“Skeeter and Gage were here yesterday?” I said. Joe’s memory of them seemed pretty sharp, almost too sharp. “They must have made quite an impression on you.”
“They did,” Joe said. “Donald spilled a pitcher of ice water on the table, and Skeeter was sympathetic about it, didn’t make a fuss or anything. And Gage was so quick, he scooted out of the way, didn’t get wet.”
“I can see why you remember.”
“People aren’t always so patient with Donald, especially when he’s ogling their mothers or following their wives to the car.”
“He almost knocked down a waitress the last time I was here.”
“Betsy, she’s always good to him. Donald is a loose cannon, as the old saying goes, but he’s practically family to me. He grew up next door on Walford Way.”
“How did Skeeter seem to you?”
“What do mean?”
“Was he secretive?” I asked. “Was he keeping a low profile?”
“Not at all,” Joe said, smiling. “On the contrary, he was loud and boisterous, but in a fun way, nothing cocky. They both seemed normal to me, two customers having lunch.”
Interesting, surprising, too. I dropped a twenty on the table. “Thanks, Joe. I have to check on something.”
“Wait.” He put his hand on my shoulder, keeping me in the booth. “Don’t go yet. There’s something you have to see.” Joe pointed to the police station in Hayes Square. “The loopers are about to strike. This will be good.”
Ten minutes later a dented SUV flew down Bunker Hill Street and skidded to a stop in front of the police station. A gang of white kids wearing hoodies hung out the windows laughing. They blew the horn and revved the engine and patched out in the sandy gutter. A red-faced cop rushed to the street. The driver put it in reverse, bumped a police cruiser, and took off. The cop stood flatfooted on the sidewalk, barking into his collar mic.
“Those kids are ballsy,” Joe said.
“Reckless, too.”
From the diner I walked to Skeeter’s apartment on O’Reilly Way and knocked on his door. Nobody answered. I was getting used to people not answering when I knocked. I went outside and looked up at his windows. They were dark and closed shut. I went round the building, not sure what I’d find, and bumped into Harry from Housing. Before I could say a word, Harry said, “Let me guess. You’re looking for Skeeter Gruskowski.”
“I heard he was back in town.”
“I saw him yesterday with Gage Lauria. They were telling me about a brothel in Vegas, all the juicy details.”
“I tried his door but he didn’t answer.”
“He’s probably out.” Harry propped the broom on his shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. “I’ll tell Skeeter you were looking for him.”
“I’d rather surprise him, Harry.”
“Sure, a surprise.” Harry paused. “You’re doing good these days. You look good, too. For a while there I thought you were heading for the big barroom in the sky. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said.
“Are you still living on Bunker Hill Street?”
“Yup, same house,” I answered.
41
Cheyenne and I went to the Navy Yard Bistro for dinner, sitting at a table that gave us a twilight view of the moon, the window framing it like a masterpiece. After dinner we strolled to Dry Dock 2 and out to the end of Pier 4, and by the time we reached the pier’s edge, the skies had turned dark. Across the harbor the city lights twinkled to life on hotels and skyscrapers, and on the East Boston side of the water, tugboats came home to dock.
We walked along the waterfront and stopped at Kormann & Schuhwerk’s Deli for coffee, and after that we went home to my apartment. On the first floor, Buck Lewis’s door was open, and he yelled out for us to come in. He wheeled into the parlor and said hello to Cheyenne, and then we talked about the Diaz case.
“Skeeter is back in town,” I said. “I tried his apartment but he wasn’t in.”
“His return surprises me.” Buck locked the wheels. “Do the police know he’s back? Should we tell them?”
“The cops don’t care about him,” I answered. “They already have their man, but they must have their doubts. They know Diaz didn’t commit the murder because of the footprint.”
“They’re assuming the accomplice did it,” Buck said.
“And Rico isn’t coming forward,” I said. “I’ll talk to Skeeter. He’s the key to this thing.”
Cheyenne and I said goodnight to Buck and went upstairs to my place, soon to be our place — I hoped. I clicked on the air conditioner to cool things down, but Cheyenne had other ideas. She wanted to heat things up.
I was lying on the bed when Cheyenne came in wearing my old BC football shirt that looked like a dress on her. On her feet she wore black stiletto pumps that shot her up to six-three, and on her head she wore a cowboy hat that shot her up to my height. She moved toward me in a straight line, slowly disrobing, and crawled in next to me, and we proceeded to reenact the big bang theory, Charlestown style.
We lounged atop the sheets afterwards and praised each other’s performance to the point of laughter. Rain started to fall, and the pitter-patter of raindrops added to a romantic moment. We sighed deeply and enjoyed long silences, and although we didn’t say it, we knew that life couldn’t get any better. Cheyenne rolled on her side and said that she wanted to show me something.
“You mean there’s more to see?”
“Funny boy, it’s in the car.” She got out of bed. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
“No you stay here,” I said. “I’ll get it for you. What is it?”
“No I need to get it. It’s a surprise for you, well really, for us.” She pulled on her jeans and my BC football shirt and the stiletto pumps, gathered her hair and tucked it into the cowboy hat. “I’ll be back in a jiffy. I hope you’ll be pleased when I show you.”
I rested my head on the pillow and enjoyed the glow of street lamps and the hum of a transformer. A distant police siren grew louder then faded into the night. An ambulance sped over the Tobin Bridge and down the Leverett Circle Connector, probably for Mass General. Firecrackers popped and bottle rockets hissed. A cherry bomb exploded and kids cheered. In a month, when the Fourth of July got here, the projects would be louder than Pearl Harbor. I loved the sounds of the city.
Tires screeched in front of the house. I heard a thud and tires screeched again. A woman screamed in Spanish. I threw on my clothes and raced downstairs and saw Cheyenne on the street, her legs sprawled on the tar, her head bleeding, her beautiful chestnut hair soaked red. The cowboy hat flopped down the street in the breeze. I went to Cheyenne and felt for a pulse, which was faint. I kissed her cheek and called 911.
I should have gone to the car myself. What was so important that she had to get it herself?
“Fuckin’ loopers!” I groaned into the night.
42
I stayed the night in the hospital as Cheyenne fought for her life. Her father, George, was there, too. We didn’t say much to each other. In the morning the doctor told us that Cheyenne had a fractured skull, a broken leg, and a broken back. She was also in a coma. The doctor said, “We’ll just have to wait and see.”
A nurse joined us in the room and said to me, “I need you to fill out some paperwork, please.”
George said, “I’ll do it. I’m her father and her healthcare proxy.”
As the doctor left the room, he said, “I’ll let you know if there any changes.”
The rage must have shown on my face, because George said to me, “Do not compound the problem by doing something irrational, Dermot.”
“George —”
“I know you love Cheyenne, and I know she loves you,” he said. “I want you to go home and get some sleep. When you wake up, I want you to go to an AA meeting.”
What’s with the I
want you bullshit? “George, the last thing on my mind right now is an AA meeting.”
“After the meeting, call your sponsor and tell him what happened. You’ll be no good to Cheyenne if you start drinking.”
“I know that, George.”
“And do not seek revenge. It was an accident. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
I told George that I understood, but I was merely placating him. What I really wanted to say was fuck off. The nurse and George left the room together. I left the hospital, enraged. Sitting in my car, feeling the sting of George telling me to leave, pissed me off.
I thought about the first time I saw Cheyenne at an AA meeting in Powder House Square. George was with her, though I didn’t know he was her father at the time. She sat in front, with her chestnut hair shining. I remembered when she grinned at George. I remembered because that was the moment I fell in love with her.
I peeled out of the hospital lot.
I didn’t go home to sleep, as George suggested, and I didn’t go to a meeting, either. I drove back to Charlestown with one thought in mind: hunt down the loopers. The morning traffic fueled my anger as I idled on North Washington Street, waiting to go over the Charlestown Bridge. For months now a construction crew has been working in the left lane, making no measurable progress, turning a minor project into the second coming of the Big Dig. In six days God created the earth. In six months these guys were still jackhammering the same corner.
I blew the horn. The driver in front of me threw up his hands as if to say, ‘What can I do?’ The bridge workers milled about, checking their watches for the next coffee break. A gurgling pickup truck edged in front of me and coughed diesel fumes into my face. The lettering on it read Massachusetts Environmental Police. The green police turning the sky black. Angry as hell, I resolved to save my rage for those who deserved it: the loopers.
I started my search at Uncle Joe’s Diner. The owner, Joe Lally, knew about the loopers’ strike at the police station before it happened, but Joe had the day off. Donald the busboy tripped and landed on a table, scattering plates and cups. The patrons recoiled as foodstuff covered their clothes. Betsy the waitress was ready with a mop and bucket.
I visited the stores on Bunker Hill Street, asking about the loopers, but nobody told me a thing. I did the same on Medford Street, on Terminal Street, in City Square, and in the Navy Yard. Nobody knew about the loopers, or so they claimed.
Hours later on Main Street, a few blocks past Zumes, I came to a ramshackle store that had somehow escaped gentrification, despite its prime location. A gang of white kids, all wearing baseball caps, loitered in front, shoving each other and exchanging taunts. I didn’t bother to ask them about the loopers, because it would be a waste of time. The code of silence is a sacredly held norm among Townie teens.
I went into the store.
The cashier rocked out of his chair and trudged toward me, his body odor arriving before he did. He placed his grimy hands on the counter, showing long fingernails caked with dirt. If he stole from the store, it wasn’t soap. Saving the worst for last he exhaled stink into my face, confirming he didn’t steal mouthwash, either. The disgusting bastard made no attempt to look presentable. Wormy stubble crawled on his cheeks, almost looking alive, as if he’d been bobbing for maggots in a garbage pail.
“Yeah?” he barked, baring his brown-edged teeth. He probably flossed with used pipe cleaners. “Whadda you want?”
I want you to shower, shave, gargle, spray on deodorant, wash your filthy clothes, and comb your fucking hair.
“I want your help on something,” I said slowly, so as not to swamp him with too much at once. “What do you know about the loopers? I’m told they hang around here.”
“Loopers?” He glanced at the kids on the sidewalk. “I can’t help you on that one, chief. Don’t know about no loopers.”
Bingo, he knew.
“Nobody in Charlestown seems to know about them.”
“That’s because they don’t exist. They’re a myth, a made-up fairytale like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Do you want to buy something or don’t ya?”
“Sure.” I looked at the lottery board on the wall behind him. “Give me a Megabucks.”
“It’s worth two and a half million tonight.”
“I’ll take three of them, quick picks on separate tickets.” I reached into my pocket and took out a wad of bills. “Give me a quick pick on the daily number, too.”
He stared at the wad, not quite drooling, as he punched the buttons and the tickets spit out. He handed them to me, and I gave him a hundred.
“Got anything smaller?” he asked. “With those punks hanging outside, I don’t keep much cash in the drawer.”
“Nothing smaller, but I have something larger.” I peeled off another hundred and dropped the bills in front of him. “Tell me about the loopers.”
He looked at the kids outside and he looked at the money on the counter. His unshaven face contorted as he weighed loyalty against payola, and it didn’t take him but a greedy second to make up his mind. He snatched up the cash and said, “There’s a kid named Jimmy Molony on Dunstable Street. He’s just a boy, thirteen or fourteen, and he lives with his mother. He might know something about the loopers.”
“Jimmy Molony, Dunstable Street.”
“Don’t tell anybody I told you about him,” he said. “I don’t want those punks smashing my windows.”
“It wouldn’t be bad if they did,” I said. “It’d let in some fresh air.”
43
I walked to Dunstable Street, a long U-shaped street with a hundred or more apartments on it, located in the Mishawum Park development. If I randomly went down the street knocking on doors, I’d arouse suspicion — not a good move in this tightknit neighborhood. I stood on the sidewalk, thinking, wondering how to find Jimmy Molony’s address, when luck came my way. A food-pantry client walked up to me.
“What are you doing on this side of town, Dermot?” She shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked up at me.
“I’m looking for the Molony family.”
“Gina Molony,” she said. “Her husband took off and left her to raise Sean and Jimmy by herself.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
She looked at me for a moment, deciding whether or not to tell me where Gina lived, and must have judged me okay, because she said, “Gina lives over there on the ground floor.”
I went to the apartment and rang the bell. A lean woman with tired eyes answered it. She had been attractive at one time, but life had beaten the sparkle out of her.
“My name is Dermot Sparhawk,” I said.
“I know who you are.” She wore a threadbare bathrobe with cigarette burns on the sleeves. “I see you in the newspaper, raising money for the food pantry.”
“I’d like to talk to Jimmy.”
“My Jimmy? Why?”
“I want to ask him a few questions.”
“Questions about what?” She snugged the robe to her throat. “What questions?”
“It’s about the loopers.”
“Jimmy doesn’t know anything about the loopers.”
“They ran over my girlfriend and damn near killed her.”
“Jimmy had nothing to do with that.”
They never do. “Of course he didn’t, but he might know who did.”
“He ain’t a rat, either.” She stepped away and tightened the belt. “You have no right to come here.”
“I just want to talk to him.”
“Keep away from my Jimmy.” She started to close the door and said, “Get out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That went well.
From Mishawum Park I took an Uber to the hospital to visit Cheyenne. Nothing in her condition had changed. She remained in bed, eyes closed, mouth opened. An orches
tra of monitors beeped, a saline bag dripped, and an intravenous port protruded from her arm. I sat in a chair next to her and prayed the rosary, probably because my mother had prayed it. A lot of good it did her. She died of cirrhosis of the liver. Her saline drip was vodka. When I finished, I put away the beads and leaned back in the chair and watched Cheyenne’s face. Her father came and said, “It is time for you to go home, Dermot. Get some rest. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
I didn’t want to leave, but there was no arguing with George.
When I got out to my car I punched the front fender with everything I had, denting it. I punched it again. A woman getting into a car in the next row looked at me and quickly locked her door. My hand throbbed and my knuckles bled.
44
At home I sat and rested my feet on a hassock and ice on my hand. It felt good to relax, especially after getting chewed out by an irate Charlestown mother. I should have known better than to question the goodness of her son. I sunk into the chair and opened a book I’d been reading titled Shadowboxing: The Rise and Fall of George Dixon. I had just finished the last chapter and was browsing the acknowledgements when my eyelids got heavy and slammed shut.
When I awoke it was dark. The apartment sat in blackness, the only light coming from a digital clock-radio across the room. I felt isolated, safely beyond the reach of the outside world. And with the lights off, the chances were high that no one would bother me tonight.
Wrong.
The doorbell rang. I thought about ignoring it but couldn’t, and I went down to answer it. Outside, waiting on the porch, stood a longtime food-pantry client, an older Hispanic woman who lived in the bricks. She looked skittish — fidgeting and scanning the area. I opened the door and asked her if she was okay.
Murder in the Charlestown Bricks: A Dermot Sparhawk Crime Novel Page 15
