chootoy wanted rescue me. how can i resist denis leary?
"You're fucking kidding me."
Jimmy stared back at him with that apologetic look, that fucking little half-moon pressed-together mouth thing he did like a goddamn bigmouth bass. "I tried to let you down easy," he said, spreading his hands. Tommy stared at that gimpy burned finger on Jimmy's left hand, hard. He sure didn't want to look anywhere else.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "You're telling me there was no easier way to do it than this?" He gestured wildly around and Jimmy looked a little sad. Disappointed. Tommy sighed and lifted his head, looked straight-on into Janet's face. She had her eyes closed and she was trembling a little bit, just a little little, only enough so her hair was shaking down and catching in her eyelashes. She had her hand clasped in the hand of the prick of a guy who was standing next to her, the prick of a guy who was....
"Hey, how d'you think I felt? Seeing Sheila again and knowing she'd have to go on with her life?" Jimmy shook his head, looking profound. It was always a bad sign when Jimmy looked profound; it usually meant everybody was gonna end up in a giant cesspool of shit and he'd try to tell you that at least it made the grass green. If there was any goddamn profoundness to be had, it was how profoundly Tommy Gavin wanted a fucking drink right at this moment.
"It's just..." he said, lip curling. "I mean, Mickey! I was an altar boy for the guy, for Chrissake. And now he's just here, fuckin'...fucking exorcising me like I'm blowing pea soup all over the place? You'd think history would count for something, y'know?"
Jimmy's expression slid effortlessly from "profound" to "eminently reasonable" and Tommy thought longingly of the MGD in his fridge across the road. "You're haunting her house," Jimmy said reasonably. "She's done her grieving, Tommy. You gotta just let go now." Tommy scratched the back of his neck. "And there was that time you beat the crap out of him at your mom's funeral."
"That shouldn't count," Tommy said firmly. "I can do whatever I want at my own ma's funeral."
Janet's hand tightened in her prick of a husband's as she murmured prayers and Tommy scowled when her eyelashes started getting wet. "Fine," he muttered. "Fine, fine, fucking fine. It's not like I own this house or nothing. It's not like I worked my ass off for all this--"
Jimmy put a hand on Tommy's shoulder. His finger was looking fine now, just like it did when he was alive. "Yeah, I know," he said. "But you gotta let it go. For Janet." He paused, rubbing his newly-restored finger with obvious pleasure. "And kinda for me, man. I didn't sign up to do this purgatory thing for all of eternity."
"Tough shit." But Jimmy was right, after all. And the tears were shivering on the tips of Janet's eyelashes now, and Tommy didn't want to see it and didn't want to see that prick of a husband gather her into his arms. He took a breath and turned around and Janet let out a sigh that sounded like all the weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and that shouldn't have made him feel as bitter as he did but hey, after everything, he deserved to feel a little bit of goddamn bitterness, didn't he? At least that much.
"I'm done now." Tommy nudged Jimmy and they walked out of the house. Jimmy was looking smug now. Smug. That would definitely not fucking do.
"C'mon, pal," he said. "Let's figure out where we're supposed to go now. And to pass the time," he slung an arm around Jimmy's shoulders, "We can compare notes about what it's like banging Sheila."
Who was the smug one now, asshole?