by Rory Flynn
Harkness had a repertoire of proven moves, the kind that might look brutal but that stopped fights cold and reduced the danger and damage. The punishment always had to match the crime, no more, no less. He pulled the subdued stranger through the crowd, his unlaced boots dragging across the dusty floor.
Harkness shoved the stranger through the double doors at the front of the hall, and he rolled down the low, grassy hill toward Mt. Auburn Street. He spun around for a minute on the sidewalk, then stood up, shouted, “Fuck you,” and wandered toward the bus stop. Problem solved.
Someone always wanted to take the monthly all-ages show and claim it as his own. All it took was one sneering outsider to taint an afternoon. Harkness walked back inside toward the stage and nodded at Skørge. The show could keep going. Order was restored.
Years later, when he first started out as a cop in Boston, Harkness realized that he wasn’t enforcing laws. He was stopping the outsiders who turned up on the streets with bad plans and enough muscle and charisma to make them happen.
Now Harkness is still hunting down outsiders, the ones who sold the drugs that killed Kelly Pierce, Robert Hammond, whoever might be next—and the cops who let it happen.
But first, he has to find his gun.
19
OUT OF UNIFORM, HARKNESS can walk unnoticed around the waiting area of the storefront campaign headquarters on Dorchester Avenue. He leafs through the brochures about creating a new Boston. Posters of John Fitzgerald, smiling mayoral candidate, line every wall. Volunteers hover over their laptops at glass-topped desks.
“Can we help you?” The front desk girl looks young and earnest, with blond hair and a tentative smile.
“Sure.” Harkness takes out his cell phone, scrolls to Pauley Fitzgerald’s number, and presses REDIAL. Music blares from one of the glassed-in offices along the side. A red-haired man in a white shirt and dark tie emerges from one of the offices. He looks familiar—green eyes set wide, tight skin, neck soft and doughy. Harkness remembers seeing him on television.
Harkness points. “I’m here to see him.”
The name tag taped to the office door says, MARK SARRIS, CAMPAIGN DIRECTOR. Harkness backs Sarris into his office with distracting banter. “. . . Just had a couple of quick questions about the campaign, thought I’d stop in . . .”
The door clicks closed behind him.
“What the hell do you want?”
Harkness twists the white plastic rod that closes the blinds. The rest of headquarters fades and disappears.
Sarris gives a fake smile. “My lucky day,” he says. “I finally get to meet the legendary Harvard Cop.”
“And I get to meet Mark Sarris, talking head. And the guy who’s pretending to be Pauley Fitzgerald.”
Sarris sits down at his desk. “Very clever. You tracked down a cell phone. You must be a really smart cop.”
“How’d you get that phone?”
“Guy gave it to me.” Sarris turns toward his computer. “Is this going to take long?” he says. “I’m running a campaign here.”
Harkness pulls Sarris out of his chair and shoves him down on the gray carpet.
“Shit!” Sarris’s eyes open wide.
Harkness steps in the center of his chest and pulls back on his tie, a noose waiting to happen.
Sarris wheezes like a dog choking on a chicken wing and Harkness lets up a little. “Give it to me.”
Sarris reaches in his pocket and pulls out a bright red cell phone.
Harkness takes it. “Now tell me where you got it.”
Sarris says nothing for a moment, just rises up on all fours and rubs his throat with his fingertips. “You Boston assholes. You’re fucking insane. This shit never happens in LA.”
“We’re not in LA. And we’re not on TV.” Harkness grabs Sarris by the shoulders and throws him back in his chair. His face is splotched and his tie stretched New Wave narrow.
“Where’d you get the phone?”
“Your friend in Narco-Intel. Patrick.”
“No way.”
“Maybe you need better friends.”
There’s a knock on the door and it inches open.
“Everything okay?” A tall man in a suit peers in, his right eye green circled and swollen shut.
“Fine, Johnny,” Sarris says. “This guy’s about to leave.”
The suit gives Harkness a confused scan with his good eye.
“Ever find those Frye boots?” Harkness says.
“Ever find your gun?”
“I’m about to.”
Harkness pulls the door closed and locks it.
Sarris points at Harkness. “What do you want?”
“My gun.”
Sarris shakes his head. “I don’t have your gun. Get out of here before I call the cops.”
“That’s rich,” Harkness says.
“You’re trespassing,” Sarris says. “And you’re not exactly popular around here. You killed the councilman’s favorite nephew. And you fucked up my deputy communication manager.”
“Cyclops in a suit?”
“Johnny almost lost that eye thanks to you. He’s an actor back in LA.”
“You sent actors to beat us up?”
“Figured looking tough was enough.”
“Not around here,” Harkness says. “The gun, Sarris. Now.”
“I don’t have your gun.”
“Someone here knows where it is.”
Sarris shrugs. “That’s what campaigns are about. Knowing a lot of things.”
Harkness hands Sarris a manila envelope. “Well, here’s something you should know about.”
Sarris opens the folder. His small mouth puckers as he stares at the first photo.
“Left to right,” Harkness says. “Unnamed thug. Very young girl wearing bra and thong. Unnamed thug. Mr. Mach, owner of the notorious Zero Room. Girl. Joe ‘Joey Ink’ Incagnoli, representing the North End mob. The legendary James ‘Whitey’ Bulger, making a secret visit to Boston from his Santa Monica love nest. Thomas Gallagher, South Boston associate of Bulger. And your man, City Councilor John Fitzgerald. Thought it might make a nice campaign poster.”
Sarris shakes his head. “Totally fake. Nice Photoshop job.”
“Got dozens of photos. Different nights, same crew. Your man and a crowd he shouldn’t be running with.”
Sarris throws the photo on his desk. “Get out of here.”
Harkness flips through the photos and finds one of Fitzgerald and Whitey sitting side by side like brothers. “Imagine this on the cover of the Herald. Or on Fox News. Maybe LA Confrontational?”
“For purposes of discussion, let’s assume that it’s real,” Sarris says. “What do you want, Harkness?”
“You mean if this hypothetical photo stays where it is?”
“Yes.”
“My gun. And I want Fitzgerald to leave Narco-Intel alone.”
“We get every last fucking photo.”
“When I have my gun back, I’ll think about it.”
Sarris shakes his head. “It’s not here.”
“Then how did Cyclops know I didn’t have my gun? You either have it or you know who does.”
Sarris holds up his hands. “The councilman was messing with you. He holds a grudge—not my favorite quality. Wanted to embarrass your pal Lattimore and bring him down. Thought he might put out a once the commissioner’s golden boy, now a townie cop who can’t even keep track of his gun narrative.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“You really want to know, Harkness?” Sarris tilts his head. “I talked him out of it. Told him it was bad politics to be settling scores in the press. Told him that this race was about getting elected, not getting even. And for once, the councilman listened to me.”
“Gee, you’re making me almost sorry I kicked your ass.”
“Look, no one here took your gun. Fitzgerald just took advantage of it once he knew it was up for grabs. We liked messing with you with the dead guy calling on the phone thing. Thought it was
funny at the time. Now it’s over.”
“Thanks for that clarification,” Harkness says. “So where is my gun exactly?”
“One of the guys in that photo has it.” He points at the photo of the Zero Room. “You’re such a hot-shit detective, you figure out which one. And Harkness?”
“What?”
“I hear he’s been using it.”
***
“I don’t know how many times I can tell you this, Eddy,” Thalia says. “I didn’t take your gun. Listen to me. I. Did. Not. Take. Your. Gun.” She’s stalking back and forth in front of her building, shaking her head. His squad car is parked halfway up on the sidewalk, engine ticking from speeding to the South End from Dorchester.
“Then how did Mach get it?”
“Maybe that asshole guy at the campaign place was lying, Eddy. Ever think of that?”
“All I know is that Mach has my gun, and you’re the only one who could have given it to him. It’s that simple.”
“I didn’t do it, Eddy. I hate Mach.”
“Everyone does. But he still manages to get people to do things for him. He controls everyone at the Zero Room like they’re his puppet collection. You worked for him for years. Jeet put up with Mach even though he hates him. And you told me he got that waitress friend of yours to walk on him in high heels, you know, the short one with the hair?”
Harkness stops. Then Thalia.
“Marnie,” they say at the same time.
***
When they force the door to her loft open, Marnie’s sprawled on her back like she just fell out of the sky. Her eyelids sag at half-mast, her moist skin shines, and her carnival hair is splayed out on the cement floor.
“Hey! Marnie!” Harkness leans down to slap her face gently, then harder. Nothing. He checks her pulse and finds it, but barely. Her nostrils bubble with opalescent snot.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Overdose,” Harkness says. “Call 911.”
Harkness straightens Marnie’s bird body on the floor, swipes his finger inside her mouth, and presses his mouth against hers. He blows in one breath, then another. Her slick lips taste metallic and dirty, like licking a subway handrail.
Harkness turns away, counts, and breathes again. Nothing. Ten times or more and she’s still staring at the ceiling in frozen astonishment.
Thalia comes back holding a small plastic bag full of powder. “Here’s what’s wrong with her—Redbird.”
“What’s that?”
“Shitty heroin.” Thalia looks at Marnie. “Eddy, is she dead?”
“Almost.” Harkness presses Marnie’s chest, gently at first, then harder. Her head and shoulders rise up with each push and almost convince him that she’s alive.
Thalia’s circling. “Shit, shit.”
Harkness turns to blow air into Marnie again, harder this time. Sweat drips down his sides. “Did you call 911?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Just no,” she mutters.
“Call 911! Now!”
“She’s going to . . .”
“Now, Thalia. Call now.”
Thalia stalks around Marnie, then rushes toward her. “Wake up, you stupid little shit! Wake the fuck up!” Thalia kicks Marnie hard between the legs. Then again. Then over and over, as if trying to kick her across the loft.
Marnie rises up like a sleepwalker and turns to the side to spray the floor with milky clots. She rolls onto her hands and knees and heaves over and over, the murky pool beneath her spreading.
“Feel really weird,” Marnie whispers, her mouth connected to the floor with glistening threads. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve.
“Better weird than dead, dumbfuck.” Thalia holds up the bag. “How much of this shit did you do?”
Marnie shakes her head. “Just a corner. Something’s wrong with it.”
Harkness stands. “Get that from Mach?”
“Yeah.”
“Trade my gun for it?”
She pauses for a moment. “No.”
“Tell us, Marnie.” Thalia pulls her foot back, ready to kick Marnie in the crotch again.
“He gave me five hundred bucks to steal your gun,” she says. “And that bag of Redbird.”
Harkness grabs her by the narrow shoulders. “How’d you get my gun?”
“Got it when you finally passed out, asshole.”
“Eddy just saved your fucking life, Marnie,” Thalia shouts.
Harkness waves her down. “What’re you talking about, Marnie?”
“I put two Valiums and an Ambien in that last beer at the loft party,” she says. “Couple of hours later you were still walking around like a zombie, going out for cigarettes and shit. When you finally passed out, I snuck into Thalia’s loft and lifted it.”
Harkness shakes his head. An answer, finally, at least part of one. “Why?”
Marnie shrugs. “Mach hates you because you busted him and because . . .” She points at Thalia. “Because you’re fucking her.”
Thalia’s eyes narrow.
Harkness knows there’s got to be more to it than that. The bust was years ago. And Mach saw him with Thalia for months. “More, Marnie. Or we stick your face back in this and say good night.”
Harkness tosses the bag of Redbird on the ground in front of her. She shudders, spews more dirty water on the floor.
“Tell Eddy!” Thalia stabs her finger at Marnie.
“Tell Eddy what?”
“Whatever the fuck you know about Mach.”
Marnie stares at the floor. “Mach’s working some angle in Nagog. Knew you were a cop there. Figured stealing your gun would put you out of commission.”
“Out of commission?”
“You know, like you’d quit.”
“Oh really?” Harkness remembers almost quitting dozens of times. He didn’t need Mach’s help. “What angle?”
“Got a business deal going with some dealer named Dex.”
Harkness smiles as another gear clicks into place. Nagog’s a small town. But still.
Thalia leaps in, teeth flashing, rabid. “Did I have anything to do with it? Any fucking thing at all? Tell him!”
Marnie shudders for a moment. Then she starts to speak, her voice so squelched that it sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of a deep, dark well. “I did it on my own,” she says. “Knew where you hid the extra key under that brick out on the sidewalk.”
“So you didn’t tell me anything about your stupid plan, right, Marnie?”
“No,” she shouts. “Knew you’d tell someone with your big mouth. You always pissed me off at the bar, Thalia. You were such a total bitch.”
Marnie drops her head, carnival hair hiding her tears.
***
An empty coffee cup still rests on the kitchen table after they forced Marnie to walk with them to Thalia’s loft to get some air and straighten out. They spent an hour in the kitchen, asking Marnie questions, making her cry, scaring the shit out of her, and finally letting her go home to try to sleep.
“She’ll be okay,” Harkness says.
“Guess that’s a good thing.” Thalia picks up the bag, no bigger than a dollhouse pillow, the tiny label stuck on the side stamped with a red hummingbird.
“A couple of years ago, bunch of kids in Mattapan died from Burmese Red,” Harkness says.
“Redbird is way strong.” She tosses the bag down on the table.
“Explain why you have a tattoo of that red hummingbird right above your ass.”
Thalia looks out at the yellow streetlights. “Might have noticed that tattoo has a black X through it.”
“I get kind of distracted.”
“Crossed out my demons.” She drinks from a smudged glass of whiskey. “Threw ’em out.”
“Sometimes they don’t get too far.” Harkness stares out the window at leaves skittering across the sidewalk.
“You believe me now, don’t you, Eddy?”
Harkness says nothing.
�
�You have to believe me, Eddy. Marnie was jealous. Mach paid more attention to me, not that I wanted it. The customers liked me better. And I made more tips. But one thing’s my fault, and I’m really fucking sorry about it. You never would have run into her if I hadn’t dragged you to the stupid loft party.”
“Was Mach trying to kill her?”
Thalia shrugs. “Who the hell knows? Probably. She’s not exactly a drug amateur. But if you send this bag to the lab, I bet they’ll find something extra in it.”
“Call Mach tomorrow,” Harkness says. “Tell him you made a big mistake and try to get your old job back.”
“That’ll never work.”
“Use your legendary charm.” Harkness pulls on his jacket and picks up the bag of dope and a bottle of whiskey.
“What’re you doing?”
He grabs Thalia’s arm. “We’re going out.”
Long after midnight, the cool air smells of rot and ocean. They stand on the hard banks of the industrial canal that runs behind Thalia’s building, its gray water oily and still, banks lined with weed-woven grocery carts and moonlit shards.
“Got to clean up our act.” Harkness drops the whiskey bottle in the canal, where it gives out one small splash, then sinks from view. If only all temptations disappeared so easily, Harkness thinks.
“You sure we should just throw shit in the water?”
“People have dropped a lot worse in here.” Harkness hands Thalia the bag of dope.
She holds it for a moment, glowing in the moonlight. “Later, Redbird.” The bag spirals down into the iridescent canal.
A green-gray creature, eelgrass clinging to its back, swims toward the bag.
“Shit,” Thalia says. “What the fuck is that?”
Harkness squints down at the water. “Looks like a canaligator.”
“What?”
“Alligators that live in canals. People buy them for pets and dump them when they get too big.”
