Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “I get it.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Hey, I know you from someplace?”

  “No. I think I would remember.”

  “You sure? Because I’ve definitely seen your face before. I wouldn’t forget it.”

  “I’m positive. You have a good day.”

  She nodded and quickly made her way down to the street. She glanced back when she reached the corner and saw the man waiting in the open doorway, still looking in her direction. She hurried across the intersection and did not look back again.

  When Jackie got home she poured a glass of merlot and sat down at her laptop—her new personal laptop, the claim for which was now on file with her rental insurance agency. She fired it up, took a sip of wine, and inserted the flash drive. She clicked on it, opening a folder with a list of Quicktime files: Charlesgate-1, Charlesgate-2, and so on. She clicked on Charlesgate-1. A decidedly non-HD video image filled her screen. A crackle of static followed by a shaky shot of a familiar hallway. It was the hall right outside her condo, as it had been in the mid-to-late-’80s. It looked narrower and dingier than she remembered it. The blue carpeting was stained and faded. A garbage can in the corner overflowed with refuse. The dorm room doors visible in the frame were decorated with pictures cut out of magazines and vinyl message boards covered with chicken-scratch handwriting. Jackie watched herself come around the far corner, digging through her bag for her keys. Her dyed candy-applered hair was piled high on her head. She was dressed in layers: at least two oversized t-shirts and a sweatshirt over a jean skirt. She looked up, saw the camera facing her and shook her head disdainfully.

  “Jackie St. John, everybody!” It was Brooks’ unmistakably high, sing-song voice.

  “What are you doing, Brooks? Come on, I haven’t had a shower.”

  “Isn’t she lovely, folks? Tell me, Jackie St. John: What are you going to do with your life?”

  “I’m going to take a shower. No cameras.”

  “I mean big picture. After you graduate. What are you going to do with your life?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to be a famous, high-powered producer.”

  “Oh, you’re going to be famous too, huh?”

  “Why?”

  “I keep asking that question and everyone keeps telling me they’re going to be famous.”

  “We’re an optimistic bunch. What is this for?”

  “I’m making a documentary!”

  “Our life here isn’t anywhere near exciting enough that it would make for any sort of interesting documentary.”

  “You’re missing the point. This is a slice of life. A nostalgia piece. We will look back on this someday and feel all wistful and shit.”

  “Well, to all you people watching this twenty years from now, I no longer look like this.”

  “Are you married? Do you have children?”

  “I am married to my third husband.”

  “What happened to the first two?”

  “They disappeared under mysterious circumstances. They were never seen again.”

  “Maybe they ran off together.”

  “Maybe they did. Okay, run along, Brooks.”

  “Thanks, Jackie!”

  The video went to snow. Jackie clicked it off. “I’m going to need more wine,” she muttered. She went to the kitchen and poured another glass, quickly downed it, then poured another and returned to her desk. She scrolled through the videos. There were eight files in all. Randomly she clicked on Charlesgate-4. She saw Tommy, Murtaugh and the Rev sitting in their back room. She shivered to realize it was the same room she was sitting in now. A few inches away in space, an eternity in time. It appeared to be very late at night judging from their slurred speech patterns. They were engaged in a spirited debate about the relative contributions of David Gilmour and Roger Waters to the Pink Floyd sound. She smiled and clicked it off. She chose another file at random.

  Charlesgate-6 opened with a tracking shot through the Charlesgate basement. The camera turned to the right to reveal the empty laundry room.

  “Dude, let’s get out of here,” said a voice she didn’t recognize.

  “Shut up, man. I’m telling you, it was open last night. Try the door.”

  “I dunno…”

  “Come on!”

  The camera focused on the knob of an unmarked door. A hand reached into frame and turned it. The door opened inward.

  “I told you, man.”

  “Dude, it’s fucking dark in there.”

  “Wait, there’s a light on this thing.” The image twisted and went out of focus while someone fiddled with the camera. A spotlight appeared on the far wall. “I got it. Okay, let’s go.”

  “You first. You’ve got the camera.”

  “Fine.”

  The camera pushed in through the doorway. The spotlight picked up a box on the floor loaded with vintage lighting fixtures. It shifted to focus on a stack of chairs leaning against one wall. The camera moved further into what looked like a tunnel.

  “Dude, that’s enough. Let’s get out of here. It’s fucking creepy down here.”

  “Chill out, man! There’s nothing down here but a bunch of old junk and probably some rats.”

  “Yeah, but you know Paul Seitz from the third floor? He was down here one time and out of nowhere he sees this burning kid, I mean like this little boy on fire, come running straight at him. Scared the living fuck out of him.”

  “That’s bullshit, man. He musta been high.”

  The light drifted along a wall, then whipped down to the floor and over to the opposite wall. The image was grainy and indistinct. The light whipped the other way.

  A hooded figure cast a shadow on the wall.

  “Oh, shit!”

  The image went black.

  JUNE 16, 1946

  Violet waited for the cops to come question her. The paintings were stashed in the closet, but not well hidden. If the law had any cause to search the room, they’d be found in five minutes. But the cops never showed. She heard one of them downstairs, talking to Dorothy, the dumb bitch who’d called them in the first place. From what Violet could make out, the cop had no patience for her story about hearing an argument between two men before Jimmy Dryden met his maker. As far as he was concerned this was an accident pure and simple, and he had no interest in pursuing the matter toward any other possible conclusion.

  Violet waited until she saw the cop’s cruiser pulling away toward Kenmore before going out to the hall and banging on Dorothy’s door.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked when Dorothy answered.

  “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You call the cops down here? To our place of business?”

  “But Jimmy—”

  “Is dead and that’s that. As far as I’m concerned, it was an accident.”

  “But I heard—”

  “Did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing. It’s over. It doesn’t matter one way or another how he died, just that he’s dead. We don’t work for him anymore. And you don’t work for anybody. You have two minutes to get your shit together and get out of here. And don’t ever come back.”

  “But—”

  “But but but but nothing! Two minutes! Go sell your ass down in Scollay Square.” Violet watched Dorothy run back into her room sobbing. For her part, Violet had no tears. Dorothy was nineteen and fresh-faced and wouldn’t last ten minutes in the Square before another Jimmy Dryden scooped her up and made her his star attraction. Young pussy never went out of style. Pushing thirty, Violet had only a few good years left. Jimmy’s untimely demise might be an opportunity in disguise. She could run the sixth floor of Charlesgate as well as he ever had.

  She lit a cigarette and sat by the window, watching and waiting. Nearly ninety minutes passed before an ambulance pulled up in front of the building. Busy night in Boston. Two attendants stepped out of the vehicle and entered the building. Five minutes late
r they exited, carrying a black plastic bag between them. Violet gave Dryden a farewell salute as they loaded his gift-wrapped corpse into the back of the ambulance. She watched it pull away.

  What would happen now? The cops hadn’t asked any questions, but by morning Dryden’s friends would know he was dead. And they might not be as quick to accept that his demise had been an accident. These guys all had enemies. And they might come around asking questions. And they were far more dangerous than the cops.

  It might be best to get out of town for a few days. She could always stay with her sister down in Lakeville. Sally’s husband would bitch about it, but not too loudly. One night he’d slip out of their bedroom and come down looking for free samples. She’d offer some up and he’d keep his complaints to a dull roar. It had happened before. She could probably get away with staying there a week or so while the heat died down. Then maybe she’d come back to the Charlesgate, acting all innocent. Oh, Jimmy’s dead? That’s terrible! So you need somebody to run things around here?

  It might all work out, but there was still the matter of the paintings Jake had left in her custody. If his crazy story had any truth in it, they were worth a lot of money. And if she hid them well enough, she’d have leverage if and when he came back for them. He already owed her $300 and said he’d pay ten times that amount if she held onto them for him. So what were they really worth? A hundred times that much? A thousand?

  It was worth finding out. She pulled the paintings out of her closet and, one by one, unrolled them and looked them over. They all looked pretty good to her, but one in particular caught her eye. A man with his back to the artist. Two women, one on either side of him, the one on the left playing a piano or some other keyboard instrument. Two pictures on the wall: paintings within a painting. As she stared at this image, she began to tell herself a story about the three people in it. But the story never quite came together; there was a mystery here that could never be solved. She liked this painting very much. She thought it would look good hanging over the fireplace in the house she’d own someday once she was running things at the Charlesgate. And what a great story she’d have to tell about it.

  But she had to hide it first, along with the others, and she knew just where to do it. She couldn’t handle them all at once so she gathered a half-dozen paintings and drawings in her arms and made her way out into the hall.

  “What is all that?”

  Violet turned to see Dorothy standing in front of her room clutching a shopping bag stuffed with clothes. “I gave you two minutes.”

  “I’m sorry but I needed to pull myself together!”

  “Never mind that. Set your stuff down and help me with this, and maybe I’ll think about letting you stay.”

  “Really? Oh, thank you, Vi! I’m sorry I called the cops, I just panicked and—”

  “Just shut up, put your stuff down and get the rest of these paintings from my room.”

  Dorothy did what she was told. Once she’d collected the rest of the art they shuffled over to the elevator and Violet shoved the handle to direct the cab down to the basement.

  “What is this stuff? Where did it come from?”

  “I’ll explain it all in a minute. I just really need your help first.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I know I talk too—I’m sorry.”

  She was quiet the rest of the way down, although it clearly took every ounce of effort she could muster. When the elevator reached the basement, Violet slid aside the gate and gathered up her half of the paintings. “This way.”

  Dorothy followed her down the hall to a door at the end. Violet set down her armful and pushed on the door. It gave easily.

  “What is this?”

  “These are the stables. Back when this place was really swinging, the hoity-toity would put their horses down here.”

  “Wow. You mean back before cars?”

  “You got it. There’s a tunnel at the end that leads up to the surface a couple blocks away. Once in a while I have to sneak a high-roller out this way. Now just carry that stuff in there and I’ll show you where to put it.”

  “It’s really dark in there. Are you sure—?”

  “It’s okay. I’ve got my Zippo.” Violet pulled her lighter out of her pocket and flicked on the flame. She gestured for Dorothy to enter the stables. Dorothy shrugged and stepped into the darkness. Violet followed. She lowered the Zippo until its flickering light picked up a box stuffed with artifacts from Charlesgate’s glory days, one of which was a heavy marble gargoyle she’d admired last time she’d been in the stables. Dorothy stopped and turned.

  “Where do you want me to put these?”

  “You can drop them right there.”

  Violet waited until Dorothy had set down the paintings before bringing the gargoyle down on her head. Dorothy dropped to the floor and Violet brought the gargoyle down again. And again. After a half-dozen blows, there wasn’t much left of Dorothy’s head. Certainly not a face that could be identified. Violet dragged her deeper into the stables and dumped her in the last stall on the right. The body would be found eventually, but Violet doubted it would be anytime soon.

  She flicked her Zippo again. She slowly made her way back toward the door into the basement until she spotted what she was looking for. A long-discarded Persian rug, rolled up and stuffed in a refrigerator box. She dragged out the rug and unrolled it. She then placed all but one of the stolen paintings inside the rug, rolled it back up and stuck it back in the box.

  That left only the painting she truly admired, the one she planned to keep for herself. Reading the paper the next day she would learn it was called The Concert and had been painted by someone named Vermeer. She had a special hiding place in mind for this one. And before she left the Charlesgate for what turned out to be the last time, she hid it there.

  OCTOBER 21, 1986

  I nearly plowed into Torres on his way through the door with his BosDeli sandwich. I could hear his massive keyring jingling in my pocket. To me it sounded like the bells of Big Ben.

  “Donnelly,” he said. “Don’t tell me you locked yourself out again. Because as I explained—”

  “No, I know. I’ve got my keys. All the keys I could ever need.”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot, which was appropriate since I felt like an idiot. Somehow I had to get the keyring back into his desk before he went into his office. I didn’t think I could count on Jackie St. John running through the lobby naked, but short of divine intervention I had nary a clue how I was going to pull this off. Lucky for me, divine intervention was in the cards this time, in the form of my old friend the fire alarm.

  “Oh crap,” said Torres. “Never fails. All right, everybody out!” He took off for the staircase. It was his job to check every floor and make sure all the stoners and slackers complied, even though the alarm went off at least once a week. I watched him go, then broke into a dead run down the hallway to his office. I dumped the keys off in his desk, then melted in with the rest of the crowd heading out of the building.

  Standing in the park across the street, I felt someone tugging on my sleeve. I turned and saw Shane Devlin standing over my shoulder. “What the fuck?”

  “I think you mean ‘thank you.’ I just saved your ass, kid.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I pulled the fire alarm.”

  “You—how did you—?”

  “Look, kid. I may have spent forty years in the can, but I still know how to create a diversion when I need to.”

  “How were you even—were you in the building?”

  “Fuck yes, I was in the building. I sweet-talked Missy there at the front desk, which wasn’t hard because I think she’s already got a crush on your sweet ol’ grandpa.”

  “And why were you even there in the first place?”

  “Kid, you really think I’m going to leave anything to chance at this point? You told me you were gonna try to get the keys at lunchtime today. Missy signed me in at 11:30. ‘Oh, I was suppose
d to meet my grandson, he must be a little late, we’re so proud of him and by the way, I really gotta use the toilet, yah yah yah.’ I parked my ass by the men’s room and watched you the whole way. So the only question I have now is did you find the key?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.”

  “Way to go, kiddo. So as soon as they let us back in the building, what do you say we get started?”

  “Maybe we should wait for the excitement to die down a little bit.”

  “Kid, you may not be in much of a hurry, but I’m sixty-three years old. I got health issues. I say no time like the present.”

  “Yeah, but—fine. Whatever. Might as well get it over with.”

  “Sounds like you don’t expect this to amount to much.”

  “Honestly, no. I have to admit I’d be more than a little surprised if we waltzed into the stables and found the most priceless collection of stolen art in history sitting there waiting for us to scoop it up. Maybe that’s just me.”

  “You ever bought a lottery ticket, kid?”

  “Uh…yeah, sure. Once in a while I’ll buy a ticket for the Megabucks.”

  “Well, what I heard once? You got about as much chance of picking the winning number as you do of guessing one specific inch of highway on a road trip from Bangor, Maine to Amarillo, Texas. Not too good, right?”

  “So?”

  “So think how much better our odds are of finding those priceless paintings in the basement across the street.”

  “Yeah…that doesn’t really add up for me.”

  “Well, that’s your problem, not mine. We’re getting to work as soon as—”

  “Attention! Attention!” Torres and a fire marshal were standing on the top step of the Charlesgate entryway. Torres was waving his arms. I wondered if he’d found time to eat his sandwich. “It’s all clear! You are free to re-enter the building!”

  Shane nudged me. “See, kid? It’s time to get to work.”

  It took a while to get back inside, as students slowly shuffled two-by-two through the front entrance, trading stories about how drunk they were the last time a fire alarm went off. No one even bothered trying the elevator, so the line for the staircase extended out into the lobby. The line to go upstairs, that is. There was no line, no waiting, to go down to the basement, which is where gramps and I now headed. If anyone had asked, I’d have told them I’d been doing laundry when the alarm went off, but nobody asked.