Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  This got Carnahan’s attention. “Seriously? When was this?”

  “Is that your way of asking how old I am?”

  “Nah, nah, I’m just—”

  “It’s okay. It was ’85 to ’88. I lived on this floor, in fact.”

  “It’s a little nicer now, I bet.”

  “Nicer looking, yes. Friendlier, not so much.”

  “How did you end up living here again?”

  “My husband and I were looking for a place after we got married. He was my second husband and I was his third wife.”

  Carnahan whistled.

  “Yeah,” she continued. “So he wanted to live in the Back Bay, and I knew this place had recently been converted to condos. I set up a viewing, mostly because I just wanted to see what they’d done with the place. I mean, when I lived here the first time you could never imagine it looking like this. Bugs, rats, ceilings caving in, fire alarms at three in the morning…”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “I loved every minute. And when we looked at this unit, my husband fell in love with it. I never thought in a million years I’d end up back here, but here I am.”

  “Minus the husband,” said Carnahan.

  “Right. Thanks for the reminder, detective. Is there anything else?”

  “Mrs. Osborne,” said Coleman. “You said you lived here from ’85 to ’88?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This might sound a little out of left field…”

  “But why stop now?”

  “Right. So back then, did you by any chance know a Thomas Donnelly?”

  Mrs. Osborne smirked. “Yes. I know Tommy.”

  “Are you still in touch?”

  “Once in a blue moon. I think I got a Christmas card from him six or seven years ago. He’s not on Facebook if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s just that I was reading some articles Mr. Donnelly wrote for the Emerson paper back in the ’80s.”

  “Oh, the Charlesgate articles? Exciting stuff, right? Wait, do you think this murder has anything to do with all that?”

  “It’s a long shot for sure. You said you’re planning your class reunion. Do you expect Mr. Donnelly to attend?”

  “Not a chance. He moved about as far away from here as he could get and still be on the same planet.”

  “Australia, right? But he’s doing well for himself. He can certainly afford it.”

  “It has nothing to do with money. I just don’t think he’d ever come back to this building.”

  “This…wait a minute. The reunion is being held here? In the Charlesgate?”

  “In the big ballroom downstairs, the Gold Room. That’s why I was emailing with Ms. O’Brien a few weeks back. Taking care of the logistics.”

  “I see. One more question, Mrs. Osborne, if you don’t mind my asking. What was your name when you lived here the first time? Back in college, I mean?”

  “St. John. My maiden name is Jackie St. John.”

  JUNE 12, 1946

  It was a slow night at the Red Room lounge. A thunderstorm had rolled in around sunset, and most of the regulars had evidently decided to do their drinking at home. Fat Dave was contemplating closing up early when Jimmy Dryden burst through the front door, holding a soaking wet Boston Globe over his head.

  “Holy shit, it’s raining pitchforks and assholes out there.”

  “So I hear,” said Fat Dave as Dryden took a seat at the bar, dumping his wet newspaper on the stool beside him. “Getcha Manhattan?”

  “That’s just what the doctor ordered. Well, not my doctor, he’s a prick. Says I should quit drinking, like I got so much joy in my life I can just start giving up the few things that make it bearable.”

  “I hear you.” Fat Dave got to work. “So what’s new?”

  “I came into some unexpected money.”

  “That’s always a good thing.”

  “Well, in this case, it was already my money to begin with. It went away, but then it came back around.”

  “I don’t foller ya.”

  “Well, you may have heard about Dave T’s card game the other night.”

  “Oh yeah. You were there?”

  “In the flesh. Cocksuckers with fuckin’ shotguns and potato sacks over their heads bust in and clean us out. And I was on a hot streak, too. Just my luck.”

  Fat Dave set a fresh Manhattan on the bar. “Figures.”

  Dryden shrugged. “Hey, it happens. We all know the risks. At least with Dave T, you know you got robbed honestly. Some guys out there ain’t above taking down their own games, and you know who I’m talking about.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “So anyways, I’m back there at the Charlesgate tonight doing some business on the sixth floor and that guy Cahill, works for Dave T sometimes, he stops by. Only he don’t want no tail. He’s just there to give me an envelope. Inside the envelope, fifteen Ben Franklins. My buy-in from the game.”

  “Huh. Nice of Dave T, reimbursing you like that.”

  “Nice, hell. Don’t get me wrong, Dave T is a standup guy, but he’s no sucker. His game wouldn’t last a minute if word got out he was paying guys out of his own pocket after getting hit. Nah, he caught up with those potato sack motherfuckers somehow.”

  “Huh. And you got no idea who those guys were?”

  Dryden shrugged. “Fuck would I know? Did you miss the part where I said they had fuckin’ potato sacks on their heads?”

  “I heard you, but…you didn’t recognize their voices? Their builds? Nothing like that?”

  Dryden drained his Manhattan and slammed the glass on the bar. “No. What? I’m Charlie Chan now? You trying to tell me something, just come out and fuckin’ say it!”

  Fat Dave took the empty glass and started building another Manhattan. “I’m just saying, I’d have thought you mighta recognized those cocksuckers, potato sacks or no. They grew up about a pussy hair from your house, after all.”

  “Oh, so you’re in the know? This is your way of saying you weren’t even there, yet you know who took down the game.”

  Fat Dave plucked a maraschino cherry from its jar and plopped it into Dryden’s drink. “You know me, I hear things. That’s what I do.”

  “And what did you hear?”

  Fat Dave whistled the Our Gang theme.

  “Whaddaya…oh. The Little fuckin’ Rascals? Those little shits? You gotta be kiddin’ me. These were men.”

  “Jimmy, kids grow up. You must have heard about this. I know you don’t have any yourself, but you do understand that little boys grow up to be men if they live long enough.”

  “Ungrateful little shits. I used to let them play ball in my yard. One time the fat one hit a line drive through my kitchen window, I said, ‘Forget it, kid. It happens.’ I should kick his fuckin’ ass.”

  “My guess, it’s a little late for that.”

  “Oh, you think Dave T…well, I guess he’d have to, right? You can’t disrespect the game and get away with it.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Still…kinda harsh for a first offense, no? You don’t think he could have just, I dunno, given them a warning?”

  “Jimmy, these guys ripped you off. You just called them ungrateful little shits.”

  “Yeah, I know. But you know me, I’m a soft-hearted guy. And it really wasn’t that much money. I mean, I’m happy to have it back, don’t get me wrong. But Jesus, kids make mistakes. I made more than a few.”

  “It’s business, Jimmy, and like I said, they ain’t kids no more. They knew the rules.”

  “Yeah, the rules. Well, I never cared much for rules myself.” Dryden tossed back the rest of his Manhattan. He reached into his envelope for a bill and slid it under his empty glass.

  “Jesus, Jimmy, that’s a hundred bucks.”

  “I know. Just want to, you know, settle my tab.”

  “Well, I don’t know off the top of my head what your tab is, but I know it ain’t no hundred smackers.”

  “Hey, like I sai
d, Dave, it’s found money to me. I never expected to see it again. You been good to me over the years. Maybe next time I’m in here, I’m a little light, you’ll remember this.”

  “You bet, Jimmy. Hell, I was thinking of closing early tonight anyway. This makes it easier.”

  “Good. We’re all in this together, right?”

  “Yeah. Tell that to Marko and the Mullens. Things are heating up there and it’s gonna be bad for business for all of us if they go to war.”

  “Marko’s been layin’ low, huh?”

  “He’s locked down tight there on Prince Street. Gotta be planning something.”

  “Well, let’s hope cooler heads prevail. Take care of yourself, Dave.”

  Dryden gave a quick salute, gathered his soggy newspaper, and headed out the door. Fat Dave washed his glass and took a quick lap around the bar. He had the place to himself. But just as he was on his way to latch the front door, it swung open and another customer stepped inside.

  “Closing early, pal. Game called on account of weather.”

  The customer lowered the hood of his rain slicker. Fat Dave knew him.

  “This won’t take long,” Jake said.

  “Oh…how ya doin’, kid?”

  “Didn’t expect to see me tonight, didja?”

  Fat Dave gestured around. “Like you see, the place is dead. But I guess if you want one quick drink, I could set you up.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’d prefer it if you didn’t go back behind that bar. I know you’ve got a shotgun back there. I saw you bust it out one night when things got out of hand.”

  Fat Dave shrugged. “Yeah, me and every other barkeep in Boston. What’s it to you?”

  “What’s it to me is I don’t want to get my face blown off tonight. It may happen tomorrow or the next day, but tonight I’d really rather avoid it.”

  “Why would you think I’d blow your face off, kid? Doesn’t sound real good for business.”

  “I get the feeling you weren’t counting on much more of my business anyway.”

  “Kid, I’m not following you at all. I don’t know what’s got you all twisted up, but I am closing early tonight, so if you don’t want a drink, what do you say we talk about this some other time.”

  The bar light caught a flash of metal as Jake pulled something from his raincoat pocket.

  “I brought a souvenir home from the war,” Jake said. “This is a Browning HP. Funny thing is, it wasn’t mine. It was presented to me in the hospital in Manila. I was dehydrated, halfstarved, suffered near-failure of every organ. I don’t even know who gave it to me. Nurse said it was a gift from an admirer. What’s to admire? I spent months as a prisoner of the Japs, asshole to elbow with men dropping dead in every direction. Better believe I woke up ready to die every morning. But I also woke up ready to do whatever I had to do to stay alive. None of that has changed.”

  Fat Dave raised his hands and slowly lowered himself onto a barstool. It groaned beneath his weight. “I appreciate what you did for this country, kid. But I got no idea what that has to do with me.”

  “Four nights ago, my brother Shane, my cousin Pat and I robbed Dave T’s card game. I think you know that.”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Because we were in here the next night. And my cousin Pat, who never could keep his mouth shut, I think he gave you a pretty good idea what we did.”

  “Kid, this is all news to me.”

  “I don’t think so. See, I spent this afternoon wondering exactly how Dave T figured out it was us. And then I remembered hearing about how you guys go way back.”

  “Kid, you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Well, that’s possible. I mean, I’m not one hundred percent sure about this. I might be making a mistake, it’s true. But then I ask myself: At this point, what fuckin’ difference does it make?”

  “Kid, you pull that trigger, you are gonna bring a shitstorm down on your head like you never dreamed.”

  “And if I don’t, same thing. All things being equal, I’d rather pull the trigger.”

  He did, three times. The bottles in the racks behind the bar jumped when Fat Dave’s body hit the floor.

  OCTOBER 8, 1986

  Two days of relative normalcy passed. I went to class. I showed up for my work-study job in the development office. (My job consisted mainly of filing news clippings about prominent Emerson alumni. Norman Lear, Henry Winkler and Jay Leno were the names I most frequently encountered.) On Tuesday night, Murtaugh, the Rev and I hosted a viewing of Game 1 of the ALCS, in which the Red Sox suffered an 8−1 ass-whupping at the hands of the Angels.

  I’d also managed to get in touch with Timothy Sprague, the author of Haunted Hub. He’d agreed to meet with me for an interview, on the condition that said meeting take place at his apartment in the Bay Village. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of meeting an occult expert alone in his home, so I decided to solicit some backup.

  “Hey, Rev, what are you doing tonight?”

  My roommate was idly plucking his bass guitar while watching the end of a M*A*S*H rerun. “Oh, I dunno, man. Probably jamming with the boys in the back stairwell. Some weed might be smoked.”

  “Wednesday night, in other words.”

  M*A*S*H ended and a Barney Miller rerun began. The Rev played along with the opening bass riff of the theme song. Bum. Ba da dum. Ba da dum. Ba da da da da da da da… “Why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping I could talk you into coming with me on an interview tonight.”

  “You have a job interview tonight? What, you want me as a reference?’

  The Rev was wearing a tie-dye t-shirt. He had a beard down to his midsection and a tangle of dreadlocks. I definitely did not want him as a reference.

  “Not a job interview. An interview for an article I’m writing for the Beacon.”

  “Why do you want me to come with you?”

  “Because I feel like this guy might be a freak.”

  “And you want to have a freak on your side?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Cool, man. Sounds like a blast.”

  So the Rev rode with me on the T down to Arlington Street. From there we walked south to Cortes Street in the Bay Village.

  “The Gay Village,” said the Rev.

  “What?”

  “They call this the Gay Village. Like, this is a highly gay part of Boston.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Hey, I go to Emerson, don’t I? I don’t give a shit.”

  I rang the buzzer for apartment 3A at 23 Cortes Street.

  “Who goes there?”

  “Uh…it’s Tommy Donnelly? I talked to you earlier about the Charlesgate?”

  “Entrez vous!”

  The door buzzed open.

  “I hope this guy has roof access,” said the Rev.

  “Why is that?”

  “So we can go up to the roof and smoke a bowl.”

  “That’s what I thought you were gonna say.”

  We walked up the three flights of stairs and knocked on the door to 3A. The door swung open, revealing a curtain of beads and the glow of a blue light beyond. I pushed my way through, followed by the Rev.

  “Hello?”

  “In the back!”

  I was tempted to turn and run. The far wall was covered with a mural replicating the cover of the Yes album Tales from Topographic Oceans. The furniture consisted entirely of beanbag chairs. The other walls were plastered with black-light posters for Led Zeppelin and the Grateful Dead. Lava lamps burbled on the fireplace mantle. The sound of a Theremin filled the air.

  “Chief,” said the Rev. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  “That’s why I brought you, Rev.”

  “I’m back in the workshop!” the voice called again.

  “The workshop,” I muttered. “Sounds unpromising.”

  “Nah,” said the Rev. “It’s cool. Santa has a workshop, right?”

  We passed through a second set of beads and entered the
workshop. It wasn’t noticeably different from the rest of the apartment: lava lamps, beanbag chairs, stoner posters. It did feature a small desk topped by an ancient typewriter, as well as an end table crammed with all manner of occult bric-a-brac: Magic 8-balls, Tarot cards, books of magick, and what appeared to be a human skull. Our host stood in the corner, waving his hands as if conducting an orchestra. It took me a minute to realize he was playing the Theremin.

  “Welcome to my inner sanctum! Which one of you is Tommy?”

  I raised my hand. “That’s me. I hope you don’t mind I brought my roommate along. He’s…into this kind of stuff.”

  “Everyone calls me the Rev,” my roommate said, extending his hand.

  “The Rev! Powerful. I like that.” Sprague shook his hand enthusiastically. The abandoned Theremin whistled mournfully before fading to silence. “Well, gentlemen, pull up a beanbag. I was just about to bust out some mind-roasting hash my girlfriend brought back from Istanbul. I’m happy to share.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that—”

  “Absolutely, man,” said the Rev, shutting me down. “Your girlfriend sounds cool, taking a chance like that. I’ve seen Midnight Express.”

  “Yeah, right? Yeah, she brought this stuff back in her poop chute. But don’t worry, she’s got a real nice poop chute.”

  Sprague broke up a few chunks of hash on a Their Satanic Majesties Request album and began rolling a joint. “So you’re interested in the Charlesgate, right?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’m doing an article, actually a series of articles, for our school paper. The Rev and I live in Charlesgate, as a matter of fact.”

  Sprague’s eyes widened. “No shit? Aw man, I wish you’d told me, I would have met you guys there. We could get up to some real freaky shit in that building. Here, spark this baby up.”

  He passed a fat joint to the Rev, who was only too happy to oblige. After taking a few hits, he passed it to me. I tried to pass it right over to Sprague, but he held up a palm in refusal.

  “Man, you gotta hit that. It will open you up to this world you’re gonna be writing about. You don’t want to approach this thing from a closed-off place, man. You want all those doors of perception wide open.”