13 Hangmen

by Art Corriveau

  “The luck of the Irish!” Finn grinned.

  “Plus that song was your idea,” Angelo said, slapping Finn on the back. “If it hadn’t been for you, Honey-Fitz would never have gotten reelected.”

  “And if that hadn’t happened,” Tony added, “his grandson, John F. Kennedy, might never have become the thirty-fifth president of the United States.”

  “So why’s that such a big deal?” Angelo said.

  “Hey, I think that’s Paddy now,” Finn said, interrupting. “Sounds like he’s letting himself in the front door. I’ll just pop down and check.” He strode out of the room, disappearing into the early evening of his own time.

  Tony heard the front doorbell ring. He ignored it. Michael or Julia or one of the twins would just have to get it. He was in the middle of a situation, here. “Now what do we do?” he asked Angelo and Solly. “It isn’t going to be all that easy to convince Finn his mam should marry Cedric Hagmann, just so the dirty blackmailing creep can find whatever treasure he’s talking about and leave the rest of us alone.”

  The doorbell rang again. Where was everybody?

  “Yeah, but look what happens if we don’t,” Angelo said.

  Whoever was at the door started pounding. Probably the cable guy, ready to finish installing the broadband. Tony said he’d be right back. Meanwhile Angelo and Solly should brainstorm what to do about Finn.

  It wasn’t the cable guy. It was two men in shirts and ties and hard hats. Looking over their shoulders, Tony saw an official-looking van parked at the curb: CITY OF BOSTON HEALTH & SAFETY UNIT. Uh-oh. They declared they needed to speak with Anthony DiMarco, the owner of the building. Tony raised his hand, guilty as charged.

  Michael pulled up in the family car. They all watched him pop the trunk and pull out two more tarps and a fistful of bungee cords. “Can I help you?” Michael asked, joining them at the stoop.

  “We’re safety inspectors for the city,” said the one who looked like the boss. “There’s been a complaint from a concerned citizen—one of your neighbors—about the condition of this building.”

  Uh-oh.

  Michael admitted they were having a little trouble with the back wall. But he had put a call in to a local contractor. It should only be a matter of days before the guy started in on the necessary repairs.

  “There’s a bit more at stake here than that,” the chief said. “We’ve come to perform an emergency inspection of the entire building. We need to determine whether this town house poses a health or safety hazard to its inhabitants and immediate neighbors. We would like to begin in the basement, please.”

  “Um, sure,” Michael said. “Right this way.”

  Uh-oh.

  As soon as everyone was standing among the stacks of Christmas decorations, the chief informed Michael they would need to check the main chimney flue for obstructions. They all peered around. His assistant finally located it behind an old metal cabinet. Could Michael and Tony move it aside? Both he and his boss had bad backs. Tony and Michael huffed and puffed the cabinet a few feet to the left. The doors swung open, spilling an avalanche of dusty folders and yellowed paperwork onto the floor. Michael suggested they deal with it later. Because the inspectors had already begun to examine a gigantic old fireplace, framed in rough-hewn slate slabs.

  “Probably the original kitchen hearth,” the chief inspector guessed.

  “I wonder what happened to the mantel,” his assistant said, frowning and noting a long crack in the mortar on his clipboard.

  Tony couldn’t help but wonder—after everything he’d learned at Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe the day before—if Jebediah Pickles hadn’t salvaged the slate for both this hearth and the shelf in his room—the missing mantel—from Obbatinewat’s pawcorance.

  The inspectors shone their flashlights up the flue. Michael peered over their shoulders and asked how everything looked. Tony poked his toe at the pile of paperwork on the floor. Utility bills. Tax forms. Canceled checks. Wait, what’s that? A photo of a handsome blond man in his early twenties, standing at the beach. Cape Cod? The man was windswept and tan, dressed only in one of those embarrassing old-fashioned bathing suits. Grinning and waving at the camera, like he wasn’t used to getting his picture taken. Tony turned the photo over. Anders Fogelberg was scrawled in pencil across the back in Zio Angelo’s spidery script. Next to it was added a date in ballpoint pen: d. June 8, 1979.

  Who the heck was Anders Fogelberg?

  Tony shoved aside a stack of dog-eared travel brochures, looking for clues. He unearthed an old photo album. The cover was embossed with the initials A. D’M. He took a quick peek through its yellowed pages. Photos, ticket stubs, postcards, luggage tags, exotic stamps, foreign coins. A scrapbook. Most of the pictures seemed to be of Angelo posing in front of random monuments and tourist sites at different stages of adulthood: the Eiffel Tower, the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, the Golden Gate Bridge. Tony wedged the photo of Anders Fogelberg into the album and tucked it under his arm so he could have a closer look later. Meanwhile, the chief inspector strongly advised Michael not to use any of the fireplaces until the chimneys had been properly cleaned by a certified sweep.

  “Time to check out the boiler,” said the assistant.

  “Get a look at that dinosaur,” said the chief. “I doubt it’s ever been replaced.”

  And that’s pretty much how it went as Tony and Michael followed the inspectors around the rest of the house. At garden level they were not at all pleased to see the hole in the back wall or the missing deck. By parlor level it was clear the electrical wiring was a potential fire hazard. On the second floor, the inspectors found strong evidence of termite damage—that wouldn’t be cheap—and on the third floor they discovered none of the gas-lamp jets had ever been properly capped, and a few were even leaking. Big problem.

  Tony fumed as the assistant scribbled an alarming number of notes on his clipboard. It couldn’t be more obvious that Benedict Hagmann was the concerned citizen who had called Health & Safety—trying to psych the DiMarcos out, no doubt, so they would end up begging him to take No. 13 off their hands for a song.

  The inspectors asked to see the attic. If the stains in the ceiling plaster were any indication, the roof was leaking and would need to be replaced.

  Tony’s heart leaped to his throat.

  Michael led everyone up there. He opened the door on Angelo and Solly, sitting on the bed. Nobody freaked out, though. Michael just sat in the ladder-back chair. The inspectors started poking at beams, taking floor measurements, knocking on walls.

  “What’s wrong?” Angelo said to Tony. “You have this weird look on your face.”

  “How long is this going to take, Dad?” Tony said, telegraphing he was not alone.

  “Gotcha,” Angelo said. “We’ll just sit tight until you give us the all clear.”

  Meanwhile, Michael gave Tony a your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine shrug. “What’s that under your arm?” he asked, nodding at the scrapbook.

  “Oh, just something I found in the basement,” Tony said.

  “What?” Angelo said. “Is there a break in the case?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later,” Tony said to both boys and Michael at once. He shoved the album into the bookcase.

  “Angelo and I figured out a plan,” Solly said. “Finn’s mam doesn’t need to marry Cedric. Finn should just never, ever make any pacts with childhood friends. Nor should he go to the horse races as a grown-up, or do any business with a Hagmann—with one important exception: selling Number Thirteen to Chester the very first time he makes an offer. Otherwise, he’ll end up disappearing forever in his twenties.”

  “I what?”

  The boys all whirled around. Finn was standing in the doorway. “Paddy’s down in the parlor,” he said. “Decorating a tree loaded with presents—just like Solly said. What do you mean I disappear forever?”

  “Oops,” Solly said. “Me and my big mouth.”

  Meanwhile, oblivious to how crowde
d the room was getting, the chief inspector turned to his assistant. “That’s odd,” he said, frowning. The assistant agreed.

  “Now what?” Michael said.

  “The interior dimensions of this floor fall short of the exterior measurements of the building by almost nine feet square,” the inspector said.

  “Old houses,” said the assistant. “Probably never surveyed right to begin with.”

  “Well, that about wraps it up,” said the chief.

  They headed out the door past Finn.

  “So how did we do?” Michael asked, following.

  “Tell it to us straight,” Tony said.

  “We don’t have great news,” Angelo said to Finn.

  “We don’t have great news,” the chief said to Michael. “Best case? You’re looking at a half million dollars—minimum—to get this place up to code.”

  Both Tony and Michael gasped.

  “Tell it to me straight,” Finn said.

  “What’s wrong?” Angelo said to Tony. “Your face just went green.”

  “But that’s not your most immediate problem,” the chief said, shuffling down the staircase.

  “Uh-oh,” Michael said, galloping after him.

  “Be right back,” Tony said.

  The inspectors started stringing yellow caution tape across the front stoop. “Your immediate problem,” said the chief, “is that this town house shares its sidewalls—the only sound ones, by the way—with the buildings on either side. You’ll have to get the approval of both your neighbors before we can authorize any sort of major repair work. But if either one objects that extensive renovation here will create a hazard to their own quality of life, we’ll have no choice but to dismantle this property professionally.”

  “You mean tear it down?” Tony said.

  The assistant stapled a big Notice of Eviction to the front door.

  “Meantime,” the chief said, “on behalf of the City of Boston, I hereby serve you, Anthony DiMarco, official notice that, in the interest of your own health and safety, you and your family have until six p.m. to vacate the premises.”

  Julia jogged up. She was obviously just back from a long run. “Now what?” she said, out of breath. Michael told her.

  She burst into tears.

  “This can’t be legal,” Tony said. “Where will we go?”

  The chief handed Michael a pamphlet. “It’s all in there,” he said. “You’ll be temporarily moved to a motel out at Revere Beach, pending a hearing on the feasibility of salvaging the building. In the event that Number Thirteen is condemned, you’ll be given a small stipend to help you relocate to more permanent accommodations.”

  The twins wandered up from wherever they’d been.

  “What’s wrong with Mom?” Mikey said.

  “‘Notice of eviction’?” Angey said. “We’re getting thrown out?”

  Michael filled them in.

  Mikey pivoted on his heels and stormed back out of the court, cursing a blue streak at Tony and Zio Angelo and Boston. This time Angey didn’t follow. He was too curious to find out what would happen next.

  Michael turned to the inspectors. “So how do we fight this?”

  “Does Number Thirteen have any historical significance?” the chief asked. Michael shook his head; old town houses were pretty much a dime a dozen in the North End. “Shame,” the inspector said. “This place could easily be saved from the wrecking ball by getting it listed as a historic site. Plus you could apply for funds to renovate it through the Historical Preservation Society.” He told Michael he would be in touch about the date of the public hearing, once he’d contacted and interviewed the neighbors. Both inspectors wished the DiMarcos the best of luck, then climbed into their van and drove off.

  Julia started to wail. She ducked under the caution tape and dashed into the house. Michael looked as though he was trying not to burst into tears himself. In a husky voice, he suggested that Angey and Tony start packing their rooms, then headed inside to console Julia.

  “It’s not your fault,” Angey said.

  “Thanks,” Tony said, not so sure.

  Angey went inside.

  The curtains fluttered over at No. 15. Old Man Hagmann stared smugly out his bay window. As much as Tony wanted to chuck a rock at him—especially since he now had much better aim—he didn’t see what good it would do. Michael was right; they had all better get packing.

  So it was with a heavy heart that Tony trudged up to the attic.

  Angelo, Solly, and Finn were still waiting for him on the bed.

  “What the heck is going on?” Angelo said.

  “Doesn’t matter anymore,” Tony said, sighing. “Sorry, but a Hagmann finally got the best of us. Game over.” He grabbed one of the packing boxes still stacked in the corner. He strode over to the pawcorance and swept every last object on the spiral into it.

  The boys on the bed vanished.

  ony knelt at the bookcase. He started to pack up all the trophies and memorabilia and mysteries on the shelves. He paused, though, when he got to Zio Angelo’s scrapbook. He couldn’t resist opening it and taking a closer look at what was inside.

  The first page was blank, except for those little stick-on corner holders that framed the ghost shadow of a photo no longer there. He began to flip through the leaves. Angelo was always standing alone: Angelo in a pilot’s uniform at the Eiffel Tower. Angelo in a wet suit on a tropical beach, holding up a gigantic oyster with a pearl inside. Angelo on a pack mule halfway down the Grand Canyon. Angelo in a pith helmet waving one of those archaeology picks in front of the Great Pyramid. Angelo popping a wheelie on a rickety old bike on the Great Wall of China. Angelo flying a kite in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. The Taj Mahal. The Colosseum. The Statue of Liberty. Flipping through the scrapbook’s pages was sort of like watching time-lapse photography—Angelo transforming from the awkward teen Tony knew into a handsome young athlete, into a man Michael’s age, into a rugged adventurer with salt-and-pepper hair.

  The photo of Anders Fogelberg fluttered out.

  Hang on a sec. Tony flipped back to the first page. The photo of Anders fit perfectly into the little stick-on corner holders. Angelo couldn’t have been traveling alone. Somebody had to have traveled alongside him, taking all the pictures. Anders Fogelberg?

  Tony flipped to the last page. Finally, Tony recognized the old man he had met last Thanksgiving in Ann Arbor in a photo of Zio Angelo, lying in the brass bed in the parlor of No. 13. Two things struck Tony as odd. The first was that Zio Angelo was wearing Ted Williams’s cap, even though he was in his pajamas. The second was that somebody was finally in the photo beside him. Not Anders Fogelberg. A woman Julia’s age, dressed in a white nurse’s outfit. Beneath the photo was a business card: MARIA GOMEZ, RN. HOME CARE VISITS. Hang on a sec. Zio Angelo had had a visiting nurse? Since when? Tony pulled the card out. He tucked it into his wallet next to Hagmann’s key. He wasn’t quite sure why.

  A thought struck him: Ted Williams’s cap!

  But then there was a rap at the door.

  “Go away,” Tony said.

  Angey opened it a crack anyway. “You OK?” he asked. Tony shrugged. Angey slipped into the room. “Mom wants you and me to take those new tarps back to the hardware and exchange them for more packing tape.”

  “Where’s Mikey?” Tony said. “The two of you are usually joined at the hip.”

  “Having a meltdown in his room,” Angey said. “I was just talking him out of murdering you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sometimes he can be pretty clueless,” Angey said.

  That totally surprised Tony. He had never heard Angey say one bad thing about his twin—ever.

  “At least now you won’t get stuck in this creepy room for the rest of your life,” Angey said, looking around.

  “It’s not so bad,” Tony said. “Once you get used to it.”

  “C’mon,” Angey said. “The clock’s ticking.”

  Tony nodded. He set the photo album back on the
shelf. He stood. He followed Angey downstairs. Ted Williams’s cap. He couldn’t actually believe it, but he was going to miss this room. Not to mention all the thirteen-year-olds in it.

  Coming out of the hardware store, they passed Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe.

  “So what’s in there, anyway?” Angey said.

  Tony shrugged a how-should-I-know?

  “That’s where you went when you ditched us yesterday,” Angey said. “I saw you. I just didn’t say anything about it to Mikey.”

  “How come?” Tony said.

  “Like you need him on your back about anything else,” Angey said.

  “Just a bunch of junk,” Tony said. “And books.” But then he felt sort of guilty. As weird as Sarah Pickles was, she was also his friend—well, sort of. “Some of the junk is pretty cool,” he added. “Interesting.”

  Angey told Tony to take a right. He knew a shortcut back to Hangmen Court. Tony shrugged and followed. He had been this way too. But he just couldn’t remember when. The last couple of days had been sort of a blur. A couple of rights and lefts later, though, they were no longer in the usual maze of caffès and bakeries and butcher shops. Suddenly they found themselves on a grassy stretch at the harbor front called Christopher Columbus Park. Angey admitted he had taken a wrong turn somewhere; it was usually Mikey who led the way. But it was a nice park. A kid their age was in the middle, tossing a tennis ball to his German shepherd. The dog missed by a mile—there was something funky and mechanical about his back hip—and the ball rolled up to Tony’s feet. Without thinking much about it, Tony picked up the ball and tossed it back to the kid. “Hey, do you know how to get to Hanover Street?” he asked. The kid told them it was easy; they just needed to follow the Freedom Trail back up North Street to Prince Street and take a left. Tony thanked him; then he and Angey followed the redbrick line in the sidewalk. A block or two later, Tony recognized where they were. North Square. A few doors down was the Paul Revere House.