Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  Laine checked her watch. Three and a half hours to go.

  She settled in to wait.

  ~***~

  Wolfe was leaning against the hood of Scarlett’s double-parked Corvette when his dad showed up, looking like the fucking Hunchback of Notre Dame behind the steering wheel of a Toyota Camry. Secret agent, my ass, Wolfe thought with a snort.

  They were on Broadway in Somerville’s famed Winter Hill neighborhood, the old stomping grounds of Whitey Bulger given way to college students and Brazilian cuisine as warehouses got rehabbed and storefronts changed hands. Unsurprisingly, parking was a bitch, and that was why Wolfe had taken two parallel spaces and hoped if a cop came along it was somebody he went to high school with; luckily that didn’t happen, and he was able to move the Vette to make room for his father’s rental.

  “Nice ride,” Wolfe said, after David flopped out of the sedan with all the grace of a dying trout. “Don’t you think you could’ve gone smaller, though? For the environment?”

  “Funny,” David replied with the same level of snark, but his eyes softened at the corners. “It’s good to see you, Jimmy. Keeping busy?”

  “Living the dream.” Wolfe accepted his dad’s back-slapping man-hug—things were weird enough when your dad pretended to be dead for most of your life, he didn’t need to start a debate about traditional masculinity—before gesturing toward Dirty Dan’s. The bar was situated across the street in a run-down building with a Post Office and a pizza shop. “Bobby’s car’s outside. You ready to see your brother?”

  David took in a breath and exhaled slowly, studying the bar’s dirty windows and flickering neon sign. The first D in Dirty Dan’s wore a cowboy hat, and the S was a rattlesnake. “It’s been a long time. Before I left on that last tour I asked him to watch out for Angela, and for you and Josh.”

  Wolfe winced. “Yeah, he maybe didn’t do a great job at that.” He thought of Angela’s abusive ex-husband Keith, and the way Josh had changed after David’s “death”. His brother had become more distant—still friendly, but detached from Angela and Jake in a way that Wolfe had never dreamed of being. “How do you think he’ll take finding out you’re alive?”

  “Knowing Bobby, he’ll probably hit me,” David remarked, thumbing the crosswalk button as they waited for the stream of cars on Broadway to subside. “That’s how he solves most of his problems.”

  Wolfe nodded his agreement, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. He felt sweat beading on the back of his neck and he’d only been out of the Corvette for a few minutes. “Hey, when are you gonna tell Ma you’re back?”

  David seemed caught off-balance by the question. “I… don’t know, Jimmy.”

  “Well, you better figure it out,” Wolfe said, not unkindly, but in a way that suggested his patience with David’s spook bullshit was wearing thin. “It’s going to be pretty damn awkward if you show up at Caitlin and Ryan’s wedding and Ma still thinks you’re dead.” The light turned, and he sighed, giving his dad an olive branch: “When Bobby heard I was going to enlist and Ma couldn’t talk me out of it, he made me an offer.”

  David shot him a curious glance as they crossed the street. “Oh yeah? What’d he put on the table?”

  A grin pulled at Wolfe’s mouth as he held the door for his dad. “A laundromat. All mine as long as I started cracking heads for the boys on Winter Hill.”

  “Jesus Christ,” David said, taking two steps inside Dirty Dan’s and making a face when the soles of his boots stuck to the floor. “I can see the name of this place is literal.”

  Dirty Dan’s was, as David surmised, fucking dirty. A rickety-looking bar ran along the back wall of the one-room establishment, which was wider than it was long, its cheap Western-themed décor aged at least thirty years by the weird yellowed glass lamps hung from the water-damaged ceiling. What must’ve been one of the first flat screen televisions hung above a dusty rack of bottles, airing a rerun of a Patriots-Dolphins game in which Tom Brady’s ass looked, as usual, fantastic.

  From the jukebox, Jim Morrison howled about breaking through to the other side. Been there, done that, Wolfe thought. You died on an operating table a couple times and you got less fascinated with what comes next.

  Robert “Knee-Bustin’ Bobby” Wolfe was the only person in Dirty Dan’s besides the bartender, who was a mullet-sporting forty-something twig who looked like he’d rather be snorting coke off a toilet seat. The oldest of David’s five siblings (Catholic family), Bobby’s considerable height wasn’t enough to draw attention away from the paunch at his waistline or the crags in a face that had seen too much sunlight and cigar smoke. Grayed-out hair under a brown flat cap and heavy eyebrows over dull, sunken eyes completed Bobby’s visage, one large liver-spotted hand clenched around the handle of a glass beer mug full of Sam Adams.

  Those sunken eyes moved to the mirror behind the bar to size up the newcomers, and Bobby’s face registered surprise when he saw Wolfe and outright stupefaction at the sight of his dead brother.

  “What, no Guinness?” David spread his arms. “I feel like you’re missing out on a branding opportunity, Bobby.”

  Bobby spun on the barstool. “Holy fucking shit—Davey, is that really you?”

  “You bet your ass it is.” The brothers hugged (not a lame back-slapper, Wolfe noted, but a real embrace), and sure enough, as David pulled away Bobby punched him square on the jaw. The hit wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been, but it was enough to stagger David back a step. “Christ, Bobby! You haven’t seen me in twenty-five years so you slug me?!”

  “I haven’t seen you in twenty-five years because you were dead!” Bobby shouted, his cheeks going red. He sat back down hard on his stool and looked at Wolfe. “Did you know about this? Is this some of that fuckin’ stupid military man bullshit?”

  Wolfe bit his tongue against reminding Bobby he dodged the draft during Vietnam (bone spurs) and said, “I only found out a while ago, and he didn’t want me to tell anyone. Not even Ma.”

  “I still don’t,” David ground out, accepting the makeshift icepack the cokehead bartender handed him with a grunt of gratitude. “It’s too dangerous for this to get out everywhere, but when Jimmy told me you might be involved with the shooting at Stela I knew I had to talk to you myself.”

  Hearing the name of Anton Codreanu’s restaurant caused Bobby to stiffen and then sag in resignation. “Ah, fuck me. You want a drink?”

  Wolfe crossed his arms. “I’m on the clock. So it was the Winter Hill boys behind the shooting?”

  “Yeah, yeah, it was us,” Bobby replied, draining half of his beer in one go. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. I could give a shit less about whether or not your girlfriend’s brother gets elected governor.”

  “Ex-girlfriend.” Wolfe leaned against the wooden cactus that served as the bar’s coatrack. “What about Codreanu’s new business venture?”

  Bobby’s thin lips turned downward. “You mean Rapture? Nasty stuff. Gotta admire the man’s business acumen, though—teaming up with Joanne Lavinge was a slick move.” He looked down at the scratched bar top and heaved out a sigh before meeting Wolfe’s stare. “We did it for your brother. To send a message.”

  Wolfe took a moment to digest that, bringing one hand up to rub at his brow. Several responses flitted through his mind, ranging from what the fuck to you could’ve killed someone, but he settled on, “Did you honestly think blasting holes in a dinner party would make Jake feel better?” When Bobby hung his head, Wolfe scoffed, turning to scowl at a framed vintage advertisement for Miller Lite so he didn’t break that beer mug over his uncle’s thick skull. “Of course you didn’t. You wanted to make yourself feel better.”

  “Everybody knows Codreanu was behind what happened to Jake!” Bobby exclaimed, rising from his seat. He flapped his arms a little, like an old rooster trying to take flight. “What else were we supposed to do, Jimmy? Sit back and ignore an attack on one of our own?”

  Wolfe turned on his heel and took two quick step
s toward Bobby, so he was right in his face and his uncle had to look up at him. “Let’s get something straight right now: Jake is not yours,” he said, the lowness of his voice and deliberate cadence of his words betraying his anger. “I told you years ago you weren’t gonna drag him into this stupid mob shit, and I’m not going to let you use him being tortured and almost killed to further some fucking agenda Winter Hill has against Codreanu.”

  David put a hand on Wolfe’s shoulder, tugging him backward gently. “Easy, Jimmy.”

  Wolfe exhaled harshly and moved away, walking backward toward the door. Suddenly Dirty Dan’s seemed to be shrinking around him, the lukewarm breeze coming from the window air conditioner not enough to stop red from creeping in at the edges of his vision. He pointed at Bobby, who looked a little scared in his posture and around the whites of his eyes. Wolfe didn’t blame him; his size and the occasional thousand-yard stare meant he could be scary as hell when he wanted to be. “You stay the hell away from Codrenau, and you keep Jake out of your shit.”

  Bobby brought his hands up to the level of his shoulders, palms out, in the universal gesture for I get it, don’t hit me. “Alright, alright, Jesus! I was just trying to help, that’s all.”

  David shook his head, following Wolfe’s path to the exit. He paused before he left, hand gripping the edge of the open door, waves of humidity battling it out with the air conditioning. “Watch your ass, Bobby. Codreanu’s not somebody you wanna fuck with.”

  “Cross my heart and all that shit,” Bobby said, waving him off. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He watched through the window until his brother and nephew were out of sight, and then he picked up his cell phone off the bar top to make a call. Danh Sang wasn’t going to like this, but the bastard would only pay the Winter Hill boys if they kept rattling the Rom’s cage. If Bobby was going to bring home the bacon, he’d have to find a way to circumnavigate David and his son… which gave him an idea.

  ~***~

  Around the time Wolfe and David had their conversation with Bobby, Sebastian Codreanu played the piano in a dive bar called The Hole. Four was a little early for most drinkers, but Sebastian provided musical entertainment for both the college kids and chronic alcoholics on a regular basis at no charge. After hearing about his near-death experience a few months back, the owner gave Sebastian a key to the bar and said he could come in whenever he wanted.

  The Hole was located in the basement of a brick walk-up at the intersection of Massachusetts and Columbus Avenues. It was a popular spot for the kids from Northeastern University due to its cheap beer prices and the way the bouncer overlooked fake driver’s license or baggie of weed. A simple red door served as the entryway and neon paint splattered the cement walls inside; a battered bar ran the length of one wall and faced a dozen booths and some scattered tables and chairs, with an elevated stage occupying the back wall.

  Despite its reputation and general lack of cleanliness, The Hole served as a kind of sanctuary for Sebastian. Constantin was the only bodyguard he would allow to join him on his visits to the bar. The older man often found himself the victim of leaning against a sticky tabletop and engaging in conversation with a drunk while Sebastian plunked out bits and pieces of music with his mangled fingers.

  It was at a Steinway grand piano just like the one on The Hole’s stage that Sebastian had lost so much at sixteen years old. His hopes to go to music school, the ability to play without pain, and any trust in his father were all destroyed the instant one of Anton’s cronies slammed the fallboard down on Sebastian’s unsuspecting fingers while he attempted to flee death inside Stela. Ironically, Stela was named for Sebastian’s mother, who had been a famed concert pianist at the Sala Patatului in Bucharest before she married Anton. He’d learned everything he knew about music from his mama, and they were still close.

  Though he eventually regained the use of his hands, the severity of his injuries meant Sebastian lacked the flexibility necessary to play the piano at a professional level. Each note brought him pain, but he pushed the discomfort aside for a chance to feel normal again. The idea of going on a date with Wolfe, however—even if it was cover for a job—was so far from Sebastian’s sense of normal that he missed several notes while picking his way through the first movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (his hands were too bad to attempt the second, let alone the third).

  Constantin noticed, glancing up from the Boston Globe’s crossword puzzle. “You seem distracted.”

  Sebastian licked his lips, counted beats in his head and rolled into “Impossible Year” by Panic! At the Disco. “What makes you say that?”

  The bodyguard tapped his pen against his chin in mock-contemplation. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that your little outing tonight is likely to give your father an aneurysm?” He looked back at the crossword. “I still do not approve, by the way. What is a ten-letter word for anxiety?”

  “‘Foreboding’,” Sebastian said, then frowned, his hands stilling against the ivory. “You don’t approve of what, exactly? Me going to the game without you? Anton still thinks I’m spying on Jim and Scarlett—he’ll understand me bringing you along in this scenario would make them suspicious.”

  Constantin snorted. “It might be hard to believe, but sometimes I have more pressing concerns than your father’s megalomania. I meant I do not approve of you going on a date with the son of the man that your father wants to know is alive so he can kill him himself. Especially since we both know David Wolfe is not dead.”

  “It’s not a date.” Sebastian was quick to correct him—too quick, if Constantin’s withering stare was any indication. “Not a real one, anyway.”

  “That does not mean you do not wish it was,” Constantin pointed out.

  Sebastian regarded his crooked fingers, golden-tan against the same white and black keys that had wronged him. “Wishing has never gotten me anything,” he murmured, the ghost of expensive vodka against his lips paired with the phantom burn of cocaine in his nostrils. Wishing for things to be different, it seemed to Sebastian, did more harm than good. “What is your next crossword question?”

  The set of Constantin’s face suggested they’d continue the conversation at a later date, but he was willing to let it slide for now. “Ten letters, the title of Brooke’s sonnet.”

  “‘The Soldier’,” Jim Wolfe said, and oh, Sebastian had it bad if the sound of the man’s voice alone made his palms sweat. He’d slipped through the door of The Hole without calling attention to himself; Wolfe moved soundlessly when he wanted to, despite his size. The bar’s shitty lights made the blond strands in his red hair stand out, and he ran a compulsive hand through it when his eyes found Sebastian’s. “Hey, Bash. You ready to go?”

  Sebastian nodded stupidly, belatedly remembering that standing was a good idea. He slid off the piano bench with as much grace as he could muster, catching the tan bomber jacket Constantin tossed to him without looking. No doubt it was still muggy outside now, but the evening would cool the city. “Da—yes, I’m ready.”

  Wolfe smiled at him, reaching back for the door handle and saluting Constantin at the same time. “I’ll have him back by midnight.”

  Constantin grunted, arms folded across his barrel chest. “I’m holding you to that, detectiv. No funny business.”

  I wouldn’t mind some funny business, Sebastian thought, not for the first time. But he kept it to himself, even with Wolfe’s hand resting lightly between his shoulder blades as they stepped into the waning sun.

  ~***~

  “What do you think of Jimmy’s new ride?” Scarlett asked Sebastian when the gang met up on Jersey Street after paying an arm and a leg to park in the Kenmore lot. “If I didn’t know better I’d say he was compensating for something.”

  Sebastian took a glance back at the lot, where a brand-new black Ford Mustang GT Fastback sat like a proud panther, similar to and yet so different from the cherry-red Mustang Wolfe had driven before Frankie totaled it. “It’s… very fast.” He fa
ced Scarlett again and furrowed his brow. Licking the side of his thumb, he set about fixing the large “B” for Boston someone had painted on her cheek in burgundy lipstick. “How do you know what Jim’s dick looks like?”

  Scarlett arched an eyebrow. “Um, we’re partners? Have been for years? With the amount of times he’s been puked on by clients it would be weird if I hadn’t seen him naked.”

  Wolfe made the mistake of walking away for five minutes to buy Christopher a ball cap so he’d be less recognizable on the street, and he sighed as he caught the last part of the conversation. “Can we please stop talking about my dick?”

  “Oh no, go on,” Melissa said, pulling her hair into a ponytail. She was doing a better job of pretending to be casual than her husband, wearing a Red Sox shirt and some old jean shorts. She winked in Wolfe’s direction. “I was invested.”

  Christopher made a face, the tops of his cheeks coloring the same pink as his Ralph Lauren polo shirt. His injured shoulder was supported by a sling, which he flapped around indignantly. “I hardly think that’s appropriate, Mel.” He craned his neck. “Can we go in yet?”

  “Only if you get your ass moving,” Kevin grumbled. He’d been taking pictures of Fenway and the sunset for his Instagram, but now he offered his arm to Scarlett as the crowd of people on Jersey began to shuffle toward the gates into Fenway. “Shall we?”

  “We shall,” Scarlett confirmed, taking his elbow. “Let’s get inside before your brother gets shot again.”

  ~***~

  Up on the rooftop about a thousand yards away, Laine Parker leaned away from the scope on the newly-assembled Steyr, unsure yet again if her frayed mind was playing tricks on her. She thought, for a split second, that Sergeant Wolfe had crossed through her Plex sight… but what were the odds of that?

  Why would the only man she’d been able to save on her last trip to the Sandbox just happen to be going to a baseball game on the same night she was supposed to kill Christopher Sullivan? She knew Wolfe was a private investigator because he’d been on the news a few times over the summer after what happened to his brother. Mostly she’d just gotten glimpses of him shoving cameras out of his face on his way in and out of hospitals… so maybe she was confusing one thing for another, superimposing someone in a situation from another memory.