There was something about the rubble of the old West End that Joe liked. He could not begin to articulate this pleasure, but he enjoyed it just the same, as some dogs will thump their tails on the floor while listening to music. It made him happy. The demolition kicked up clouds of dust which the wind blew across town. Your eyes burned from it, and at the end of the day your shirt collar and the snot in your handkerchief were black from it. A church, St. Joseph’s, stood alone in the dust bowl. Joe knew the West End mattered somehow, it signified, but signified what? His best guess: it was a reminder that under all this city was dirt, and maybe every once in a while, every century or so, a city needed a good knocking-down. A fresh start. A New Boston, and fuck the old one. Full of rot, the old one was. And wouldn’t it be nice if you could tear yourself down and rebuild from scratch? A new Joe, new and improved. Didn’t work that way. A city you could bulldoze; your past you were stuck with. Your debts, your mistakes, you were stuck with.
He made it a habit to swing by Wasserman’s grocery every few days. The old Jew wasn’t around much now. Joe worried that something might have happened to him. There were stories about old West Enders who had gone out for a cup of coffee and come home to find a padlock on the door. That was how the Renewal worked. Maybe they had figured out how to roust old Wasserman after all. But Joe doubted it. If the old man was not scared off by Sonnenshein’s gorillas, he was not going to scare easy. Joe slipped notes into the mail slot asking Wasserman to call him at the station. Every time he delivered one of these notes, Joe heard the little mail door clack and knew the old man would never call. There was nothing a cop could do for him. It was too late for that.
During a mid-morning visit to Wasserman’s, Joe recognized a punk on the sidewalk nearby, the same kid Joe had introduced himself to a few weeks before by sticking his gun in the kid’s face. Joe stayed in his car a moment, watching the kid slouch past. His movements were listless, tired. When Joe jumped out, the kid made no attempt to run.
“You remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“You got something for me?”
“No.”
Joe shoved him across the sidewalk. “What are you, fuckin’ stupid? Are you stupid?” Joe saw the disdain on the kid’s face. He’d heard the tough-cop bullshit before and mostly he was just bored with it. Joe was bored with it, too, but it was the only flavor he had. “You said you’d find out who broke up the old man’s shop. You gave me your word.”
“I said I’d try.”
“So?”
“I tried. Nobody knows anything.”
“Well, somebody must know.”
“No.”
“Keep trying, kid-”
“No.”
“Whattaya shaking your head? Keep asking around.”
“No.”
“What is that, ‘no, no, no’? Why not?”
“Cuz it’s stupid, alright? I already asked everyone who’s left around here. Don’t you get it? It’s got nothing to do with us. There’s none of us left here. Whoever did it, they came from somewhere else. Why would any West Ender want to help the Renewal? What do we get out of it? What do you give a shit, anyways? You think they’re gonna hold this whole thing up because some old fart won’t leave his place? Look around you, man.”