living room.”
“Is it snowing?” The boy looked like a child again, eyes now wide with hope.
Raphie sucked on his candy. “Some people just bite right into chocolate; I much prefer to suck it.”
“Suck on this.” The boy grabbed his crotch.
“You’ll have to get your boyfriend to do that.”
“I’m not gay,” he huffed, then leaned forward, and the child returned. “Ah, come on, is it snowing? Let me out to see it, will you? I’ll just look out the window.”
Raphie finished his candy and leaned his elbows on the table. He spoke firmly. “Glass from the window landed on the ten-month-old baby.”
“So?” the boy snarled, bouncing back in his chair, but he looked concerned. He began pulling at a piece of skin around his nail.
“He was beside the Christmas tree, where the turkey landed. Luckily he wasn’t cut. The baby, that is, not the turkey. The turkey sustained quite a few injuries. We don’t think he’ll make it.”
The boy looked both relieved and confused at the same time.
“When’s my mam coming to get me?”
“She’s on her way.”
“The girl with the”—he cupped his hands over his chest—“big jugs told me that two hours ago. What happened to her face, by the way? You two have a lover’s tiff?”
Raphie bristled over how the boy spoke about Jessica, but kept his calm. The kid wasn’t worth it. Was he even worth sharing the story with at all?
“Maybe your mother is driving very slowly. The roads are very slippery right now.”
The Turkey Boy thought about that again and looked a little worried. He continued pulling at the skin around his nail.
“The turkey was too big,” he said after a long pause. He clenched and unclenched his fists on the table. “She bought the same-sized turkey she used to buy when he was home. I don’t know why, but she thought he’d be coming back.”
“Your mother thought this about your dad,” Raphie confirmed, rather than asked.
The boy nodded. “When I took it out of the freezer, it just made me crazy. It was too big.”
Silence again.
“I didn’t think the turkey would break the glass,” he continued, quieter now and looking away. “Who knew a turkey could break a window?”
Then he looked up at Raphie with such desperation that, despite the seriousness of the situation, Raphie had to fight a smile at the boy’s misfortune.
“I just meant to give them a fright. I knew they’d all be in there playing happy family.”
“Well, they’re definitely not anymore.”
The boy didn’t say anything but seemed much less smug and angry than when Raphie had first entered.
“A fifteen-pound turkey seems very big for just three people,” Raphie said, trying to keep the conversation going.
“Yeah, well, my dad’s a fat bastard, what can I say.”
Raphie decided he was wasting his time. Fed up, he stood to leave.
“Dad’s family still used to come for Christmas dinner every year,” the boy caved in, calling out to Raphie in an effort to keep him in the room. “But they decided not to come this year, either. The turkey was just too bloody big for the two of us,” he repeated, shaking his head. Dropping the bravado act, his tone changed. “When will my mam be here?”
Raphie shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably when you’ve learned your lesson.”
“But it’s Christmas Day.”
“As good a day as any to learn a lesson.”
“Lessons are for kids.”
Raphie smiled at that.
“What?” the boy spat defensively.
“Well, I learned one today.”
“Oh, I forgot to add retards to that, too.”
Raphie made his way to the door.
“So what lesson did you learn then?” the boy asked quickly, and Raphie could sense in his voice that he didn’t want to be left alone.
Raphie stopped and turned, feeling sad, looking sad.
“It must have been a pretty shit lesson,” the boy said.
“You’ll find that most lessons are.”
The Turkey Boy sat slumped over the table, his unzipped hoodie hanging off one shoulder, his small pink ears peeping out from his greasy shoulder-length hair, his cheeks covered in pimples, his eyes a crystal blue. He was only a child.
Raphie sighed. Surely he’d be forced into early retirement for telling this story. He walked back to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
“Just for the record,” Raphie said, “you asked me to tell you this.”
CHAPTER 4
The Shoe Watcher
LOU SUFFERN ALWAYS HAD TWO places to be at one time. When asleep, he dreamed. In between dreams, he ran through the events of the previous day while making plans for the next, so when he was awakened by his alarm at six a.m. every day, he never felt very rested. When in the shower, he rehearsed presentations, often while responding, one hand outside the shower curtain, to e-mails on his BlackBerry. While eating breakfast he read the newspaper, and when being told rambling stories by his five-year-old daughter, he listened to the morning news. When his thirteen-month-old son demonstrated a new skill each day, Lou’s face displayed interest, his mind feeling the exact opposite. When kissing his wife good-bye, he was usually thinking of someone else altogether.
Every action, movement, appointment, doing, or thought of any kind was layered by another.
Driving to work was also a conference call by speakerphone. Breakfasts ran into lunches, lunches into pre-dinner drinks, drinks into dinners, dinners into after-dinner drinks, after-dinner drinks into…well, that depended on how lucky he got. On those lucky nights when he felt himself appreciating his luck and the company of another, he, of course, would convince those who wouldn’t share his appreciation—namely his wife—that he was in another place. To them, he was stuck in a meeting or at an airport, finishing up some important paperwork, or buried in the maddening traffic. Two places, quite magically, at once.
Everything overlapped, and he was always moving, always had someplace else to be, always wished that he was elsewhere, or that, thanks to some divine intervention, he could be in both places at the same time. He spent as little time as possible with each person during his day, but always left them feeling that it was enough. He wasn’t a tardy man; he was precise, always on time. In his personal life he may have been a broken pocket watch, but in business he was a master timekeeper. He strove for perfection and possessed boundless energy in his quest for success. However, it was these bounds—so eager to attain his ever-growing list of desires, so full of ambition to reach new dizzying heights—that caused him to soar above the heads of the people who mattered most in life. Nothing, and no one, could lift him higher than a new deal at work.
On one particularly cold Tuesday morning, along the continuously developing dockland of Dublin city, Lou’s black leather shoes, polished to perfection, strolled confidently across the sight line of one particular man. This man watched the shoes in movement that morning, as he had yesterday and as, he assumed, he would tomorrow. There was no best foot forward for this man; for both feet were equal in their abilities. Each stride was equal in length, the heel-to-toe combination so precise; his shoes always pointing forward, heels striking first and then pushing off from the big toe, flexing at the ankle. Perfect each time. The footsteps rhythmic, almost magical as they hit the pavement. There was no rushing or heavy pounding with this man, as was the case with the seemingly decapitated others who raced by at this hour, their heads still back at home on their pillows. No, his shoes made a tapping sound as intrusive and unwelcome as the patter of raindrops against a windowpane, the hem of his trousers flapping slightly like a flag in a light breeze on the eighteenth hole.
The watcher half expected the slabs of pavement to light up as the man stepped on each one, and for him to break out into a tap dance about how swell and dandy the day was turning out to be. And as the watcher was soon to find out, a swell and dandy day it was most certainly going to be.
Usually these shiny black shoes beneath the impeccable black suit would float stylishly by the watcher, through the revolving doors, and into the grand marble entrance of this latest modern glass building to be squeezed through the cracks of the quays and launched up into the Dublin sky. But this morning the shoes stopped directly before the watcher. And then they turned, making a gravelly noise as they pivoted on the cold concrete. The watcher had no choice but to lift his gaze from the shoes.
“Here you go,” Lou said, handing him a coffee. “It’s an Americano; hope you don’t mind, they were having problems with the machine, so they couldn’t make a latte.”
“Take it back then,” the watcher said, turning his nose up at the cup of steaming coffee being offered to him.
This was greeted by a stunned silence.
“Only joking.” The watcher laughed at the man’s startled look, and very quickly—in case the joke was unappreciated and the gesture was rethought and withdrawn—reached for the cup and cradled it with his numb fingers. “Do I look like I care about steamed milk?” The watcher grinned, before his expression changed to a look of pure ecstasy. “Mmmm.” He pushed his nose up against the rim of the cup to smell the coffee. He closed his eyes and savored it, not wanting the sense of sight to take away from this divine smell. The cardboard cup was so hot, or his hands so cold, that the liquid burned right through to his fingers, sending torpedoes of heat and shivers through his body. He hadn’t known how cold he was until he’d felt this heat.
“Thanks very much indeed,” he said to the man.
“No problem. I heard on the radio that today’s going to be the coldest day of the year.” The shiny shoes stamped the concrete slabs, and the man’s leather gloves rubbed together as proof of his word.
“Well, I’d believe them, all right. Never mind the brass monkeys, it’s cold enough to freeze my own balls off. But this will help.” The watcher blew on the drink slightly, preparing to take his first sip.
“There’s no sugar in it,” Lou apologized.
“Ah, well then.” The watcher rolled his eyes and quickly pulled the cup away from his lips. “I can let you off for the steamed milk, but forgetting to add sugar is a step too far.” He offered it back to Lou.
Getting the joke this time, Lou laughed. “Okay, okay, I get the point.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, isn’t that what they say? Though is that to say choosers can be beggars?” The watcher raised an eyebrow and smiled and finally took his first sip. So engrossed in the sensation of heat and caffeine traveling through his cold body, he hadn’t noticed that suddenly he, the watcher, became the watched.
“Oh. I’m Gabe.” He stuck out his hand. “Gabriel, but everyone who knows me calls me Gabe.”
Lou reached down and shook his hand. Warm leather to cold skin. “I’m Lou, but everyone who knows me calls me a prick.”
Gabe laughed. “Well, that’s honesty for you. How’s about I call you Lou until I get to know you better.”
They smiled at each other and then were quiet in the sudden awkwardness. Two little boys trying to make friends in a school yard. The shiny shoes began to fidget slightly, tip-tap, tap-tip, Lou’s side-to-side steps a combination of trying to keep warm and trying to figure out whether to leave or stay.
“Busy this morning, isn’t it?” Gabe said easily.
“Christmas is only a few weeks away, always a hectic time,” Lou agreed.
“The more people around, the better it is for me,” Gabe said as a twenty-cent went flying into his cup on the ground. “Thank you,” he called to the lady who’d barely paused to drop the coin. From her body language one would almost think it had fallen through a hole in her pocket rather than being an intended gift. He looked up at Lou with big eyes and an even bigger grin. “See? Coffee’s on me tomorrow.” He chuckled.
Lou tried to lean over as inconspicuously as possible to steal a look at the contents of the cup. The twenty-cent piece sat alone at the bottom.
“Oh, don’t worry. I empty it now and then. Don’t want people thinking I’m doing too well for myself.” He laughed. “You know how it is.”
Lou agreed, but at the same time he didn’t.
“Can’t have people knowing I own the penthouse right across the water,” Gabe added, nodding across the river.
Lou turned around and gazed across the river Liffey at Dublin quay’s newest skyscraper. With its mirrored glass it was almost as if the building was the Looking Glass of Dublin city center. From the re-created Viking longship that was moored along the quays to the many cranes and new corporate and commercial buildings that framed the Liffey to the stormy, cloud-filled sky that surrounded the higher floors, the building captured it all and reflected it back to the city like a giant plasma screen. At night the building was illuminated in blue and was the talk of the town, or at least it had been in the months following its launch. The next best thing never lasted for too long, as he knew well.
“I was only joking about owning the penthouse, you know,” Gabe said, seeming concerned that his humor was a little off today.
“You like that building?” Lou asked, still staring at it in a trance.
“That’s one of the main reasons I sit here. That, and because it’s busy right along here, of course. A view alone won’t buy me my dinner.”
“We built that,” Lou said, finally turning back around to face his new acquaint
ance.
“Really?” Gabe took him in a bit more. Mid to late thirties, dapper suit, his face cleanly shaven, smooth as a baby’s behind, his dark groomed hair with even speckles of gray throughout, as though someone had taken a saltshaker to it. Lou reminded Gabe of an old-style movie star, emanating suaveness and sophistication, all packaged in a full-length black cashmere coat.
“I bet it bought you dinner.” Gabe laughed, feeling a slight twinge of jealousy at that moment, which bothered him, since he hadn’t known any amount of jealousy until now. Since meeting Lou he’d learned two things that were of no help, and there he was, all of a sudden cold and envious, when previously he had been warm and content. Bearing that in mind, and despite always being happy with his own company, he foresaw that as soon as he and this gentleman were to part ways, he would experience a loneliness he had never been previously aware of. He would then be envious, cold, and lonely. The perfect ingredients for a nice homemade bitter pie.
In fact, the building had bought Lou more than dinner. It had gotten the company a few awards, and, for him personally, a house in Howth and an upgrade from his present Porsche to the new model—the latter arriving right after Christmas, to be precise, but Lou knew not to announce that to the man sitting on the freezing cold pavement, swaddled in a flea-infested blanket. Instead, Lou smiled politely and flashed his porcelain veneers, as usual doing two things at once. Thinking one thing and saying another.
“Well, I’d better get to work. I just work—”
“Next door, I know. I recognize the shoes.” Gabe smiled. “Though you didn’t wear those yesterday. Tan leather, if I’m correct.”
Lou’s neatly tweezed eyebrows went up a notch. Like a pebble dropped in a pool, they caused a series of ripples to rise on his as-yet-un-Botoxed forehead.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker.” Gabe allowed one hand to unwrap itself from the hot cup so he could hold it up in defense. “If anything, you people keep turning up at my place.”