Chapter 57
M ICHAEL SULLIVAN HAD STOPPED taking shit from anybody when he was fourteen or fifteen years old. Everybody in his family knew that his grandpa James had a gun and that he kept it in the bottom drawer of the dresser in his bedroom. One afternoon in June, the week that school got out for him, Sullivan broke in and stole the gun from his grandfather’s apartment.
For the rest of the day, he moseyed around the neighborhood with the pistola stuck in his pants, concealed under a loose shirt. He didn’t feel the need to show off the weapon to anybody, but he found that he liked having it, liked it a lot. The handgun changed everything for him. He went from a tough kid to an invincible one.
Sullivan hung out until around eight; then he made his way along Quentin Road to his father’s shop. He got there when he knew that the old man would be closing up.
A song he hated, Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock,” was on somebody’s car radio down the block, and he was tempted to shoot whoever was playing that shit.
The butcher shop’s front door was open, and when he waltzed in, his father didn’t even look up ? but he must have seen his son pass the window outside.
The usual stack of Irish Echo newspapers was by the door. Everything always in its goddamn place. Neat, tidy, and completely messed-up.
“Whattaya want?” his father growled. The broom he was using had a scraper blade to dislodge fat from the grout on the floor. It was the kind of scut work Sullivan hated.
“Have a talk with you?” he said to his father.
“F*ck off. I’m busy earning a living.”
“Oh. Is that right? Busy cleaning floors?” Then his arm swung out fast.
And that was the first time Sullivan hit his father ? with the gun ? in the temple over his right eye. He hit him again, in the nose, and the large man went down into the sawdust and meat shavings. He began to moan and spit out sawdust and gristle.
“You know how badly I can hurt you?” Michael Sullivan bent low to the floor and asked his father. “Remember that line, Kevin? I do. Never forget it as long as I live.”
“Don’t call me Kevin, you punk.”
He hit his father again with the gun handle. Then he kicked him in the testicles, and his father groaned in pain.
Sullivan looked around the store with total contempt. Kicked over a stand of McNamara’s soda bread, just to kick something. Then he put the gun to his old man’s head and cocked it.
“Please,” his father gasped, and his eyes went wide with shock and fear and some kind of bizarre realization about who his son was. “No. Don’t do this. Don’t, Michael.”
Sullivan pulled the trigger ? and there was a loud snap of metal against metal.
But no deafening explosion. No brain-splattering gunshot. Then there was powerful silence, like in a church.
“Someday,” he told his father. “Not today, but when you least expect it. One day when you don’t want to die, I’m going to kill you. You’re gonna have a hard death, too, Kevin. And not with a pop gun like this one.”
Then he walked out of the butcher shop, and he became the Butcher of Sligo. Three days before Christmas of his eighteenth year, he came back and killed his father. As he’d promised, not with a gun. He used one of the old man’s boning knives, and he took several Polaroid shots as a keepsake.