Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “Believe me, you’re better off. What I heard, that whole bunch of Mullens is ready to go to war with Marko.”

  “That’s the rumor. They’re crazy enough to do it, too.”

  “Well, like you said. Probably the only thing stopping them is you and your game.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “No one wants to screw up a good thing. Tensions simmer always, but as long as everyone can sit down together once a week and blow off a little steam at the poker table, everything stays in balance.”

  “Yeah, it’s a regular United Nations. But anyway, speaking of my game…”

  “The other night? Think maybe I can help you out with that.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. How about another Gansett?”

  Fat Dave cracked another tall boy and slid it across the bar. “Well, you know me. I like to keep my mouth shut. But like I said, your game has always been a safe place. That’s gotta be respected. This ain’t the Wild West up here.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “So last night, while all that was goin’ on at Billy’s, it was pretty quiet in here. Just like it’s always pretty quiet in here. Except for these three guys. And these are three guys you’d know. They were drinking a lot, which is not unusual, but they were buying rounds for the house, which is pretty fucking unusual. And they’re laughing it up, two of them especially. The third one, you can tell he’s kind of trying to keep a lid on it. So the loudest one comes over to buy another round for everybody. I says to him, ‘Another one? You sure about that?’ So he laughs again, reaches in his pocket and pulls out a fat roll of bills. He peels a couple of twenties off the top and sets them on the bar, then peels off another one for good measure. And you know what he says? Thinking he’s being all clever? ‘I had a good run at the poker table last night.’ ”

  Dave T took a long pull off his tall boy. “And what did you say to that?”

  “I said ‘Good for you.’ And he and the other guy laugh it up again, but the third one, he ain’t laughing at all. He’s giving his friend Henny Youngman there the stink-eye, like he fucked up big time. Which he did. I mean, I understand this kid’s thinking: What’s the point of knocking over Dave T’s game if nobody knows you did it? He’s thinking he’s just made his reputation, but what he doesn’t understand is nobody’s ever gonna work with someone who knocked over Dave T’s game. Some things are sacred. So…lotta balls, this kid, but no brains.”

  “Got that right.” Dave T ran his fingers over the cracks and crevices of the wooden bar top. Everyone who was anyone had carved their initials into the Red Room bar. He’d done it too, but he couldn’t remember where. “So these three guys you say I would know. Where would I know them from?”

  SEPTEMBER 29, 1986

  By the morning after the fire alarm, Jackie St. John and I had gone on our first date, had our first kiss, our first fuck, and our first fight. She’d met my parents, I’d met hers, we’d gotten engaged, married, raised our kids, and been buried side-by-side after a long and happy life together. Either that or our first date had been a disaster, I’d fucked the whole thing up as usual and would spend the rest of my life alone and miserable. Or something in between. I’d run every possible scenario as I tossed and turned, unable to shut my brain down. Lust had solidified into deep infatuation overnight. I relived the moment when she raised my hand above her head over and over again. It meant nothing, but it meant everything. It was all like a movie—hell, it was a whole damn film festival. The problem is, you’re always the leading man in your mind. In real life, you may wake up to find out you’re just an extra.

  “Wake up, chief! It’s Monday morning. Professor Pussyhound awaits.”

  I peered through crusty eyelids. Murtaugh was hunched in front of his mirror on intensive nosehair patrol. Sunlight streamed in through the window overlooking the Pit.

  Freshman year I’d lived on the second floor, which circum-navigated the building. You could keep walking in circles forever on the second floor. But above that, Charlesgate was horseshoe-shaped. We were at one end of the horseshoe: Looking straight across the Pit, we could see all the windows of the rooms on the other side. But if you looked straight down, you’d see the Pit, which may well have been a lovely courtyard back in Charlesgate’s glory days, but was now the building’s largest garbage receptacle. On a hot day, the smells wafting up from the Pit were unspeakable. Right outside our window was a sizable ledge that must have once been a posh hotel balcony. We managed to hang out there for all of five minutes one afternoon before an RA yelled at us to get the hell inside. There were no secrets on the Pit.

  “Let’s go, Donnelly!” Murtaugh kicked my bed, spraying his entire body with Right Guard all the while. I groaned and rolled to my feet.

  “Jesus, you can’t possibly be tired. You slept through Sunday altogether, for Chrissakes.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “That’s why I’m tired. Too much sleep makes you tired. Look it up.”

  “Well, you missed out. Sox clinched the division yesterday. It was crazy! Kenmore was rockin’. This is the year, man, I’m telling you.”

  I put on a reasonably clean shirt and ran my fingers through my hair. “All right. Let’s face the music.”

  That would be Music Appreciation with Nathan Pierce, known to us as Professor Pussyhound. Pierce had a reputation for fucking his female students in bunches, and whether that was true or not, he looked the part. He was a dead ringer for Robert Urich, a TV actor who was shooting Spenser for Hire in Boston at the time, and although he couldn’t have been more than a dozen years older than us, his attempts at seeming hip were invariably lame. He smoked clove cigarettes by the open classroom window in flagrant violation of school policy, and was given to strained comparisons like, “Stravinsky was the Clash of his day.”

  Murtaugh and I took the Emerson shuttle, which dropped us off at the Wall, a stoop in front of the library on Beacon Street where students smoked and shot the shit between classes. As we were walking to class, I spotted Jackie sitting with some friends, and felt the back of my neck heat up. I let loose with a way too enthusiastic, “Hey Jackie, how’s it’s going?” She didn’t even glance up, and her barely audible “Hey” put the funk in perfunctory. As soon as we passed, she and her girlfriends burst into laughter, and while there was every chance that had something to do with whatever they were talking about and nothing to do with me, I could not have been more mortified. Somehow Jackie had seen inside my head. She knew I’d spent the whole weekend in bed fantasizing about our life together. Maybe the Ouija board had told her.

  Professor Pussyhound introduced us to the wonders of early 20th-century Italian opera that morning, but it’s safe to say Madama Butterfly flew in one ear and out the other. After class I was still in a daze as Murtaugh and I hiked back to our end of Beacon Street for lunch. After two or three attempts at engaging me in conversation, he punched me on the shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, there he is! Sorry, I thought I was walking alone here. What’s up your ass?”

  “Nothing, just…thinking about opera.”

  “Yeah, right. You look like someone raped your dog. Is this about a chick? Yeah, this is definitely about a chick.”

  I shrugged. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”

  “Just tell me who it is. I bet it’s not as bad as you think.”

  “I told you it’s nothing. I’ve got…I’ve got a little crush on Jackie St. John.”

  Murtaugh snorted. “Yeah. You and every other heterosexual male in Charlesgate. Which is only half the males in Charlesgate at best, but still…well, I think you’re a little bit over your skis, chief.”

  “Yeah, I get that now.”

  “Look, I’m not trying to bust your balls. You could totally get laid tonight if you wanted, but you’ve got to stay in your lane, you know?”

  “Okay, well, thanks for the pep talk. Let’s fucking eat, all right?”

  The Canteen, our school cafeteria, was on the first floor o
f the dorm across the street from Charlesgate. Known as Fensgate, it had none of the history, charm, or quirkiness of our dorm. I never heard any stories of Fensgate being haunted, although I did hear about a kid who did a shitload of acid and took a tumble out a fifth-floor window, his head exploding like a cantaloupe all over Beacon Street. Like sightings of Eugene O’Neill’s ghost, however, that was probably bullshit.

  We had a free-floating lunch group of about a dozen regulars, any six or eight of whom would put in an appearance on any given day. Once Murtaugh and I had filled our trays with the usual assortment of fried meat-like items and piles of starch, we made our way over to our table, where Rodney, Brooks, Jules, Purple Debbie, and the Rev were already chowing down. These were my people. This was my tribe. I’d never found them in high school, but I’d found them now. For that alone, my Emerson tuition was worth every penny I’d spend the next ten years paying off.

  “Donnelly’s in love with Jackie St. John,” Murtaugh announced as we sat down.

  “I hate you,” I said. “Have I mentioned that I hate you?”

  “Really?” said Jules, a wide-eyed freshman from Texas who had somehow instantly clicked with our group. “Isn’t she kind of…?” She wrinkled her nose.

  “Unattainable?” said Murtaugh. “Yes, which is why I advised our colleague here to get laid post-haste. Do I have any volunteers? Jules, you’re looking for your first college fling, aren’t you?”

  “She’s twelve years old!” I protested.

  “I am not! And I’m sitting right here! Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!”

  “No offense.”

  “Anyway, I’m not looking for a fling, thank you.”

  “Right,” said Murtaugh. “You’re looking for Prince Charming. And Purple Debbie, I suppose you still claim to be dating your imaginary high school sweetheart…”

  “Chad is not imaginary! You met him!”

  Purple Debbie was called Purple Debbie to distinguish her from some other Debbie she’d gone to high school with and none of us had ever met. In all ways mentally and emotionally, Purple Debbie was still in high school.

  “Can we drop the subject please?” I said.

  “Yes, we can,” said Rodney, a preacher’s kid from New Hampshire who took to his college experience like a sailor on shore leave. Compared to the rest of us, Rodney was Barry Goldwater, but his parents still thought he’d sold his soul to the devil. “Chest Guy is making fake IDs. Twenty bucks. I’m in. Who’s with me?”

  “Me,” Murtaugh, the Rev and I chimed in simultaneously.

  “You guys,” said Jules, wrinkling her nose again. “That’s illegal.”

  “Yes,” said Rodney. “That’s the whole point. If they were legal, we wouldn’t need them. Look, we’re all over eighteen here. Five, ten years ago, we’d all be able to drink legally anyway. So it’s completely arbitrary. Typical big government.”

  “Think of the boost to the local economy,” said the Rev. “All those shows at the Rat, Bunratty’s, TT the Bear’s…we can keep a half-dozen local bands afloat easily. We’re supporting the arts.”

  Judging from her still-wrinkling nose, Jules wasn’t buying it, but that ship had sailed. “So that’s four of us?” said Rodney. “Brooks, you’re not in?”

  “I turn twenty-one in three weeks. I only look stupid.” Brooks was a theater major and it didn’t take anyone more than one guess to figure that out. Looking back now, he was the most stereotypically ’80s member of our group, with sculptured Flock of Seagulls hair, an all-black wardrobe and a penchant for eyeliner. He’d taken a year off after high school to volunteer for MASSPIRG, saving the planet door-to-door.

  “Okay, so four of us. I’ll let him know. Stay tuned for further instructions.”

  These were the further instructions: We were to report to Chest Guy’s room on the sixth floor of Charlesgate at fifteen-minute intervals. We were to bring twenty dollars in cash each, non-negotiable. My appointment was for 7:45 that night.

  I showed up a couple minutes early. Chest Guy opened the door and waved me in. He was on the phone, and true to his reputation, he had his shirt unbuttoned to the waist, all the better to show off his glistening pecs. He raised a finger and continued his conversation.

  “Yes, I’m six foot even, 185 pounds. Very muscular. My chest is 40 inches, waist 32, inseam 34. Six-pack abs. My hair is a little spiky in front, collar-length in back. A bit like Simon Le Bon in ‘Wild Boys,’ if you’ve seen that video. I can fax you a head shot in the morning if you’ve got a fax machine. Sure, that’s no problem…10:30 tomorrow morning? I’ll be there. No, thank you. See you then.”

  He hung up. “Modeling agency. You know the drill.”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know the drill, and he knew I didn’t know the drill, but whatever. I wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Chest Guy skeeved me out.

  “So I’m sure Rodney told you it’s twenty bucks.”

  I fished my last twenty out of my wallet. For the rest of the week, I’d have to hit the Shawmut Bank ATM. It was the only one in town that dispensed five dollar bills.

  “Good deal,” said Chest Guy. “So here’s how it works. We use the Maine license, because it’s the only one in New England that still has the photo in the lower right-hand corner. You’ll see why that’s important in a minute.”

  “Fine,” I said. I already had a Maine driver’s license, only because I happened to be from Maine. Chest Guy fetched a piece of cardboard, about 18 by 36 inches, and a black magic marker, and handed them to me.

  “As you can see, I’ve already filled in all your pertinent information. I just need your signature.” I examined the piece of cardboard. It was an exact replica of a Maine driver’s license, with my name, a fake address and birth date, and blank spaces where the photo and signature should be. I took the magic marker and scrawled an oversized signature in the designated space.

  “Beautiful,” said Chest Guy. He slapped some double-sided tape on the back of the cardboard and pressed it against the wall in the spot where a Def Leppard poster had been hanging the week before. He turned on a 10K light borrowed from the film depot and picked up his Nikon Tele-Touch. “Okay, now I need you to stand about six inches in front of the license so your head is framed by the square where your photo should be.”

  I did what he asked. “Okay, let me just adjust the light so there’s no telltale shadow…great. Now smile like you’ve spent three hours in line at the Registry.”

  I offered a shit-eating smirk as Chest Guy snapped a half-dozen photos.

  “All righty,” he said. “It’ll be ready on Friday, just in time for you to try it out.”

  ”Looking forward to it. You sure this thing is gonna work?”

  “How could I be? All sales are final and you use it at your own risk. And if you do get caught, remember, you bought it in the Combat Zone from some guy you never met before and never seen since. You bring my name into it, I’ll drop you in the Pit headfirst.”

  He winked. I showed myself out.

  APRIL 23, 2014

  Detective Martin Coleman lifted the yellow crime scene tape and stepped under it, trying not to spill his large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee as he entered Unit 67. The two uniforms were inside as expected, milling around the body and shooting the shit about Dustin Pedroia’s three doubles the night before.

  “Fackin’ Laser Show went off last night. Vintage Pedey.”

  “Well, he had to. Friggin’ bullpen can’t hold a lead. Five ribbies he gets, and it still goes extras. Oh—hey, boss.”

  “Gentlemen. Sorry to interrupt the postgame show, but who’s the vic?”

  “Rachel O’Brien, twenty-nine years old, realtor from Back Bay Modern Living. Unmarried, but engaged. Fiancé was on a business trip to the West Coast. He’s in biotech sales or some shit. Had late meetings last night, wasn’t expecting to hear from her. Time difference. Anyway, we got ahold of him a few minutes ago, he’s a fackin’ mess as you might presume.”

  Coleman squat
ted beside the body and sipped his coffee. “Crime Scene has been here, looks like.” Actually, he knew for a fact they’d been there. He and his partner had just finished chasing down a lead on another case in Dorchester when they caught the call on O’Brien. Baseball and murder were both back in season, and everyone in Homicide had a full scorecard. Carnahan had a scheduled court appearance, so Coleman made the trip to the Back Bay alone.

  “Just left. They weren’t buying my theory that she tripped on her shoelaces and broke her neck.”

  “First thing you want to look for in that case, shoelaces. Of which she has none. Hold this for me, will you?” Coleman raised his coffee cup and the nearest officer took it from him. “What did they find?”

  “One canister of pepper spray, unused, next to the body. Prints everywhere, but this unit has been shown almost two dozen times since it went on the market ten days ago, so…good luck there. Usual hairs and fibers. No open wounds. Guy obviously didn’t want to make any noise. No gunshots, no screaming, just a body hitting the ground, which might annoy the downstairs neighbors if they were home, which they were not. Aside from the neck, no other visible bruising. Far as they can tell, not a pube out of place.”

  “That’s good,” said Coleman, rummaging through Rachel’s pockets. “Hopefully we don’t have to call in those sick fucks from Sex Crimes. So it’s looking like this happened yesterday, am I right?”

  “Best they can say before the ME gets ahold of her, sometime between two and ten yesterday. But we can do a little better than that. Her people at the realty office started to miss her when she didn’t show for work this morning. Made several calls to her cell. The receptionist over at Back Bay Modern Living was able to pull up her calendar. Her last appointment yesterday was right here, this unit, 5:30 P.M. yesterday. Client was a Charles Finley, a lawyer with Goodwin Palmer downtown. Your next question is whether I called Goodwin Palmer to verify they have a Charles Finley on the active roster.”