“Five minutes. Go ahead.”
We were standing on the sidewalk of Newbury Street, probably not the best place for me to be hanging out these days. For the uninitiated, it’s Boston’s version of Rodeo Drive or Worth Avenue, with block after upscale block of glitzy boutiques and high-priced chain stores like Armani and Zegna that offer free valet parking. I used to figure, hey, the twelve dollars I save on my car, that’s half the cost of a nice necktie. Ends up, it doesn’t work like that. Put it this way: If my sniper didn’t kill me on this street, the prices eventually would.
The wind blew and the temperature was only what a polar bear would call warm and Kevin and Gerry stood watching from a discreet distance as another unmarked cruiser with two more cops idled at the curb, smoke blowing from the tailpipe into the glassy air.
For the record, Elizabeth was wearing clingy black pants that hugged her thin hips and then fanned out to her ankles, along with a slim matching black jacket. She had on familiar emerald earrings—familiar because I had given them to her after she broke a story that got the Boston school superintendent fired about a year back. She looked, to recycle a word, gorgeous, but it’s important not to dwell on such things.
“It’s Fitzgerald,” she said. “Jack, I know you love him, I know all he’s done for you, but there’s something funny going on. My editors want a story, something meatier than the Scene and Heard stuff on Tuesday. I’m putting it together now, and just want to make sure I don’t cold-cock you with this one, too.” She paused and added, “Jack, he’s a problem.”
I stood there dumbfounded, a compound word I’ve never quite understood. How do you find being dumb? It’s not clear, not simple, not like doghouse or corkscrew.
“It’s jealousy, Elizabeth. You’re jealous. Your editors are jealous. Your whole pathetic little newspaper is jealous. People read Fitzgerald. They like him. They trust him. And that pisses you all off to no end.”
She shook her head. “I could get fired for telling you this, but I was doing a retrospective on the Codman Square riots, ten years after. You know, the police shooting. Anyway, I was following some leads from some of his stories at the time, and the people he was quoting, the witnesses, don’t exist. They never existed.”
I said, “People come and go, especially in the inner city. They may have been illegal immigrants or transients or whatever. But they were there. He’s the best in the city. Maybe the best in any city.”
She gave me a frustrated look. “You’re impossible, Jack. I gave you fair warning. I thought I owed you at least that much after today. It’s not good for theRecord. The publisher is dead. There’s a bloodbath for control. And one of its star reporters is a liar—in print.”
I shrugged. The wintry wind was blowing across the Common, through the Public Garden and up onto Newbury Street, making this conversation even less pleasant than it would have been, which says a lot. “Do what you have to do,” I told her. “But Robert Fitzgerald is no fabricator.”
“Well,” she said defiantly. “I warned you.” And with that, she turned and began walking away.
I watched a Mercedes convertible motor past. The college-aged kid driving it had the roof down even though it wasn’t even approaching 50 degrees. Then I watched that confident gait of hers, the sway of her shoulders, the swivel of her beautiful hips, the swish of her pant legs. She was trying to help me. The look on her face was a look I knew too well, a caring look, a loving look. I should have called out to her. I should have said thank you. I should have asked if she wanted to get together later to talk about all of life crashing down on me like wreckage from a darkened sky.
Instead, I said nothing. I turned away, walked to the idling car and got inside. There was work to be done, and not much time to do it.
Twenty-Four
WHEN IT’S A TIPfrom a source, it’s called a lead. When it’s a warning from the opposing tabloid newspaper, it’s called a disaster. And that’s what I had on my hands. True it was only a potential disaster, but life had a way of fulfilling all of its bad potential lately.
I ducked into the backseat of the unmarked gray cruiser idling at the curb in front of the Ritz, snapped open my cell phone and punched out a familiar number. The warm air from the car’s purring heater made me realize just how brisk it had been outside.
“Mongillo here.” Vinny Mongillo picked up on the first ring, as he always does—not an inconsiderable skill considering that he always has to place another call on hold to get to the new one. He’s the Liberace of the telephone keypad.
“We need to talk,” I told him.
“Yeah, everyone needs to talk. Who’s this?” Not offensive, just Mongillo.
“Flynn, you asshole.”
“Jesus Christ. Hold on, Fair Hair.”
The line went quiet. I pictured him sitting in the newsroom, his huge frame perched forward in his custom seat, a bucket-sized iced coffee and a box of Dunkin Munchkins on his desk, flipping back to Line 1 to tell a U.S. senator that he no longer had the time to talk but thank you very much for whatever it is that you tried to say.
The line click backed in and Mongillo said, “Where are you? Why aren’t you here?”
“Can you meet me downtown, ASAP, at Locke-Ober?”
“No. I hate that place. Like eating in a musty museum. Too nineteenth century.”
Everyone’s a goddamned restaurant critic these days, especially when it comes to my favorite place in town. So I said, “All right, tell me where.”
“Amrhein’s. Great steak tips. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” Like this is what I had to think about in life right now—the quality of my luncheon steak tips.
As the police driver put the car in gear, Gerry jumped in the back seat on one side, Kevin on the other, so I was sandwiched between two mountainous men in a vehicle with heavily tinted windows. If ever I were to feel completely safe, it would be now, especially knowing, as I did, that this assassin just wasn’t all that blessed in the talent department, though I suppose Paul Ellis might disagree with that.
On the drive, I left a voicemail for Cal Zinkle, the downtown lawyer, member of theRecord board of directors, and most important, friend, seeking some last-minute advice on the presentation I had to make to the committee that afternoon that I had done no preparation for whatsoever, unless you consider living my life as preparation enough, which I’m hoping they do. I also clued him in briefly on Terry Campbell’s connection to right-wing groups, most notably the militant Fight for Life. I left a message for John Leavitt, the police commissioner, seeking an update on the investigation into Paul and now Nathan.
Then I called Justine Steele at theRecord.
“Steele here,” she said, snatching up her line. I’ll explain that newspaper types aren’t particularly well versed inEmily Post’s Guide to Business Etiquette, or if they are, choose not to adhere to it. The tradeoff is, they at least pick up their own phone, which no one else does anymore. Your typical housewife seems to have a spokesman these days to handle all media matters.
We talked about that morning’sTraveler story about Nathan’s slaying, which didn’t particularly thrill her. We talked about the need to come back big and cover every possible base. She would assign a reporter to write about the shooting attempts on me. Me and Mongillo would do whatever it took to get the Randolph story in print, just to get revenge on theTraveler.
I started to mention the warning I just got from Elizabeth, hesitated, then decided not yet, not until I could speak to who I needed to speak to, meaning Fitzgerald himself. Instead, I said, “Assuming we get it clean, you think the Randolph hit will affect his nomination?”
She said, “Depends on the mood in D.C. These guys all embellish, so the Judiciary Committee members might be afraid of tossing stones, lest their local paper come at them on one resumé point or another. We’ll see how it plays out, but it will probably play out quickly. His nomination seems to be on a fast track.”
“I’m seeing Mongillo right now on this, and I’m g
oing to ask him to write the bulk of it. This is a crazy, crazy day.”
Her tone softened. “Understood. Jack, this story is important, but what you have today is crucial.” She paused, then said, “Good luck in front of the board. I’m with you one thousand percent, and so is everyone else in the newsroom. And if any of us can help in any way, just let me know how.”
I looked out the window and saw that the glitzy boutiques of Back Bay had given way to the rickety storefronts of South Boston. We had driven less than two miles over the course of just under ten minutes, but had left one world for another.
The Back Bay is old Boston—gaslit lanterns, magnificent nineteenth-century brick townhouses with graceful bow windows, impeccable front gardens, yummy mummies pushing baby strollers with perfect children to the Clarendon Street Park, nannies and cooks gathering at the meat counter at DeLuca’s market every day to buy that evening’s roast.
Southie is equally white and every bit as historic, but it has long been a refuge for the working Irish rather than the effete Wasps, and a refuge is just how they want to keep it. Visually, the neighborhood isn’t much. The houses are wooden, crammed together along narrow streets lined with sidewalks stained with blackened gum. The tiny yards are all impeccably neat. The children wear carefully pressed plaid uniforms as they walk in small groups to their parochial schools. The store windows out along Broadway, the main thoroughfare, are covered with unseemly grates that shopkeepers pull down at closing time with a thunderous clack.
Outsiders? They hate them—the blacks, the young Wasps, the upwardly mobile families who move into the Town, as the locals call it, for its proximity to the water and the financial district. But they don’t hate them, as in “they hate them.” They hate them for what they represent, and what they represent is an intrusion into a close-knit community that may not have money, may not have lofty goals, but does have an enduring sense of self. They don’t, by any measure, want that diluted.
I should know. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I’ll always call home, even if I don’t live there anymore. And it’s always what I’ll regard as the most wonderful place in the world.
The car pulled up in front of Amrhein’s, a handsome brick block of a building right on Broadway where the $7.95 chicken piccata was considered outrageously gourmand. Gerry and Kevin jumped out, surveyed the scene, then beckoned for me to follow. We walked into the restaurant single-file, me in the middle. Inexplicably, I had gotten used to this protection surprisingly fast. The specter of violent death has a way of making us embrace any good change.
The painted middle-aged woman flitting about the front of the store looked at my two guards and warily asked, “Table for three, fellas?” Then she spied me, shrieked, and said, “Jack, I thought we’d lost you forever!”
I’ll confess that despite my love of all things Southie, I don’t come around much anymore—not because I’ve outgrown it, but because it seems so sad since my parents died. That and the fact that my tastes range more toward chateaubriand than flank steak these days—a fact that doesn’t give me much pride, but is a reality just the same.
I stepped forward and hugged Judy McCormick, an old neighbor of mine growing up. We made small talk for a few minutes about who was doing what to who, then I peered around the old-fashioned lounge with the gray-haired bartender and the warren of dining rooms with high-backed booths and red vinyl banquettes and said, “I’m meeting someone. Guy by the name of Vinny Mongillo?”
Her face brightened even more as she reached into a slot on the side of the hostess stand and grabbed a plastic menu. “Oh, cousin Vinny,” she said. “Back here. C’mon.”
On the way toward the back of the dining room, I asked, “You two are related?” I mean, she had green eyes and auburn hair. Like I said, her last name was McCormick. If she’s an Italian, Hank Sweeney’s a Swede.
She turned and said, “God no. That’s just what we call him, you know, from that movie. All the waitresses love him.”
She brought me up to the last booth, where Vinny sat with his back to me reading Page Six of theNew York Post while sticking half a potato skin in his ample mouth. He turned and said, “Christ, Judy, I thought we had standards in here.” She laughed like she really meant it, put her palm on my cheek, and glided away.
I could walk into the downstairs dining room at Locke-Ober, juggle ten rabid foxes while doing my drop-dead imitation of Corporal Agarn onF-Troop, and the waiters would inquire—like they had marbles in their mouthes—if I’d like another Coke. Here, you make a lame joke, or just show up, and you get waitresses guffawing and affectionately patting you down. Maybe I ought to find my way home more often.
Vinny, to me, “Whoa there. You, my friend, look like shit.”
His cell phone, sitting on the table, rang. He picked it up, looked at the caller ID, and hit a button that stopped the ringing. He put the phone back down.
I said, “Well, let’s see. I’ve been chased through a swamp, shot at, nearly froze to death in Boston Harbor, and hit on the side of the head with a rock. Excuse the fuck out of me if I’m not looking my very best.”
“Touchy, touchy.” He picked up another potato skin and pushed the platter toward me. I took one as well. Surprising how much a simple wedge of potato can weigh. Not so surprising once I bit into it.
His phone rang again. The ringer, by the way, was still set to the annoying folk tune, or whatever the hell it was. That didn’t make it any less annoying. Same routine—he picked it up, looked at the number, pressed a button, and put it back down on the bare Formica tabletop.
“Tell me what’s been going on with you,” he said. So I did. I filled him in on the chase the night before, on Terry Campbell’s denials that morning, on the fact I had a retired police detective up from Marshton, two bodyguards standing in the foyer, a meeting coming up in three hours to try to take over the newspaper.
“By the way,” he said, real casually, picking up the last of the potato skins without offering it to me. “Elizabeth felt pretty bad about today’s story.”
Anyone else hear the sound of screeching brakes?
I said, “What? What the hell are you talking about.”
He was quiet for a moment as he tried to get a large piece of potato skin down his gullet. Finally, he replied, “She came by the gym at 7:30 this morning. She was saying she felt really awful that she put the screws to you on the Nathan Bowe killing, and, you know, blah blah blah.”
“No. What’s blah blah blah?”
“I don’t know. I was running on the treadmill. The news was on the TV. Katie Couric was doing this thing on best Vegas restaurants. I was only half listening to her.”
Of course. My ex-girlfriend spills her guts to the one guy she knows will have my ear, and that guy is entranced by Katie Couric’s analysis of the best steakhouses along the Strip.
A young waitress with a slight Irish brogue came walking up and gushed at Vinny, “I saved you some of yesterday’s pot roast. Would you like it in a sandwich?”
“Perfect,” he said. “Tell William to cook my fries on the well-done side. And none of that horseradish sauce. Makes my nose itch.”
She turned and started walking away without taking my order. Vinny called out to her, “Hey Kelly. I think my friend here wants a bite as well.”
Without apologizing, she simply looked at me and put her pencil up to her pad. I ordered a hamburger, plain.
“All right,” I said as she left, getting a little aggravated by all this. “Let’s air out what we have on Lance Randolph. We’ve got solid information that shows that he embellished his prosecution record as district attorney during his two campaigns for governor. He inflated his conviction rate on murders, on rapes, on armed robberies and aggravated assaults, and we can attribute that to aRecord review of all available court data. The real numbers show him to be somewhere in the upper middle of the state’s DAs, according to that review, but his numbers show him to be number one in virtually every category.”
Mon
gillo was smiling openly—so openly that I could count about a dozen bacon bits stuck in his teeth. “I love this shit,” he said. He made a gripping motion with his enormous left paw and said, “The governor’s future, the nominee to be the attorney general of the United States of America, and we have his balls right here. This is why I didn’t bother with law school, because of stories like this.”
I ignored that and said, “We need to put it together this afternoon. I need you to take over my files and throw in your interviews. I have it half-written already from last week, and I have one more idea I want to explore. But need you to do the rest. Call Randolph’s people. Call the district attorney’s association in Washington and get a quote putting prosecution rates in perspective.”
“Gotcha.”
“We need this in tomorrow’s paper, come hell or gunshots. TheTraveler skunked us today. We have to come back at them hard tomorrow.”
He nodded.
I said, “Issue number two, Terry Campbell. If we can pin down this Fight for Life group, link them in print to the MIT bombing and show in some way that Campbell knew what he was getting into with his contribution to them, we’ve killed him—absolutely killed him.”
“No easy task,” Mongillo said. He was, of course, right.
I said, “And issue three. I need to hear why you don’t like Fitzgerald.”
With a mouth full of food, he said without hesitation, “Because he’s a liar.”
I’ve been hearing that more and more lately. His phone rang again. Same routine. He turned back to me, looked me flush in the face and said with stunning simplicity, “He makes shit up.”
I rubbed my cheek with my hand. He folded up hisPost and pushed it aside. I said, “Like what?”
Vinny deals more in the realm of facts than that hazy world of supposition, so I knew by asking this question, I wasn’t going to get rhetoric or hollow accusations in response. And I didn’t.
“Do you remember,” he began, “that story about five years ago. The narcotics squad raided an apartment over in Roxbury. They burst through the door with a battering ram. There’s an old guy, alone, inside. I think he’s eight-six. He runs into his bedroom. Four cops knock his bedroom door right off its hinges. Their guns are drawn. They’re screaming bloody murder. You know, ‘Police with a warrant! Freeze! Get down or we’ll shoot!’ The guy froze all right. He has a heart attack and dies right there on the floor.
The Nominee Page 23
