notebook out of his hand and shredded it slowly in front of him. “Look, you dumb Mick, they’ll be back soon, okay?”
“Where’re you taking them?”
“What’s it to you, buddy?”
“Where are you bringing them? Which station house?”
“Step back. Over there. Now.”
“Under what statute?” said Corrigan.
“Under the statute that I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”
“All I want is an answer.”
“The answer’s seven,” the female cop said, staring Corrigan down.
“The answer’s always seven. Get it?”
“No I don’t.”
“What are you, man, some sort of fruit or something?”
McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 62
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One of the sergeants swaggered up and shouted: “Somebody take care of Mr. Lovey- Dovey here.” Corrigan was pushed to the side of the road and told to stand on the curb. “We’ll lock you up if you say another word.”
I guided him aside. His face was red and his fists tightened. Veins thrummed at his temple. A new splotch had appeared on his neck. “Take it easy, okay, Corr? We’ll sort it out later. They’ll be better off in a station anyway. It’s not as if you actually like them being here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, Jesus, come on,” I said. “Just trust me. We’ll get to them later.”
The paddy wagons bounced down off the curbs and all but one of the squad cars followed behind. A few onlookers gathered in clumps. Some kids rode their bicycles in circles around the empty space as if they’d found themselves a brand- new playground. Corrigan went to pick up a keyring from the gutter. It was a cheap little glass thing with a picture of a child in the center. Flipped over, there was a picture of another child.
“That’s the reason,” said Corrigan, thrusting the keyring towards me.
“They’re Jazz’s kids.”
Whosoever brought me here is going to have to take me home. Tillie had charged me fifteen dollars for our little tryst, patted me on the back, then said I represented the Irish quite well, a grand dollop of irony in her voice. Call me SweetCakes. She flicked the ten- dollar bill and said she knew some Khalil Gibran too—she would quote a bit or two if I wanted.
“Next time,” I said. She’d riffled through her handbag. “Are you interested in a little horse?” she asked as she buttoned me up. She said she could get some from Angie. “Not my style,” I said. She giggled and leaned closer to me. “Your style?” she said. She put her hand on my hip, laughed again. “Your style!” There was a sickening moment when I thought she had pickpocketed all my tips, but she hadn’t; she just tightened my belt and slapped me on the arse.
I was glad that I hadn’t gone with her daughter. I felt almost virtuous, as if I hadn’t been tempted at all. Tillie’s smell had lingered with me for a couple of days and it returned again now that she had been taken off and arrested.
“She’s a grandmother?”
“I told you that,” said Corrigan. He stormed towards the last remain-McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 63
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63
ing cop car, brandishing Jazz’s key chain. “What’re you going to do about this?” he shouted. “You going to get someone to look after her kids? Is that what you’re going to do? Who’s going to look after her kids? Are you going to leave them there on the street? You’re arresting her mother and her!”
“Mister,” the cop said, “one more word from you—”
I pulled Corrigan’s elbow hard and dragged him back through the projects. For a moment the buildings seemed more sinister without the hookers outside: the territory was transformed, none of the old totems anymore.
The lift was broken again. Corrigan wheezed up the stairs. Inside, he began dialing all the community groups he knew, looking for a lawyer, and a babysitter for Jazzlyn’s kids. “I don’t even know where they’ve gone,”
“Where’re you taking them?”
“What’s it to you, buddy?”
“Where are you bringing them? Which station house?”
“Step back. Over there. Now.”
“Under what statute?” said Corrigan.
“Under the statute that I’ll kick your ass if you don’t.”
“All I want is an answer.”
“The answer’s seven,” the female cop said, staring Corrigan down.
“The answer’s always seven. Get it?”
“No I don’t.”
“What are you, man, some sort of fruit or something?”
McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 62
62
C O L U M M c C A N N
One of the sergeants swaggered up and shouted: “Somebody take care of Mr. Lovey- Dovey here.” Corrigan was pushed to the side of the road and told to stand on the curb. “We’ll lock you up if you say another word.”
I guided him aside. His face was red and his fists tightened. Veins thrummed at his temple. A new splotch had appeared on his neck. “Take it easy, okay, Corr? We’ll sort it out later. They’ll be better off in a station anyway. It’s not as if you actually like them being here.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, Jesus, come on,” I said. “Just trust me. We’ll get to them later.”
The paddy wagons bounced down off the curbs and all but one of the squad cars followed behind. A few onlookers gathered in clumps. Some kids rode their bicycles in circles around the empty space as if they’d found themselves a brand- new playground. Corrigan went to pick up a keyring from the gutter. It was a cheap little glass thing with a picture of a child in the center. Flipped over, there was a picture of another child.
“That’s the reason,” said Corrigan, thrusting the keyring towards me.
“They’re Jazz’s kids.”
Whosoever brought me here is going to have to take me home. Tillie had charged me fifteen dollars for our little tryst, patted me on the back, then said I represented the Irish quite well, a grand dollop of irony in her voice. Call me SweetCakes. She flicked the ten- dollar bill and said she knew some Khalil Gibran too—she would quote a bit or two if I wanted.
“Next time,” I said. She’d riffled through her handbag. “Are you interested in a little horse?” she asked as she buttoned me up. She said she could get some from Angie. “Not my style,” I said. She giggled and leaned closer to me. “Your style?” she said. She put her hand on my hip, laughed again. “Your style!” There was a sickening moment when I thought she had pickpocketed all my tips, but she hadn’t; she just tightened my belt and slapped me on the arse.
I was glad that I hadn’t gone with her daughter. I felt almost virtuous, as if I hadn’t been tempted at all. Tillie’s smell had lingered with me for a couple of days and it returned again now that she had been taken off and arrested.
“She’s a grandmother?”
“I told you that,” said Corrigan. He stormed towards the last remain-McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 63
L E T T H E G R E A T W O R L D S P I N
63
ing cop car, brandishing Jazz’s key chain. “What’re you going to do about this?” he shouted. “You going to get someone to look after her kids? Is that what you’re going to do? Who’s going to look after her kids? Are you going to leave them there on the street? You’re arresting her mother and her!”
“Mister,” the cop said, “one more word from you—”
I pulled Corrigan’s elbow hard and dragged him back through the projects. For a moment the buildings seemed more sinister without the hookers outside: the territory was transformed, none of the old totems anymore.
The lift was broken again. Corrigan wheezed up the stairs. Inside, he began dialing all the community groups he knew, looking for a lawyer, and a babysitter for Jazzlyn’s kids. “I don’t even know where they’ve gone,”
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