by David Hosp
He looked up at Platt and swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Honor,” he said. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Chapter Eighteen
Gavin Middle School in South Boston looked like every other school in Boston built in the first half of the twentieth century. It was a two-story brick-and-cement structure next to the Church of St. Mary on Dorchester Street, on the edge of Dorchester Heights. It had fallen into squalor in the latter half of the century, and sections of it were now roped off with bright orange safety netting. It was bordered on three sides by dilapidated residential housing the color of dirt and depression. The pointing between the bricks on the school’s exterior was chipping, causing the corners to sag wearily.
It had been designed to accommodate three hundred students in the sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. More than twice that number now trudged up the walkway every morning hoping to be educated. One-third of those who attended were enrolled in special educational programs. Two-thirds were classified as either failing or performing below acceptable standards. Not a single student was classified as “advanced.” The school itself had been designated as “restructuring”—the lowest classification for public schools, entitling parents to opt out of the place and send their children to another school within the district. Many did. The students left were those whose parents lacked the wherewithal or the motivation to find their children a better alternative.
It was the fourth school Sally Malley had attended in three years. She’d left two schools as a result of the wanderlust of her two parents; she’d been forced out of another because of disciplinary problems.
It was lunchtime, and most of the students were in the cafeteria. Sally could hear the screaming from the basement lunchroom even at the side of the building, down the alley that separated the school from St. Mary’s. She hated the screaming. It seemed as though it was almost involuntary, the way all of the students screamed whenever they had the chance. The lunchroom was the worst, and she avoided it at all costs.
As soon as the bell rang for lunch, she sneaked out and ducked down the alleyway into a step-down covered doorway that led to the church’s basement. As far as she knew, the door was never used; she’d never seen anyone come in or go out. It was her sanctuary.
She put her bag down and reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out her Marlboros and a book of matches. She tugged a cigarette out with her teeth, struck the match and held it up in front of her face. For a moment she was tempted to skip the cigarette and light her hair on fire. Or maybe her face or her hand; a good burn would get her out of classes for a while. She sighed and lit the cigarette instead. She hadn’t quite lost her instinct for self-preservation.
She inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply, letting it fill her lungs, wondering how quickly she might be able to develop a tumor. Probably not quickly enough to get her out of math class, she guessed.
She was running through scenarios in her mind by which she might be able to avoid school altogether that afternoon when she heard them coming from the back of the school. They were loud. They were laughing in that vicious, brutal way that immediately identified them as adolescent boys who’d given up on life too early. They spoke in the heavy dialect of the projects, and their banter was punctuated with a curse every other word.
Sally shrunk back from the mouth of the overhang, tucking herself into the shadows as far as possible. She wasn’t scared; not really. Not the way others might be. This was a part of the life to which she had become accustomed. Threats were everywhere; she accepted them as inevitable, and treated them as an inconvenience. If she could avoid dealing with this particular threat, terrific. If not, she was ready. Always would be.
There were four of them, and they were even with the doorway before any of them noticed her. For a moment, she thought she was going to get lucky and avoid the hassle. It wasn’t to be, though. One of them stooped to pick up a rock, probably to throw it through one of the already-broken windows in the school, and as his head came up it was turned toward her, and he caught sight of her.
“Yo,” the boy said, smacking one of the others in the arm. “Check this shit out.”
All four boys stopped walking and turned toward her. She stared at them and took a strong drag on her cigarette.
One of them looked older than the others; probably seventeen. He had a bad case of acne and a mass of reddish-brown hair. He was tall, and his mouth turned up at one corner and down at the other, giving him the appearance of a perpetual sneer. The others were closer to her age—maybe fifteen—and they were followers. The leader nodded to them, and they took a few steps over toward her.
She moved quickly to step out of the doorway, so she wouldn’t be trapped, but she was too slow. They cut her off and formed a semicircle around the alcove, blocking her escape. That was bad, she knew. She’d have been all right as long as she could run, but that was no longer an option.
“You got a smoke?” the older boy asked. The others laughed.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her pack, shook a cigarette free and held it out. Her mind calculated her odds. She thought about lashing out, taking preemptive action in the hopes that it might catch them off guard. She didn’t think it was likely to yield the desired result, though, and she was still hoping that they were merely going to hassle her and then leave her alone.
Acne-boy took the cigarette from her and held it up. “You got a light?” he asked. There were more titters from the others, though they seemed more tense now.
She reached into her pocket again and pulled out her matches. She tossed them to him, and he caught them. He licked his lips and put the cigarette in his mouth. Then he lit a match and held it to the tip, never taking his eyes off her. She could feel all of their eyes moving up and down her young, developing figure. He took a drag, and the tip of the cigarette glowed angry red, the tobacco crackling ever so softly. The smoke drifted out of his nostrils for a moment, and then he exhaled a cloud into her face. He held up the cigarette in front of her at eye level, then dropped it onto the cement in front of her and stepped on it. “You got anything else?” he asked.
She moved quickly, darting to his left, in between the older boy and the smallest of the others, ducking as she tried to bolt past them. It was a good effort, but they were faster than she was, and they both held out their arms, catching her by the neck and shoulder, throwing her back toward the door to the church basement.
Acne-boy shook his head. “Fuck you doin’?” he asked. “We’re bein’ all polite and shit, and you fuckin’ disrespect us like that?” He cleared his throat and spat the haul onto the ground in front of her. The orange wad just missed her foot. “Looks like someone needs a lesson she won’t fuckin’ learn in school, huh?”
None of the other boys said anything; but they didn’t step aside, either. “You like that?” the older boy asked. “You wanna learn something today?” He reached out toward her, his hand brushing her collarbone, then tracing a diagonal line toward the center of her chest. He looked at his friends and laughed. It was one of the ugliest sounds Sally had ever heard. Then his hand stopped and moved up again, back toward her neck and beyond.
He caressed her cheek with his fingertips, and she could smell dirt and grit and sweat. He put his finger to her lips. “Open your mouth,” he said.
She wondered when the last time was that he washed the hand, and shuddered. Still, she had little choice. She let her lips part and unclenched her jaw. He pushed his finger into her mouth slowly. She gagged at the thought of what he was doing, and a dribble of saliva ran down her chin. She thought her revulsion might make him reconsider, but if anything it only seemed to excite him more. He licked his lips as he watched her. “Suck it,” he said.
She forced herself to relax as he pushed his finger farther into her mouth. She watched him closely, swallowing it up past the middle joint. It was almost over, she told herself. He closed his eyes, and tipped his head back ever so slightly, enjoying himself. She looked around briefly; his posse was tra
nsfixed by the scene.
Then she bit down on the finger as hard as she could.
He screamed and tried to pull his hand away, but she had hooked her teeth on the far side of his knuckle, and by fighting he drove her teeth deeper through the skin and muscle. His friends stood shocked, faces slack, unsure what to do.
“Get the fuckin’ bitch off me!” the boy screamed, thrashing his hand about, but it did no good. She could taste the blood as it filled her mouth, and she was afraid for a moment that she might gag again, but she held on to his wrist and kept her jaw locked. She was pretty sure that she was down to the bone, and she wondered, if she twisted slightly, whether the finger would break and come off in her mouth. It would serve him right, she figured.
He was screaming so loudly now that she almost couldn’t hear the man’s voice over the screeches. “What the devil is going on out there?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a figure in black standing on the landing of the stairs that led up to the sacristy of the church. She unclenched her teeth and the boy stumbled backward, still howling. “You fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled.
The priest was coming down the stairs now. “You there!” he yelled at the boys. “What are you doing?” He was in his fifties, with a flame of thick, bright white hair rising up from his head. “Stay there!” he yelled.
The boys were moving away, gathering themselves into a run. Blood was running down Acne-boy’s hand and onto his arm. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you little cunt!” he yelled.
The priest hit the ground and took a few strides toward the boys, looking for a moment as though he would go after them. She knew he wouldn’t really, though. He understood the dangers of the neighborhood as well as she did; the collar only provided so much protection, and he broke off any pursuit before it really started.
She was breathing hard, and the flood of adrenaline was making her shake. She reached into her pocket and pulled out another cigarette, reached down and picked up the pack of matches the boy had dropped. She lit the cigarette and took a drag.
The priest turned and headed back to her, regarding her as if she were an alien life-form. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“You belong in school,” he said.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. Looking down, she could see a smear of blood on her skin. “I’m going,” she said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, held it out to her. His arm extended its fullest from his body to make the gesture, as though he didn’t want to come too close to her. She took it and wiped off the back of her hand. Then she wiped her mouth, and the red stain on the white fabric grew significantly. She spat, and a mouthful of blood hit the ground. She was pretty sure it was the boy’s blood, and it disgusted her. She spat again, and then took another drag from the cigarette.
The priest was just standing there, and she could feel his disgust and judgment. She didn’t blame him, really; she felt disgusted with herself. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” he said after a moment. His tone carried the implication that she had brought the attack on herself. It was more than Sally could take.
“You shouldn’t blow altar boys,” she replied.
His face contorted. “Get away from this church!” he hissed.
She dropped her cigarette on the cement and wiped her mouth once more. She tossed the handkerchief back at him, and he dodged it, letting it fall to the ground. “I’m going,” she said. “I’m late for math.”
She picked up her bag and walked past the priest, turned right, and headed up the alley to the main entrance of the school. She could feel him watching her the entire way. She didn’t care, though. What more could God do to her, she figured.
Chapter Nineteen
Finn headed upstairs to the holding cells. Devon was still in shackles as he awaited transfer back to Nashua Street. Finn rubbed his jaw, shaking his head back and forth. “You want to explain what the hell this is all about?”
“Sorry,” was all Devon said. He looked sorry, but not about the incident in the courtroom. Instead his sorrow seemed deeper. He hadn’t gotten his color back, and he sat hunched over, his shoulders drawn around him like a protective shawl.
“Sorry doesn’t really help me, Devon. I need to know what’s going on.”
Devon shook his head. “You don’t wanna know what’s going on, Finn.”
“Yes, I do,” Finn replied. “It’s been a while since I took a shot like that. I want to know why. I’m busting my ass trying to help you—trying to help your daughter. If you don’t tell me what’s going on right now, I’m walking.”
Devon looked up at him. “I can’t leave the jail. Not now.”
“Why?” Finn said. “What are you talking about?”
“You were gonna get me released, and the judge was buying it. I couldn’t let that happen. I can’t be on the street. Not now.”
“Jesus Christ, Devon,” Finn said. “You didn’t have to hit me; the judge wasn’t going to release you on your own recognizance. I was just arguing O.R. so he’d set a reasonable bail. If you didn’t want to get out, you could have refused to post the bond.”
“I couldn’t take the chance,” Devon said. “You were arguing too fuckin’ good, and I couldn’t risk the judge cuttin’ me loose.”
“Why not? Whatever this is about, isn’t it easier to deal with on the outside?”
Devon shook his head. “I wouldn’t last a fuckin’ night on the outside. I’d be dead before the sun came up.”
Finn sat back in his chair. “Murphy and Ballick,” he said. “This all ties in to them. Did you have something to do with their murders?” Devon just stared back at him. “No, of course not,” Finn thought out loud. “If you had them killed, what would you be afraid of, right?” He rubbed his jaw again. “You’re afraid of the people who killed them. You think whoever killed them would kill you if they get the chance.”
“I don’t think it, I know it,” Devon said.
“Who is it? Someone in the organization? Someone trying to move up?”
“No. There are rules in the organization, and you don’t break the rules like this without someone’s say-so.”
“So, someone from outside. Another gang?”
Devon shook his head again.
“Who, then? And why would they be trying to kill you?”
“Because they think I know where they are.”
“Where who is?”
“Not who, what. They think I know where the paintings are.”
“The paintings?” Finn was confused, but somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm went off, and he had a sense that both he and his client were in much more serious trouble than he had ever suspected.
Devon nodded at him, his shackles clattering as he brought his hands up to his face. “The paintings,” he said.
Devon had never been in the Gardner Museum before. He’d grown up in Southie and never finished high school. He’d been stealing since he was a teenager, but he’d always been a blue-collar thief, and he’d never delved into thefts involving priceless art. As he walked through the great cavernous space, he could feel the ghosts on the canvases looking down on him, powerless to intervene as the corridors echoed with the footsteps of the two thieves.
The place was huge. He’d heard it had once been a private residence, but he found it hard to believe. The floors alternated between hardwood and mosaic, and there was artwork on every wall, in every nook and cranny. The main staircase, roped off, was a great marble affair, sweeping up to the second floor. At the foot of the side staircase, the Irishman took out a diagram of the museum’s layout and a list. Devon had no idea where he had gotten them; presumably from the same source who had given the information about the museum’s security provisions. It didn’t really matter to Devon. He was responsible for getting them into the place; what they stole once they were in wasn’t his decision.
The Irishman f
rowned as he oriented himself. “Upstairs,” he said.
“You need any help?” Devon asked.
He looked at Devon with contempt. “I work alone.”
Devon put his hands up. “Fine with me,” he said. He was put off by the Irishman’s manner. Who the hell was he to look down his nose at Devon? Devon had gotten them into the place, hadn’t he? Still, his annoyance was eclipsed by his relief. Bulger would be pleased, and pleasing Jimmy Bulger was a good thing to do. He’d get better jobs now. More lucrative jobs. Jobs that would help make his reputation and give him the cash he needed to be the player he’d always wanted to be. Let the Irishman be a prick; Devon’s future was made.
He loitered in the lobby for a few moments, but got bored quickly and decided to see what the second floor looked like.
He strolled up the stairs; he was in no hurry. At the top, he looked around. The Irishman was grunting in a room off to the right; it sounded as though he was struggling with whatever prize he was after. Devon considered offering his help again, but decided against it. Fuck him; if the bastard was too good to accept assistance the first time around, then he could handle whatever heavy lifting there was by himself.
He headed left instead, walking down the hallway that ran along the stairs to the galleries beyond. He walked quietly, though he knew there was little reason to worry. The guards were bound tight, and there was no chance that their activities would be heard outside the wall of the museum.
The first gallery he came to bored him. It was a medium-sized room at the corner of the floor, the walls painted a pale color he couldn’t quite make out in the wan light. The artwork was religious in nature; three representations of the Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus. The lines in the paintings were clean and well defined, giving the subjects a cartoonish character to his untrained eye. They reminded him of the stained-glass windows that had adorned the church his parents attended when he was little, and the thought depressed him enough that he moved through the place quickly.
