“So you did.”
“Yes. And you know the result.”
Jhochelle and I take a minute to connect the dots: Lee to Markovich to McKenna to my father out wandering the streets. All I come up with are more questions.
“Why would Lee steal something that belongs to his own organization, and then use it to free your client?”
“Former client,” Tetter clarifies. “I no longer represent Ms. Markovich.”
“Whatever. Why bust Markovich out of prison if his only goal’s finding Devlin McKenna? What’s in it for him? And why tell you about it?”
“My suspicion is that whatever Lee has unearthed in connection with Ms. Markovich’s case and by extension, I suppose, your mother’s poses a problem for the governor and the FBI, a problem to the degree that Leila’s release was orchestrated as it was. I think Lee considered the deliverance of Leila’s parole as a down payment on authenticity, a validation of his pursuits. He wanted to show me how powerful these documents were without actually showing them to me. Initially, I took Lee’s ramblings to be those of a madman. But the board acted just as he said it would. Obviously, these documents, whatever they contain, are quite valuable to the FBI.”
“Then why do you look like you just lost a case, counselor?”
“Because, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure Leila’s altogether sane after all she’s been through and because I have the nagging suspicion Lee’s set into motion forces that are spiraling out of his control, your father’s wandering being an unfortunate offshoot of that.”
“You think Ms. Markovich is dangerous?” Jhochelle finally tosses the cigarette aside.
“Yes. Certainly to herself. To others…?”
“What others? Can you be more specific than that? And how does it tie Mr. Meyers to Devlin McKenna?”
“I’m not so sure it does. Zesty, when your father was running his poker games, was he ever compelled to pay tribute to McKenna or any other outfit operating at the time?”
“You mean protection money?”
“Yes. Was he extorted?”
“I’m just speculating here, but I know the DiMasis took a piece of everything back then. My dad’s games moved around a lot but not really into townie neighborhoods like Southie or the North End, so I don’t see why he’d pay McKenna a dime. Most of my dad’s influence and protection came out of city hall, at least when Kevin White was mayor. Only they called it doing business in those days, not extortion.”
“As they still do. I often heard in chambers that your father was a poker player to be admired.”
“My dad was good at a lot of things,” I say.
“My intention was not to insult. I ask about the prospect of tribute payments only because after the DiMasis’ organization was dismantled, there was a power vacuum in the Boston underworld, which we all know was quickly filled by McKenna, whom we later learned was protected by the FBI. I’m just trying to establish a link between McKenna and your father, that perhaps he continued payments to McKenna in the DiMasis’ absence.”
“Like the transfer of a debt?” I give the prospect some thought but don’t really see it.
“So Mr. Meyers paid or didn’t pay McKenna to operate. Why does it matter?” Jhochelle gives us her back, staring out the window toward the lumberyard behind the warehouse.
“It probably doesn’t. But it’s long been Leila’s contention that McKenna orchestrated Bank of Boston and the station house explosion that she and her cohorts committed, your mother included, of course. That would be a direct link. I looked into her claims years ago, even went so far as interviewing McKenna’s former bodyguard Richard Ritter in prison, but I could find nothing that linked the robbery to McKenna.”
“Ritter could have been lying,” Jhochelle says.
“Absolutely. Ritter already had his federal deal. Any new revelations of crimes committed could be held against him.”
“So he wasn’t compelled to tell the truth,” Jhochelle says, sharply. “There was nothing in it for him except more time behind bars.”
“Unfortunately, that’s correct.”
“Where’s Ritter now?”
“Part of his deal was admittance into the Federal Witness Protection Program upon his release. I assume he’s still under their protection as of this moment. Where, I couldn’t tell you.”
Jhochelle swivels back to us. “So then what would Markovich gain by tying the robbery to McKenna? Certainly not leniency from the court. What was her angle?”
“I wish I knew. Her surrender a few years after the robbery was out of what I took to be, at the time, a serious case of paranoia, an irrational fear of McKenna. So much so that I harbored reservations about even representing her. It was only when she was attacked in prison that first week that I reconsidered and thought there might be some merit to her assertions.”
“Does Ms. Markovich have any inkling Agent Lee is behind her release?”
“If she does, the information didn’t come from me. But if she knows even that much, I don’t think she fully comprehends that Lee’s orchestrated her release only to bait McKenna back to Boston, the cat following the rat following the mouse, as it were.”
And with Leila Markovich meeting my dad at his house, throw in the paranoid leading the lost, the thin gauze of my mother’s ghost hovering over everything but keeping her mouth sealed tight. Or not. Maybe my mother is talking to my father this very moment, her siren song leading him through Boston’s crooked and ill-marked streets, her voice whispering sweet nothings as he shuffles toward his own personal abyss. Not happy thoughts, I know, but at this point I’m surprised the sky itself hasn’t caved in.
“And of course there’s also the matter of the money. As I’m sure you’re aware, only a few thousand dollars from the nearly one-million-dollar haul from Bank of Boston were ever recovered. Ms. Markovich has always claimed she had no knowledge of where the bulk of the money ended up. Perhaps she was lying.”
“Or maybe she thought Mr. Meyers had some knowledge of where the money would be,” Jhochelle says. “Why else would she meet with him immediately upon her release? To rehash old times?”
“All she could’ve gotten from my dad is old times, Jo, you know that as well as anyone. So bear with me here, counselor, I want to make sure I have everything lined up. Special Agent Lee stole a file from the bureau and then used it to blackmail Governor Hibert into springing Leila Markovich from prison?”
“Precisely.”
“Because he thought she’d be the perfect bait to bring Devlin McKenna back to Beantown? Is he fucking insane?”
“Even if he is, it makes his plan no less viable. Either it will work or it won’t.”
“Swell. And Leila, meanwhile, might be hunting for the money from BOB that might or might not still be around. And now my dad’s wandering around packing heat because, what, she’s infected him with her special brand of paranoia, his head now back in the Boston game, all of a sudden a player again?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then that, counselor, in my neck of the woods is what we call a clusterfuck.”
“Yes, that’s an apt description, made no less so by what you’ve left out.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Maybe, but Jhochelle gets it past her lips before I do: “The FBI wants its file back.”
“In the worst possible way, I imagine. And we need to see that file before they do, because they will most certainly destroy it if they get their hands on it.”
“We?” I say, looking to Jhochelle. “What’s with the we all of a sudden?”
“We have retained Mr. Tetter’s legal services.”
“For what? Is Zero in some kind of trouble?” Like maybe not coming clean about his connection to Sullivan, Darryl Jenkins, and the Wells Fargo takedown, or is it something totally different, like yesterday’s ATM beat-down? Are Zero’s fingers still in a lot of shady pies, despite his lukewarm denials to the contrary?
�
�It’s not Zero we’re concerned about,” Jhochelle says. “It’s you.”
“Then you’re wasting your money. I haven’t done anything wro—” I stop short, recalling my last forty-eight hours of felonies, misdemeanors, and predictable moral failings.
“Perhaps you’re not in any legal quandary yet,” Tetter points out with the jovial spirit of a man who gets paid a retainer. “But Lee’s contacted Zero again; he wants to hand the file over for safekeeping, as insurance, in case something happens to him. Namely, before his own organization can silence him. He has stressed that the file is of vital importance to your family.”
“How?”
“Lee wouldn’t specify. Only that whatever he has brings new light to Bank of Boston. I understand you are concerned about your father, but Jhochelle and your brother’s men are on that right now. What we need for you to do is get that file from Agent Lee, Zesty. Before the bureau catches up to him and everything disappears.”
“Why me?” I say, but it’s a moronic question. I already know the answer before it leaves the lawyer’s mouth.
“Who better?” A gleam in Tetter’s eye coincides with a wide grin on his jury-swaying face. “You’re a messenger by trade, and I’m told quite a fast one at that.”
“The fastest,” I say. Or at least the most reckless.
“Then I can only hope you manage to live up to that exalted reputation, because speed will be of the essence. But if you fail, rest assured, I’ll visit you in prison as soon as I’m summoned. And I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, Zesty, but may I suggest wearing a helmet? It seems you’ve already taken your lumps, and something tells me this is going to be a very bumpy ride.”
FIFTY-SIX
Will hears the low rumble of an explosion, followed by shots from inside the bank, soft, but he knows the sounds for what they are. It wasn’t in the plan, but Michael Drain and Tara Agostini are both strung out, too long off the needle; McKenna made sure he’d know where Drain could be found scoring when this is over.
Rachel Evans is the first to exit, carrying a canvas bag, her steps small and hurried like a wind-up toy bird. Leila is behind her, pushing Rachel toward the car, her gun held loosely by her side close to her body. Tara Agostini follows, pulling the cap off her head and shaking out her black wig like she’s the lead in a Breck commercial, looking every bit like Diane from a distance, except for her junkie-slim waist and the drug hunger in her eyes. Will hears two more pops, and Drain, like a black leprechaun who’s just strangled a rainbow, actually jumps for joy as he exits the bank, both hands holding large canvas bags.
Focus. Rachel Evans is in the front seat beside him, but she is vacant, her spirit gone. Drain and Agostini, manic-panic, for now the adrenaline pumping through their veins enough to see them through their drug hunger; they imagine they’re Bonnie and Clyde, but Will suspects they will not have such a cinematic exit from this world.
He drives Washington to Market, switches the cars as planned in the lot on Converse. There’s no hurry; he hears sirens but knows they’re converging toward the blasted station house less than a quarter mile from the bank.
Drain and Agostini stash their guns and coats in the trunk of the waiting Dodge Dart. Rachel Evans has to be moved from the Impala like a statue, and as Will places her in the front seat of the lime green Volkswagen Bug, he actually thinks she might crumble to pieces, and he’s never been any good at reassembling puzzles.
Will loads the money into the small trunk, rips off his dress and wig, and wipes off the makeup with the hem of the housedress before dousing them both in gasoline and setting them aflame.
Before Drain realizes what is happening, Will shoves a thick wad of bills into his chest and points a gun in his face. “You have two choices,” he says. “Drive or die.”
And Drain actually thinks about it, actually weighs his chances against Will’s finger caressing the trigger. Drain lives for the blast, and the money will be plenty for that, only he wants more, always more. But when his eyes fall into the ink pools of Will’s pitiless gaze, he folds as Will knew he would, and the Dart’s tires kick gravel into Will’s legs as Drain peels out.
Will turns to Leila Markovich, to the business end of a gun with a barrel as wide as the mouth of a cannon, and it’s just about what he expected. Will feels the weight of his own gun held loosely at his side, but he doubts he could raise and fire it before Leila does, and anyhow, it was never his intention to abandon her to face McKenna alone and empty-handed. Will hopes she realizes this as he slowly turns away, reaching past a frozen Rachel Evans to retrieve one of the bags of money from the back of the Bug and tossing it gently toward her.
“Here’s what it is.” Will tries to find Leila’s eyes, such pretty eyes, over the outsized barrel. Thick green stacks of banded cash have tumbled out of the bag and lie at her feet. “You can take your share of the money and go it alone, or you can come with us and I can deliver you someplace safe. But you need to decide now.”
“Is that right?” Leila probes past the gun, looking as deeply into Will’s black pools as he will allow her. “I do need to decide now. But those aren’t my only choices, are they, William?”
“No,” he concedes, looking toward the sounds of sirens, his eyes landing on a pair of fire-red cardinals watching from a high limb of the yard’s only tree.
“It’s not like there’re any rules to play by, obviously. But you think you’re the only one at the table who knows how to play a shitty hand?”
“What do you want, Leila? The rest of the money? Take it if you think you can go it alone, that Ritter and McKenna won’t find you and stick you in a fucking hole. This isn’t about the money.”
“No, it’s not,” Leila agrees, cocking the gun and raising it so Will can no longer find her eyes, her finger twitching on the trigger. “It’s not about the money at all. Where is Diane?” she says.
FIFTY-SEVEN
A half hour later, it’s just me and Jhochelle in the office with four empty Dunkin’ Donuts cups, Sid rejoining the hunt for my father—Zero’s Zen Moving shuttered for the day—a colorful dragnet of tattooed thieves and hard cases fanning the city looking for a doddering old man packing heat.
On speakerphone with Zero, I relayed our meeting with Tetter and pretty much everything else that’s happened the last couple of days. Zero listened in a stone silence that conveyed neither surprise nor worry, the workings of his mind like our father’s, calculating players and pot value, looking for that moment of opportunity every game eventually presents itself with.
“That’s all?”
“Everything I can think of. You think I should call Brill, let him know Dad’s on the loose? He knew him back in the day; maybe he’s got ideas.”
“Are you a fucking retard, Zesty? Call nobody.” I didn’t need to see Zero to know he was crushing the bridge of his nose in irritation, a crimson tide rolling across his face. “Let everybody make their play with whatever they’re holding. I’m cutting over to Charlestown right now. We’ll find Dad. Your only job is to get that file from Lee so we can figure out what it means to us.”
“You don’t know?”
“I have my hunches. None of them good.”
“Is it even remotely fucking possible Dad had something to do with McKenna?”
“Talk to Jhochelle,” Zero said.
“What?”
“This is not something we’re going to talk about over the phone.” Zero’s voice crackled from the speaker. “Jhochelle will tell you everything I know.”
Jhochelle now takes a black phone and a hard pack of Marlboro cigarettes from the desk drawer, studies the box for longer than it takes to read the Surgeon General’s warning, and lets fly toward the trash can, the pack exploding the remaining cigarettes to the floor.
“I assume you shoot a gun better than that,” I say.
“Let us hope we don’t have to find out. Nu, don’t worry about your father. Zero will handle it, and you have other pressing matters to contend with. How
adept are you with technology?”
“Technology? I ride a bicycle. Sometimes I even fix my own flats with goo and an air pump. Why?”
Jhochelle palms the phone and tosses it to me. When I touch the screen, it lights up greenish-blue.
“What’s this?” The device is smaller than the stolen phone in my pack but with a sturdy rubber casing to absorb any drops.
“What you’re holding is pretty much a standard cellular telephone, but it is disposable. Press that button there. What do you see on the screen?”
“Three phone numbers. One of them is Zero’s cell.”
“And the others belong to Special Agent Lee and Darryl Jenkins, respectively.” Jhochelle leans back in her chair, studying my face. Or maybe she’s just looking at my new lock-cutter haircut.
“You’re shitting me.”
“I am not.”
“You know who Darryl Jenkins is?”
“Certainly.”
I nod and look at the phone, welcoming the static building up behind my eyes, another song sifting through to my ears, Lee, DJ, and Zero all together now. Nothing will ever make sense again, so why not some Looney Tunes to go with the madness.
“There are only three people who have the number of that phone,” Jhochelle begins to explain. “It can receive and send text messages, but we’ll try and refrain from using it in that manner. The fewer records that exist, the better.”
“That’s it?” I say. “There’s nothing else programmed, like this message will self-destruct in twenty seconds or if you choose to accept this mission—”
“This message will self-destruct in twenty seconds,” Jhochelle says.
“Really?”
“No.” Jhochelle inverts a sniper’s smile, makes a gun with her thumb and index finger, and shoots me dead.
“So what am I supposed to do with this thing?”
“You’re to wait until Agent Lee calls.”
“Does it have any music programmed?” Not that I need it, Aimee Mann singing “Save Me” loud and clear now.
“Be thankful it does not. With my Israeli sense of humor, I would have downloaded endless Yanni or Cher for you. Lee will contact you when he feels it is safe to do so. Remember, besides Lee, only Zero and Jenkins have the number, so rest assured, if it rings, it is one of them and you must answer right away.”
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