Bosstown

by Adam Abramowitz

  Without a word, the teenagers scrape themselves off the walls and shuffle into the stairwell, the door swinging shut behind them.

  “That’s some army you got there,” I say. “Some of them might even be shaving soon.”

  “How’d you know I’d be here?” Darryl’s voice is hoarse like he’s been doing a lot of yelling recently. There are half-moon eggplants under his eyes, and his normally pumped physique is wilting like a plant left too long in direct sunlight.

  “It’s hard to explain. But when I mentioned Junior’s earlier, I read something, like a shift in energy.” I shrug.

  “Energy,” Darryl says, eyes wide, looking toward Otis.

  “Force field,” Otis says, but he looks serious.

  “Like a poker tell?” Darryl says.

  “Pretty much. I just filed it away. Didn’t know what it meant at the time but figured I’d just follow the music and see where it led me.”

  “Police follow you?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You mean you here all on your own, nobody knows where you’re at?”

  “Zero,” I lie belatedly.

  “Nuh-uh. You already played that card.” Darryl picks a gun from the table and lazily points it in my direction.

  “I thought you and him worked something out,” I say.

  “Yeah. Well, shit done changed. Why’re you here? Most people like to commit suicide in private.”

  “Consider this a heads-up, D. Forget your corner troubles, I got it on good word homicide’s aiming to pin four bodies on you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Gus and everybody connected to Wells Fargo: Sullivan, Coney, Stavros.”

  “Who?”

  “Yeah, right, whatever. Here’s hoping you got a good lawyer.”

  “Shit, Zesty, I got me a Jew on retainer.”

  “Those are the best kind,” I say. “I keep mine in a desk drawer with my rolling papers.”

  Darryl turns to Otis, something like a dark light working in his eyes. Otis maybe shakes his head.

  “Let’s talk about Coney,” I say. “Honestly, I don’t figure you for anybody but him. The Rumsey courts are your turf now, right?”

  Otis shakes his head visibly now, barely half a rotation but his eyes are focused elsewhere, maybe looking somewhere into the future, not happy with what he’s seeing.

  “That’s how the money finds its way to you, right? Coney’s the connect. He approaches you, says, what, he’s got some massive score and word is you can clean it quick for a price? Put it through all those legit businesses you got going. How’m I doing?”

  “Keep talkin’. I’ll let you know.”

  “At first you’ve got to figure Coney’s full of shit, no way this fool’s going to bring you seven digits to launder. But he shows up, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Steps up.”

  “Yes.”

  “And he’s not alone.”

  “No. He’s got some cagey old white guy with him.”

  “And you don’t know who it is?”

  “Not right then. But I ain’t without some due diligence. I have him followed a couple days, and we get what we need. Meaning we know he ain’t police so…” Darryl lets his words hang.

  “You know who he is now, though.”

  “Yes.” Darryl bites down on something in his mouth, not enjoying the taste.

  “But it’s too late, you already took his money. Two million dollars that you’re going to rush-clean through Black Hole. Time is of the essence, the man’s in a hurry? That’s why your cut’s so high at fifty percent. Except you get greedy, figure you knock off Coney, what’s McKenna going to do? You knew where the money came from, didn’t you?”

  “I knew. I couldn’t believe Coney took down an armored truck, but the man was good to his word.”

  “And then you took him out. Made it look gang related.”

  “No. I’ll admit I thought about it, leave the old white dude out in the cold, but Coney’s practically blood. We go way back; I couldn’t do him like that. The streets took Coney, plain and simple. Young blood making a rep, and Coney always did have a mouth on him. But I shoulda known—the street giveth and the street taketh away. You got hit on delivery, my man on the wheels of steel, Valentine, getting sloppy at the office, not doing his job pushing the money through like he’s supposed to; Gus and Britta play their own game trying to take me off for a chunk; the police all up in my legit businesses, and all the money coming off the corners gone. And now finally, Gus, maybe the only real talent I got, goes and gets himself killed.”

  “But not by you.” I say this more as a question than a statement.

  “You hear this cat, O? Like if I did Gus, I’d just come right out and say it. I know Cedrick searched you for a hammer downstairs ’cause he ain’t gonna make that mistake twice, but he check you good enough for a wire?”

  “He damn near molested me,” I say. “And for your information, I’m your only alibi for Gus, but I need to know for myself—you order it done?”

  Darryl and Otis just glare at me, neither one of them saying anything.

  “So I’ll chalk that up as a maybe.”

  “Chalk it any way you like, but I didn’t kill no-body, you hear me? Why you think Otis here looks so damn disappointed?”

  “So then what’s with the mattress diving? The corners blowing up on you too now?”

  “Looks like it. I lost two crew chiefs last twenty-four hours and then I pulled everybody in. Fuck hitting the mattresses, we sleeping on floors till this shit get sorted out.”

  “Where’re the bodies?” I say.

  “It make a difference?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Nah, I know what you’re thinking, Zesty. You think I don’t care about my people, they’re just replaceable slingers, chose the life, so fuck ’em, right?”

  “That’s how they do it on The Wire,” I say.

  “Yeah, well, there’s limited choices out there, and the ones choose my way know the dangers of the business. But my boys weren’t just killed, Zesty, they were cut up like you hear about in South of the Border shitholes—hands cut off, their eyes cut out, a message in every slice.”

  “You moved into Mexican cartel territory?”

  “Maybe Colombian. Hard to tell.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Fuzzy borders,” Darryl says, palms up. “The crews strayed.”

  “You should’ve known better than to throw in with McKenna, kick-start this shit.”

  “Nigga was before my time. And I had to raise capital to clean Wells Fargo. The whole goddamn two million was hot off the presses. I’m talking numbered. I needed one million in clean, untraceable cash, and I needed it fast. I had a chunk of it from Black Hole, but I needed more quick.”

  “That’s why you stepped up your street sales.”

  “Exactly. I wanted the man paid and out of my life, only because I don’t believe for a second he ain’t still wired into the feds. Nobody stays gone that long without help. Anyhow, like I said, shit done changed. Right now I got my people on ice, and when we’re through this, when I got Devlin McKenna’s dentures on my desk as a muthafucking paperweight, I’ll give them a proper burial.”

  “But meanwhile you lose market share,” I say, looking ahead, the blood tide that started with Wells Fargo picking up bodies along the way. “Your corners gonna be empty when you get back to them, or is this the start of some turf war too, your competition smelling blood in the water?”

  “We’ll see. Legend be McKenna like a ninja, here one minute, gone the next. Only he’s wasting his time sticking around, seeing as I ain’t got his money.”

  “Except you do,” I say, overturning my bag on Darryl’s desk, the bundled money tumbling over the array of guns.

  “What’d I tell you? The kid specializes in long shots.” Darryl addresses Otis, who somehow looks disappointed without changing his expression. “Only that don’t look like a milli
on dollars, Zesty.”

  “It’s not,” I say. “It’s half.”

  “And the rest of it?”

  “Comes after,” I say.

  “After what?”

  “A favor,” I say. “I need a favor.”

  “And what, pray muthafucking tell, would that be?”

  “That burner you’re holding will do.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No. I also need a shadow. Preferably one that can shoot and doesn’t mind doing it.”

  Darryl looks again at Otis, who is smiling, finally, a shiny white crescent glowing in a midnight face, a flower blooming on the hard black lava of a dormant volcano.

  “Now, I know I can help you with that.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  I answer Lee’s call on the fourth ring.

  “What took so long?” he says.

  “Stuff and things. The more I’m nagged, the slower I work.”

  “You’ll make somebody a great husband one day. Are you familiar with the bridge overlooking the swan boats in the Commons?”

  “Quintessential Boston,” I say. “We going for a ride?”

  “In a manner of speaking, but not on the swan boats. How soon can you be there?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve never heard the legend of Zesty Meyers?” I say, hanging up.

  It’s past rush hour, people taking the time to smell the tulips, happy hour running into overtime. Lee looks like he could use a few drinks. His suit’s wrinkled, and he’s lost the tie but gained a silver briefcase that ought to be handcuffed to his wrist.

  “Pretty public place.” I ride the pedals to a stop in front of him. Outdoors, in the fading evening light, Lee doesn’t appear so one-dimensional anymore. “You’re not worried about being seen?”

  “Being seen?” Lee doesn’t look at me as he speaks, his eyes scanning past my shoulders, tracking people and spots around the park. Stocky brunette pushing a running stroller. Man smoking a cigarette on the dock by the swan boats. A couple arguing in stage whispers. “Doing what?”

  “You know, touristy things. Selling state secrets. Whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing with you.”

  “Zero did not tell you?”

  “See, that’s the thing. You, my brother, Leila Markovich, Devlin McKenna. None of this makes a whole lot of sense to me.”

  “Then stop thinking and just do what you’re told,” Lee says coldly.

  “You’re one to talk. I hear you’re supposed to be on vacation. How’s that working out for you?”

  “Very relaxing.”

  “Sure. You look primed to party. You still in contact with Leila Markovich?”

  “No.” A look of confusion crosses Lee’s face. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Did you ever consider that maybe Ms. Markovich was in prison where she was supposed to be? That maybe she’s a little off?”

  “No, that never occurred to me. Nor do I care. Why do you?”

  “Because my dad went missing after she visited him.”

  “Missing how?”

  “He’s got Alzheimer’s. He’s wandered off the reservation.”

  Lee squints in concentration, maybe trying to connect dots. “I didn’t foresee that happening.”

  “How could you? Springing Markovich as bait for McKenna is what my dad would’ve called trying to river a pull. The odds don’t favor you.”

  “Unlike many Chinese, I’m not a gambler,” Lee says. “But I caught that card, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, even the losers get lucky sometimes.”

  “I am sorry if I played a role in your father’s wandering. It was not intended. Do you trust me, Zesty?”

  “Trust you? Shit, Agent Lee,” I say, “as far back as I can remember, I’ve been visited by the bureau and asked questions about my mother. Trust is out the window. At this point, I’m just following orders and trying to get back to the kind of work I understand.”

  “You’ve been given instructions?”

  “You have something for me?”

  From his briefcase Lee springs a faded green folder roughly the same size as the package I lost delivering for Black Hole.

  I’m starting to put it in my pack when Lee says, “You’re not going to look at it?”

  “Actually, I was told to photograph it, but Courier Code,” I say. “I just deliver shit.”

  “There is no bliss in ignorance, Zesty,” Lee says curtly. “Open it. You will understand so much more if you do. Is that not the goal of all this for you—knowledge?”

  “Sure, grasshopper,” I say. “Wax on, wax off.”

  “Now you are being racist and disrespectful.”

  “Then I apologize for one, take your pick.” And against my better judgment, I open the folder and see my mother’s name handwritten on the front of the file next to four other names: Michael Drain. Rachel Evans. Tara Agostini. Leila Markovich. I look at Lee as I sift through the papers, the edges disintegrating, dry and brittle, the folder obviously stored for years.

  “This is the FBI file on Bank of Boston,” I say, my voice suddenly as dry as the papers.

  “Yes.”

  “It looks like it’s been sitting somewhere a long time,” I say. “Untouched.”

  “So it seems.”

  “You had access to this file?”

  “No. Until a few weeks ago, I did not know it even existed. When I spoke to Agent Grossman, he did not know of it either. Or at least that is what he informed me.”

  “That’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.”

  “Yes. And I have no reason to doubt him. The file was not easy to find. I’m surprised it even still exists. When most of the old files were digitized, they were disposed of safely. This, apparently, was not. I have also seen your father’s file. It appears there are some documents overlapping between the two, but certain pieces are missing.”

  “And you got this where?”

  Lee looks down at the swan boats, his face back to flat inscrutability.

  “You stole it,” I say. I can’t help myself. I probably look like an idiot, but I have a giant grin on my face.

  “I think your mother would have preferred the word ‘liberated,’” Lee says.

  I sit cross-legged, leaning my back against the rail, and shuffle through the stack on my lap. The sun’s beginning to dip into the horizon, the light soft on the yellowed pages as I flip through them. There’s plenty of federal busywork to pore through, witness statements, bank forms, supervisory summaries and stamps, the paperwork building as it climbed the bureaucratic ladder to its final resting place, heavy, as if they figured they could successfully try the case by file weight alone.

  “What exactly am I looking for?” Even though it’s probably not the case, I feel like I’ve been through half this stuff before, most of it already in the public domain.

  “The bank photographs,” Lee tells me. “From the surveillance cameras.”

  “I’ve seen them all before. They printed them in the papers. I can look at this shit online, for Chrissakes.”

  “No you can’t. I know the quality of the photographs is poor, but that is the point. Look at them again. Closely. Particularly the photographs of your mother. Open your eyes, Zesty. What do you see?”

  What do I see? I see grainy black-and-white video stills of Leila Markovich, Michael Drain, and my mother entering the bank, an elevated shot; their long black coats flap as they step inside with their weapons. I see my mother’s face turned to the side, her shoulder up, as if she knew she was being recorded and didn’t want to give the camera a clear view. In another photo, I see Rachel Evans holding the bank guard’s wrist as he reaches for his sidearm and the teller one window over, her hands shielding her face as if they could ward off bullets. I see my mother in the far corner of another frame as Michael Drain, his arm extended, aims his gun point-blank at the bank guard.

  What do I see? I see dark sunglasses, long black hair under a black knit cap, black leat
her coat over a long slim body, black leather riding boots stopping just below the knee. I go through all the photographs that show my mother in full frame and squint at her face as if it’s my eyes, not the photographs, that are blurry. I look up at Lee, who maybe thinks he looks like just another tourist but has a glow around him as if he’s leaking nuclear waste.

  “My mother was six months pregnant when they hit the bank.” My hands are shaking, and I can’t control them. I point at the clearest of the photographs. “The woman holding down the customers is thin, and her coat’s open, and there’s no bump. Nothing. That’s not my mother,” I say. “She never robbed the Bank of Boston.”

  “So it seems.”

  I look at Lee, who’s still studying the park around us.

  “She could have been the getaway driver.” Why am I suddenly compelled to play devil’s advocate? Trying to justify my mother’s flight following the robbery, trying to process what Lee’s handed me? What could have driven my mother to run if her one major crime—the Harvard bombing—was almost a decade old at that point?

  “Yes, she could have been.” Lee breaks away to look at me for a moment. “But she wasn’t. The getaway driver was identified as an ugly blond. Harsh words for a witness statement, but that is a verbatim account. And that ‘ugly blond’ was seen smoking cigarettes, which your mother was never known to do and most likely did not do while six months pregnant. It is my belief that your mother did not rob the Allston branch of the Bank of Boston.”

  “And the rest of the bureau?”

  “I think that file speaks for itself,” Lee says. “The crime has never been attributed to anyone else. What’s done is done. But you are missing a key component, and we are running out of time. They are coming for us.”

  “Who?” I say, looking around, but it’s suddenly very clear who “they” are. The tourists and joggers are no longer passing through; the swan boats are empty but not stored properly, one of them drifting aimlessly at the opposite end of the pond, its bloodred benches devoid of passengers, the white swan at the head blocking my sight of where the person who pedals sits. There’s nobody coming in or out of the gates within our view; the Boston Edison work crew that was digging a ditch parallel to Arlington Street has abandoned the equipment, long wooden planks still leaning over the top of the fence. I shove the folder into my pack and fling it around to the small of my back, the extra weight of Darryl’s loaner gun noticeable but not quite reassuring. I mount the bike.