by Mike Lawson
A maid wearing a pristine white apron over a black dress answered when DeMarco rang the doorbell of Seventy-four Beacon Street. She led him to a beautifully appointed library where Sean Callahan and his wife were sitting. The library had comfortable brown leather chairs, a blue-and-white Oriental rug, and a fireplace large enough to roast a hog. DeMarco wondered briefly if Callahan and his wife actually read the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
DeMarco hadn’t met Callahan before. He was over six feet tall, slim, had thinning dark hair combed straight back from a high forehead, a longish nose, and thin lips. DeMarco’s immediate impression, possibly prejudiced by what he knew of Callahan, was that he looked like an arrogant prick.
Callahan’s secretary had said to dress casually for cocktails but DeMarco, not being sure what casually meant when visiting a Beacon Hill address, had opted to wear a navy-blue sport coat over a white polo shirt, lightweight gray slacks, and black loafers. The sport jacket was the last thing he needed considering the temperature. The Callahans, however, were indeed dressed casually, Callahan wearing topsiders without socks, white linen trousers, and a green golf shirt that said THE COUNTRY CLUB BROOKLINE, which DeMarco knew was one of the most expensive and exclusive golf clubs on the East Coast.
Mrs. Callahan, introduced as Rachel, was a willowy blonde who was two decades younger than her husband. She was wearing a yellow tank top, very short white shorts, and sandals. DeMarco had awarded the title of Best Thighs in Boston to Dooley’s wife, but now concluded that Rachel Callahan might deserve to wear the crown. However, as lovely as she was to look at, DeMarco really needed to speak to Callahan alone. He didn’t need a witness.
“Rachel and I are having mint juleps,” Callahan said. “She was raised in Savannah and says it’s the only thing to drink on a hot evening like this. Would you care for one, Mr. DeMarco?”
“Call me Joe, and sure, I’d love a julep,” DeMarco said, although he couldn’t remember ever having had a mint julep before and would have preferred a beer. Not knowing what to say next with Rachel present, he said, “You have a lovely home,” to which Rachel basically said: Oh, this old thing? She then prattled on about the bother of living in such an old building and having to constantly call someone to fix this or that. DeMarco almost said: You ought to try living like Elinore Dobbs for a while, having to haul a generator out on your balcony and firing it off every time your fuckin’ husband shuts off the power. However, since DeMarco’s mission was to pretend that he was there to smooth things over between Callahan and Mahoney, he instead sympathized with Rachel, saying that older homes were indeed a pain. He should know, he said, as he lived in an eighty-year-old townhouse in Georgetown, although his home didn’t have a swimming pool or a gym, and his media room was also his living room.
Fortunately, a few moments later, Rachel said, “I have to excuse myself, gentlemen. Sean and I are going to a fund-raiser later this evening for the Boston Symphony, and I need to make myself look presentable.”
Rachel Callahan would have looked presentable wearing a black plastic garbage bag—and she knew it. Both Callahan and DeMarco enjoyed the sight of her perfect derrière as she sashayed from the room.
“So, what can I do for you, Joe?” Callahan said.
“Mahoney got your message, Sean, how you wanted to patch things up between you and him. I’m here to facilitate that.”
“Facilitate? Exactly what do you do for Mahoney, Joe?”
“I’m a lawyer, but I’m really the guy Mahoney tends to use when he has problems that need to be solved, like the Elinore Dobbs problem.” DeMarco figured that Sean Callahan already knew that he’d been sent to help Elinore; the McNultys would have told him.
“Why didn’t John just call me?” Callahan said.
DeMarco shook his head. “You really made the congressman angry, Sean. You offended him deeply, the way you spoke to him. On the other hand, he knows you’ve been a good friend in the past.”
“Well, you can tell John that I apologize for the way I acted the last time we met. I was having a bad day. Regarding Mrs. Dobbs, I don’t believe there is anything else I can do. After she had that unfortunate accident, she vacated her apartment and I compensated her quite generously. In fact, I was incredibly generous. Is there something else John expects me to do for her?”
“No,” DeMarco said. “At least not for Elinore.” He pretended to hesitate, as if he was searching for the right words, then said, “I think at this point the congressman is wondering what you’re going to do for him, Sean. He feels that in order to reestablish the relationship the two of you once had, he’d appreciate some tangible evidence of your support. I mean, this year with all the nonsense the Republicans have been pulling . . . Well, he’s going to have a real fight on his hands and he needs all the help he can get.”
For a moment Callahan looked puzzled and DeMarco felt like saying: For Christ’s sake, Sean, this is a shakedown! How much more specific do I have to be? But then he got it, and DeMarco could see the man struggling to control his temper. He took a breath and said, “Exactly how much does Mahoney feel he needs for me to demonstrate my support?”
“He was thinking it would be appropriate if you matched the contribution you made for his last campaign.”
“That son of a bitch!” Callahan said, slamming his fist into the arm of the chair where he was sitting. “It’s like I told him. He can’t stop me from completing that project. He doesn’t have that kind of power.”
“The congressman knows that, Sean. But as I’m sure you’ve already seen, it’s much better to have him on your side than working against you.”
“You’re not a lawyer. You’re a fucking bagman!”
DeMarco was surprised that Callahan was so angry. He figured that Callahan should have known that Mahoney would want him to make some sort of contribution to make things right. No, it wasn’t the money that was bothering Callahan, even as much as it was. He was angry because he didn’t like the way his arm was being twisted and DeMarco couldn’t really blame him—not that he gave a shit.
DeMarco stood up. “I’ll let myself out, Sean. But I was hoping—as was Congressman Mahoney—that we could reach an accommodation this evening.” DeMarco turned to leave, then turned back to face Callahan. “By the way, someone pointed out to me that you appear to have a number of workers on Delaney Street who might not be American citizens. You might want to—”
“This is extortion!” Callahan said. “Are you telling me if I don’t pay Mahoney’s price he’s going to sic Immigration on me next?”
“Of course not, Sean. And I’m not going to even mention to the congressman that you used a word like extortion. I was trying to do you a favor. I was about to suggest that you might want to have your builder . . . What’s his name? Flannigan? Flannery? You might tell him to make sure he’s using folks that have the right papers. He might have gotten careless about that, the same way he did when it came to removing asbestos. Anyway, thank you for your time, Sean, and I’ll let the congressman know that you’ve decided, as is your right, not to support his campaign.”
DeMarco was halfway to the door when Callahan said, “Goddamnit, hold on.”
DeMarco figured that Callahan had probably calculated how much it was costing him every hour work was delayed on Delaney Square, and simple arithmetic was telling him that fifty grand was a bargain.
“Tell Mahoney,” Callahan said, “we have a deal provided I have no more problems on the project and he gets the IRS to back off on the audit they’re planning.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late to stop the audit, Sean. I mean, it would be inappropriate for Mahoney to even speak to the IRS about it. If he did, it would appear as if he was improperly using the power of his office to help a constituent.”
“Are you shitting me! He’s the one who told them to do the audit.”
“I doubt that, Sean. As I understand it the IRS uses some
sort of formula to decide when to audit. Other than that, it’s just sort of random. But—”
“Random, my ass. Mahoney was the one—”
“Aside from the audit, Sean, Mahoney’s on your side from this point forward. You have his word on that. But Sean, I’m going to need the money by tomorrow. In cash. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’ll call you. Now get out of my house.”
16
A cheap briefcase in his right hand—the briefcase and its contents courtesy of Sean Callahan—DeMarco entered the Lansdowne Pub. The Lansdowne is directly across a narrow street from Fenway, about the same distance the pitcher’s mound is from home plate. The place was jam-packed with boisterous Red Sox fans, most of them already drunk even though the game wouldn’t start for another two hours.
The Lansdowne is the quintessential Irish pub with a long dark bar, cone-shaped stained glass lamps over the bar, Jameson Whiskey and Guinness signs on the walls. DeMarco knew from prior visits that the wood forming the shelves behind the bar had been imported directly from Ireland. For some reason he’d never understood, there was an elaborate mahogany-and-glass bookcase on one wall filled with old tomes and various other knickknacks. Sitting near the bookcase, alone at a table for four, was Delray drinking a draft beer. As full as the place was, it seemed as if there was an invisible barrier surrounding Delray’s table; even Boston’s most aggressive drunks sensed that Delray wasn’t a guy whose space you wanted to invade.
Delray was dressed in khaki-colored Bermuda shorts and a sleeveless white T-shirt; crudely drawn blue-ink prison tats were visible on his upper arms. Maybe the prison tats were another reason the Lansdowne’s patrons decided it wouldn’t be smart to jostle Delray’s table and spill the beer he was drinking. As always, Delray’s Ray-Bans covered his eyes.
DeMarco took a seat across from him and said, “You couldn’t think of a quieter place for this meeting?”
“I’m going to the game. I’ve never seen a game at Fenway before and I wanted to see one there before they tear it down and build another stadium.”
“If you don’t have a ticket already, it’s going to cost you a fortune to buy one.”
“I know a guy,” Delray said.
That figured.
“Everything all set?” DeMarco asked.
“Yeah, just like you wanted. Provided you got the money.”
DeMarco offered him the briefcase and Delray took it from him. “I didn’t think we’d be meeting in a place like this,” DeMarco said. “You might want to find someplace safe to put that briefcase before you go to the game.”
Delray flashed one of his rare smiles. “You think somebody might try to take it from me, DeMarco?”
DeMarco ignored the rhetorical question. “How long will it take to get the goods?”
“We already got ’em. When you called yesterday and said you had the money, Al didn’t think you’d stiff him, so he paid the guy to deliver what you wanted. They’re in a rented storage unit in Greenfield.”
“Can anyone trace who rented the storage unit?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Delray said. Meaning: don’t try to teach your daddy to suck eggs.
“And they’re in a big crate like I told you?” DeMarco said.
“Yeah. And the guy tossed a couple sandbags into the box to add weight. It’ll take two men to move it.”
“Good. And Providence is ready for the call?”
“Yeah. Stop worrying. Al’s taken care of everything.”
At that moment a lanky black kid, tall enough to play in the NBA, walked over to the table where Delray and DeMarco were sitting. “You Delray?” he asked Delray.
“Yeah.”
The kid handed him an envelope. “Two tickets, two rows up, halfway between the plate and first base.”
“Thanks, and tell your boss thanks,” Delray said.
The kid walked away and DeMarco said, “Two tickets?” He was half hoping Delray might invite him to join him. And the location of those tickets . . . Hell, movie stars would have a hard time getting those seats in Fenway. Delray would probably be seated right behind Ben Affleck and Matt Damon.
“When do you want to meet with the McNultys?” DeMarco asked.
“How ’bout tomorrow around three? I’ll call their bar first to make sure they’re there. So you pick me up at my hotel at two thirty and after the meet, you can drop me off at Logan.”
DeMarco had been reduced to playing chauffeur in this little drama. “Where are you staying?” he asked.
“The Ritz-Carlton, near the Common.”
You gotta be shitting me! was DeMarco’s reaction. A room at the Ritz was probably six hundred bucks a night. How much did Castiglia pay this guy?
“Now it’s time for you to go,” Delray said.
“What?” DeMarco said. He’d been distracted by a woman coming toward Delray’s table. She was at least six feet tall in sandals and was wearing shorts displaying coffee-colored legs that seemed to go on forever. Two large unrestrained breasts were moving beneath a thin white tank top. She had the body of a Vegas showgirl or an NFL cheerleader—and every drunk in the Lansdowne Pub had his eyes glued to her.
“Hey, baby,” she said to Delray in a voice coated with sugar. DeMarco stood up and said, “I was just leaving.” Neither Delray nor the woman acknowledged him.
When DeMarco picked up Delray the next day he suspected Delray was in an excellent mood, having spent the night with a long-stemmed beauty. But with Delray it was impossible to tell since the man had the emotional range of cork. When DeMarco asked, “How was the game?” Delray just grunted. But it sounded like a positive grunt. They drove to Revere without speaking and DeMarco stopped half a block from the McNulty brothers’ tavern.
DeMarco noticed the neon sign saying THE SHAMROCK was on the ground, leaning against the side of the tavern, and two guys in a cherry picker were in the process of putting up a new sign that said McNULTY’S. The Shamrock—or McNulty’s—was getting a makeover.
Delray opened the passenger-side door and left the car without a word to DeMarco.
Delray walked into the bar and stopped so his eyes could adjust to the dim light. There were two old boozehounds at one end of the bar bickering about politics. He heard one of them say, “I’m telling you, that fuckin’ Obama—” Then he stopped abruptly when he saw Delray—or Delray’s complexion. Delray didn’t care; he hadn’t voted for Obama.
At the other end of the bar was a hefty female bartender with frizzy red hair talking to an old lady who was drinking beer and wearing a black stocking cap even though it was almost a hundred degrees outside. The McNultys were sitting at a table—DeMarco had described them accurately—and as Delray got closer he could see they were looking at furniture in a bar supply catalog. They looked up when they saw Delray standing there looking down at them and one of them said, “What the hell do you want?”
“I’m the guy who called earlier. Like I told you on the phone, Soriano’s got a job for you,” Delray said. “And you speak to me that way again, I’ll knock your teeth out.”
Thanks to the influence of their late parents, the McNulty brothers hated every race and religion on earth, whites and Catholics sometimes, but not always, being the exception. As their mother and father sat in front of the television, smoking and drinking beer—they went through a case of beer almost every night—Roy and Ray learned about the duplicitous natures of niggers and spics and chinks and kikes and ragheads. White people who had money were disparaged because they’d been born with a silver spoon stuck up their ass, and priests were all faggots, according to Mom and Dad.
So they didn’t like Delray before he opened his mouth. They didn’t know if he was black—it was hard to tell—but he was something other than white. Maybe a dark-skinned wop—maybe his ancestors had been Sicilians screwed by Moorish invaders—or maybe he was a spic or possibly even
an Arab. Nah, he wouldn’t be an Arab. No way would Soriano have anything to do with a Muslim; Soriano may have been a degenerate criminal but he was a patriot.
And when the guy said he was going to knock out Roy’s teeth, their initial reaction was to jump up and pound the shit out of him. But then—and simultaneously—they realized that this guy was likely to whip them both and, on top of that, was probably packing a gun.
“Sorry,” Ray said. “Didn’t realize you were Soriano’s guy. You want a beer?”
“No,” Delray said. “I want to finish my business with you and get out of this dump.”
“Hey!” Roy said, but Ray placed a restraining hand on his brother’s forearm. Roy could really be an idiot at times.
“Well, maybe it’s a dump now,” Ray said. “But as you can see we’re fixing it up.”
“Yeah, it’ll be the next Studio 54 when you’re done,” Delray said.
Ray didn’t know what Studio 54 was. Some fancy bar in Providence?
“There’s a crate in a storage unit in Greenfield,” Delray said. “Soriano said you have a van, which you’ll need to transport it. And the crate’s heavy. It’ll take two guys to move it but you won’t need a forklift or anything like that. So you pick up the crate tomorrow and deliver it to Soriano in Providence.”
“How much?”
“Two grand.”
Ray did the math: Two hours to Greenfield, maybe half an hour to pick up the crate, two hours to Providence from Greenfield, then an hour from Providence back to Boston. Five and a half hours of driving for two grand.
“What’s in the crate? Cigarettes?” Ray asked.
“Guns.”
“Whoa!” Roy said. “You can do major time for guns.”
Delray didn’t respond.
“Why’d Soriano send you to us?” Ray said, now not so certain two grand was worth the risk.
“Because this thing came up fast. The guy with the guns called Soriano yesterday, said he needed to unload ’em to pay a lawyer, and he gave Soriano a good price. I just happened to be here in Boston on some other business, but I’m not driving a truck or a van, so Soriano told me to come see you. He said he’s used you before.”
