Bosstown

by Adam Abramowitz

  “What you did not have time to see in the file is this.” Lee talks quickly, looking at the woman with the stroller, who hasn’t tended to her child since I arrived. “A confidential informant led police to Michael Drain, who was scoring heroin in Revere just hours after the robbery. That informant’s name has been redacted on more than one report in that file. That same informant identifies your mother as the lead planner for Bank of Boston and the bombing of the police station. Do I have to tell you whose initials have been redacted?”

  “Only if it’s someone besides Devlin McKenna,” I say.

  To my left I see a figure move off the path and disappear somewhere under the bridge at the other end of Swan Lake. A Latino man with lacquered black hair who’d been reading the paper drops it into the wastebasket and lazily reaches to scratch the small of his back. His chest seems unusually boxy like an umpire about to call balls and strikes behind the plate.

  Lee’s words start to run into one another. “Two days after Drain’s timely arrest, he was burned alive in his cell at the Charles Street Jail by a trusty with kitchen access who’d fashioned a crude but effective Molotov cocktail. Tara Agostini, Drain’s girlfriend, was pushed in front of a train at Dover Station in the South End. Tara Agostini looked a lot like your mother—had the same build, same coloring—only her hair had been dyed blond for years. Her killer was never found, but the description of the man who pushed her matches Richard Ritter to a T.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Everybody knows McKenna was a snitch and the FBI protected him for just about anything he did, including murder. Old news. Why steal this file and put yourself behind bars or worse? What’s in it for you?”

  Lee looks momentarily stunned by the question, flicks his eyes at me to answer. “Why, Devlin McKenna,” he says. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  “And this was the best way you could figure to flush him out?”

  “You have a better plan? No, I thought not. Understand this, Zesty, your mother has not gone undetected for so long without learning certain skills in order to survive, as has McKenna. It is not inconceivable that their paths may have crossed in their journeys. After all, there are a limited number of people who are capable of producing the documents and false papers they would require to change identities and locales on a moment’s notice, if necessary.”

  “If that’s the case, then my mother’s long dead, Agent Lee, like Rachel Evans, and Drain, and Agostini.”

  “Perhaps. But I think not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t purely guesswork on my part that McKenna was coming back to Boston.”

  “We already covered this. You baited him with Leila Markovich.”

  “I’m not being clear. Returning to Boston even before Ms. Markovich was freed. Even before I came to be in possession of your mother’s heavily redacted file. I’d been contacted anonymously, sent time-stamped video of McKenna in what looked to be a storage unit that I was able to trace to Topeka, Kansas. I use the term trace loosely. The film cut to a town sign and then into the storage unit.”

  “You were being told where it came from.”

  “Yes. The film was not from the storage company’s footage. It seems to have been set up surreptitiously by someone who had access to the unit, someone who didn’t care if I found the hidden camera left behind. Any guesses who that might have been?”

  “No,” I say, meaning it. “You get papers on the unit?”

  “You mean did I subpoena them?” Lee flashes me a crooked smile. “I didn’t have to. A federal badge, no matter how tarnished, still goes a long way in some places.”

  “How long’s the unit been rented?”

  “Thirteen years. And from what I could see from the video and my visit, there seemed to be nothing stored but an empty box or two.”

  “Who rents an empty storage unit for thirteen years?”

  “I was hoping perhaps you could answer that question.”

  “How were payments made? Not in person, I’m guessing.”

  “Yearly, forwarded from a post office box address in Somerville held by LP Enterprises. That name mean anything to you?”

  “No. Did you get into the PO box?”

  “The postal service is not as easily intimidated by a badge.”

  “And you didn’t share any of this information with the bureau,” I say, still trying to process what Lee’s feeding me. “Didn’t get official clearance to open the PO box.”

  “No.”

  “Because they’d either bury it as they had this file or pull you off the case. They don’t want McKenna found. But you need him.”

  “Yes. To reclaim what I have lost. The bureau and, by association, Governor Hibert cannot afford another black eye in connection with Devlin McKenna or your mother, for that matter, so he is my bargaining chip, whether they want him or not. McKenna is my all-in, as your father would say. I think it’s time you took your leave, Zesty.”

  “One last question. Who do you think sent you the video of McKenna?”

  “Must I really answer that for you, Zesty?” Lee’s eyes burn into mine, but it’s hard to trust someone blinking on full tilt.

  “Nah, fuck that. Why would my mother deliver McKenna to you if she’s gonna have this file to prove her innocence? And how would she even be able to track him in the first place? No. You know what, fuck it, and while you’re at it, fuck McKenna too. Every mook from Southie to Charlestown wants to see him dead or disappeared. My mother’s got nothing to gain by McKenna’s capture.”

  “Yes she does. Don’t you see, Zesty? That file isn’t enough on its own. The bureau never intended for the Bank of Boston robbery to reach trial, preferring to let the public convict your mother and her misguided principles. Your mother, Zesty, was a revolutionary caution tale the supposedly new FBI could pull out and wave around, the aging radical, out of touch with the country’s direction, certainly no longer a credible voice of any opposition. You see, Zesty, your mother needs Devlin McKenna too. Alive. Bank footage aside, they could still pin the station bombing on her—that was her specialty, after all. Aside from your father, who can no longer speak for himself, McKenna is the only other credible person alive who can exonerate her for the Allston robbery, especially if you’re right about Leila Markovich’s instability.”

  “So what?” I say. “I’m not here for her. I’m here for my father.”

  “Then perhaps I have done you a disservice. Unfortunately it is too late to change any of that now. I suggest you take your leave.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The first shots come whipping out from under the willow trees to our right, flashes in the dusk, tulip beds exploding orange and purple. The Latino umpire hits the ground heavily, his gun skidding across the path and onto the edge of the grass. I look at Lee, who’s as surprised as I am, his eyes wide as he ducks below one of the granite stanchions.

  “Go!” He points toward Beacon Street as more bullets whang off the oxidized copper railing, a fragment exploding into the side of Lee’s face, blood spilling out from just below his cheekbone. More shots come from a different direction, a machine gun brrrpt brrrpt spitting out of the mouth of the drifting swan at the far end of the pond. The chunky woman with the running stroller yells “FBI!”, pulls her baby out of the carriage, unwraps her, and pumps a deafening round in our direction but under the bridge. The water near the spitfire swan erupts like charges were detonated beneath the surface, rocking the boat violently, nearly upending it. The globe lights above us rain pearly white glass over our heads.

  Lee’s on his elbows and belly, crabbing to get out of the crossfire, and I’m on my bike, hugging the frame, leaning into pole position, but not toward Beacon, where he’d directed me—there are men in Windbreakers crouching at the corners, boxing us in. My wheels rip into grass, dirt flying up behind me as I sprint toward the iron bars fronting Arlington; bumper-to-bumper traffic rubbernecking the shoot-out on the other side, a chorus of horns leaning heavily into their notes. Out of the corner of
my eye, I see the drifting swan’s head burning, the water around its fiberglass feathers rippling with small-arms fire. As the boat bumps onto the far shore, Otis disembarks gracefully and moves toward Charles Street, a zipper of pavement separating the Commons from the Public Garden.

  I don’t have that option. I opt for the fence, but maybe too late, the chunky blonde ditching her weapon and taking a short angle to cut me off. What I mistook earlier for pregnancy fat is obviously muscle, a former college sprinter blasting out of the block. She sees what I see and changes direction to meet me at the fence-leaning slats, but she’s too long out of training; I’ve had too big a head start and hit the makeshift ramp hard, the wood springing up like a diving board, the kickback launching me airborne onto the front hood of a green Range Rover.

  I don’t hear any more shots as I drop to the street and start cutting in and out of lanes against traffic, trying to get a look at Lee through the heavy curtain of willows as Cedrick’s black Pathfinder motors up the sidewalk collecting street signs like an Alpine skier hitting poles, the hood inverting to a deeper V with every impact. Bullet holes pock the passenger-side doors. The back windshield’s blown out, but the stereo bass is still pounding a wicked beat as it flies by, shaking the street.

  Lee’s nowhere to be seen, and I check behind me one last time to make sure the blonde stayed a one-heat track star, didn’t add the pole vault to her résumé, leaving me on my own and, I realize, pretty much back where I started, the horn section in full swing, police strobes spinning blue ghouls into the dusk.

  It’s darker now, the mayor and maybe even Governor Hibert himself only an hour or two away from being trotted out in front of the park to preside over a news conference where, in no uncertain terms, they’ll decry the violence, declare the city safe for one and all, and then prove the point by strolling through the park with their lovely wives. The FBI, for their part, will issue a terse statement and present someone respectable-looking to read it, and by the end, after declining further comment and ducking reporters’ questions, the public will know even less than they did before.

  But that’s okay. The Sox are home from Seattle, and the Indians are in town. Aerosmith is playing three sold-out shows at TD Garden, and Legal Seafoods just received a fresh batch of monster crabs off the Bering Sea. Hell, there’s probably someone out there right now sweeping the Freedom Trail, polishing Paul Revere’s pewter mugs, dusting Red Auerbach’s giant cigar in Faneuil Hall. The gears keep turning. Boston is a well-oiled machine. Always has been. Why should tonight be any different?

  SIXTY-SIX

  I already have the phone out when Zero calls. When I put it to my ear, I hear drums, whistles, the zip-screech of firecrackers.

  “What the hell’s going on over there?” Zero has to yell over the noise. “The police scanner’s blowing up, shots fired, officers down. That you and Lee?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You have the file?”

  “Right here.”

  “You take pictures like I told you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Old school,” I say. “I pick shit up, I deliver it.”

  “You’re a fucking bonehead.”

  “You find Dad?”

  “No. There’s some kind of parade going on in Chinatown—it’s like dragon city, only you ask me, they all look like giant rats. If it was actually Pops Tommy spotted, he’s gone now. Where are you?”

  “Almost at Tetter’s office.”

  “No! Break off. At this point you gotta figure the feds got him covered. Take the damn pictures like I told you and stash the file someplace safe.”

  “Then what?”

  “I dunno. Lay low. Let’s see what comes out of this mess.”

  “You ever hear of an outfit called LP Enterprises?” I say.

  “What?” Zero says after a beat. “No.”

  “You have Sid with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Put him on.” I hear the phone changing hands, the hard scrape of Sid’s unshaven face scratching plastic out of the receiver.

  “Ya?”

  “When you were watching Rounders,” I say. “That call my dad got.”

  “What about it?”

  “When he hung up, what was it he said to you?”

  “I dunno, something about changing the channel.”

  “To what?”

  “Eleven?”

  “What was on eleven?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, he nearly bit my head off.… Hey, Zesty, you still there? Zes—”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Two hours. That’s a lot of time to drink coffee, and I spend most of it fueling up at Peet’s, refilling the same cup until my fingertips start tingling, a steady crackling of caffeine lightning sounding in my ears, tightening a band around my head. I’ve never heard of a coffee shop having to cut somebody off, but I’m coming close to being that guy. The scruffmeister behind the counter is eyeing me with a nervous crooked grin that makes me think he’s looking for some way to eighty-six me from the establishment.

  “Last one,” I say disjointedly, extending my cup to him, my jaw floating on its hinges.

  “You sure?”

  I scratch distractedly below my ear, under my chin. I haven’t shaved in a few days, and what’s come in feels rough to my fingers.

  “No worries.” He refills my cup, and I start to walk away, but then turn back to him. “You know that today, as a nation, we drink way less coffee than we did in the nineteen-fifties and the coffee was stronger. This country was built on coffee after the Second World War, a cup or two after every meal, including dinner, and nobody griped or whined about whether they’d sleep with all the caffeine in them; they just did what they had to do. People wonder how so much got done in those days, why they worked so hard? They were fucking wired to the gills. Coffee, cigarettes, booze. They lived. It’s called living.”

  “Okay,” the barista says.

  “Okay what?”

  The kid takes a step back from the counter, tugs at his small hoop earring, and tries to find a place to rest his eyes so they’re not looking directly at me. Something about the way I’m holding my bag makes him nervous.

  It’s dark outside, the moon blanked by thunderclouds, everybody taking their purchases on the run, trying to beat the rain spattering the sidewalk. I hear the low rumble of thunder, and trash starts to blow in the street against the smudged storefront window obscuring our view.

  “I apologize. I should’ve been drinking tea. Let me just use the bathroom, and I’ll get out of here.”

  It’s my second trip to the back of the store and the second time I can’t find a place to put the gun comfortably within reach. I drop it back into my bag next to the file and the phone. Lee hasn’t called back. Zero keeps calling, but I don’t answer. My father is somewhere out there getting pelted by the rain, pushed around by the wind.

  There had been a small window of time after my father had received his Parkinson’s diagnosis when he was still able to walk on his own and his doctor recommended the purchase of a cane to help steady his already shaky gait. To our surprise, my dad heeded the doctor’s advice and dutifully began carrying the cane Zero bought him, albeit upside down, the rubber tip held in his hand, the curved handle scraping the ground as he shuffled along. At first I thought he carried the stick in this fashion to subvert the implication of the cane—old age, infirmity, a doddering fool—but when I walked with him, I saw it served a more utilitarian role; he used it to slow his churning forward progress, hooking the handle around street signs at busy crossings, between the split tops of parking meters when the sidewalks were active with other pedestrians, the cane horizontal, his two-handed grip on the rubber end, by all appearances, the only thing preventing him from being pulled into the middle of the street, to the sky, as if gravity had lost its hold on him, threatening to lift him into oblivion.

  The cruel irony of my father’s unchecked momentum was not lost on me, nor I suspect
on him either. He was aging rapidly, Parkinson’s followed by Alzheimer’s speeding forward as his mind retreated in reverse. My father hasn’t been out on the street alone for a year. He didn’t take his cane with him. What was it Jhochelle said about listening to the women in the family? I would if Jhochelle called, but it’s my father’s voice I hear in my head as I cross the Summer Street Bridge, the retelling of one of his thousand Boston nights—they were always nights, as if nothing noteworthy happened during daylight hours—this one, Zero’s favorite, the night Boston burned.

  In 1872 a fire broke out in the basement of a commercial warehouse on Summer Street, its flames launching glowing butterfly embers, which ignited the wooden French mansard rooftops of nearby buildings. Maybe the fire could have been contained to Summer Street, but the Boston of old had been built with no unifying plan, fireboxes were kept locked to prevent false alarms, and a horse flu epidemic had immobilized the Boston Fire Department’s horses, meaning all the firefighting equipment had to be pulled on foot by volunteers. Combine all that with fire hydrant couplings that weren’t standardized, steam engine pumps that couldn’t draw enough water to reach the rooftops, and narrow streets packed with looters, and the result was a blaze that killed at least twenty people, consumed 776 buildings downtown, and could be seen lighting up the night sky by ships as far away as the coast of Maine.

  It wasn’t a total loss, though, as they used the rubble from the fire to fill in Atlantic Avenue, widen Congress Street, and shore up the walls of the Fort Point Channel, the 260-foot-wide strip of muddy and polluted water that separates downtown from South Boston. Why did my father repeatedly regale us with a story about this part of town? Aside from Zero’s penchant for fire and destruction, it was probably also because Fort Point was home to the Channel, one of my father’s favorite hangouts, an unruly, misshapen black rectangle perched on the banks of the muddy waters, which was torn down to accommodate the Big Dig, its footprint temporarily occupied by massive 120-foot booms that loomed over the city like mechanized carrion birds.