Bosstown

by Adam Abramowitz

  Spagnola sticks to his talking points. “I make this place cleaner, safer, a better place to live.”

  “For people who can afford it.”

  “For people who’ve earned it.”

  “That’s utter fucking nonsense,” I say, but I’m out of gas, the futility of arguing housing and community with the man hitting me like a spike between my eyes.

  “You have till the end of the month. Or I guarantee all your shit will be on the curb, and there’s nothing your cheap-suit pro bono can do for you except recommend a moving company.” Spagnola throws the checkbook into a drawer and slams it shut. “Oh, and another thing? Go look in the dictionary at the definition of ‘progress.’ No. Better yet, I’ll tell you. Webster’s defines ‘progress’ as moving forward, to proceed and develop to a higher stage. Emphasis added, duly noted, but when you leave here, open your eyes and take a good look around and tell me I’m not progress, Zesty. I should be the picture next to progress. And hey, like I said before, no hard feelings. You’ve kept the neighborhood warm long enough. Nobody owes you anything. Now it’s just time for you to go.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  The garage that houses Zero’s moving company could pass as a theatrical set for a moving company, the proscenium edge of the stage staring into the open black boxes of the Zen-logoed trucks. The ceilings are twenty feet high, the walls lined with Erector Set shelves stocked with pallets of flattened boxes and giant bins filled with moving straps, bands, and blankets. There’s a weight bench in the center of the floor—I mean, who wouldn’t want to pump iron after moving heavy shit all day?—surrounded by assorted dumbbells on jigsaw floor padding.

  I’m not surprised to find the garage door lifted after dark (Zero’s crews often work late), but the sight of two elaborately inked ex-cons alternating sledgehammer blows on an ATM is something new.

  “Yo, Zesty Meyers in da house!” Jeremy sticks fingers in his mouth, lets out a shrill whistle that snaps his partner’s head in my direction. The floor is littered with plastic fragments and bits of metal as if a bomb had detonated at their feet.

  “Really, Jeremy? Are you fucking serious?”

  “Nah, it ain’t what it looks like, Z.” Jeremy is a former stickup artist who’s perpetually slouched, as if he’s been poured into bodily form and has yet to solidify. Think Gumby with tattoos—hellfire, demons—that sort of thing. “Well, I mean, it is, but it ain’t what it seems. Tell him, Smitty.”

  Smitty grins bashfully, wipes his brow with a colorful sleeve of Satan’s itinerary and the same black ink spot that’s stamped on the underside of Jeremy’s wrist, the infamous Southie dot, considered by many a Boston hood as an open invitation to rumble. “We just trying to get paid, Z.”

  “I can see that. You do know that thing’s got a GPS on it?”

  “Really?” Smitty shoulders his hammer. “Where you think it’s at?”

  “My guess, inside the box. How long you been at this?”

  “About an hour. We’re almost there, though.” He points to a large dent in the side. “Every safe’s got a weak spot, right, Jeremy?”

  “You know it.” Jeremy smiles through hockey enforcer’s teeth. “Zesty, you remember Davey Coley from Old Colony?”

  “No,” I say. “Not my neighborhood.”

  “Cross the bridge from the South End’s, like, a million miles, right? Anyhow, one time Coley and this other chucklehead Jimmy Rolle get wind there’s this guy been selling fireworks by the gross out the trunk of his car, got a pipeline, like, outta New Hampshire? Cherry bombs, M80s, Roman—”

  “I get the picture, Jeremy.”

  “Ya, so they, like, follow the guy, case his house in Everett? Sure enough, they find a safe in his closet bolted to the floor. Now, neither one of these jamooks knows how to pop a safe, right? They rob houses, ain’t got torch skills. So what do they do? They pry up the floorboards, the wood still attached to the bottom of the box—like, they’re hauling around half the Garden floor, but still no way to open it. The safe’s gotta weigh in the neighborhood of, like, three hundred pounds, and they get it in the trunk of this old Tercel Rolle used to have, and the thing’s practically doing a wheely going over the Tobin, the tailpipe scrapin’ the road, sparks flyin’ everywhere.

  “They get back to Southie, but they don’t wanna attract too much attention, so Rolle, he sees Fat Joey on the corner by Triple O’s, and he says, ‘Joey, get in, I’ll buy you a case a Twinkies—no, not the back, get in front.’ So now there’s the three of them mashed up front, Coley on Fat Joey’s lap, his head stickin’ out the window, no more sparks, but it’s like Clown Car Hour except the backseat’s empty.

  “So Rolle, he goes up and down Broadway looking for a torch, but you know how it is, everybody wants a piece of the action, and Jimmy, he’s only offering, like, a small percentage because they don’t even know what’s inside the box and he doesn’t wanna risk getting in and end up owing money. And you know they gotta piece off some already to McKenna ’cause he always gets his cut.”

  “Makes sense.” I smile, enjoying the story.

  “I suppose. But what does he do? Him and Davey hump that mother up six flights in the building Davey’s mom lives at. Only by then, word’s spread Davey and Jimmy are gonna drop a safe off the roof, and a crowd’s gathered below, kids running wild, the old hags got their beach chairs out, Stevie the Greek with his Good Humor truck parked on the corner—it’s a fuckin’ carnival. So of course the cops show, squad cars everywhere, Davey and Jimmy are fucked, right? Except the cops want to see the safe fly too, because you know how it is, sometimes the heavy shit coming down’s harder than going up and the cops don’t want any part of it, throw out their backs before the Fourth and fireworks, all that easy OT coming their way. So they move the crowd back, and Davey and Jimmy figure ‘What the fuck, we’re fucked anyway.…’”

  “And…?” I say because that’s my line.

  “The thing cracks open like an egg, cash and coin everywhere, and the crowd goes wild. Last I saw, there’s still that same, like, crater in the sidewalk where the safe hit. It’s practically a neighborhood shrine with flowers and shit growing out of it.”

  “Coley and Rolle got arrested?”

  “Whattaya, kiddin’ me, Z? The crowd woulda ripped the cops apart. They pinched them later getting hammered at the Cornerstone; not a fuckin’ dollar between them, but it didn’t matter, their money was no good that night. Fuckin’ legends.”

  I find Zero at his desk, absently riffing a deck of Bicycles, to the untrained eye a straight-up shuffle, only the odds rearranging themselves as his long fingers manipulate the placement of cards. I’d closed the door behind me, but I can feel the heavy banging below, the floor shaking through the bottom of my Adidas.

  “Take a seat.” Zero deals out three hands of Texas Hold’em, two cards apiece. “Pick a hand.”

  “I’ll take yours,” I say.

  “No you won’t.” Zero smiles like a big cat showing his teeth before he eats you, as much a preview of things to come as a greeting.

  I slide the cards off the desk, peek pocket kings, a monster starting hand in any game, especially Hold’em. Zero appears tanned and healthy, the tattoos on his arms out of sight under a powder blue dress shirt. His head is shaved and gleaming, the shallow pools of his granite eyes beaming neutrality, revealing nothing.

  “You know they’re never gonna get that thing open.” Zero burns three cards, sets them aside.

  “What’s the tallest building around here?”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “So why do you keep letting them pound it?”

  “What’s the harm? Let them work off some steam. They’ll sleep like babies. You?”

  “Me what?”

  “You getting any rest?” Zero flops three cards, a king and a pair of eights. “What with all your cuts and bruises.” Zero points to the ghost hand, and I flip over the two cards to reveal a queen and an eight.

  “You gonna ask me how I got them?”<
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  “Don’t have to.” Zero burns another card, turns over an ace. “You in some deep shit?”

  “I’m on top of it,” I say.

  “Yeah? You don’t need some backup, help you straighten things out?”

  “I’m all right,” I say.

  “Like you’re all right not giving me a heads-up a couple of homicides might be showing up trying to pull my records, rattle my guys?”

  Fuck.

  “Like you got things figured out, like you’re holding the winning hand there?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I meant to call you earlier but—”

  “You pulled a Zesty on me. Whatever. What are you holding?” Zero raises his chin toward my cards, and I turn them over. “Lookit that. You flopped a kings boat full of eights, the world’s your oyster; all you’re thinking is how’m I gonna eat it, fast or slow until the ace comes up to give you indigestion. This guy next to you flopped a set of eights, thinks he’s sitting catbird, but who’s kidding who—nobody likes to see an ace if they’re not holding one. To the river we go. I didn’t give the cunts shit.”

  “Because there’s nothing to give?” I make sure not to let an accusatory tone enter my voice.

  “This Sullivan kid?” he says sharply, his eyes fixed on mine. “I didn’t know him for shit. Crazy Eddie brings him in one day, says he wants to work, and I needed some bodies on account of Johnny Thunder and Dumberto got into a tussle at the Tap with some of the Giant guys and were cooling out in county for the weekend.”

  “What about the Giant guys?”

  “Get real, Zesty, we’re talking JT and Dumberto. The purple people were guests of Mount Auburn ER, all five of them.” Zero shrugs dismissively.

  “Who started it?”

  Zero’s eyes go wide. “What difference does it make? The question’s always who finished it.”

  Except I already know that answer. “Eddie vouched for Sullivan?”

  “There an echo in here?”

  “What’d Eddie have to say?”

  Zero smiles bitterly, flops a deuce of clubs—no help, but no harm to me or the ghost player with a set of eights.

  “He swore Sullivan was a citizen with legit bills to pay. Homicide thinks this kid was dirty?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sorry, bro, for a minute there I forgot who I was talking to. Welcome to the ballpark. By the way, it’s like the eighth inning already.” Zero flips his hole cards to reveal pocket aces and the predictable pot-busting aces full of eights. “I don’t like getting used.” He points at me in warning.

  “By who?”

  “Who do you think? This Sullivan fuck.”

  “I’m not following you. Last I saw, Sullivan had one eye and his brains were dripping down the back of a truck.”

  “Wrap your head around it, Z. If this kid’s about to pull in, what, like half a million as the inside man on this armored car thing, what’s he need a few extra hundred dollars off the books for?”

  “Maybe he’s not dirty.” I go for logical but come off naive, even to my ears.

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Zero takes a deep breath, his patience with me waning. “Sullivan knew he was going under the microscope after he got hit. They all know that’s where the investigation starts. So what better way to shade things in his favor than picking up some side work to say, ‘Hey, I’m just trying to pay my bills here. Why else would I be moonlighting extra if I’m in on this thing?’ It’s subtle, but it’s smart, I’ll give him that.”

  “How well did Eddie know him?”

  “Neighborhood. Said he used to fuck his cousin.”

  “Terrific. How well did Sullivan know Crazy Eddie?”

  Zero mulls over my question. “You mean like what if Sullivan didn’t know what a bunch of angels we got working here? Picked the wrong place to OT?”

  That’s what I mean. Crazy Eddie is a recovering addict who steals to pay for his addictions, but he’s a far cry from a hardened criminal like some of the other guys on Zero’s payroll. Maybe Eddie just told Sullivan it was honest cash labor and nothing else. But at the same time, I also have to acknowledge Zero could be right, the extra work not only a curve to throw the investigators Sullivan knew would be nosing around after the robbery but also plenty of the usual suspects on Zero’s payroll to throw them off the scent.

  “Detective Wells,” I say. “The younger homicide? He told me you should rename yourself Recidivist Movers, see what it does for business.”

  “Yeah? He didn’t tell me that to my face, but it’s pretty funny.” Zero sticks his pinky into his mouth and starts working a nail, something I’ve never seen him do before. “You know, I recognized the other guy. He got old fast, but I think Dad knows—sorry, knew—him from the old neighborhood.”

  “I heard about it last night. His uncle used to own a blues joint on Mass Ave. I guess Dad used to hang there some, maybe smoothed a few things over.”

  “Yeah, well, small world. Speaking of Dad, all this nonsense why you’re not covering home tonight?”

  “I stopped by to let Sid know,” I say defensively.

  “And Sid called me. It’s too much for you?” Zero says.

  “What’s too much?”

  “One overnight a week and you gotta get Sid to cover for you? It’s not like this is the first time.”

  I look at Zero, trying to pick up his vibrations, but the less time we spend together, the harder he becomes to read, the connective tissue of our misspent youth frayed by the demands of trying to keep our heads above water and our necks off the chopping block.

  I’ve come to accept that I’m pretty much an open book, and the easy read sometimes costs me, but Zero’s a tougher nut to crack on all fronts. Only it’s not Zero’s words I’m focused on; it’s his body, the tilt of his head, the tell coming from the cartilage in his jaw just below his ears.

  “It’s getting harder.” I decide it’s safe enough to broach the topic. “I’m not sure we’re doing what’s best for Pops anymore. Half the time, he doesn’t even know who I am, and the shit he says.… Today he thinks he’s talked to his dad and to Mom. And there’s physical issues now too, bathroom stuff, the front stairs—”

  “And what, you want to warehouse him?” Zero’s face reddens, but I look past it, focus on the jaw.

  “There are places,” I say, unable to drum up as much conviction as I’d hoped to hear, trying to convince myself as I convince Zero. “People trained to deal with this disease, give him what he needs around the clock. I’ve looked into it some—”

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you, Zesty? Looked into it? Pop’s all we got, and we take care of him on our own until there’s nothing left to be taken care of. To the end. I gotta explain this to you? We deal with shit ourselves; all you got to do is get your fucking priorities straight.” Zero’s eyes cloud over, signaling the point of diminishing returns.

  “And on that note, get the wax outta your ears, because I’m only gonna tell you this one time. I got nothing to do with this armored car thing and this Sullivan kid beyond what I told you. You got that? Nada. BPD wants to see my files, they’ll have to get a warrant on principle, because I can’t afford to have it look like I just roll over and beg for a biscuit every time Big Blue wants something outta me. As of right now, I don’t have this Sullivan kid on paper. If your pot-soaked brain can remember, you were the one worked with him, and they were all cash jobs. So as far as I’m concerned, they never happened until they have to happen on the books.”

  “So you have it down somewhere,” I say.

  “Of course. I keep records. Hell, sometimes I even pay taxes. And another thing, in the spirit of full disclosure here, I hooked Sullivan up with whatever crew you happened to be working because I know sometimes you don’t like humping with some of these knuckleheads, maybe you don’t have much in common? I figured Sullivan for the same on account of what Eddie told me, didn’t want to throw him to the wolves off the bat, let him get a feel for the place first, the work.
Fuckin’ love the way that worked out. Next rookie up I’ll stick him with a crew of Vic the Quick and Tommy Bones, and he can listen to them dissertate why getting hummers in the joint don’t make them gay. As far’s Dad’s concerned? I’m not blind, okay? Maybe we need some outside help on this, get a trained nurse for some shifts, look into some of the newer medications. But we gotta ante up too, right? Isn’t that what he taught us, the long run?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Among other things.” Zero nods acceptance. “We square on this, Dad and all this other shit?”

  “We’re square,” I say.

  “Okay, then.” Zero drums his hands on the edge of his desk. “Now you wanna explain why I got a visit from the FBI this morning and all they wanna talk about is Devlin fuckin’ McKenna?”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  This is what Will sees when he opens his eyes: heavy blinds drawn across the windows, a fissure of light splitting a seam that slices the bed in two. What’s that movie? If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium starring a young Suzanne Pleshette, before most Americans got to know her as Bob Newhart’s wife. Who else? Ian McShane. Ben Gazzara. Donovan sang “Lord of the Reedy River.”

  Why is it Will remembers this brain-cluttering nonsense, these trivial bits like metal shavings stuck to a magnet, insignificant, adding up to shit? He sits up in bed, feels for the gun under the pillow. Lately he can’t shake the feeling he’s being tailed, but it’s just nerves; Diane’s taught him how to cover his tracks, ditch surveillance if someone’s picked him up.

  The chain is across the door. The briefcase is beside the bed. He’s alone. And yes, it might be Tuesday, but St. Louis is more likely than Belgium. Florida. Wisconsin. He’s become accustomed to the travel but not the places; they lack the sharp edges of Boston, sprawl in place of density, not quite suburbs, certainly not cities.