by Sean Huxter
“I grew up knowing every member of my family, all my great uncles and great aunts – Ray's brothers and sisters - all my cousins, and there were many. We were a close family. And Ray was no part of it, and I felt that was wrong.
“It all came out when Ray died several years back. I flew to Toronto and went to the shelter he frequented to sort out his affairs. When some of the homeless there found out who I was they gathered around. They told me stories about Ray, and said that the one thing Ray always said was that one day he would go home. They handed me a coffee can with bills and coins in it.
“'We took up a collection to help send Ray home,' they told me. The can had over a hundred bucks in it. I spent the day with them. I gave the shelter a donation, asking that they serve up something special for Ray's friends in his honor. I left with a whole different perspective on the homeless than I had grown up with.
“There. Now you know.”
Wow. I sat there stunned.
“You opened up to me,” he said. “I figured I owed you that.”
I just gulped. Didn't know what to say.
Turley handed me a freshly charged cell phone.
“Use that if you need it. But lie low for a while,” Turley advised as he let me out of the car near the T-buildings at the Common.
Chapter 7 Lie low for a while. Yeah, that's me all over. What I did instead was pass a very cold, very wet night under my tarp, but not in my alley. I found a secure place not far away where no one would find me and endured a sleepless night before putting together a few provisions in a fanny pack and launching myself right into the fire again.
I was in the same alley-like street next to Victoria's watching. No reason four goombas would recognize me, a typical homeless guy, hanging outside their local. We had a habit of being invisible to most people. I hoped.
I was there for about two hours before a black SUV pulled up and parked just outside and four guys – the same four guys – got out and took their regular table inside. I could barely make them out because the angle only gave me a tiny sliver of view into the old section, but it was enough.
Times like this I wished I could lip-read. I had no idea what they were saying, but they were leaned over, elbows down, talking low and fast, the four of them. Planning something. I kept to the shadowed part of the street between Bona Vista and Victoria's. Up against the dark brick of Bona Vista I was nearly camouflaged. I held a cup as if panhandling. That would render me immediately un-noticeable.
I kept watching, wishing instead that I was sitting in the caffé myself enjoying one of their perfect lattés. They were oblivious to me.
Uh-oh. Some action. From my spot I could see a trench-coated man approach the table. White hair, older, stooped. He stayed for a few minutes, talked to my guy, and left. Ex-Lieutenant Detective Sullivan!
That's it. I picked up the phone Turley gave me, turned it on and noticed there was a text message on it. I pushed buttons hoping I could figure out how to retrieve the message and I finally got the tiny text to appear:
Did some digging. Found out perp was in witness protection after he turned on Russian mob in 2001. Been running a small shop in Vermont since. Got bored. Is now working with Feds to take down North End mob. Stay away from North End. Meet me at your corner.
Shit!
I turned to go and ended up staring into the face of my nemesis.
Chapter 8 “Why are you following me?” he hissed. In his hand was a pistol, held so people behind him on Hanover Street couldn't see. There was no one else with him. He indicated further down Wesley Place, which was a cul de sac leading behind Victoria's. I knew that if I let him lead me down there I was dead.
“Move!” he yelled. He gestured with his pistol. I knew I had to comply.
We went down the street and he shoved me behind Victoria's where no one on Hanover could see anything. I tried to secretly dial Turley on his cell phone. The ringleader batted it out of my hand where it skitted across the concrete.
“Do I know you?” he asked, inching closer to my face.
“Why would you?” I asked.
“No idea,” he said. But something nagged at the back of his mind, I could see it in his eyes, squinting, trying to put my face somewhere – anywhere. I needed him to know.
“Think,” I said. “Think back.”
“Back?”
“Back to 1998.”
He stood there, remembering. His head angling this way, that way, as if he could shake loose the memory of the time and place, and my face.
Suddenly it dawned on him, and his face cracked a surprised smile. Soon he was laughing.
“You're shittin' me! After all these years you found me and you're
– what? Seeking revenge?” He was buckling over, now, laughing. He was getting quite the kick out of the situation.
“It's been over a decade, man! What the hell? Look at you! You're nothing but a god-damned street bum! What the hell happened to you?”
It was too much. I didn't care what he would do to me, it was time. I pulled out my lebel revolver and shoved it in his face before he had time to react.
“Oh, you a tough guy, eh? I remember you weren't so tough back then, were you? You were a weak, sniveling man. I remember showing your wife what a real man was, and your daughter.”
I pushed the quivering gun into his face, and he just stood there, letting it push him. His confidence was worrying me, but in my rage, I hardly noticed anything but the trigger on my finger, and how little pressure it would take to permanently ease my long-suffering pain.
“Yeah? Go ahead. Go ahead, killer. I dare ya. That sweet daughter, she's the one I really remember. I bet she never forgot what a real man was like. How's she doin'? I should look her up.”
Rage filled me, and I could feel only my finger, and the hair's breadth between this man's gloating and this man's shattered head on the concrete. I pushed a little harder, but still not hard enough.
“You, you see, you're not a killer. You can't do it. Me, on the other hand, I can.”
He pulled his trigger, hitting me in the thigh. The pain seared my leg and I couldn't stand. I was on the ground, but I held onto the ancient Lebel revolver, kept it aimed roughly at my enemy.
“What? You gonna kill me tough guy? You can't kill me. You haven't got what it takes to be like me!”
Why is it you people always say that? At least they said it in every movie I ever saw. The villain of the piece always counts on the good guy being good, being too good to actually pull the trigger. And they're always right. But it never made sense to me. Pulling the trigger on this animal would make me nothing like him. He was a murdering rapist out for fun. I was exterminating an animal – a threat to the public.
Holding a nearby rail, and disregarding the agony, I lifted myself to my feet.
I tried to speak but nothing came out. Just then an unmarked car came around the cramped corner of Wesley Place, lights flashing in the grill, and Turley got out, gun at the ready.
“Stop! Police!” he yelled.
The ringleader barely reacted. His aim on me wavered not a degree.
“Stay where you are, Detective. You don't know who you're dealing with. I'm protected. Call your superiors. They'll tell you.”
“Don't count on it. Now drop the weapon and put your hands on your head!”
“Look, you're obviously not in the know, so why don't you just get back in your car and drive away. I have business to take care of.” He turned back to me, pointing his gun straight at my head. My gun was shaking. I was going into shock, my hands quivering.
“I'm not going anywhere, now drop the weapon,” Turley said, calmly. “Last warning!”
The ringleader turned casually and fired a shot. Turley went down, his gun clattering across the pavement.
He turned his gun back to me and I shot him straight through the forehead.
My rusty Lebel slipped from my hand and I collapsed, shaking like a leaf.
“I'm nothing like you, and I never wi
ll be,” I whispered to no one before passing out.
Chapter 9 Turley was standing over my hospital bed, his arm in a sling. He ushered the nurses out and closed the door to my private room.
“You're going to be charged,” he said. “But don't worry. No judge is going to convict you. You were acting clearly in self defense, and even though you had no license to carry a weapon that'll be a minor charge, probably a fine. But you acted in defense of yourself and an officer of the peace and said officer is going to testify to that fact. You'll be fine.”
I had known for over a decade that if I ever found the man responsible for what happened to me and my family I would gladly spend the rest of my life in prison or die if I could take the son-of-abitch out. But now it looked like I was going to get off.
“But you kicked over a hornet's nest for sure,” he said, almost laughing.
“Turns out the Captain took my report to my superiors, Davis and Best, and they must have tipped off their old boss, Lieutenant Sullivan. I contacted someone I know at the Feds and they confirmed our perp, one Manny Agostino, had turned State's Evidence to help convict some members of the Russian Mob back in late 2001. In return for his testimony he was put into witness protection.
“Sullivan was the Boston PD detective in charge for our side. But of course when Agostino was put through the system, fingerprinted, guess what happened? His prints turned out to match your case, which had gone cold for months.
“Rather than pursue him for the home invasion and the rape of your wife and daughter, they covered it up. Wiped his prints from the record completely and made sure nothing about him was ever connected to your case file. Your file was then stored away, cold. No new data was entered into the file.
“Sullivan and his partner, then-rookie Davis, took all the credit for the BPD when the Russians were convicted largely on Agostino's testimony as well as wired conversations he had had with them. And they made sure Agostino was given a new identity and stashed somewhere safe.
“But being the egotist he was, Agostino couldn't stay under. Sure, he stuck it out for a long time, but thought he could do better than running a small shop in Vermont. He had aims of ingratiating himself into the North End Italian mob. A far more lucrative life.
“And this is when Davis and Best nabbed him and forced him to go undercover again under the threat that he would be exposed for the cold case if he didn't cooperate, not to mention his recent invasion of Martin Sprech's house and the rape of his wife.
“Once he left witness protection he had exposed himself to prosecution since he broke the deal. So they used that as leverage to get him in with the North End mob but not as an enforcer – as an informant.”
I sat there listening, stunned at the lengths to which those three detectives went to ensure there would be no justice for my Tresa and Lisa.
“So what's going to happen to Davis, Best and Sullivan now?” I asked. “Slap on the wrist? Official department sanction? Or just nothing?”
“Ah...” Turley said, his head lowering. “Lieutenant Detective Charlie Sullivan was found dead in his apartment yesterday morning. Ate his gun. Laid out a full confession on paper first.
“Detectives Best and Davis were arrested at their homes the same day. Both are claiming they have immunity from prosecution because their actions helped take down members of the mob.
“My own Captain is furious. He had no idea what was going on under his nose and assured the Mayor and Commissioner that he would conduct a thorough investigation and that proper sanctions would be handed out to whoever participated in such wrongdoing.
“The Feds are just washing their hands of it claiming they only knew about the testimony and nothing about any coverup of other crimes that may have been committed by their witness, Manny Agostino.”
I didn't know what to say.
“What about you?” I ventured.
“Me? Oh, I'll probably get promoted early if Best and Davis are given the boot. Other than that, I'll get credit for taking Agostino down, but they're not likely to thank me too openly for exposing two of their own as dirty cops. Three of their own,” he amended.
“Damn.”
“What about you?” he asked. “What you gonna do now that both of the men responsible for your case are dead and gone?”
I didn't know what to say to that. I never expected this day to come.
As if in response to my silence, Turley put something in my hand. I looked at it. It was a keyring with several keys on it. “Found this in your file.” Tresa's set, from her personal effects, taken into evidence.
We sat together in silence for a long time.
Now what?
EPILOGUE
3448 days sober I walked around Boston Common on an unusually warm, sunny Saturday in mid February. It was now almost exactly thirteen years and two weeks since my life was destroyed by two random men. Now both lay dead and I was wandering the Common looking for my friends and trying to count the number I had lost over the years.
I took a walk up to the Frog Pond. I saw Steve-o and his buds testing their latest moves. I asked Steve-o how Miko did in the MASS competition.
“Took it all, man! Like he said he would! Took it all! And now he's on his way to the big-time!”
I smiled inside. I remember seeing Miko trying that one move over and over and ending up on his ass.
“I assume he tried out the Miko?”
“The Miko? Naw, man, his move's the Spinner. Named it after Spinner... you remember?”
“Oh my god, Spinner. Yeah.” Spinner was Jeremy Brothers. His father had hired me once to find him, only to find out he'd died just days before of an overdose of tainted drugs. Spinner's father had eked out his own revenge on the dealer in ways I don't even want to remember.
Well son-of-a-bitch! Miko named his new move after Jeremy Brothers. You could knock me over with a feather, even if my thigh had been 100%.
It was such a shock, such a surprise, that Miko had called his new signature move not after himself but after his fallen comrade. I just hadn't seen that quality in Miko.
“Yup. Said he had all the time in the world to develop the Miko. This one was for Spinner.”
Good for him.
* I noticed the cop at the Tremont entrance was new. The other “new guy” hadn't lasted. I have to say I wasn't unhappy about that. I wondered if he got caught up in the conspiracy since he had arrested me on bogus charges just so the detectives could work on me. I hoped this guy was friendlier to the homeless. But I wouldn't be around to find out.
* I found Old Fernie on his wall. I didn't say much. Asked him how he'd been since I'd seen him last, over a week ago now. He said all was well, and gave me the score of the Boston game against the Ottawa Senators the night before. Bruins over the Senators 4-2.
Fernie looked into my eyes and suddenly looked sad and nodded wisely.
“You don't belong here no more, do you?” he said. I patted Fernie on the back and sat with him for a while, talking.
Then I got up, shook his hand and left him there.
* A couple of days later I was standing outside my old house in Dedham. The place looked exactly like it had when I walked away from it in September of 2000. I had talked to the Real Estate management company yesterday. My wife's parents had purchased it for us outright, and the trust fund they had set up for us kept the house maintained for the past dozen years. It was still in my name and despite my lengthy absence it looked exactly as I remembered it. The lawn was up-kept, the hedges trimmed, the roof updated... the maintenance company had taken its responsibilities seriously.
I stood outside, knowing what was facing me inside – the emptiness that I had run away from all those years ago. But now I felt I had
earned the right to return. I had left this house a broken man and was returning a healing man.
And now I have some stories I have to tell, and if I have to tell them I may as well tell them here.
Afterword
Loose Change is a boo
k I've wanted to write for a long time. Rather, it was a short story I've wanted to write for a long time.
Walking around Boston over the last fifteen years I'm always taken aback by the number of homeless people congregated around Boston Common.
I originally thought of the idea for The Panhandler on Newbury Street because of the extreme difference in the fortunes of many of the people walking around Newbury Street, Boston's richest shopping street, and panhandlers asking them for money. I had to write this story.
But it sat in my head for a long time.
One night, driving my daughter home from music lessons she told me she wanted to work with the homeless. She had attended Church events with her mother and I on Boston Common, existing amid the crowd of homeless, singing hymns, handing out food, generally enjoying the giving.
And though we had safety concerns (there is a great deal of mental illness and instability among the homeless population) I expressed that I would support her in that work if she decided to do it, as long as she had adequate supervision.
I spent some of that ride home telling her of my great-uncle Ray, what little I knew of him. Ray was homeless in Toronto. He was my grandfather's brother, sent away to Toronto in the 1940s or 1950s and had been on the streets there almost ever since until he died a few years ago.
I think telling my daughter that story caused the dam to burst and Panhandler came flooding out of my head into one of my computers almost as a single, complete image.
I thought I was done. But apparently I wasn't.
Right behind the flood of words was another wave pouring out. Adopted Daughter filled the pages almost as fast. As I wrote another story and another I began to conceive of my hero's back story. I needed a reason for him to be on the street.
While mental illness is one of the main reasons people end up on the street, there are many more including foreclosure, job loss, homosexuality, and some are there because of family trauma that they can't deal with.
