“What if I go to a movie? Can I put it on vibrate?”
Jhochelle stares at me. “Is it an inability or just the unwillingness to stop, Zesty?”
“You know, you’re the second person in the last twenty-four hours to ask me that.”
“So the answer is unwillingness. It’s a shame vaudeville is dead. Do you have any questions beyond the technical?”
“Darryl Jenkins,” I say.
“Yes, I was wondering when you’d get to that. I’m not at liberty to say at this point.”
“Really? Is it an Israeli thing—loose lips sink camel ships? What the fuck do you mean, you can’t say?”
“I understand your frustration, Zesty, truly I do, but you, we, are in uncharted territory right now. All your questions will be answered when the time is right.”
“Does Zero have something to do with the Wells Fargo job? What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Now is not that time. What I will tell you is that Darryl’s and Zero’s interests have intersected in the past, and now due to you, and only you, they’ve crossed once again. Zero is involved because you”—Jhochelle jabs an accusatory finger in my direction—“have entered into a bargain that is impossible for you to hold up on your end. You know of what I speak.”
“You mean Zero’s bailing me out.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, no?”
Not by far. Nor would it be the first time Zero recognized an opportunity to profit from somebody else’s plans gone awry. But at this point I must be an open book, because Jhochelle addresses the thoughts bouncing around my head before I put them into words.
“The only question you have to answer for yourself, Zesty”—she shakes her head disdainfully, her long raven hair dusting her shoulders—“is do you trust your brother? Do you think—” Jhochelle’s voice cracks, and she breaks off to look longingly at the lone cigarette between her fingers before snapping it in two, the brown tobacco scattering between her feet. She takes a deep breath, looks down at the mess she’s created, and when she looks up, there are twin tears streaming down her face. “You know I love your brother,” she says, looking at me unembarrassed.
“I know.”
“It makes no difference to you that he’s adopted, does it?”
“No,” I say. “He’s just my brother.”
She nods. “And it’s the same for him. I should not have asked you whether you trusted Zero. It’s an insult you don’t deserve. You are unlike each other in so many ways, but in this you are the same, without doubt in each other. Loyal. People use that word loosely, but in your family, it defines you. More than you know.”
“Zero’s always been there when I’ve needed him,” I say.
“And you for him, he tells me. Though he does not need you very often, does he?”
“He seems okay the way he is,” I say.
“Hmm. Beseder. You know what that means, beseder?”
“It means okay?”
“Yes. He is okay. A hard man, your brother, hard in the way that the first years make you who you are, the way you have to be to survive when nobody is caring for you. But yes, okay. He is also going to be a father soon.” Jhochelle smiles through clouded eyes.
“You’re pregnant? Mazel tov. You’re happy about this, right? Why are you crying?”
“Grandparents,” she says.
“What about them?”
“You know my parents are dead, and yours … well, yours are more complicated.” Fresh tears slide out of Jhochelle’s eyes onto the floor between us. “Your father obviously did the best he could raising the two of you, considering the circumstances, his personal liabilities. But children need their mothers, especially boys. I’ve seen this with my brother, Shai. Boys shed their childhood skins and assume the form of adulthood, but they don’t become men, most of them, fully or whole, and therefore don’t know what to do with the women who come into their lives, don’t know what space to clear for them. Am I striking a chord here, Zesty? Zero told me once that your father was raised mainly by his mother, which explains his many virtues, his perseverance, certainly his patience with you two maniacs.” Jhochelle offers me a weak smile.
“I know Zero said to talk to me, but what he really meant was we need to talk about your father in a new way, now that matters have progressed to where they are. Do you think you can do that, Zesty?” Jhochelle reaches over, touches my cheek where Sid left his rough mark. “Are you ready to perhaps see your father in a different light, even as he steps back into the shadows of his former days?”
“Jhochelle,” I say, gently taking her hand off my cheek, holding it lightly to my forehead as I close my eyes, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Then I’m not making myself clear. What I’m asking is, are you ready to forgive your father, Zesty?”
“For what? What the hell’s he done now?”
I open my eyes to look at Jhochelle, and for the first time, I notice she has eyes the exact same color as my father’s, radiant in the way the pitchest of black glows from a dark star, impenetrable. Zero always told me Jhochelle cleaned up at the occasional poker games that would break out at the garage when the men were flush with cash. Now I see why.
“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,” I hear myself saying, my vision gone blurry. “I just don’t get it.” I make a mess clearing my eyes with my fingers.
“It’s really very simple, Zesty.” Jhochelle hands me a tissue across the desk, a hint of a smile breaking the drag of her lips, her eyes softening but still unreadable. “You just need to do what all good Jewish boys have been doing for centuries. You need to listen to the women in your family. And now, in lieu of a mother, that would be me, mother in waiting. So be a good soldier, and do as I tell you, and don’t ask why, okay? And a little chicken soup couldn’t hurt. Have you eaten anything at all today? My God, you’re practically skin and bones.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
Will navigates the Bug into Cambridge via Western Avenue, skirts the Charles, and satisfied he’s cleansed himself of any possible tails, hits the Mass Ave. Bridge and turns right, crossing back toward Boston proper. Will’s grandmother, on more than one occasion, told him of her presence on this very same bridge when the Great Houdini, draped in heavy chains and handcuffs, jumped the rail into the frigid water only to surface minutes later free of his bonds.
Of course everyone called it the Harvard Bridge in those days, its given name, and Will can’t help but smile—though it pains him—at the symmetry of it all, because his escape from McKenna’s grip will have to be every bit as calculated as Houdini’s plunge going forward, the weight of his metaphysical chains just as likely to drag him to the bottom of a cold and airless grave as the heavy links and padlocks worn by the magician.
He’s at the hundred-Smoot mark when the radio tuned to WBZ 1030 AM comes on with the story, and he reaches past a vacant Rachel Evans to turn it up.
This just in: We’ve received word of a bomb detonated in front of District Fourteen police headquarters in Allston, the blast coinciding with the armed robbery of the Allston branch Bank of Boston. Police and paramedics are at both scenes, and a police source confirms at least one death at the bank and one person in critical condition with gunshot wounds to the head. Names are being withheld pending notification of next of kin. The police station has sustained damage to the front stairs along with windows blown out on the Washington Street side. There are reports of casualties from flying glass and debris, with the wounded being rushed to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital directly across from the station house. A spokesman for Bank of Boston could not yet confirm the sum stolen from the bank, but police are said to be on the lookout for four, possibly five individuals, at least three of them female, in a blue Chevy Impala witnesses reported seeing fleeing the scene. The suspects are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. We’ll have more on this story as it develops. This is Jorge Quiroga reporting from—
Will changes the radio
frequency to FM, spins the dial to Charles Laquidara doing his Duane Ingalls Glasscock routine on The Big Mattress Show—Will is possibly the only listener in Boston not doubled over laughing. At a red light, he ties a yellow ribbon in Rachel Evans’s hair and grips her hard, turning her to face him; her eyes are as lifeless as marble. Will explains the ribbon has to stay in her hair, that he’s made arrangements for her to be recognized by this ribbon.
“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He slaps Rachel across the cheek, and redness floods her face; she blinks like she’s coming out of a deep trance. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Rachel looks down at his fingers pressed into her arms. “You’re hurting me.”
He hangs a left onto Commonwealth, a right onto Arlington, passes the plate glass window of the Ritz-Carlton, the Commons on his left, the willows by the pond heavy from recent rains.
“When we get to the station on Franklin, you walk inside, head straight for the back where the buses board. There are seats arranged back-to-back with coin-operated televisions attached to them. Someone will meet you there, is already there wearing a yellow blouse. She’ll be watching the television. There’ll be a bag at her feet. It has money, a ticket for the Greyhound to New York City, a change of clothes, a wig, a small mirror, and a book. Sit next to her. When the time on her television runs out, if she thinks it’s safe, she’ll put another quarter in and start adjusting the dials. If she does this, pick up the bag, go out to the New York gate, and try to be one of the first ones on the bus. Do you understand everything I’ve told you?”
“Yes.”
“Sit toward the back, off the window. Put the wig on—the seats are high, so you should be able to duck down and do it without being seen. The wig already has the same yellow ribbon tied into it. It’ll take some time for the police to get a picture of you out, but they might have it by the time you hit New York. The wig will be enough for now. Someone will meet you at the station, recognize you by the ribbon. Go with this person.”
“And then what?” Rachel Evans says, but Will doesn’t answer her. “Then what?” She begins to shake, though no tears come to her eyes.
Then she will spend a few days in a borrowed East Village apartment while documents are prepared—a license, passport, a new Social Security card. She will have her hair dyed and cut and be given a tattoo, before being moved even deeper underground and into anonymity, until one morning she will wake to look in the mirror and won’t even recognize her own face. If she’s lucky.
But Will doesn’t tell her that. That is for later. Rachel doesn’t realize it yet—the shock has been too great, the unraveling of her life too swift—but Will has rescued her from the nightmare of Devlin McKenna, spared her from the syncopation of the shovel digging her grave, from the defiling of her body before the bullet in the brain or the vise-tight grip of Rich Ritter’s calloused hands around her throat. Yes, Will has saved Rachel Evans’s life. Of this he is sure.
Perhaps, one day, she will even forgive him for it.
FIFTY-NINE
There’re still no empty parking spaces in front of 38 Newbury, but that’s on account of the two police cruisers, Wells’s Audi, and a Boston Police van hogging up the metered curb. Either there’s a knockout sale going on at Alan Bilzerian or Brill and Wells are moving in fast on Darryl’s crumbling kingdom, putting an end to his nascent real estate dreams. There’s a new doorman on duty, his hands jammed deep in his pockets like he’s afraid to set them free for fear of what they might do on their own.
“Hey, how are ya? Where’s Charlie?”
“Charlie quit.” The doorman squints at me. “You Zesty?”
“Yep.”
“Yeah, well, Charlie told the boss to shove the job up his ass. Whaddaya think about that?”
“Not very professional,” I say.
“Professional what?” The doorman smiles. “He also said something about maybe riding a bike for work. Any money in it?”
“Barely. But the dry cleaning bills are tiny, and you have to beat the secretaries off with a stick.”
“Sounds swell. You going up to Black Hole?”
“Yeah. You want me to sign in?”
“What’s to sign? The cops are taking everything. That van there’s already packed with boxes. Charlie told me he was bored shitless here, but I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Between the cops and all the tail on this street, this joint’s a live wire. Here, let me get that for you. You know the floor, right?”
There’s no music playing inside the Black Hole offices, no computers on the reception desk, nobody to greet me except for a female officer stacking boxes onto a hand truck just inside the glass doors.
“Place is closed,” she informs me.
“I work here,” I say.
“Dressed like that? Boy, did I pick the wrong job.”
“But you look good in blue, Officer.”
“Aren’t you a honey. And a gentleman too.” She wheels the hand truck past me as I hold the door.
“Well, look who it be,” Brill says when he sees me coming. “Zesty, you know Darcy? She was just telling us she’s your biggest fan.”
“Only she uses curse words to express it,” Wells says. “Explain that.”
“Why should she be any different?” I say. “How are you, Darcy?”
“Unemployed, I think. Thanks to you.” Darcy waves what might be a search warrant at my face.
“Aw, now that’s a little harsh there, young lady. Zesty’s just the messenger, remember? But he sure does pop up in the middle of a lot of shit. Why’re you here, Zesty?”
“I saw your car out front.”
“Darcy, would you excuse us a moment?”
“Gladly.” Darcy heads back up front.
“You get inside Valentine’s safe?” I say when she’s out of sight.
“You mean Darryl Jenkins’s safe? Sure. It was open when we got here. What, you expected we’d find Darryl’s money?”
“I don’t know, you’re the detectives. I just make shit up as I go along.”
“We’ve noticed that about you. Safe was empty, but really we just came for the paperwork and the computers, let the forensic eggheads figure it all out, run a line back to Jenkins, who’s hit the mattresses, by the way.”
“Ducking you?”
“Ducking somebody,” Wells says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We heard Jenkins has street-level issues to deal with. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“I’ve been spending time with family,” I say.
“Word has it maybe the street will take care of Darryl before we get a chance to.”
“That how you’d prefer it?”
Brill looks at me and then to Wells with something close to malice in his eyes. The detectives are apparently back to cranky love between them.
“You’re piping a little judgmental to my ears there, Zesty.”
“I told you Darryl and I had a deal when Gus was killed. You’re after the wrong guy.”
“Nah, Darryl’s our man, maybe not pulling the trigger, but pulling the strings. Seriously, though, all I want is to close this case and move on to a homicide a little less complicated than czarist Russia so I don’t have to see your face every day. You are for real starting to wear on me, Zesty.”
“And to think I was this close to getting deputized. You ever get a translator for that witness?”
“Eventually.” Wells steps in, Brill wheeling on his heels but staying within earshot. “But first we took a run at him ourselves. Guy doesn’t speak a word of English, just keeps pointing at this poster we’ve got hanging in the squad room advertising Liberty Bonds. I figure he’s making his case for the land of the free, give us your tired, your poor?”
“Where’s Agent Lee when you need him?” I say.
“Shee-it. Lee already had a what, three-hour head start knowing what this wit knows. And don’t make me say his name out loud, I’ll
get written up for racial insensitivity. Anyhow, the guy keeps pointing, and finally I give him paper and pencil, and it turns out he’s a regular Chinese Norman Rockwell. And you know what he draws for me?”
“Not Darryl Jenkins,” I say, looking over at Brill rolling his unlit cigar between his large hands.
“Right. It’s a picture of some generic white guy deep in shadow, like one of those old-time noir movie posters. And his hand’s on fire—Lady Liberty’s torch. It was dark, and the guy was asleep standing up when he heard the pops. The translator came, but it was pretty much what the picture told us, a thousand words. As for Lee? We put in multiple calls downtown to the bureau but keep getting stonewalled. Nobody wants to talk to us. Now, why do you think that is?”
Poker face, I tell myself. “The usual reasons?”
“Maybe. But I’m not sans resources. I reach out to a supervisor who owes me a little something, and he practically chokes at the mention of Lee’s name. Seems Agent Wellington Lee is persona non grata at the bureau right now. You remember about a year back, organized crime squad and joint task force hit this house in Mattapan looking for guns, narcotics, only they kick in Granny’s door by mistake?”
I shrug a maybe.
“Bad enough, right? Only Granny’s got a gun and knows how to use it. Anyhow, the whole thing’s Lee’s operation, and he screwed the pooch but good. Lee’s partner takes one in the shoulder, one in the vest; Granny takes about twenty rounds, and that’s all she wrote.”
“Except you’re leaving out the part where Granny’s dirty.” Brill feels compelled to speak, rounding back to us. “Running her own thing next door to the home invasion crew they were aiming for. Guess Social Security wasn’t cutting it.”
“True. But Lee’s still holding the bag on the wrong intel, so it’s on him. Following the usual hearings and a short suspension, Lee gets knocked down to, wait for it … Devlin McKenna sighting duty.”
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