Shane wiped a tear away. “Sure, brother. You got it. I love you, Jaybird.”
“I love you, too. Now quit bawling, will ya?”
Shane nodded. “It’s funny, you know. I been thinking lately about my last meal. What it was gonna be. And I remembered we already had a last meal. You remember? At the Union Oyster House? The night of the heist.”
“I remember. Lobster Newberg. Maybe that’s what I’ll have. Would be appropriate.”
“Those cherrystones? They made me sick. I puked my guts out that night. Never again.”
Jake smiled. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. You’re gonna walk out of here one day. Don’t fuck it up.”
OCTOBER 25, 1986
As first pitch approached, Shane insisted on going over the details one more time. I grabbed the sketch Rodney had drawn and explained it again.
“There’s going to be two cash bars, here and here. Beer and soda only, so it’s not like there’s gonna be trained mixologists on duty or anything like that. Sodas are a buck, beers are two. Cash only. Over here they have three blackjack tables. Roulette wheels here and here, and a poker table here for the big donors. That’s how it works. They’re not really gambling for money. They make a donation to the Jimmy Fund and they get a stack of chips. End of the night, the winners get a donated prize. Gift certificate for Legal Seafood, autographed Dewey Evans jersey, shit like that. What’s funny?”
“I was just thinking. This whole thing started with me taking down a poker game in this building. And that’s how it’s gonna end, too.”
“Yeah. Poetic. Anyway, the cash donations are collected at the door. The way Rodney explained it, they periodically take the cash into the Blue Room, which is sort of the command center for this whole thing. They tally it up, write it down on a deposit slip, throw it in one of those zippered bank bags. But it all stays in the Blue Room until the end of the night, when the last of the cash is collected from the bars.”
“And that’s when we hit it.”
“Yep. Rodney will be our inside man for ten percent of the take, as we discussed.”
“I woulda gone to twenty, but don’t tell him that.”
“Our secret. So Rodney and his frat brothers are supposed to lock the door to the Blue Room when they go in and out, but he’s gonna accidentally forget. When he gives us the high sign, it’s go time. We walk in, grab the bank deposit bags, make our getaway through the window overlooking the alley, which he’ll leave open a crack.”
“And what if there’s trouble? What if there’s someone else in there, or someone comes in while we’re in the middle of it?”
“Rodney’s supposed to keep them occupied.”
“But what if? You gotta ask ‘what if’ in this business, kid.”
“First of all, I’m not in this business. This is one and done for me. Second, if someone comes in, we take care of them. There’s no security guards per se. Just some members of the college administration, Rodney’s frat brothers, like that. You don’t think we can handle it?”
“Oh, I’m sure I can. Especially since I found this in your dresser drawer.” He raised his shirt. The butt of my father’s .22 pistol was sticking out of his waistband.
“My father gave me that,” I said. “For protection.”
“And that’s exactly how we’re gonna use it. So hey, father knows best.”
For once I was speechless.
***
An hour later, with Game 6 underway and the ballroom starting to fill up, I told Shane I was grabbing a couple of sodas for us. I tracked Rodney down near the poker table.
“Please tell me you made the call,” I said.
“I made it. Called BPD, told ’em I knew where a parole violator would be tonight. They had a lot of questions. And they definitely want to have a word with you when this is all over.”
“I understand that. So what’s the plan?”
“They’ve got four plainclothes officers in here. Or on their way, I dunno. They’re not exactly planning to introduce themselves to me. Don’t send cop-looking guys, I said. Send guys who look like speech and theater instructors. It’s none of your fucking concern who we send, they said.”
“Great.”
“I think I talked them into waiting until the game is over to nab him. Told ’em we’re having a charity event and want to raise as much money as we can before they make a big scene. The Jimmy Fund name rings out with these guys, which helped. But they also agreed to wait because they want to catch this guy with his hand in the cookie jar. Imagine the headlines? BPD bust cop-killer robbing from cancer kids? These guys will never have to buy a drink again and they know it.”
“Good. But there’s a complication.”
“Fuck, yeah! Dewey! One-nothing Sox!”
“Huh?” I whipped my head around and got a look at the replay. With everything else going on, I’d almost forgotten that the Red Sox were on the verge of winning their first World Series in sixty-eight years.
“So what’s the complication?”
“Oh, uh…that .22 pistol you got from my car yesterday? Shane has that.”
“He has a gun? On him now?”
“Yep.”
“Chief, I don’t know who the cops are in here. I have no way to tell them.”
“Right. Well, as long as he thinks there’s nothing to worry about, maybe he’ll keep it in his pocket.”
“And on that happy note…”
“On that happy note, I need to grab a couple sodas and get back to him.”
***
If you were alive and aware in New England that night in 1986, you have your own memories of Game 6. Sox fans hung on every pitch, praying for deliverance. But not me. I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment and I could barely concentrate on the game. Shane was the same way. During a commercial break in the fifth inning, he nudged me and pointed to a couple of Rodney’s frat brothers, who were carrying bundles of cash into the Blue Room. He may have been enjoying the game, but he still had his eye on the prize.
The Mets tied it up in the bottom of the fifth, leading to a chorus of groans and a few scattered cheers. I saw a girl in a Mets cap stand on her chair and pump her fist. It took me a second to realize it was Jackie St. John.
“You know that girl?” Shane asked me.
“Yeah, Jackie. She’s from New Jersey but I don’t hold it against her.”
“I bet you’d like to hold your dick against her.”
“Richly detailed observation there, gramps.”
“There’s still time for me to knock every single tooth out of your head, kid. Something tells me I’d really enjoy it.”
The Red Sox retook the lead in the top of the seventh on a ground out by Dwight Evans and the crowd went crazy. The Mets tied it up in the bottom of the eighth and Jackie and a dozen or so others whooped and hollered.
“Helluva game, kid.”
“I’m having a hard time enjoying it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because of what we’re planning to do when the game is over.”
“That’s for later, kid. This is now. That’s a lesson I learned on death row. Living in the moment.”
“You never did tell me why they didn’t execute you.”
“Wish they had, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I had a guardian angel looking out for me. Turned out to be my brother. He took the fall for me. I watched him die. March 22, 1948. They asked if I wanted to be a witness. My right as his only immediate family. I thought if I could be there for him in his final moments, if I could remind him he was doing this for me, it might be a comfort for him. It wasn’t. When he saw me in the gallery, he started to squirm and scream. Yelling he didn’t want me to see this. But it was too late. They put the hood over his head and pulled the switch. I watched my brother die.” He took another swallow of soda. “You know he made me promise him something, the last time we spoke.”
“What was that?”
“He made me promise
not to look for those paintings if I ever got out. I guess he figured they were bad luck or some silly shit like that.”
“Maybe he was right.”
“I’m not superstitious, kid. Never was. Promise died when he did.”
The game went to extra innings. The Red Sox scored two in the top of the tenth. And suddenly what Shane had said about living in the moment made sense. The room around me melted away. My anxiety about what was to come faded. There was only this night in Shea Stadium and a burden that had weighed on a city for nearly seven decades, about to be swept away by a tide of euphoria.
“Calvin Schiraldi, trying to finish off the Mets and the 1986 baseball season,” said announcer Vin Scully. Wally Backman led off the bottom of the tenth for the Mets. “Little poke-job to left, Rice coming over. One away.” Keith Hernandez was next. “And that’s hit to dead center. Henderson gonna run it down. And the Mets are down to their last out.”
Shane nudged me. “Let’s get in position.”
“Get in position? The game is about to be over. What happened to living in the moment? Let’s enjoy this.”
“We will enjoy it. From right there.” Shane pointed to a spot near the Blue Room door. We started making our way over as Gary Carter came to the plate.
“Lined into left field,” said Vin Scully. “Base hit for Carter and the Mets are still alive.”
“Dammit, we shouldn’t have moved,” I said.
“Why not?”
“We disturbed the mojo.”
“You’re nuts.”
“It’s bad luck, is all. You don’t tamper with the baseball gods.”
Kevin Mitchell pinch-hit for Rick Aguilera. “Curveball! And that’s gonna be hit to center, base hit. And now suddenly with two out in the tenth inning, the tying runs are aboard and Ray Knight will be the batter.”
“See that?” I said. “If we lose this, it’s your fault.”
“I told you, kid. I’m not superstitious. If they lose, which is not gonna happen, it’s their own fuckin’ fault.”
We’d reached the spot about ten feet from the Blue Room. I scanned the ballroom. So far everyone was still in celebration mode, albeit a bit more muted now. I caught sight of Jackie, seated nearby on the aisle of the third row. She had the rally cap going. Ray Knight swung and connected.
“And that’s gonna be hit into center field, base hit! Here comes Carter to score and the tying run is at third in Kevin Mitchell. And the Mets refuse to go quietly.”
“Goddammit,” I said. The room grew quiet except for the handful of Mets fans. Jackie was standing now. I glanced at Shane, who was starting to look worried.
“Just get this last fuckin’ out,” he said. “We don’t need more extra innings.”
McNamara strode to the mound, signaling to the bullpen. Schiraldi walked off, head hung low, and Stanley came jogging in.
“Something ain’t right,” said Shane.
“No shit.”
“I mean in this room. Something ain’t right.”
Again I scanned the ballroom. If the cops had made themselves conspicuous, I couldn’t tell. I figured they were as wrapped up in the game as everyone else. After all, they didn’t know Shane was armed. So what did they have to worry about?
A deafening roar of anguish echoed through the ballroom and my head snapped back to the nearest TV in time to see another Met cross home plate.
“What the fuck happened?”
“Kid, I’m telling you. There’s something wrong here.”
“The fucking Mets just tied the game! The winning run is in scoring position!”
Shane nodded toward the nearest beer stand, where two men in their mid-thirties stood, arms folded, staring at the screen. “Those guys are cops.”
“Come on. That guy in the blue shirt is my Ethics professor.”
“If you fucked me, kid…”
“Little roller up along first,” said Vin Scully. “Behind the bag! It gets through Buckner! Here comes Knight and the Mets win it!”
Pandemonium in the ballroom. I heard the sound of breaking glass. Someone’s beer whizzed past my ear. The two guys who’d been standing by the bar weren’t standing there anymore. Neither was Shane. Somehow over the rest of the noise I heard a woman scream. I turned to see where it was coming from. I saw Jackie with Shane’s arm around her neck. In his other hand my father’s .22 pistol, pointed at her head. Within fifteen seconds my life had become a waking nightmare.
“Listen up! Listen up!” Shane dragged Jackie to the front of the room, blocking the biggest TV screen so everyone would take notice. The tenor of the room turned on a dime, from despair to terror. The noise died down.
“Nobody panic,” said Shane. “First of all, this thing ain’t over. There’s another game tomorrow night. Second thing, I’m gonna need all the cash from that back room or else I’m gonna have to put a hole in this nice young Mets fan’s head.”
I’d love to tell you I did something heroic to save Jackie’s life. I did no such thing. I kept searching the room for the guys Shane had pegged as cops, but I couldn’t see them anywhere. I made brief eye contact with Murtaugh, who shook his head in disbelief.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Shane said. “My accomplice right there, Tommy Donnelly, he’s gonna go in that back room and come out with all that money in a big sack. Aren’t you, Tommy?”
“Shane,” I heard myself saying. “Just put the gun down. It’s over.”
“I already told you. Like Yogi Berra said. It ain’t over ’til it’s over. Now granted, he was a fuckin’ Yankee, but you gotta admit the man had some wisdom.”
“Come on, Shane. How do you see this playing out? You’re right. The cops are here. If you pull that trigger, it’s gonna be all over for you.”
“Actually, kid, it’s all over for you.”
What happened next unfolded in some order I couldn’t process in real time. I saw the gun in Shane’s hand move away from Jackie’s head. Logically, that must have happened first. I heard gunshots, I don’t know how many. I saw a body slump to the floor, heard a sickening splat. I saw Jackie, drenched in blood like Carrie at the prom, her hands trembling beside her head, her mouth wide. Something heavy knocked me to the ground.
Things came into focus. One of the cops was on top of me. The other was kneeling beside Shane’s lifeless body. Jackie hadn’t moved. She appeared to have gone into shock. Someone cuffed my hands behind me and pulled me to my feet.
“Are you hit?” said the cop.
“What?”
“Are you hit? Did he shoot you? Are you bleeding?”
“Uh…no. I don’t think so. What happened?”
“Your friend there just tried to kill you. My partner shot him in the head. You’ll get a chance to thank him because we’re gonna be talking all night long.”
***
And we did. The two cops, Beckstead and Jenkins, drove me downtown, put me in an interrogation room and sweated me past dawn. How did I know Shane? How long had I known he was an ex-con on parole? How long had we been plotting to take down the charity event? How many years in prison did I think I was looking at?
In the end, they let me go. I told them the truth, with one notable exception. I knew my Dad had never registered the .22—a tourist had traded him the gun for a bucket of lobsters—so I played dumb about that. They couldn’t think of a crime to charge me with aside from harboring a fugitive, but since Rodney had called in Shane’s location on my say-so, and since that call led to the BPD foiling the attempted robbery of a charity event by a convicted cop-killer, they declined to pursue the matter. Inadvertently or not, I had helped make them look good.
I told them everything about our search for the Gardner paintings in the Charlesgate stables, too. The next day the BPD, in conjunction with the FBI, entered the building and searched it from top to bottom. They combed over every inch of the stables Shane and I had already covered. They turned up nothing.
I may have gotten off the hook with the police, but th
e Emerson administration was another matter. After some deliberation they decided not to expel me. But my time living in Charlesgate had come to an end. I’d signed Shane into the building multiple times under false pretenses. I’d stolen a key from the Resident Director. I’d endangered the entire student population through my actions. I had to go. It was just a formality for Torres to tell me so.
I sat outside his door on the afternoon of October 27, waiting for him to invite me into his office so he could tell me to find off-campus housing post-haste. The World Series had ended the night before in anticlimactic fashion. Even though the Red Sox took an early 3−0 lead, the Mets came back to win the game and the 1986 championship. I didn’t watch the game. In fact, I never saw it until many years later. Only after the Red Sox won it all in 2004 did I get around to watching Game 7 on DVD. I was finally ready to see it.
As I sat outside Torres’ office, I once again locked eyes with Uncle Sam, staring back at me from the framed vintage poster across the hall. Once again I thought about how out of place it looked. A relic from Charlesgate’s past. It was as if Uncle Sam was trying to tell me something.
And suddenly I knew what it was.
The Berkeley Beacon
OCTOBER 31 , 1986
Charlesgate Confidential, Part III: A Confession
TOMMY DONNELLY, BERKELEY Beacon STAFF
Welcome to the third and final installment of Charlesgate Confidential. This feature comes to an end under rather embarrassing circumstances. I never intended to emulate Hunter S. Thompson, but somehow I’ve become a central figure in my own story. If you’ve read the front page of this issue, you already know many of the details in this latest sordid chapter of Charlesgate’s checkered history. Shane Devlin, recently paroled from prison after serving 40 years for two murders, was killed by Boston police in the Charlesgate ballroom immediately following Game 6 of the World Series.
The news story speaks for itself. All I can do is relate the events as I experienced them. I have to own up to my share of the blame for what happened on Saturday night. As a journalist, I’m still a work in progress. I made mistakes in my pursuit of a story. I won’t make them again.
Charlesgate Confidential Page 31
