Dennison awoke lying on the pavement. His neck and legs burned with pain. He moved his heavy head and focused his vision on the brick wall across the alley, pocked and stained with age. Piles of garbage bags slumped against it, the odor simmering in the morning heat. He closed his eyes and moved his neck. His pulse thumped in his head. The sun was already bending hot over the buildings. A brief shadow told him it was early. There was dried blood on his face and he wondered if it was his own. His mouth tasted parched and vile. He had slept the disturbed sleep of a drunk. The empty gin bottle by his feet brought back uncertain memories. Last night he had decided he would end it. He had bar-hopped until no one would serve this fat slobbering drunk. Then he had staggered to the liquor store, bought the gin and…he could not remember anything else.
He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled through the muggy streets. Past the rickety stores, the massage parlors, the seedy bars. There was no longer any reason he could find for continuing. He believed he had the courage to end it today. He had not walked that far in a decade, but in his dreamy start, anticipating death, he found a little strength. Dennison’s demon, a tight ball in his gut, propelled him on. He had faced the choice of death or life a dozen times, but never had he felt the specter so near. Put the gun close and pull the trigger. Like all the other times. Let the bullet do its work.
He bought some donuts and the Herald, but could not concentrate even on the comics, so he let the newspaper flutter to the street page by page, blowing restless like tumbleweed across the broken tar. He had lost the taste for even the simple pleasure of the newspaper, so it was just as well that he would do it today.
He went to his office and had coffee with Sonny, before sending Sonny in the panel truck to a chop shop in Brockton for the stolen radiators. The point of the job darted from Dennison’s mind, chased away by the sadness mauling him. He almost ditched the deal so that he could spend a few more hours with Sonny. But he sent Sonny on the errand. The profit was needed by the living.
Dennison took the trolley to Suffolk Downs where he hot-wired an Oldsmobile as he listened to the call of first race over the track’s loud speakers.
When Sonny arrived at Dennison’s warehouse, they began unloading the radiators.
“What’s the car for,” Sonny asked.
“Something after we’re finished,” Dennison said. He patted Sonny’s shoulder, and it felt alien. He had never touched Sonny before. What would it be like for him alone?
Dennison worked shirtless, his belly fat flowed down over his grease stained pants. Sonny wore jeans and a torn Red Sox t-shirt. When Sonny noticed the .38 tucked in Dennison’s back pocket, he said, “Expecting trouble?”
“You never know.” There was deadness in Dennison’s voice.
They worked side by side throughout the heat of the day. Dennison was glad he would spend these last hours with Sonny. The old slum trapped the hot shady air like a plague that fell upon them. Dirt and grease and sweat fouled their eyes and mouths. Flies were everywhere. Dennison felt grief at what he would do. He wondered when that emotion had entered his life. Once when Sonny dropped a radiator, Dennison chided him as if correcting a small boy for whom he had affection.
Dennison checked his watch often, hoping the afternoon and their work would go slowly. He daydreamed that he and Sonny would be partners for a long, long time. At three o’clock they took a break and each drank a beer. Dennison patted Sonny on the shoulder again and said that he appreciated Sonny’s hard work. Sonny smiled like a faithful mutt. Dennison could almost hear the skinny canine tail thumping on the dirt floor. Dennison tried not to sound too morose, so Sonny wouldn’t figure it out. He indulged Sonny’s small talk; the weather, the Sox, some blond Sonny had met in a bar and wanted. For once he was glad for Sonny’s babbling. Dennison was afraid because any silence held something that he could not contemplate.
“You all right, boss?” Sonny said.
“What?”
“You ain’t said much all day.”
Dennison did not reply.
They finished moving the radiators just before four o’clock. As Sonny swept out the truck, Dennison backed the Oldsmobile inside the warehouse and opened the trunk. He pointed to a pile of old blankets in the corner. “Put one down in the trunk,” he said to Sonny.
“What for?”
“Do as I say.”
Dennison walked to the open overhead door. The street was deserted. He opened a fresh beer, drained it in a single swallow, then crushed the can in his hands and tossed it into the weeds beside the building. The alcohol did its work. He felt less anxious now after four beers. He remembered the switchblade Sonny carried in his front left pocket. The wind off the harbor cooled him a little.
Dennison closed the overhead door. He hoisted one of the radiators over his head and walked to the car. Sonny was spreading the blanket in the trunk. Dennison leaned the radiator against the bumper.
“Spread it out,” he said, “all the way, so we don’t get no grease in the trunk.”
“I did, boss.”
“The back corner is folded over. Climb in there and spread it all the way out.”
Sonny cursed as he put one knee inside the trunk and leaned in.
Dennison reached into his back pocket with one hand. He pushed Sonny with the other hand, a tender shove, just enough to tip Sonny over. Dennison flinched as the gunshots thundered around the old building. He shook his head. Sonny should have known. Dennison closed the trunk and thought about where he would ditch the car.
posted June 29, 2008