Brighton by Michael Harvey Page A

Brookline. Scare the crap out of most college kids. That was about it. Bobby still paid him like he was a tough guy just because he did. It gave Finn something to talk about on those nights when the Sox sucked and he was sitting outside Fenway with his buddies trying to move a half-dozen grandstand for something close to face.
    “I know you can handle him, Finn, but if he gives you any problems, I want to know. Okay?”
    “Sure.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Fuck you, nothing. What is it?”
    Finn hitched his shoulders. Bobby knew he scared people. He was the guy who’d put a bullet in Curtis Jordan. And that bought a lifetime of respect among the locals. Not to mention a healthy dose of piss-pounding fear. All of which Bobby put to good use. “You still drink in the Corrib?” he said.
    “Place sucks.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “They started putting butter and chives on the baked potato they give you with the steak tips. I like to do that shit myself.”
    “You still drink there, Finn?”
    “A little bit. Why?”
    “Just watch yourself and let me know if they give you any problems.”
    “Fine.”
    “You wanna grab a beer?”
    “Supposed to work the game tonight.”
    “All right.” Bobby jumped to his feet.
    Finn licked his lips like a nervous spaniel. “Fuck it, I’m already late. You wanna smoke a joint first?”
    “When was the last time you seen me smoke a joint?”
    “Wanna wait for me?”
    Bobby looked his friend up and down. “How you doing with the blow?”
    “You know I’m off that shit.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.” Finn’s eyes were turning to water, his lower lip starting to crumble.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing. Why you fucking with me today?”
    Bobby glanced around, then leaned close. “Cuz if you’re on the blow again, I got no choice but to hurt you. Before you hurt me. You understand what I’m saying?”
    “Of course.”
    “Come on then.”
    They walked to the front of the store. Max was drinking his coffee and reading the paper.
    “Where’d you get them?” Bobby said, nodding at a chorus line of roasted hens sitting under a yellow light behind the counter.
    “People gettin’ sick of the subs and all that crap. Fucking things are delicious.”
    “Delicious, huh?”
    “Sold out yesterday. You want one?”
    Bobby looked at Finn. “Hungry?”
    “Thirsty.”
    Bobby pulled out a roll of bills. “Wrap one up.”
    Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a Market Street dive called Joey’s. The bartender put down two Buds and went back to his perch on the cooler, eyes fixed on a muted TV slotted over the men’s room. Family Feud was on. Bobby tipped his beer so it clinked against Finn’s. Then they sat in the quiet, the only sound Finn cracking bones and tearing hen flesh.
    “How’s your mom?” Bobby said.
    Finn’s mom lived by herself in a subsidized housing complex off Faneuil Street. Finn visited the old woman every day, and every day she left a twenty-dollar bill for her only son under a cookie jar in the kitchen. Bobby knew about the double sawbuck but never hassled Finn about it. Bobby also made sure the old woman’s rent was paid up and kicked in a little extra so the building manager didn’t fuck with her like they did with some of the old-timers in those places. Finn didn’t know about that, either.
    “Doc told her she’s got maybe a year or two,” Finn said.
    “They said that five years ago.”
    “Yeah, well . . .”
    “Don’t worry about it, Finn.”
    “I don’t.”
    Bobby could already hear the cracks in his voice and knew he’d be a fucking basket case when his mom finally went.
    “Thanks for asking, B.”
    “No big deal.”
    “Yeah, it is. No one else really gives a fuck, you know?”
    The bartender swung by to see if they needed another. Finn was ready. The bartender set him up and drifted away again.
    “I’m gonna be putting something on the C’s this weekend. They got the Knicks at home.” Finn began to run through