By the time I finished my workout I was soaked in sweat and the heavy fabric of my gi was water logged. When that happened, I knew it was a good workout. I showered off, grabbed a beer from the fridge and soaked in the hot tub, listening to “Darkness on the Edge of Town.” I almost played some Buffet, but his stuff was far too light for my mood. My investigation was going nowhere fast, and I sat in the swirling hot water waiting for some kind of vision; an epiphany to lead me to where I wanted to go. I considered consuming the rest of the beer in my refrigerator, but blurry vision wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. I groaned out loud and slapped my fist on the edge of the hot tub. Frustration was starting to set in, which usually made for sloppy work.
Things were so much easier in the fantasy world of Batman. He’d simply go out and bitch slap some thugs into telling him what he wanted to know or use the Bat Cave super computer and have the answer he needed in seconds. Maybe I would have to look into acquiring my own Bat Cave with a super computer. Slapping around thugs was also a good option, but I’d been unable to find any so far. They were having much better luck finding me.
I went to bed no closer to the answer than I’d been a week before. Some detective I was. This funk was killing me and I hated it.
It was cold, damp and raining hard when I woke up, so I stayed home and called every listed modeling agency in the neighboring states. Once again, I struck out. It didn’t really take more than twenty minutes, because New England is just not a hotbed of the fashion world. If flannel shirts, jeans and work boots ever come into vogue, we might have a chance.
After that, I walked the floors trying to figure out my next move. I could start calling the agencies in New York City, since it was only four hours away, but that would take considerable time and there were hundreds of them.
I played my guitar for about half an hour, but just couldn’t get into it. Boredom was threatening to push me over the edge when Marc called and invited me to the UMass-Lowell River Hawks hockey game that night. I’d promised him I’d go the morning he picked me up downtown and I wanted to see my nephew. His chipper little attitude and smile would pull me out of my dark mood, or so I hoped.
I didn’t anticipate any shooting at the hockey game outside of the on-ice action, so I carried a smaller snub nose .38. I didn’t want to be unprepared if by chance something did happen. After getting my ass kicked, paranoia was getting the best of me.
Parking in the downtown garages is fairly cheap, but I found a free spot on a side street next to the old Wannalancit Mills and walked across to the Tsongas Arena. The rain had stopped, but the wind had picked up, giving me a good excuse to wear my leather jacket. I would have looked pretty foolish if it was eighty degrees out, but the autumn chill was just what I needed for concealing my weapon.
I stood on the stairs of the modern glass fronted arena watching the people as they passed. A few of the fans, adults and kids alike, wore the home team’s blue sweater with the school name in white font on the front. I chuckled at one guy who wore an old Lowell Lock Monsters jersey; which was once our local minor league team before they were sold, became the Lowell Devils and then left town after a couple of lackluster seasons.
The Monsters’ logo was supposed to be a mythical creature named Louie that lived in Lowell’s locks. Louie looked like a cross between Godzilla and Barney the purple dinosaur. I supposed somewhere in Lowell urban myth there could have been a monster of the locks, but I couldn’t remember one. It sounded like it would make a great “B” movie and the marketing department doubtlessly decided that it would appeal to the kiddies and sell lots of jerseys. It was unfortunate that the region couldn’t support the team and lost it.
We still however had one pro team in town that was well supported. Just down the street from the Tsongas Arena sat LeLaucheur Park, home of the Red Sox’s “A” league team, the Spinners. I hadn’t been to a game there yet, but my Dad assured me it was a classy operation. Then again he considers Denny’s a classy place because they have table service.
Marc and Timmy saw me as they exited the parking garage and I waved to get their attention. Timmy was smaller than most other kids his age, just as I’d been, but he was full of spunk. He bounded up the stairs and gave me a big hug. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it to be careful of my ribs.
“Hiya, Uncle Ronan.”
“Hey buddy, you ready for the game?”
He vigorously nodded his head. I looked up at Marc, who was smiling.
“What are you grinning about?”
“I like seeing him with family,” he said.
We had grown up with the benefit of family being there for the good and bad times. It was something that I had only begun to realize the importance of in recent years, usually when I found myself alone in some godforsaken hellhole. As much as I complained about them, I usually valued their being so close.
“So, where’s your River Hawks’ jersey, Timmy?” I asked.
He just shrugged his shoulders and looked at his dad.
“You seen the price of hockey jerseys these days?” Marc lamented.
I smiled and put my hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “Do they have a souvenir shop in this joint?”
“Yeah, they have all kinds of cool stuff,” he said.
“Good. Let’s go have a look.”
Marc started to protest, but I held my hand up to silence him. “I got it.”
After buying our tickets, we found the souvenir stand and Timmy was quickly beaming ear to ear in his brand new official blue, red and white jersey. I understood Marc’s earlier statement because even for a kid’s size, it cost close to a third world country’s gross national product. The jersey was huge on him, and I had to roll up the sleeves, but he didn’t seem to mind. It made me feel good to make him happy.
“You’re spoiling him again,” Marc complained.
“That’s part of being an uncle with no kids of his own. Don’t you remember how much Uncle Sal used to spoil us? I seem to remember a certain person getting an official Cam Neely jersey at the old Boston Garden souvenir shop.”
He laughed and nodded his head. “I still have it somewhere too.”
“Right next to your Mike Greenwell jersey I’ll bet.”
“I hope you’re not comparing a college jersey to an Neely one,” he said. “Cam is in the Hockey Hall of Fame.”
“Nah, of course not. That would be sacrilege to Sea Bass.”
We found our way to our seats, about fifteen rows up from center ice. The arena was small compared to some of the larger venues in the area like the “new” Boston Garden or the Verizon Wireless Arena up in Manchester, but it was just the right size for Lowell. It had no upper deck and not a bad seat in the house. They’d renovated the arena a few years back including replacing the annoying seventies era scoreboard that had once hung in the Buffalo Aud; home of the NHL’s Buffalo Sabres. It was the old style that simply showed the score, time and shots on goal. It always pissed me off when I went for a beer, missed a great play and there was no way to see the replay on the scoreboard.
Behind the seats, concession stands of every kind ran around an open concourse. I opted out of the healthy choices and had fried dough and a large Coke while Timmy opted for popcorn. Marc only had a diet Coke. I felt a little bad about my constant prodding of his ever-widening girth. It wouldn’t stop me from doing it again though when I had to put him in his place.
I wouldn’t consider Marc fat, but sitting behind the desk had not done wonders for his physique. I offered to start working out with him, but he had yet to take me up on the offer. I somewhat empathized with him, although I’d never admit it. I’d had to go up a waist size in the past year due to the effects of age. It was still a respectable thirty-three inches, although I bought size thirty-four just in case I experienced a um…growth spurt.
Just before the puck dropped the arena was roughly full of rowdy Hawks’ fans and a good number of fans of the opponents. Down in one section the team’s goofy mascot, Rowdy, a guy in a b
eefed up hawk suit, entertained a group of kids like Mickey Mouse on acid. The children’s father seemed a bit put off by his antics but they loved it. If the guy in the suit knew what was good for him, he wouldn’t come over and embarrass me.
We stood for the national anthem, sung by a group of girls from a local high school. As I sat back down, I adjusted my holster so the gun stopped sticking in my ribs.
“You armed?” Marc whispered softly in my ear.
I nodded.
“At a hockey game? Jesus, you think something’s going to happen here?”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. I waited for my lecture but it never came. He knew better, especially with what I’d just recently been though.
Between the second and third periods, with the home team up on the visiting University of New Hampshire Wild Cats three goals to two, I needed to make a bathroom run.
I took care of business and as I exited the restroom, I ran into a familiar face. It was the doctor from the ER with a couple of very attractive blonde friends. The theory that good-looking women traveled in packs was illustrated perfectly by this moment. The doctor wore a team jersey with black jeans and white Nikes and looked really cute dressed down. She took a gulp from a large cup of draft beer and I could see by her eyes it wasn’t her first.
“Dr. Sadalo…?”
“Sadolovaki,” she said with a hint of recognition on her face.
“Ronan Marino, we met last week at the ER.”
She smiled. “That’s right. You’re looking much better.”
I was pleased to hear she was using the warm and sultry voice, not the cold professional tone she used when we first met.
“I’ll catch up to you,” she said to her friends. They smiled, looked me over and exited. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks.”
She took another gulp of her beer. “So you a Hawks’ fan?”
“I’m a huge hockey fan and a university alumni so I kind of have to be. You?”
“Six game ticket package. My girlfriends and I come whenever we can escape the ER. So, how’s the pachyderm training business?” she asked.
“I had to give it up on doctor’s orders. The elephants were a little sad, but they understood.”
She laughed. “Glad to see you followed the doctor’s orders.”
The horn sounded, signifying the start of the third period, and drowned out her laugh. The fans around us rushed off to their seats.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” she said. “Don’t want to miss anything. Nice to see you again.”
She extended her hand and we shook. I held it for a brief moment, and we made the all-important eye contact.
“You too.”
She turned and walked back to her seat. I watched her go, admiring what little I could make out of her figure under the bulky hockey sweater. Like a dope, I had once again forgotten to ask her first name.
When I got back to my seat, the game had already resumed.
“What took so long?” Marc asked.
“I met some broad, and we had a quickie in the broom closet.”
“Impossible. You were gone for way more than two minutes.” He snorted at his own joke and turned his attention back to the game.
I have to admit that it was a great comeback.
The game ended with a River Hawks’ four to two win, the final goal coming on an empty net with seconds remaining, scored by some kid from Russia with an unpronounceable name—something with a lot of “Ks” and “Vs.” I didn’t even know we had Russian kids playing for our team until tonight. I remember when I was in elementary school and they let the first wave of Russians into the NHL. It was a pretty big deal but now no one bats an eye.
We followed the victorious crowd out and down into the lobby. At the bottom of the stairs, a group had formed around a well-groomed tall and trim middle-aged man with graying temples. He wore a tailored dark blue suit and red silk tie with a white shirt. People shook his hand and chatted excitedly with him like the man was a movie star. As they left, an attractive redhead, who looked to be no older than thirty, gave them a bumper sticker or button. She wore a black business jacket, matching short tight skirt, a white blouse and black pumps. If anything, I would have wanted to meet her over the suit any day of the week.
Off to the side, keeping watch, was my good buddy Detective Morley. He seemed rather disinterested. If he was working a protective service detail, the protectee was getting ripped off.
The man kissed a baby, and my keen investigative mind told me immediately that he was a politician. It was either that or my nose.
“That’s Congressman LaValle,” Marc said.
I knew I’d seen him somewhere. Dan LaValle was Lowell’s congressional representative, running for the state’s vacant Senate seat. I’d seen his ads on television during the Bruins’ games and his voting record was anti-military, pro-welfare and pro-taxes. A poster boy for the Democratic Party, he held a huge lead over his opponent in the polls, as was to be expected in the People’s Republic of Massachusetts.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you,” Marc said.
Like most folks around here, my brother and both of my parents are rabid Democrats. Based on their professions, I could never figure out why. I once tried to convince my father that Democrat equated with his feared “commies,” but he refused to listen. After all, it was the party of JFK and most anyone his age from this state worshipped the name Kennedy. While I didn’t consider myself a Republican, my views were more in line with the conservative faction.
In the political arena, being a conservative made me the black sheep of the family. I’d have given anything to see the look on my parent’s face if I ever brought the leggy lawyer over their house for Sunday dinner. I decided to add that to my list of hundred things I needed to do before I died. So far I was only up to about number six, very slowly working my way through the list.
Through the crowd, LaValle spotted Marc and held out his hand.
“Chief Marino, good to see you.”
They shook hands like two long lost friends. I stood back with Timmy, trying to blend into the wall. I gave Timmy a few quarters, and he wisely scampered off to play a hockey video game near the entrance. If I had had any brains, I would have joined him.
I tapped Morley on the shoulder and he turned and scowled.
“Slumming, Morley? Shouldn’t you be out working hard on that murder case?”
“It looks to me like some junky accidentally drowned.” His breath was as pleasant as ever.
“Even though her apartment was ransacked?”
He shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing much left to investigate.”
“I guess not when there’s overtime to be made protecting Congressman LaValle from overzealous hockey fans.”
“Keep talking, tough guy. You may be pals with the lieutenant, but you want trouble, I know people too,” he sneered and turned away, effectively ending our conversation.
Marc grabbed my arm and pulled me over. “Dan, this is my brother Ronan.”
LaValle extended his hand, and I reluctantly shook it. Another man who’d never done a real day’s work in his life.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Your brother and I go back a long way. He helped me work on an important anti-crime bill I sponsored. You must be really proud of him being the youngest chief in the state.”
He had all the warmth of a used car salesman.
“Ronan has quite an impressive history as well,” Marc said. “He was a Major in the Air Force and won a Bronze Star in combat over in Afghanistan.”
“That’s right, I seem to remember reading about that in the local papers a while back but I never made the connection. Are you a pilot?” LaValle asked, looking like he had no clue what that decoration meant.
That was inevitably the first question everyone asked when they learned I had been in the Air Force. It was somehow inconceivable to some outside the military that not everyone flew an aircraft. You’d have
thought that a congressman would know that and it certainly demonstrated his ignorance of the military.
“No. We didn’t have enough planes to go around.”
LaValle looked at me, a blank stare on his face. I suddenly felt a foot pressing on mine. I didn’t need to look to see whose it was.
“Oh, he’s kidding. Aren’t you, Ronan?” Marc said.
“No.”
My brother was getting embarrassed, and his cheeks started getting red. “No, he is kidding, Dan.”
The redhead wandered over, and I took a better look at her. The phrase “brick shithouse” immediately came to mind, although I had never been able to figure out exactly what it meant. The woman oozed sexuality, which was amusing since LaValle’s campaign espoused family values.
“Hi, I’m Diane Dunn.” The tone and inflection of her voice reminded me of a news anchor.
“Diane is my chief of staff,” LaValle offered.
Marc was starting to drool, and I elbowed him, bringing him back to reality.
“Diane, you remember Chief Marc Marino of the Westford Police. If you ever get a ticket, give him a call and he’ll take care of it for you.”
It wasn’t even close to being funny, but they all laughed.
“And who is this?” she asked, referring to moi.
“Ronan Marino, I’m the chief’s big brother.”
We shook hands. She smiled seductively and looked me over. I suddenly felt like a slab of beef hanging on display at Market Basket.
“What happened to your eye?” she asked.
“I did it playing hockey.”
“Tough sport. What is it you do for a living, Ronan?” LaValle asked.
“I don’t.”
He looked confused. “You’re looking for work?”
Lloyd Corricelli - Ronan Marino 01 - Two Redheads & a Dead Blonde Page 10
