by Mike Lawson
7
DeMarco checked in to the Park Plaza Hotel off Arlington Street, picking the hotel primarily because it was centrally located and reasonably priced.
DeMarco liked Boston. He liked the harbor where Old Ironsides anchored at the pier, the food stalls at Faneuil Hall, and the Italian restaurants in the North End. He liked the churches and the cemeteries built before the War for Independence, and seeing the university crew teams sculling on the Charles in the morning mist. And then there was Fenway.
For a baseball fan, Fenway was like the Vatican for Catholics, like Mecca for Muslims. Fenway was a cathedral and the Green Monster—the thirty-seven-foot wall in left field—was its high altar. Yeah, DeMarco was happy to be back in Boston, although not so happy about the reason he was there.
He decided the first thing he’d do was go see Elinore Dobbs. She lived in west Boston on Delaney Street, a street that ran roughly parallel to the Massachusetts Turnpike and was only a few blocks from the Charles River. When Mahoney had told him that Callahan was a developer and trying to force Elinore out of her apartment, DeMarco had assumed that Callahan was just knocking down a building or two and erecting more modern ones. He was completely wrong.
Callahan’s development was enormous, taking up several city blocks. Dump trucks, bulldozers, and cement trucks were all over the place, and the beep-beep of large vehicles backing up was almost continuous. There were six large buildings at various stages of construction and DeMarco could see at least a hundred workers in hard hats, and he imagined there were a lot more he couldn’t see. Five tall yellow cranes, like one-armed giants, loomed over the site. In a couple of the buildings workers were using nail guns to install interior framing and it sounded as if a military engagement was taking place.
Delaney Street cut through the heart of the development, and on the eastern edge of the project, where DeMarco was standing, there was a ten-by-ten-foot poster that showed an artist’s rendition of the completed development and provided a few helpful facts. The project was to be called Delaney Square, and it would occupy fourteen acres and cost approximately five hundred million dollars. There would be a twelve-story corporate headquarters for a solar energy company; a twenty-story hotel with 175 rooms; four office buildings with 850,000 square feet of office space; a three-acre public park called Delaney Commons; and retail shops and restaurants too numerous to count. All the work would be completed in about two and a half years if everything stayed on schedule, and Delaney Square would generate twelve million dollars in property taxes annually, and provide jobs for six hundred construction workers at its peak and three thousand permanent jobs for the people who would occupy the office buildings and retail stores. Lastly, the project would include two hundred luxury apartments at the far western end—which was where Elinore Dobbs lived.
Because of all the construction work taking place, DeMarco had to walk around the site to reach the block where Elinore’s apartment building was located. He had no idea what had been there before because almost every building on Elinore’s block had been demolished. Now there was one massive hole in the ground that took up three-quarters of the block, and at the western end of the street were four old triple-deckers that were vacant, the doors and windows missing, the interiors gutted. It appeared that they were just waiting for their appointment with the wrecking ball. Across the street from the triple-deckers, on a corner, stood Elinore’s apartment building, the only habitable structure remaining. To DeMarco it looked like Custer’s last soldier, just waiting for the arrows to start flying.
DeMarco walked over and peered down at the large hole in the ground where the new building was being erected. All he could see were concrete foundation pieces with rebar sticking out. On the cyclone fence surrounding the hole, however, was another large poster showing the residential units that Callahan was constructing, and there were photographs of model apartments with walk-in closets, kitchens with marble countertops, high ceilings, glossy hardwood floors, and large balconies where the tenants could sit on pleasant evenings sipping their martinis. The new building would also contain a fitness center, a pool, and a rooftop garden/party area. DeMarco figured the penthouse units would sell for a couple of million, maybe more. Retail stores would be located on the ground floor of the building. In addition to the inevitable Starbucks so the yuppies could start off their day with a nonfat latte would be a yoga studio, an art gallery, and a hip bistro that sold vegetarian gluten-free meals.
Also included in the design was an interior landscaped courtyard that would be inaccessible to the unwashed masses. The courtyard would have stone benches, shade trees, and a fountain, and would be a fine place for the nannies hired by young working couples to sit with their charges and gossip about their employers. It was clear that Callahan’s luxury apartment complex would be an urban paradise—a private Eden minus the serpent—for anyone who made two or three hundred grand a year.
DeMarco headed across the street toward Elinore’s place. The street in front of her building had been ripped up, the sidewalks had been replaced by muddy sheets of plywood, dust swirled in the air, and the noise of a nearby jackhammer was almost deafening. DeMarco considered himself to be a fairly stubborn guy, but he was thinking that if he were Elinore, he would have given up a long time ago and taken whatever Callahan was offering to move to somewhere clean and quiet.
Elinore’s building was five stories tall, made of brown brick, and had probably been constructed around the time of the Second World War. DeMarco found it charming with its Paris-like mansard roof, dormer windows, and marble cornices. It had been built in an era when workers still took pride in their work and cost wasn’t the only consideration. He noticed that some of the units on the upper two floors had small balconies enclosed with black wrought iron, the balconies barely big enough to hold a lawn chair and a barbeque.
He walked up the stone steps leading to the front door and saw that the latch assembly on the door had been removed so the door would no longer lock or stay shut. DeMarco entered a small lobby that was littered with trash—fast-food cartons, beer cans, bottles, and one tired old army blanket probably crawling with lice. There were about thirty mailboxes on one wall in the lobby, but the boxes had been flattened as if someone had smashed them with a hammer. There was also a small, ancient elevator, which surprised DeMarco as most places as old as Elinore’s building didn’t have elevators—not that it mattered. There was an OUT OF SERVICE sign on the elevator door and when he pushed the UP button, nothing happened.
Elinore lived on the fourth floor, so DeMarco trudged up a wooden staircase with a dark oak banister and ball-topped newel posts. The steps were shiny and a bit concave from age and use. None of the lights on the stair landings were turned on, but there was enough illumination coming from the stained glass window on each landing that he could see. Barely. If any of the tenants had to take the stairs at night, they would have needed a flashlight.
As he walked down the fourth-floor hallway toward Elinore’s unit, he noticed the doors had been removed on all the vacant apartments. He passed one apartment that still had a door with what looked like a new lock. The door had been spray painted with graffiti, meaningless swirls of red paint. He could hear a television playing on the other side of the door and remembered Mahoney saying there were three or four other tenants in addition to Elinore holding out against Callahan.
Elinore lived in a corner unit. The first thing DeMarco noticed was that although her door was tagged with graffiti, too, it was made of metal not wood and the frame around the door was also metal. The door appeared to be indestructible. There was a peephole in the door and it looked as if someone had sprayed paint directly onto the peephole, but the paint had been cleaned off the glass. He could hear a radio playing inside the apartment but when he knocked, no one answered. He knocked again, and the peephole darkened.
“What do you want?” a voice said.
“Elinore, my name’s Joe DeMarco. Joh
n Mahoney sent me.”
“How do I know that?”
“I’m going to hold up my congressional ID. Will you be able to see it through the peephole?”
“Yeah. Show it to me.”
DeMarco did, and a moment later the door opened.
“That blowhard really sent you?” Elinore said.
DeMarco laughed and said, “Yeah, he really did.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. I figured I’d never hear from him again after that photo op.”
Like Mahoney, DeMarco liked Elinore Dobbs the moment he met her. He liked her boyishly cut gray hair and her bright blue eyes and the Springsteen T-shirt she was wearing. On her feet were red Converse tennis shoes, about a size five. She came across as Mahoney had described her: tough and feisty but with a sense of humor; she struck DeMarco as a person who almost always enjoyed life—or would enjoy it if Sean Callahan gave her the chance.
“Mahoney cares, Elinore,” DeMarco said. “Plus Callahan really pissed him off, and that’s even better than him caring about you.”
“Well, okay. Come on in. You want a beer?”
“Sure,” DeMarco said.
Elinore’s apartment was small, as he’d expected. The living room was no more than two hundred square feet, but there was a window with a dormer seat facing Delaney Street, and on the side perpendicular to Delaney, there were French doors allowing access to a tiny balcony, like the ones he’d seen from the street. He imagined the place had only a single bedroom, and the kitchen was compact and had appliances that were twenty years old. He’d seen galleys in powerboats that had bigger kitchens.
The living room was painted eggshell white and there were large photos on the walls of nature scenes—a New England country road in the fall, a stream flowing over boulders, tree trunks bright green with moss—and he suspected that Elinore had taken the photos. There wasn’t much furniture in the living room, however—just a brown leather recliner facing a late-model television set—and the reason why was because this was the room that Elinore had staged to withstand Sean Callahan’s siege.
Along one wall were at least ten cases of bottled water and canned food. There was a propane camp stove sitting on a small folding table so Elinore could cook her meals when Callahan cut the power to her electric stove, and a large cooler she could fill with crushed ice to keep her food cold. There were two fans for when the air-conditioning system didn’t work—both fans were on now, pushing warm air around the room—and an electric heater and three or four blankets for when the heat was cut off. And a couple other items of note.
“Is that a generator?” DeMarco asked.
“Yeah, ain’t it a beauty? It’s got electronic ignition so I don’t have to yank my arm off trying to start it with a pull cord, and enough juice to power everything I need.”
“You can’t use a generator inside,” DeMarco said. “You’re going to kill yourself with carbon monoxide fumes.”
“I’m not a total idiot,” Elinore said. “I roll the generator onto the balcony if I need it and in the winter, I run the cord through the door and seal the opening with duct tape to keep from losing heat. I keep the gasoline out on the balcony too.”
Jesus. “What’s in the boxes?” he asked, pointing to two large, white cardboard boxes stacked against one wall.
“All my records of the things Callahan’s done to force me out, and my correspondence with all the bureaucrats and lawyers who haven’t helped me. I keep copies of everything, including a letter I sent to Mahoney that he never answered.”
Then DeMarco saw the gun.
“Aw, man, you got a rifle?”
“Shotgun. That’s a Ruger over-and-under twelve gauge. I’ve never had to fire it, but I know how.”
DeMarco figured if she ever did fire it, the recoil would knock ninety-pound Elinore flat on her back.
“I got it before I replaced the wooden door with my new metal one. I’ve been vandalized twice. If anyone tries to break in while I’m here, I’ll blow their asses to kingdom come.”
“Well, that door should keep them out,” DeMarco said. “But . . .”
Elinore laughed. “A SWAT team couldn’t get through that door.”
“But I think you should get rid of the shotgun.”
“Hey! What would you do if someone broke into your apartment and trashed all your stuff and shit on your bed? Almost all my furniture’s new—well, new secondhand from Goodwill—because they destroyed everything I had.”
“And you think these guys you told Mahoney about are the ones who broke in? The McNally brothers.”
“The McNultys. And I know it was them. I just can’t prove it.”
“Has anyone bothered you since Mahoney held the press conference?”
“No. But it’s only been a few days. And a cop stopped by once and asked if I was all right. But that won’t last.”
“How many other tenants are still in the building?”
“Here, let me get your beer and a chair so you can sit.”
She handed him a Budweiser and a folding lawn chair. She took a seat in the recliner; she was so short her feet didn’t reach the floor. She popped the top on her beer, took a sip, and said, “That hits the spot. I usually have one a day.” She looked at DeMarco for a moment as if she was studying him. “You sort of remind me of my husband. He was a good-looking guy, too, and built like you.”
DeMarco was a broad-shouldered five eleven. From his Italian father he’d inherited thick dark hair he combed straight back, a prominent nose, and a square chin with a cleft in it. His Irish mother’s only genetic contribution was his blue eyes. He had a hard-looking face—and although he’d been through a few tough scrapes working for Mahoney he’d never thought of himself as a hard man.
“Is your husband still alive?” DeMarco asked.
“No. Pete died when he was fifty-two,” Elinore said. “He was a fireman and had a heart attack one day going up a flight of stairs carrying a coil of hose that weighed a hundred pounds.”
“How long’s he been gone?”
“Well, we were the same age and I’m eighty-two, so he’s been gone thirty years now. He was a lot of fun. But hey, life goes on.”
“And you never remarried?”
“Nah. Who wants to start dating again at fifty? I mean, I know lots of women do. They go looking for a man on those computer-dating sites because they’re lonely or need somebody or something. But I’ve never been lonely. I’ve got lots of friends and I keep busy. I used to be a nurse but after I retired, and before Sean Callahan came along and tried to destroy my life, I did charity work—helped teach kids to read, helped out at a soup kitchen. Don’t have time for that stuff these days, of course.”
DeMarco couldn’t believe she was eighty-two. She didn’t look it. And there was obviously nothing wrong with her mind.
“I was asking how many other tenants are still in the building.”
“Only three now. There’s Mrs. Polanski, down the hall from me.”
DeMarco remembered the one door that was closed when he walked down the hall.
“She’s only seventy-two but she’s got dementia and she really should be in an assisted-living place. Her daughter’s been trying to get her to leave, but Mrs. Polanski won’t go. She’s living in absolute squalor, doesn’t bathe, doesn’t wash her clothes anymore, and eats nothing but bananas and beans cold out of the can. Her daughter stops in and sees her every couple of days, and I drop in on her every day. Anyway, she’s in bad shape and doesn’t belong here, but her daughter’s one of these people who’s just overwhelmed by everything. But one of these days, she’s going to have to get a court order or something and force her mom to move. And, Callahan, don’t you know, has people meeting with her daughter trying to get her to do just that.” Elinore sighed. “It’s horrible when the mind goes before the body does.”
DeMarco just nodded
, but he was thinking she was right. He’d much rather have a heart attack at fifty-two like her late husband than end up with Alzheimer’s.
“Then there’s the Spieglemans down on the third floor,” Elinore said. “They’re in their late seventies. In fact, he might be eighty. He wants to move but Loretta—Mrs. Spiegleman—won’t let him. She’s on my side in this whole thing. The problem is Loretta’s got health issues, and she’s fading fast. As soon as she goes, Spiegleman—who doesn’t have the guts God gave a chicken—will be out of here. Right now, he’s afraid to leave their apartment because he’s afraid he’ll run into the McNultys.
“The last guy’s a nut. He’s down on the third floor, too. His name is Goodman and he’s a young guy, only fifty-eight, but he’s agoraphobic. He hasn’t left his apartment in fifteen years. He just sits inside—he’s got a gun like me—terrified. He has all his stuff delivered, although lots of times the McNultys will scare off the delivery guys. Callahan has a psychiatrist working on him—calls him on the phone every day—trying to get him over his phobia long enough to relocate.”
Jesus, DeMarco thought. What a band of misfits.
Elinore laughed. “I’ll bet you in a couple of months I’ll be the only one still here.”
“Maybe you should move,” DeMarco said. Gesturing at the bottled water and the camp stove, he added, “This is no way to live. I mean, I know you’re trying to make a statement about what people like Callahan are doing, but still. Callahan told Mahoney that he offered you two hundred grand. That’s a lot of money.”
