Bosstown

by Adam Abramowitz

  “Money runs out.” Lee collects the photos and slips them back into his jacket. “People get desperate and then they get sloppy. In fact, sometimes they just get sentimental. Are you a sentimental person, Zesty?”

  “I can cry on command,” I admit. “It’s one of my many talents.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean do you ruminate over things you have missed or paths you haven’t chosen? Do you find yourself looking inward as the people around you change, wishing things could revert to the way they’d once been, the way you remember them? Are there things you long for the way I long to see Devlin McKenna face justice?”

  “No. What is it you want from me, Agent Lee?”

  “Insight,” he says flatly.

  “Into what? Into who, McKenna?”

  “Not McKenna. McKenna I understand fully; he is just an animal bent on survival. And what better place to hunt than in the environment he once dominated so fiercely? Some things have changed, of course: Time marches on, the players are different, the neighborhoods, parts of them, unrecognizable. Even some of the streets are gone, I’m told. But the game is still much the same as it was when he left, and after all, he has done this sort of thing before. Do you see what I’m driving at, Zesty?”

  “No.”

  “Then allow me to rephrase. Nineteen eighty-six. Allston. Bank of Boston. Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Fuck you, Lee.”

  Lee cuts the overhead light, hunches forward, the crime scene lighting washing his face in shadow, his features all but vanished, except for feverish eyes burning hot and bright, like a poker player on tilt, all his chips in the middle and relying—no, not relying, believing, with a near-religious fervor—in the power and mercy of the river card to bail him out.

  “So again, Zesty, insight is what I seek.”

  “Wrong mountaintop,” I say.

  “No, I don’t believe so.” Lee draws a small notepad from his breast pocket, flips it open, and molests himself for something to write with. “So,” he says, “when did you last hear from your mother?”

  FORTY-THREE

  Will knows there are two things you can’t do at a poker game and expect to come out ahead: You can’t sit at the table with a limited time-frame in mind—say, three, five hours, whatever—and expect the cards to fall into that little box you’ve drawn yourself. Time doesn’t like to be dictated to, nor does it give a fuck about your schedule; the cards, even less so.

  The second thing you can’t do is come in with a hard plan, say, playing only tens or better, three to a flush, wired trips of anything, because the cards have to be massaged sometimes; they need the action or they’re liable to go to sleep on you. Come in with a script carved in stone, you might as well cut your nerves at the roots because you’ll have no feel for the game whatsoever, that moment requiring bold action lost in the rigidity of your losing formula.

  Poker’s a game where you have to be willing to lose often and be sanguine enough to learn from it, which is a hard thing to do while still licking bleeding wounds. At the same time, you also have to forget the bad beats, the unexpected setbacks; wipe the slate clean and free your mind, not just to calculate how many outs are left when the time comes to river a pull, but to feel the cards, absorb the game’s flow.

  Ritter calls with a location, and though Will long ago began to prepare for a moment like this, as of right now McKenna has him playing blind, groping for a hand that eludes him at every turn. What are his choices? None.

  To the river he goes.

  FORTY-FOUR

  “This sucks,” Brill says.

  “It’s the only place I could think of that’s open and nearby.” I keep busy rubbing cuff-indented wrists, the paraffin test I’d taken after my chat with Lee leaving my hands powder slick. We’re sitting in a back booth at the Blue Diner, waiting too long for the moonfaced waitress to take our order. The joint’s half empty. Or half full, depending how you look at it.

  “The only other option was cold tea and dim sum in Chinatown, and I’m not really in the mood for Chinese after Agent Lee. By the way, cold tea”—I make quotation marks with my fingers—“is really a euphemism for beer. Did you know that?”

  Brill stares at me deadpan. “Like I said. This sucks.”

  “I like it.” Wells settles in. “It’s got a nice retro feel to it.”

  “It’s bullshit,” Brill says. “How’s the coffee?”

  “Poor. But the food’s mediocre and overpriced. You know you can’t smoke in here.”

  “Does it look lit to you?”

  “It stinks like it’s lit.”

  “Christ, Zesty, do you ever stop?” Wells says, perusing the menu.

  “You should talk.” Brill wrinkles his nose at me. “You ever hear of deodorant?”

  “Stop what?” I sniff under my arms, smelling only patchouli.

  “Antagonizing people. Cracking wise.” Wells sets the menu aside. “Or do you have, like, some kind of punning Tourette’s type thing going on?”

  “What he’s trying to say, Zesty, is stay away from open-mike nights.”

  “So now it’s contagious?” Wells looks askance at his partner, not a lot of love in his eyes. As a matter of fact, I’ve yet to really see the detectives on the same page. Even in the hospital they were stepping on each other’s lines, and here again, small digs are brewing with a side order of asides. Then again, maybe this is how they renew their daily courtship, a constant tuning up doubling as foreplay.

  “Not very friendly.” Wells examines the waitress retreating after taking our orders. With his cultivated rough looks and swag shoes, he’s probably used to more positive attention.

  “You know her, Zesty?” Brill grins around the unlit cigar. “The whole time she jotting our order, she shooting you the evil eye like you stole her tip money.”

  “I think we made out once at a Black Crowes concert?”

  “Zesty do get around, that’s for sure.”

  “Perk of the job.”

  “We’ll make sure they splash that on your tombstone,” Brill says. “That’ll explain everything.”

  “Almost everything. How about you bring us up to speed on that private sit-down you had with Lee.”

  “What, the FBI doesn’t keep you guys in the loop?”

  “FBI?” Wells rears back in his seat. “What FBI? It’s just Agent Lee out there on his lonesome if you hadn’t noticed. Everybody else is BPD. What kind of foolishness did that man pump into your head?”

  I tell the detectives about the photographs, leaving out the questions about my mother to gauge what they know. From what I’ve read in the crime novels my father lovingly dog-eared, the FBI and local police rarely work in harmonic concert, the FBI swooping down to take control of cases as they expand in breadth and importance, getting the lion’s share of the credit when things work out, the locals looking like little more than cooperative younger siblings smart enough to step out of the way as the chisel-jawed professionals do their jobs.

  Only, Agent Wellington Lee neither has a chiseled jaw nor appears to be relegating Detectives Wells and Brill to the bench while he does all the glorified heavy lifting. In fact, all he seemed to be doing was stacking bodies and stepping aside to let Brill and Wells run their leads. So what’s the beef? And what does Wells mean by Lee being out on his own?

  “That’s all?” Wells sniffs a gap in my retelling as my dormant head static returns, reminding me I still need to get a hold of Sam to hear what he’s learned.

  “Lee seems pretty confident this is all one story.” I tilt forward, trying to see if the signal strength changes. “That kind of clearance should make you happy, no?”

  “And your friend Gus Molten fits in where?”

  “He didn’t say. You got a theory?”

  “You mean one that doesn’t involve Lee’s pipe dream of the big bad wolf Devlin McKenna returning to his old stomping grounds? Absolutely. Darryl Jenkins, our man in the streets, is feeling the pain of overextending himself and tryi
ng to clean up loose ends. The gang unit and vice guys are convinced Jenkins screwed the pooch and flooded the market, and now it’s just in the process of correcting itself.”

  “The medical examiner give you a time estimate for when Gus was killed?”

  Brill and Wells glance at each other a moment before Brill answers. “Little after one A.M., thereabouts. We can pinpoint it like that, not on account of the ME, but we might have caught a break with a witness, dishwasher in one of your cold tea joints, taking a standing nap in a doorway on his way through another eighteen-hour shift. Doesn’t speak a word of English, so we’re waiting on the translator to show at headquarters where they have him stashed. Guy’s probably crapping his pants, thinking he just punched a one-way ticket back to Shanghai.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not if he saw something and draws us a picture.”

  “Even if he does, it won’t be of Jenkins.”

  “Maybe not in person, but he could’ve farmed it out.”

  “I don’t think so. Darryl’s circle is pretty tight, and we cut a deal that he’d give me twenty-four hours to try and find Gus. And anyhow, doesn’t SIS have Darryl covered?”

  “That what Lee told you?” Brill barks a laugh. “He’s full of shit. DJ’s our man with the plan, and when everything shakes out, you’re gonna see your friend Gus falls out of the same tree. Darryl Jenkins’s move to the big time is going to be a short one, mark my words.”

  “Did Agent Lee speak to him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your witness, the dishwasher.”

  “Why?”

  “Lee’s Chinese,” I say.

  Brill and Wells look at each other again, an unspoken conversation passing between their eyes. “Cocksucker!” they say in unison, Wells slipping out of the booth punching buttons on his cell phone, nearly knocking the waitress over as she brings our food.

  Brill and I eat in silence, chewing on more than just our meal, until Wells returns to continue a wordless discourse with his partner, the food now just fuel for the fire, the refilling of the coffee cups gas on the flames. I wonder if they’ve even slept the last two days.

  Apropos of nothing, Wells says, “We think Lee has some of it right, actually. Sullivan, Coney, and Stavros are connected, not the least because the slugs taken from Sullivan and Stavros are a match from the Python we lifted in Roxbury. Coney’s a little harder to figure, on account his ticket got punched the way it did, but if you hadn’t noticed, it’s been like a shooting gallery in some of these neighborhoods lately.”

  “He means black neighborhoods, by the way,” Brill says.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Wells tells me. “Your man there lives in Newton.”

  “That’s because this black man’s earned it.”

  “Absolutely. So the way we see it, Coney’s the shooter for both Sullivan and Stavros and then fate plays her hand and Coney gets it where he least expects it.”

  “You’re telling me Stavros was killed before Coney?”

  “No doubt about that. The man was not fresh when he was found. A neighbor called the super about the smell; super dialed 911.”

  “I’m still eating,” I say.

  “Shit tends to even out.” Wells shrugs. “Coney was the makeup, outdoors, night sky, fresh air. Hell, you were there. Coney must have been a piece of work, playing hoops with a Python jammed down his shorts. It’s a miracle he didn’t shoot off his own balls grabbing a rebound.”

  “No hustle,” Brill concludes. “Boy probably all dribble, no shot.”

  “Yeah, you would know. Lot of run out in the burbs?”

  “Hey.” Brill drops his fork on his empty plate and points to his crotch. “Did I tell you I was shooting a home movie? It’s called Suckit, and auditions start in five, four, three—”

  I get up to leave, but Wells clamps down on my wrist.

  “What did I tell you, Zesty? Ignore him. Or better yet, don’t listen to the actual words, listen for the subtext.”

  “I think the subtext was suck it,” I say.

  “It’s just how we communicate.” Wells waves a white napkin toward his partner in mock surrender. “When we do the math, all of this is going to add up to Darryl Jenkins, whether you had a deal with him or not. We have money from Black Hole that matches the Fargo truck and Sullivan. We got some of that same money and the gun off of Coney that he used to kill Stavros. I have a gut hunch that you know something that ties Molten to all of this deeper than what we already know, but you’re holding pat. So what’s left, what’d I leave out?”

  Brill points his cigar toward his partner. “Lee’s McKenna conspiracy.”

  “Right. Question being, is Lee going to fuck us when we try to hang this on Jenkins, because if there’s one thing we’ve learned around these parts, it’s that where the FBI and Devlin McKenna are concerned, things get fucked in a hurry. Which is where we think you can help us out, Zesty.”

  “How’s that?”

  “For starters, you can tell us what turned you into a ghost when we took you out of the car back on LaGrange. Lee hang something over your head that we don’t know about? Something federal-y?”

  “No,” I say. “He asked me when was the last time I heard from my mother.”

  “You serious?”

  “Rarely, but there you have it.”

  Brill: “And your answer was?”

  “Too long ago to remember.” Wells and Brill both frown at that, the look painfully clear: Even homicide detectives have mothers.

  “I used to get postcards, sometimes a phone call. It’s been a while.”

  “That was it?” Wells begins obsessively scratching his two-day beard, maybe realizing the time has come for another trimming.

  “That and what he said about McKenna.”

  “What, that McKenna organized these guys to hit the truck?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And you think?”

  “Who cares what I think?”

  “He’s got a point there,” Brill says.

  “Nah, I kind of want to hear it. Something’s not right about Lee pumping Zesty for intel. He’s reaching, but he’s a slim motherfucker, and we’re this close to clearing four bodies with one arrest, and we need to make sure he doesn’t screw it up.”

  “You think Lee’s holding out on you?”

  “On both ends.”

  “Who, me and you?”

  “Not you.” Wells shakes his head. “You’re practically part of the team here, breaking into suspects’ houses, turning over clues and shit.”

  “Emphasis on shit,” Brill laments.

  “But by both ends I mean us.” Wells makes a large circling motion with his hand. “And by the other end, I mean Lee’s field office at Center Plaza. Because if I know one thing and one thing only, it’s that the Boston chapter of Fart Barf and Itch wants nothing more to do with Devlin McKenna if it can help itself, and if you throw your mother, the radical, dangerous, and once—if you don’t mind my saying—quite beautiful Diane Meyers into the mix, it becomes a two-for-one shame-and-failure spectacular. Lee doesn’t strike me as a dummy, but he could be a fool, because if he thinks he’s on to Devlin McKenna back in Beantown, he’s on his own with nothing more than a wing and a prayer. McKenna’s been in the wind going on thirteen years. He’s not just going to come waltzing back to town to fit himself for a pair of bracelets and a shank in the neck the second he sets foot in a cell. And as much public noise as the bureau makes about wanting to get ahold of him, what they’d prefer is his liver-spotted corpse stinking up a motel room somewhere far away, like Brazil. And—no offense, Zesty—the same goes for your mother if she’s still out there. Nobody wants to rehash the eighties and nineties again, especially this town. What with the Big Dig almost finished, you got the new waterfronts, property values going through the roof, and most of your bodies dropping in places your average taxpayer will never see.

  “So Agent Lee? Fuck him and his theories. He’s out there on his own, so don’t think f
or a second you’re in the middle of some massive manhunt or bureau reversal all-hands-on-deck-type shit. Lee got a couple days’ SIS support to work on DJ because we went out on a limb for him, because it’s three, now four bodies, the Wells Fargo job, and money laundering through Black Hole. And the powers that be want this shit wrapped up quick before it cuts into the tourist and convention trade. Not for a fucking nanosecond is this about Devlin McKenna and Diane Meyers, no way, nohow. If Lee’s going to reach for the brass ring, he’s going it alone. A wing and a prayer, dude. A chicken wing and a fucking player.”

  Wells looks at me and then gathers Brill for a stare-down in my direction, their eyes glowing despite the weak coffee and lack of rest, the full force of their collective gaze working on me like Vulcan mind meld. If we were playing cards, I’d probably lay down a good hand and second-guess myself into next week.

  “Chicken wing and a fucking player.” Brill sits back chuckling, impressed by his partner’s play on words, the love growing in his heart. He beams me his first real smile, the cigar tilting toward the ceiling as the waitress drops the check, barely concealing her middle finger extended toward me.

  “You following me, Zesty?” Wells’s eyes are electric coils. If he looks at Brill, his cigar might catch a flame. “Out on his motherfucking own.” He nudges the check in my direction. “Now, pay the damn bill. You’re right, this place does suck.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  The outer walls of the machine shop are corrugated metal panels dripping green tears off copper screws. Will’s heard whispers about this place, about men who’ve entered on their own two feet only to exit via the drain at the center of the sloped cement floor. Stairs lead to a cluttered back room. An array of firearms and explosives are laid out on top of wooden packing crates.

  “Just Diane.” McKenna, his back to a plate glass window overlooking the machine shop floor, barely acknowledges Will before Ritter muscles him down the stairs, past Leila Markovich and a man sporting an outdated handlebar mustache. Will gets in his car, turns over the ignition.