Solitary Dancer

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  McGuire couldn’t see. Looking that deeply and darkly within himself would be like asking him to see the back of his head without a mirror. “Why are you saying all of this now?” he said. “Why now?”

  “Because . . . because I started feeling something for you all over again and I had to remind myself that . . . that I need somebody who knows who he is, not some big kid who acts tough and really isn’t and will never know. Don’t you understand how that can scare somebody close to you? Don’t you?”

  McGuire lay there for a very long time after she turned and descended the steps, after the door at the bottom of the stairs had closed and after his body had shook with spasms of sadness and despair.

  “You will at least have an enjoyable meal.”

  Rudy Zelinka smiled at McGuire across his untidy desk. Outside, on the square in front of the old courthouse, a weak sun cast pale shadows across empty concrete walks and over flower beds crowded with frost-killed flowers.

  “And a wonderful view of the Public Garden,” Zelinka added. “I understand DeMontford has a table reserved for his exclusive use in one of the bay windows on Boylston Street.”

  “I didn’t expect him to do something like this,” McGuire said. “Inviting me to dinner. I called just to poke him a little, see if he’d panic.”

  Zelinka thrust out a bottom lip. “It fits the man’s personality, from what I know of him. Stay aloof, in control. You come at him in a vulgar manner, he responds with formality.”

  “What do you figure he’ll talk about?”

  “He’ll want to impress you with his power. Discover perhaps how much you know, in an atmosphere where he cannot incriminate himself.” The cold smile returned. “Perhaps he will offer you a job. He’ll certainly want to protect himself.” Zelinka made a tent with his hands. “I should tell you that enquiries have been made at Berkeley Street, delicate discreet enquiries by a prominent criminal lawyer acting on Mr. DeMontford’s behalf.”

  “Wondering what you’ve got on his client,” McGuire said.

  “Yes, but more pointed than that. The lawyer is aware of DeMontford’s agreement to cooperate with Scrignoli’s investigation and suggested that he could advise his client to cease such activities unless Dan Scrignoli is the only officer dealing with him. Anybody else approaches him and he’ll simply refuse to cooperate.”

  “Scrignoli’s the only one he trusts?”

  Zelinka smiled and watched McGuire.

  “Still doesn’t make sense,” McGuire said. “I’m on the fringe of things. All I know is what you and Scrignoli tell me.”

  “I believe you know more than anyone else, perhaps even me.”

  “I’ve got some suspicions, ideas. . . .”

  “You have far more than that,” Zelinka said. “I think you have worked many problems out in your head to this point, hmm?” The Hungarian pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.

  “A few.” McGuire was hesitant, unsure about how much he should share with Zelinka. “Tell me again why DeMontford, who probably never heard of me before I called him, invites me to dinner.”

  “Never heard of you?” Zelinka spread his arms wide. “Don’t be so modest. He knows of you. Mr. DeMontford is very active in church diocese activities and he remembers your involvement in the serial killer of priests several years ago. To him, you are perhaps a minor celebrity.”

  Zelinka lowered his hands and leaned forward, fixing McGuire with his dark eyes.

  “But I suspect it’s because you are unthreatening to him. And you may be a source of information, a conduit even. The man is fearful, McGuire. He maintains a cool exterior but beneath it he is panic-stricken. Within a few months he could find himself bereft of his marriage, his business and his freedom.” He smiled. “I love that word, bereft. It addresses the feelings the man will have while pondering his foolishness.”

  “How do you know so much about DeMontford?” McGuire said. “You’re Internal Affairs, DeMontford’s a Team Green source.”

  “I said I despise computers, McGuire. I did not say I refuse to use them. You may have noticed the terminal in the outer office.”

  “Somebody’s opening files for you, sending you reports from Berkeley Street.”

  “I’m learning all I need to know without leaving any fingerprints.”

  “From who? Brookmyer?”

  “It doesn’t matter who.” Zelinka looked away, smiled to himself, looked back at McGuire. “Brookmyer handles the transmissions and the commissioner has authorized his cooperation. Brookmyer himself is not accessing the files. You may be surprised at who is.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Captain Vance.”

  It was McGuire’s turn to smile. “Fat Eddie? He’s running things for you?”

  “Don’t underestimate him.” Zelinka shrugged. “Due to the complexities of this case, access to information must be restricted to higher levels of authority. Whenever higher levels of authority are involved, Eddie Vance suddenly discovers new abilities neither he nor the rest of us were aware of.” Zelinka withdrew a pen from the inside pocket of his worn tweed jacket. “Now if you’ll tell me what you know of Tim Fox’s death and any related information, I will tell you what you may want to know before having dinner with the elegant Mr. DeMontford.”

  At the door, Zelinka touched McGuire on the shoulder. “Have you won?” he said.

  “Won what?”

  “Whatever you win when you divest yourself of something that is destroying you.”

  “Nothing to win,” McGuire said. “Nothing to lose.”

  Descending the stairs, McGuire realized that Zelinka had been referring to his meperidine addiction and not to Micki.

  Well, she’d be damned if she’d call him. Phoned him twice this morning, left messages both times, how much more can a girl do?

  Billie rose from her chair, fell back, rose again and reached out to steady herself against the battered walnut end table.

  Out of cigarettes, out of bourbon, out of men, she thought. Then she grinned. Hell, I’m out of a job too. So what do I need first?

  “Cigarettes and bourbon,” she said aloud. Then look for a job. Get a job, get out and around, find another man, men’re the easiest part. It’s the good men, the decent ones, guys you can trust, they’re the hard ones to find and hold on to.

  She dressed in an old pair of slacks, heavy sweater, flat shoes. Ran a brush through her hair, smeared a little lipstick on her mouth, sprayed some L’Air du Temps on her neck, never know who you might meet on the street. Checked herself in the mirror, frowned, pulled her sweater up to her neck and removed her bra. Walked into the bedroom to find another one, a French model with wire under the cups, give her a better bust line.

  She had the old bra off and the new one in her hands when she heard the knock at the door.

  Well, hot damn, she thought. About time. She tossed the lace bra back in the drawer, pulled the sweater down over her breasts, her nipples getting hard already, you could see them poking against the fabric.

  She walked to the door, fluffing her hair on the way. She had something to get off her chest at him, damn it, and swung the door open, a pained expression on her face but remembering to keep her stomach pulled in, her shoulders back, let him know what he’s been missing, how close he came to losing it for good.

  McGuire rode the Blue MBTA line to Revere Beach, arriving in the late afternoon, the sky gray and grieving. There was little wind but the sea beyond the breakwater roiled and threatened, and the sound of the waves and whitecaps were a constant background noise, like machinery humming on a distant production line.

  Ronnie greeted him at the front door of the small white house, ushering him quickly into the warmth and ducking with concern at his light jacket, inadequate against the dampness and cold. “I pressed your gray trousers and sports jacket,” she said. “I picked out one of Ollie’s ties, a red and gra
y stripe, and ironed a white shirt for you. Want some coffee?”

  McGuire kissed her on the forehead, a gesture he knew she disliked, and took the mug of coffee into Ollie’s room.

  “You see Zelinka?” Ollie demanded without greeting McGuire first.

  McGuire said he had.

  “You tell him what you told me, what we talked about this morning?”

  “Most of it,” McGuire said. He settled himself in the chair next to Ollie’s bed.

  “He buy it?”

  McGuire nodded. “He suspected it all along.”

  “So what’s he gonna do?”

  “Wait and see what happens tonight with DeMontford.”

  “Doesn’t have proof,” Ollie said.

  “And DeMontford’s got some heavy lawyers.” McGuire took a long swallow of coffee, set the mug aside, crossed his legs, folded his arms.

  “DeMontford’ll try to figure out what you know.”

  “Zelinka wants me to spook him a little bit.”

  Ollie grinned; the action creasing his face until his eyes almost disappeared. “You’re good at that, Joseph. You’ll spook him ’til he’s like a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” McGuire smiled.

  “Oh, I’d love to be there and watch you work. God, what I’d give to be there.”

  “I’ll tell you all about it, soon as it’s over.” McGuire stood up. “I’d better get showered and dressed.”

  “The Four Seasons, huh?” Ollie watched McGuire. “Might as well hold back, get yourself a good meal out of it first. And don’t you forget to call me, give me all the dirt, damn it!”

  At the door Ronnie caught up with him and said, “Take this.” She tucked some money into McGuire’s worn woollen topcoat, the dull gray garment smelling faintly of mothballs. McGuire tried to brush her hand away but she fixed him with those black Irish eyes and said, “Take it and let me and Ollie know you’re all right, you hear me?”

  McGuire said he heard her and kissed her on the forehead again. “You know I hate it when you do that,” she said, and slapped his arm in mock anger as he turned to leave.

  “I’m really proud of you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For doing what you did. Giving up those pills. You’re a pretty tough guy.”

  McGuire studied her face, grunted and leaned to kiss her gently again.

  “How’s Micki?” she called to his back as he walked into tile night, and he shrugged his shoulders in reply.

  Lily Cathcart, who lived in apartment two, never cared for Billie Chandler, never wanted anything to do with a woman who made her living parading around naked in front of a bunch of men, what kind of way was that to live? Lily Cathcart had raised three children and never slept with anyone except her dear late husband for thirty-eight years, and in all that time nobody ever saw her naked except Mr. Cathcart, bless his soul, and her family doctor.

  Maybe Billie Chandler was at heart a good person, Mrs. Cathcart told herself, just another nice girl caught in a bad situation. Mrs. Cathcart heard that Billie lost her job when the terrible place she worked in was closed down because the black detective was killed there, gives you some idea of the kind of people Billie associated with, doesn’t it? And then that police officer knocking on her door the other day, he looked mean enough to . . . well, as mean as anybody Lily might expect to meet on the street.

  Goodness knows Billie was always pleasant enough and kept to herself, Lily Cathcart admitted. Usually had a smile for her and the other tenants in the building. Never played her radio or TV too loud either. Although sometimes Mrs. Cathcart would hear Billie come in late at night and there’d be somebody with her, Lily could hear a man talking and Billie telling him to keep his voice down. And later, if Mrs. Cathcart got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea and the kettle wasn’t boiling and Mrs. Cathcart sat on the far side of the room closest to Billie’s apartment, she could hear their voices in Billie’s bedroom on the other side of the wall, sometimes talking low and sometimes making groans, animal sounds.

  That’s what she thought she heard late that afternoon. Groans, animal sounds, doing it in broad daylight for goodness’ sake. And then the man going downstairs, his footsteps clump-clump-clump onto the street, just like that. No goodbyes, not a thing.

  Well.

  Billie taking off her clothes in some dirty club downtown was one thing. But if she was trying to make money as a prostitute in her own apartment, men coming up to her room like that, if Mrs. Cathcart discovered that’s what she was doing to make ends meet, there would be nothing for her to do except tell the landlord and insist that Billie be evicted.

  In a city justly famous for its many old and elegant hotels, the Four Seasons sits like an overly confident and audacious newcomer, occupying almost an entire city block on Boylston Street across from the Public Garden. Heavy with brass and polished walnut, the ground-floor dining room is on display through a series of smoked-glass bay windows, and it was these windows that McGuire studied, standing in the shadows of the Public Garden, hunched against the cold in his topcoat.

  Four of the six window tables were occupied. McGuire scanned them from the other side of Boylston Street, squinting to identify the diners. A middle-aged couple eating dinner without speaking to or acknowledging the other, three men and a woman in business suits sampling drinks and opinions, a young couple studying a menu nervously, two elderly women sipping tea.

  One of the tables held a small discreet white card and McGuire walked along the garden pathway to position himself opposite it just as a tall man in a shiny gray suit appeared in the window accompanied by two men in tuxedos, a waiter and the maître d’. The waiter pulled the chair out for the man and whisked the white tent card away while the maître d’, his white-gloved hands holding each other at waist level, bowed and spoke to the hotel guest. The man in the shining suit nodded and smiled. Both hotel staff quickly disappeared from view, leaving him alone at his table.

  The man at the table smoothed his tie and looked casually out the window, his position slightly elevated above the level of pedestrians hurrying by, shopkeepers and office workers on their way toward the subway or to dinner at less prestigious establishments where there would be no view of the Public Garden and no white-gloved waiters to pull out their chairs.

  Despite the best efforts of Boston’s arguably best hotel, social realities abided beyond the double-insulated glass windows, and while they could not intrude they at least remained visible and vexing to the guests.

  McGuire watched one of them: a street beggar of indeterminate age shuffling along Boylston Street an arm’s length from the dining-room windows. He wore a long, graying beard, and thatches of unkempt hair spilled out from beneath a knitted cap while he shook a paper cup at passing pedestrians, pleading for spare change. A filthy cloth jacket was buttoned to the neck, and as he walked his oversized shoes slapped the pavement, revealing scabrous bare feet black with dirt. On his hands were mismatched knitted gloves, and when he wasn’t begging for coins, he would turn his back to the hotel windows, a street person retaining his dignity in the presence of ostentatious wealth barely a short distance, but several levels of society, away.

  The beggar paused at the window where the man in the shiny suit studied him with expressions of interest and disgust. At that moment the waiter arrived with a crystal glass to set in front of him before glaring out the window at the homeless street person. His customer smiled and shook his head at something the waiter said and in an instant the waiter was out of sight again.

  The homeless man, unaware of the minor distress he had caused behind him, resumed shuffling by, shaking his paper cup at pedestrians and imploring with watery eyes for handouts.

  McGuire crossed the street, the collar of his worn gray wool topcoat turned up and his hands thrust deeply in his pockets. From
the corner of his eye he saw the man in the window watch him approach.

  At the hotel entrance the doorman avoided eye contact with McGuire who swept past and into the lobby, crossing to the dining room where the maître d’ smiled pleasantly and asked how he could help McGuire.

  “DeMontford’s expecting me,” McGuire said, and the maître d’ closed his eyes long enough to bow his head and turn to lead the way.

  DeMontford rose from his chair as McGuire approached. Various parts of the man reflected light in the dimness of the room—a glitter of diamonds in the face of the heavy watch on his wrist, a sheen from the silk fabric of his suit, a twinkle from the gleaming cuff links, a luster from the starched white shirt and a flash from the man’s clear lively eyes.

  “Joe McGuire,” DeMontford said, reaching past the maître d’ to seize McGuire’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you finally.” His words were carefully modulated and, in place of the expected broad Boston accent, DeMontford enunciated with a vaguely British delivery. “I’ve been aware of your police career for many years.”

  “Your coat, Mr. McGuire?” the maître d’ asked.

  “I’ll hold onto it,” McGuire said. He shrugged out of his topcoat as the maître d’ pulled McGuire’s chair out for him. McGuire tossed his coat on one of the empty chairs, generating a wave of mothball aroma, and sat down.

  “Glenfiddich, neat.” DeMontford, who had returned to his chair, held the crystal tumbler up for McGuire’s inspection. “Join me?” His voice was deep and raspy with a texture like tree bark.

  “Got any Kronenbourg?” McGuire asked. The maître d’ lowered his eyes and nodded. “Make it a cold one,” McGuire said.

  “I ordered the salmon,” DeMontford said to McGuire. “Poached in Chablis with béarnaise sauce. Magnificent. Will you have some?”