“Try to keep me away.”
“I was thinking I’d get one of those condos in a marina. We could keep a boat. Go out and tuna fish in the gulf.”
“You ever been fishing, Finn?”
“Caught a catfish once up at Chandler’s Pond.”
“Good enough, brother.”
They laughed and drank to Finn’s make-believe future.
“Did I tell you who I saw?” Finn said.
“Who’s that?”
“Kevin Pearce.”
Bobby stopped the bottle of beer halfway to his lips and returned it to the bar. “Where did you see him?”
“Over at Tar Park this afternoon. He was asking about you.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. He told me he won the Pulitzer Prize or something.”
Bobby whistled. “No kidding.”
“That a big deal?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I read the sports page. And that’s mostly to see what time the games start.”
Bobby’s gaze traveled out the window and down Market Street.
“B?”
“Yeah.”
“You haven’t seen him in twenty, thirty years.”
“He’s like a brother, Finn.”
“Like you and me?”
“That’s right. Just like you and me.”
Finn grunted and polished off his beer. “I should get going.”
“Have a good night.” Bobby touched his nose with a finger. “And remember what I told you about that shit.”
Finn tossed what was left of the chicken in the trash. Bobby watched him go, then walked behind the bar.
“You see some black broad got killed in Brighton,” the bartender said without taking his eyes off the set. Bobby looked up at the news banner. A reporter stood on a street corner talking.
“Why should I care?”
The bartender shrugged. “I know. It’s a fucking smoke, right?” He smiled. Not so much at what he’d said, but just because he could say it. “You want company down there?” The bartender poked his eyes toward a door next to the reach-in cooler.
“She’s coming in with the books.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. And give a yell down fifteen minutes after she gets here. Tell me I got a call or something.” Bobby grabbed another beer out of the cooler and walked down a sagging set of wooden steps to a cold basement. He flicked on an overhead light and took a seat behind a large metal desk. To the left of the desk was a couch, a refrigerator, and a couple of old filing cabinets. Beside the cabinets were three TVs, a dry-erase board drilled into the wall, a Nerf basketball hoop, and a small, free-standing safe. Bobby turned on a computer and began to go through the baseball lines. A phone on the desk rang three times. Bobby ignored it. He felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket and ignored that. It was going to be a heavy night. Fourteen baseball games, four on the West Coast. Plus basketball and hockey. Bobby needed to focus, but all he could think about was Kevin. There was a creak on the stairs. Bobby looked up. She stepped into a circle of light, a blue binder under her arm.
“Hey,” Bobby said.
“I heard he’s back.” Her eyes were bright and liquid and measuring.
“That’s what Finn says.”
“I’m not surprised. You want to go over the numbers first?”
Bobby kicked out a chair. Bridget Pearce took a seat.
15
SITTING IN the privileged shadow of the Boston Public Garden, the Bull and Finch Pub used to be a classic watering hole, so classic that they made it into a TV show called Cheers and, of course, ruined it. Walk around the corner, however, and you’ll find the closest thing to what the old place used to be. Perched along Charles Street, on the hallowed cobbles of Beacon Hill, the Sevens isn’t much to look at: long bar, a rough collection of tables, dartboard, and jukebox. The beer, however, is cold, the roast beef sandwiches are cut fresh behind the counter, and a few heads at the bar still talk about the day Luis Aparicio cost the Red Sox a division title when he tripped over third base. Still hate him for it, too.
Kevin found an empty stool and ordered a pint of Heineken. The beer had just hit the back of his throat when the pub’s front door swung open. Lisa Mignot was there, hand on a hip, powdery motes of sunlight fighting to fill the space around her. Kevin smiled. She slipped off the threshold and drifted in, brushing his cheek with her lips and running her nails across the back of his neck.
“Hey, Kev.”
Lisa was a prosecutor for the Suffolk County district attorney’s office She’d grown up in Roxbury, graduated with honors from Harvard Law School, and decided to spend a couple of years putting bad guys in jail before moving on to attorney general, the governor’s office, senator, president of the United States. That kind of thing. Most people wondered why she’d ever decided to talk to Kevin, never mind date him. It’s not that supremely intelligent, decidedly hot women of Caribbean and French ancestry don’t cotton to pale, white, scrawny Irish-Catholics from Boston. Kevin was certain it happened all the time. He’d just never heard of it.
“What are you drinking?” he said.
A man with skin the color of wet cement surfaced from somewhere beneath the taps. He was wearing black hi-tops, black shorts, and a shapeless Celtics T-shirt. There was an unlit cigarette stuck between his lips, a pen and scratch paper at the ready. Lisa lit him up with a smile and the bartender danced a little in his Cons.
“Maybe just a glass of OJ? With a straw?”
Kevin figured the barkeep might squeeze the oranges himself. After he planted a tree in the back of the place. Three minutes later, Lisa had her OJ. First time Kevin ever saw it delivered in a frosted mug, but there you go.
“How was your day?” he said.
“Pretty good.” Lisa took a sip and settled herself on her stool. They’d been together almost a year. Some days, it seemed like they hardly needed to speak—the connection so strong words just got in the way. Other days, Kevin barely managed to scratch the surface. Maybe it was just women. For him, they’d always been akin to Russian nesting dolls, one secret wrapped inside another, both container and contained. Inscrutable. Irresistible. Life.
Lisa pulled a soft, black briefcase onto the bar and began to unpack it. “Actually, I’ve got this work thing I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What about the rules?”
“I thought we could suspend them this one time . . .” She looked up from her unpacking and froze. “What’s going on, Kevin?”
“Nothing.”
“Something’s going on.”
He shook his head and buried his nose in his beer. Lisa stuffed the paperwork back in her case and zipped it shut. Then she sat back, hands folded, chin lifted, golden light streaming through the window and lighting up a sculpted set of cheekbones.
“How do you know?” he said.
“I love you, moron. I’m supposed to know. Now, what’s going on?”
“Remember Rosie Tallent?”
An anxious moment flickered in her eyes and was gone. “Of course I do. Charges should have never been filed. And yours were the best stories the Globe ran all year.”
“Yeah, well, something happened today.”
“There’s nothing coming out of our office.”
“It’s not about the case itself. Although I’d still love to find the real killer.”
“So would I.” Lisa coaxed a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro Lights and lit up. Kevin breathed shallowly through his nose and stared at the Sevens’s red painted walls.
“Kevin?”
She was still there, the familiar curves of her face conspiring to strip him of whatever it was that protected him against whatever it was he feared. He took a cleansing breath and edged out into the open, dropping his shield and baring his breast to the slings and arrows of his outrageous good fortune. Somewhere Shakespeare was having a good chuckle.
“It hasn’t been announced yet, but I won the Pulitzer Prize today
.”
A couple of construction guys sat at the far end of the bar, eyes glued to the Sox pregame playing on a TV above the jukebox. In a booth along the wall, an artist type with a soft felt hat was drinking a dark beer and cleaning some brushes with a spotted rag. Across from the artist sat a college girl wearing chinos and a pink Izod who was dying to touch something special before she settled down in Wellesley and had her three kids. The artist didn’t look particularly special, but he’d get better through the years as she retold the story to her friends over lunch. And then there was Lisa, eyebrows arched, perfectly manicured nails gripping the life out of her cigarette. Kevin didn’t know whether the relationship would last, but she was the one he’d shared the news with. Regardless of what happened in the future, nothing and no one could ever take that away. And that had to mean something.
“Are you serious?” she said.
“Pretty serious, yeah.”
“For Tallent?”
“Best investigative piece.”
“Holy shit.” She crushed out her cigarette and took his face in her strong, well-shaped hands, laughing as she kissed him and hugged him, pulling him close and laying her cheek next to his. Kevin felt the thick knot he hadn’t realized was there loosen in his chest.
“You’re impressed?”
“What do you think? Tell me about it.” Her fingers brushed his cuff before cupping the inside of his wrist, and he suddenly worried she might start crying.
“There’s not much to tell. Someone on the committee leaked it to my editor. I asked if he was sure and he said a hundred percent.”
“Goddamn, Kevin. I’m so proud of you.” And then she did cry. A single, lovely tear, wiped away with a single, lovely finger. And it meant everything.
“Thanks, Lis.”
“I love you.”
“Me, too. You want to celebrate?”
“Better believe it. Let’s get some dinner, champagne.”
“How about we just grab a couple of beers here instead?”
“That what you want?”
“I think so.”
Lisa kissed him again. “You want to get drunk in the Sevens? Let’s do it.”
She motioned for the bartender. Kevin stopped her. “What did you want to talk about?”
Her eyes slid to her briefcase, packed with paperwork and still sitting on the bar. “It’ll keep. Pulitzer Prize, Kev. Jesus.” She threw down some cash. “Order us a round. And don’t try to pay for it.”
He watched her head off to the ladies’ room, all legs and heels and silk and smarts. A Picasso in motion. The two construction guys gave her a discreet look as she floated past, then back at Kevin. He tipped his nearly empty pint. They smiled and returned the favor. Kevin figured tonight would be as good as it got. So he’d enjoy it, before it all went to hell in the morning.
16
SHE BUMPED her hip against his as they picked their way along Charles Street, then began the narrow climb up Pinckney to where it wound back down into Joy. Lisa circled her arms around his waist as he fumbled for the key, running her lips across his neck, brushing up against the stubble on his cheek. They kissed in the darkened living room, with the anxious traffic below in the street and the front door still ajar. She kicked it closed as she led him to the couch. He started to take off his shirt. She tore it, buttons bouncing and rolling crazily everywhere. They started on the couch but wound up in front of a fireplace they’d used once, nearly burning down their apartment in the process. Kevin closed his eyes and lost himself. She watched him until the very end, then dropped her head back, bared her teeth, and let it wash over. When it was done, she lay curled on her side and stared at an inch-wide sliver of moonlight striped across his bare chest. She thought he might be sleeping and slipped from under his arm, padding into the bedroom to get a robe. By the time she returned, he’d put on a pair of blue boxers and found some cold chicken and half a bottle of wine in the fridge. They ate sprawled on the wooden floor, using pillows for cushions.
“My boyfriend, the Pulitzer Prize winner. I like it.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Two pints.”
“Imperial pints. That’s twenty ounces. And you were drinking Guinness.”
Lisa wasn’t drunk but didn’t mind that he thought so. She traced his flat stomach lazily with a finger. “You realize it’s been almost a year.”
“Be a year next month.”
“Very good, Mr. Pearce. You remember how we met?”
“I know it was at a party.”
“What party?”
Kevin picked at a piece of chicken. “Might have to take the Fifth on that one, Counselor.”
“Idiot.”
They’d met at a party thrown by one of her colleagues, a prosecutor named Ronnie Coleman. Ronnie loved to play matchmaker and, for some reason, considered Lisa his greatest challenge. She told him she could get herself a date, or anything else she wanted, whenever she wanted. Still, Ronnie liked to dabble. So he’d introduced her to Kevin on a soft spring evening, with the windows open overlooking Marlborough Street and Alicia Keys playing somewhere in the background. Everything was perfect. Then Kevin opened his mouth. Most guys in Boston had one major problem. They couldn’t get over themselves. Whether it was their career, their clothes, their imaginary prowess in bed, or just checking their hair in a mirror every five minutes, they were more boys than men. Kevin was all that for sure, but in an innocent, Hugh Grant sort of way, mumbling into his beer, barely making eye contact with her, and hustling back to his circle of pals first chance he got. He left the party a few minutes after they’d met without saying good-bye. At the door, however, his eyes sought her out and she raised her glass. He nodded and was gone.
It should have been nothing more than amusing, another child in a man’s suit of clothes, but something lingered. She liked his disheveled smile, liked the way he walked, and especially liked that he wasn’t a raging, fucking egomaniac. After he left, the party seemed washed out and boring. She found herself wishing he’d stayed. The next day she tracked down Ronnie, who provided her with the essentials. A reporter at the Globe. Never mentioned that. Covered crime. Never mentioned that. He must have known who she was. Never mentioned it. Lisa decided she wanted a second helping. Fortunately, Boston’s a small town. She ran into him two weeks later at the Starbucks on the corner of Beacon and Charles. Away from the party, sipping his coffee, Kevin relaxed. And she found something there that comforted her, made her feel safe. Cared for. She remembered thinking that as he kissed her for the first time and she took him to her bed. The rest of it, of course, snuck up on her, belting her across the side of the head the way those things always did. She should have expected it, but who didn’t say that? So she fell like everyone else who lived and breathed for a living fell. One minute he was a sweet guy she’d date for the summer. Then she caught herself looking at him as he walked into a restaurant and it all changed into something different, something thrilling, something electric. Something. She knew it would end. Everything ended one way or another. But she’d fallen, in that moment of time and space. Pretty fucking hard, too.
“Your pal, Robbie or something.” She had to give him credit. Kevin was hanging in there, still trying to piece together their first meeting. “It was a party at his place.”
“Ronnie Coleman.”
“Ronnie Coleman. That’s it. Lives on Comm Ave.”
“Marlborough Street.”
“Marlborough, right. Maybe I should give up while I’m ahead?”
“You’re not ahead, but, yes, you should give up.” Lisa pointed her toes and ran them along his shin. “By the way, are you ever gonna shave?”
He scratched at his stubble and pushed a hand through brown hair that fell halfway to his shoulders. “I’m going for Kurt Cobain, circa 1991.”
“That’s wonderful, Kevin, but this is the Pulitzer. Interviews, pictures, publicity.”
“Am I running for office or something?”
“Just think about
it, darling.”
“You never call me ‘darling.’”
“I never asked you to cut your hair, either. Tell me what you did today after you found out. Did you see your family?”
“I went back there, yeah.”
“They must have been thrilled.”
“They were excited. You want some more wine?”
She held out her glass and watched as he filled it. He never talked about Brighton. And never asked her about growing up in the ’Bury. It was part of their unspoken pact. Nothing about their pasts. Nothing about families, friends, old flames. First times, last times. Who they’d fucked. Who they’d fucked over. And nothing, especially nothing, about their childhoods. There’d only been the one exception. A gray Sunday morning when they’d just made love and were lying in the afterward, a bell from one of Boston’s ancient churches tolling the hour then falling silent. Lisa recalled holding her breath and feeling the weight of everything that wasn’t. No cars in the street, no rustle of breeze, no clap or shout. She’d wondered idly if they weren’t the only people left in Beacon Hill, in all of Boston, in all the world, if perhaps she’d hear the clip of hooves striking off the cobbles below, the city’s ever lurking past reborn as they’d slept. Then Kevin had touched the scar that ran along her scalp line, white against coffee cream skin, and asked where it came from. And she’d told him.
“Nigger, get back on that bus.”
The cop glared at Lisa through the scratched Plexiglas shield covering his face and poked at her with the rounded end of his baton. Lisa’s first instinct was to retreat back up the steps. Then she heard Mrs. Pendleton. The woman had a rawboned voice and smooth skin that shone in all its blackness. She dressed severely but professionally, face scrubbed of makeup and pretense. Fierce, intelligent, a leader. When she told her freshman class they’d “volunteered” to be the first bus into South Boston, they nodded as one and got on board. In the beginning it wasn’t so bad—just a lot of hard, white faces, layered three and four deep on every block, staring at the caravan of yellow as it rolled past. Then they turned onto G Street and the first rock cracked a window. Mrs. Pendleton was standing in the aisle, explaining what to expect when it hit. She didn’t miss a beat, smiling and thanking the locals for the warm welcome. The kids chuckled nervously. Then another rock hit, followed by a milk crate, a bottle, more rocks, and then too many objects to count. The school bus crawled to a stop in the middle of the street and began to sway on its springs as people hurled themselves at the windows. Middle-aged men with faces carved out of roast beef, kids with zits and shaved heads carrying cut-down hockey sticks like war clubs, mothers with rollers in their hair and their children with signs that read WELCOME BONEHEADS and WHITES HAVE RIGHTS TOO! A thousand different flavors of ugly, coming at the windows in waves. Lisa kept her eye on Mrs. Pendleton, who only got calmer as the world got crazier. She strolled to the front, touching a child here and there as she passed before whispering to the driver. He shook his head at first, then edged the bus forward. The faces fell away as they picked up speed. Cops on motorcycles swung in on either side, escorting them the rest of the way down the block. The bus groaned to a stop and the crowd fell quiet. The driver looked back at Mrs. Pendleton, who walked down the aisle and crouched beside Lisa. Mrs. Pendleton had always made Lisa feel special, like she was destined for something “great.” Maybe “great” started today. And maybe “great” wasn’t really all that wonderful. Lisa wasn’t sure, but when Mrs. Pendleton asked if she’d be willing to go first, Lisa found herself nodding. Then she was on her feet and walking to the front. The driver cranked open the door and there she was, with the cop and the Plexiglas shield, the black baton and the word nigger burning in her ears. And Mrs. Pendleton right behind her.
Brighton Page 9
