Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “The Church stayed another year and every few weeks they would approach me to come to one of their meetings. Of course, I never did. By 1978, the cult had either dissolved or moved on. The next year, Emerson College bought the building. They fought like hell to get me and the other tenants out of here. Most of them just went, but a social worker helped me and a few others pursue the matter in court. Under the rent control laws, they had no choice but to let me stay. And no one has ever asked me about it until just now.”

  ***

  I can confirm the last part of Mrs. Coolidge’s claim. Emerson has no right to evict her, which is why she and several other non-student residents still remain. I can also confirm the existence of a doomsday cult called the End Times Church of the Final Revelation, and news articles dating back to the mid-’70s support the claim that they operated out of the Charlesgate for at least part of that time. “A Month of Mondays” was a regional hit for the Meat City Beatniks in 1966. Several articles in local papers name Johnny Seven as the songwriter and lead singer of the band. There is no evidence that Johnny Seven ever lived in the Charlesgate. His real name remains unknown, so there is no record of his death. No report was ever filed with the Boston police regarding a ritual sacrifice murder on July 4, 1976. If an officer did respond to Mrs. Coolidge’s call, he never saw anything he considered worth reporting.

  As a student journalist, I have no reason to believe Mrs. Coolidge’s story. As a friend—and whether she would agree or not, I now consider her a friend—I couldn’t help but believe her story. If you live in Charlesgate, and you see Mrs.Coolidge in the hall, chomping on her ever-present cigar, I urge you to say hello and strike up a conversation. I don’t think you’ll regret it.

  APRIL 30, 2014

  “We could go somewhere else if you want,” said Coleman. “It’s just, I’ve been wanting to check this place out and this is the first…well…”

  “First date you’ve been on since the Clinton administration?” Jackie St. John Osborne inched closer to him as the rain started to pick up. He angled the umbrella to shield her from the onslaught. They were standing in line outside the Bleacher Bar on Lansdowne Street. What had begun as an overcast day with intermittent showers was turning into a rainy night in Boston town.

  “Well, yeah. With someone besides…”

  “Besides your wife. Do I have to finish all your sentences?”

  “Ex-wife. Well, soon to be ex. I’m pretty sure, anyway.”

  “Keep digging, detective.” The line started to move as people ahead of them bailed in anticipation of the Red Sox/Rays game being rained out.

  “All I’m saying is, we don’t have to eat here. There’s a dozen places within two blocks. No reason we should stand in the rain.”

  Another group ahead of them departed, and suddenly they were inside.

  “See?” Jackie said. “We’re dry now. And I told you, I like this place. The Dersh reminds me of the hot pastrami sandwiches back home.”

  “New Jersey, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “So you’re a Yankee fan?”

  “I grew up a Mets fan. And I was in college here in ’86, as you know. It was a little awkward, that World Series. I was one of the few people in my dorm happy with how it turned out.”

  “I was in fifth grade. I couldn’t sleep for a week. Stayed up all night crying after the Buckner bobble.”

  “Yeah, me too. But not because of that. Anyway, fifth grade? Are you insinuating that I’m a cradle-robber?”

  “Shit, you don’t look a day over thirty.”

  “Okay, you’re doing a little better now. Finishing sentences and everything.”

  They reached the hostess station. “Table for two?”

  “Yes,” said Coleman.

  “It’s your lucky day. We just had one open up in front.”

  The Bleacher Bar was both a part of Fenway Park and outside of it. It was a former garage converted into a restaurant. The entrance was separate from the park; you didn’t need a ticket to the game, but you could still watch it from an unusual vantage point. The garage door was in center field. Watch a game on TV and you’d never know there was anything behind it, but from inside the Bleacher Bar, you had a clear view from directly behind the center fielder, through one-way glass.

  The prospect of a game didn’t look promising as Coleman and Jackie took their seats, however. The tarp was on the field and the game was officially in a delay. “April at Fenway,” said Coleman. “You pays your money and you takes your chances. So are you still a Mets fan?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve lived in Boston for almost thirty years now. My resistance got worn down. I enjoyed 2004 as much as any townie, believe me.”

  “Pink hat.”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  “I’m just messing with you! Man, and I was doing so well. Let’s change the subject.”

  “You pick.”

  “Okay. So…heard from your friend Tommy Donnelly lately?”

  Jackie bristled, pushing back in her chair. “What is this? Is this a date or something else?”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Yeah, you asked me about Tommy. When you called me, you specifically said this had nothing to do with official business.”

  “It doesn’t. It is a date. I just…I’m sorry. It’s hard to take off my badge at the end of the day.”

  “So what? What’s the fascination with Tommy Donnelly? What does he have to do with a murder that happened more than two decades after he blew town for good?”

  “Probably nothing. But my leads at this point are fucking invisible. And some of the stuff your friend Tommy wrote about… well, it all sounds far-fetched. It might well be fiction…”

  “It was fiction. Isn’t that what he said at the time? That this stuff was all urban legends? Debunking the myths. That was the whole point.”

  “Yeah, but the Boston police took it seriously. Seriously enough to question him, right?”

  Jackie shrugged. “When you’re dealing with the biggest unsolved crime in the history of Boston, I guess any lead is worth pursuing. Right? I mean, you’re the cop here.”

  “That’s why I’m pursuing it. But that’s not why I’m pursuing you.”

  “Oh hey, that was almost not completely lame! Good job.”

  Coleman laughed. “Blow me.”

  Jackie smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  Coleman followed Jackie’s lead and ordered the Dersh, a hot pastrami sandwich named after famed Harvard Law professor Alan Dershowitz. They split an order of bacon cheesy fries and drank two Sam Adams drafts each. The tarp never left the field and no players materialized. At 8:15, the game was officially called due to inclement weather.

  “Bummer,” said Coleman.

  “Hey, we had a front-row seat to the grounds crew doing their thing. Those guys are amazing. Well worth the price of admission.”

  “Nice save,” said Coleman. “But fortunately for you, I have a Plan B.”

  Jackie eyed him skeptically. “And what does Plan B involve?”

  “Well, for one thing, it involves the wearing of ugly shoes.”

  “I don’t own any ugly shoes.”

  “You don’t have to. The ugly shoes will be provided. Jillian’s is practically right across the street. We can run between the drops, as my Daddy used to say.”

  “Bowling? Wow, I haven’t been bowling since…maybe since college.”

  “Excellent. Then there’s a good chance you’ll be impressed by my mediocre tenpin skills. Up to you, though. If you want to call it a night…”

  “No. By all means, let’s bowl.”

  Coleman paid the check and they dashed across Lansdowne and half a block down to Ipswich, where they entered Jillian’s, an upscale fun emporium housing the Lucky Strike Lanes. The bowling alley was on the third floor, above a Spring Breakthemed dance club and a sports bar/billiards room. Coleman paid for an hour in advance, and the attendant supplied them with shoes and a lane. Whil
e Jackie ordered a couple more Sams from the bartender, Coleman made a big show of selecting just the right ball. He promptly rolled a gutter on his first try.

  “That’s my rope-a-dope technique,” he said. “Lulling you into complacency.”

  Jackie made a spare on her first frame.

  “Not since college,” said Coleman. “Right.”

  “I swear, detective.”

  “Ma’am, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know a lie when I hear one.”

  “So what’s the deal? You always wanted to be a cop?”

  “Ever since third grade, when my friend Dennis and I snuck into the theater showing Beverly Hills Cop.”

  “Good thing you didn’t decide to see Ghostbusters instead.”

  Coleman laughed. “What about you? Working in PR, was that a lifelong dream?’

  “Not really. It’s what I studied at Emerson. I thought about broadcast journalism, but I was never good at the happy talk. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.”

  “I can see that.”

  “It pays well, my job. Sometimes it hurts my soul. Or it used to, before I was dead inside.”

  “Oh please.”

  “What I really wanted to do was illustrate children’s books. I used to love to draw. I took a crack at it once. My friend wrote this book about a pig trying to escape a slaughterhouse. In retrospect, it was probably a little dark for the preschool audience, and my drawings didn’t help. Petey the Pig looked like something out of a David Lynch movie. Anyway, I didn’t stick with it. I sold out, and I can live with that.”

  “You can live very well, from what I’ve seen.”

  “You a gold digger, detective? I hate to burst your bubble, but there’s no way I could live in the Charlesgate if my condo weren’t already paid for. I do all right, but my ex did very well for himself.”

  “And you let him get away?”

  “More like he traded me in for a younger model. Fifty-three years old, he suddenly decides he wants to be a father. I tell him that ship has sailed and well…”

  “He found a new ship.”

  “Well, I should have known. He was married twice before me, like I told you and your partner the other day. And the last time, I was the younger woman.”

  “The circle of life. And you said this was your second husband?”

  “Yeah, although the first one hardly counts. He was my college boyfriend and we hitched up way too young. Married at twenty-one, divorced at twenty-two.”

  “So no kids, huh? No interest?”

  “I could never picture it. There’s always pressure, of course, but I never felt that hole in my life. And like I said, my husband—second husband—wasn’t interested either. Until he was. What about you?”

  “Little girl. Eight years old. Alicia.” Coleman took out his phone, selected a picture and showed it to Jackie.

  “Cute as a bug.”

  “Daddy’s little girl, except she’s not too happy with Daddy these days. Won’t even come to the phone when I call.”

  “So what happened there, with your wife? You screw around on her? No wait, let me guess: You were married to the job.”

  “That’s right,” said Coleman, picking up a spare. “Well, and I screwed around on her. Only once, and I would have got away with it, but…I had to tell her.”

  “Cracked under questioning, huh?”

  “Guilty conscience. I’d make a terrible criminal. Anyway, my honesty allowed Donna to unburden herself. She’d been fucking my cousin Raymond for a year and a half. Shit, I should have started screwing around years ago. Best part is, she throws me out of the house. For all I know Raymond has moved his ass into my bedroom.”

  “You’ve got a gun, right? We could go down there, take care of this right now.”

  “Nah. They deserve each other. And maybe I deserve a little happiness now myself.”

  “Well, it’s not gonna happen in this game.” Jackie rolled her last ball, picking up eight more pins to add to her spare in the tenth frame. “That’s me by…thirty-two? No, thirty-six!”

  “Best two out of three,” said Coleman. “And maybe we should put some money on it, make things a little interesting.”

  “How much?”

  “Oh, I was thinking…maybe five million dollars?”

  Jackie laughed. “And where, pray tell, did you come up with that figure?”

  “That’s the amount of the reward, right? Five million dollars. All these years later and nobody’s claimed it.”

  Jackie set her ball down on the rack and folded her arms. “So that’s your interest in Tommy? You think he can lead you to that reward?”

  Coleman shrugged. “Why not us?”

  JUNE 14, 1946

  As they’d been instructed, as they’d been doing all week, Jake and Shane were seated in the booth nearest the pay phone at the Rosebud Diner in Somerville. Either the phone would ring or it wouldn’t ring. If it didn’t ring by four o’clock, they could leave. Come back the next day and do it all over again.

  “We should just go,” said Shane. “Just get out of town. Right now.”

  “We’ve been over this a hundred times. We’re not going anywhere. You know how many times over there I heard we’re going on a mission, we’re probably not coming back? I went every time, I came back every time. I never said, ‘No, guys, this time I’m not gonna go fight the Japs. I’ll just stay here, read my Archie comics.’ I did what I had to do.”

  “Well, thanks for the history lesson, but we’re not exactly fighting for our country here. No one is gonna try us for desertion if we don’t show up for this thing.”

  “Oh yeah? You really think we aren’t under 24-hour surveillance? If this job is as big as Dave says, you think he’s leaving anything to chance?”

  “You went out the other night. Did that thing. Got away with it.”

  “Got away with it, but you think he hasn’t figured out by now it was me wasted the fat man? I’m telling you, this guy is two steps ahead of us, and even if he ain’t, we gotta assume he is. We gotta assume Dave T is expecting us to make a move sometime during this job. We gotta assume he has contingencies in place. This is a chess match now.”

  “Shit. I don’t even know the last time I won at checkers.”

  Jake laughed despite himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. Shane noticed.

  “You’re in a good mood. You’re enjoying this shit.”

  “It’s different for me. I’m already on borrowed time. I should’ve died over there half a dozen times. Maybe my luck holds out. I’m gonna give it my best shot. I’m gonna get us out of this thing alive. Maybe even rich beyond our wildest dreams.”

  “You got no idea what Dave has planned.”

  “Nope. But I’m a pretty good improviser. Keep the faith, Shane. We ain’t dead yet.”

  As if on cue, the phone rang. Jake raised a hand, stood up and answered it.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re gonna take those dry cleaning bags to South Station tonight. You got wheels, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Park in the overnight lot. Watch the signs. If you park in the one-hour lot, you maybe get towed, and if that happens, you’ll never see your car again. Those bastards in the parking department are corrupt as the day is long.”

  “Good tip. Thanks.”

  “Once you’re parked, you’re gonna take those dry cleaning bags into the men’s room, you’re gonna change into the clothes inside ’em, you’re gonna dump your old clothes in the garbage. You’re gonna be outside on the corner of Summer and Atlantic at exactly 10 P.M. Any questions? No? Goodbye.”

  Jake hung up the phone and took his seat. “Well, it’s a go for tonight. Whatever it is.”

  “What’s the deal?”

  “At ten o’clock tonight we’re gonna be standing in front of South Station dressed like Boston’s finest. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re packing your piece.”

  “Can’t do it. They’ll search us.�
�

  “So what exactly is your plan?”

  “I told you. I’m good at improvising. Now let’s just enjoy the afternoon. We’ve got a few hours. Let’s go bowling or something.”

  “Bowling? Are you crazy?”

  “We gotta do something. How about a last meal? The condemned man always gets one. If you could eat anywhere tonight, where would it be?”

  They ate dinner at the Union Oyster House. Shane had the broiled fillet of sole, Jake enjoyed the Lobster Newburg, and they split a dozen cherrystones. At nine o’clock they hopped into Jake’s Crown Imperial, dry cleaning in tow. At 9:25 they parked at South Station, in the overnight lot as instructed. By 9:45 they had changed into their BPD patrolman’s uniforms. By 10 P.M. on the dot, they were standing on the corner of Summer and Atlantic.

  Not thirty seconds had passed before a tan DeSoto sedan pulled up to the curb in front of them. Dave T stepped out of the passenger door, opened the back door and gestured inside. Shane and Jake exchanged a wary glance, then climbed into the back seat. Dave T slammed the door behind them and reclaimed his spot in the front.

  “Got one more thing for you baby-faced boys,” said Dave T. He held his hand out over the back of his seat. Jake reached out and took what he offered.

  “What are these?”

  “Mustaches. Here, this is spirit gum.” He handed Shane a small bottle. “Smear it all over your upper lip and press those mustaches on.”

  “Is this a costume party?”

  “It’s a disguise, not a costume. You boys ain’t gonna look like real cops without ’em.”

  Reluctantly, Shane and Jake applied the spirit gum and pressed on the mustaches.

  “Looks good,” said Dave T. “Who knows, someday you might be able to grow your own.”

  “That’s funny,” said Jake. “I’m gonna start laughing any minute now.”