I waited till he was out of earshot before placing a call to my Aunt Ruthie in the customer-service department at Fleet Bank headquarters in Boston.
“Liam! How’s my favorite nephew?”
We chatted about how her son Conor was doing, his one-year parole on a Fenway ticket-scalping bust almost up, before I told her what I needed. I’d just hung up when Mason sauntered over.
“So,” he said. “What do we work on next?”
“Manhole covers.”
“Pardon?”
“Manhole covers.”
“What about them?”
“You’re supposed to be a reporter, Thanks-Dad. Got yourself a notepad, a trench coat, a fedora, a sheepskin from a fancy journalism school. Try to figure it out. Start with the city purchasing department. See if you can come up with something worth printing.”
“You’re giving me an assignment?” He sounded positively giddy.
“Something like that.”
“Thanks, Mulligan! I was afraid you really didn’t like me.”
Manhole covers. I almost laughed. That should keep his inbred ass out of my business for a while.
32
Gloria leaned in close, her blond hair caressing the side of my face as we studied the perp-walk pictures on her camera’s LCD screen. We were perched on adjoining bar stools. Moisture beaded the sides of our tumblers, hers filled with draft beer and mine with club soda.
We were still in a huddle when Veronica strolled into Hopes and wrapped her arms around my neck, staking her claim. She smirked at Gloria, and Gloria smirked back. Maybe later they’d mud-wrestle. The bartender brought Veronica a chardonnay without being asked, and the two of us carried our glasses to a table with a decent view of the TV over the bar. Gloria teetered in place, wondering whether to tag along. Then she caught Veronica’s eye and thought better of it.
Channel 10’s operatic Action News theme heralded Logan Bedford’s cliché-riddled teaser for the six o’clock report: “Our long municipal nightmare is over! Our gallant men in blue have made an arrest in the Mount Hope arson case that has terrorized our fair city. Wait till you find out how they caught him. You’ll be shocked!”
Who the hell writes that crap?
Ernie DiGregorio spun a basketball on his index finger and invited us to join the fun at Foxwoods. Cadillac Frank made a show of kicking tires with his Ferragamos and announced “an offer you can’t refuse on a previously owned Seville.” Then Logan was back with tape from the press conference at Providence Police Headquarters.
It was all backslaps and congratulations, the chief, the mayor, and Polecki taking turns giving one another credit. The mayor hogged most of the camera time, attributing the break in the case to Polecki’s diligent police work and doing his best to minimize the role of Zerilli and his bat-wielding vigilantes. Polecki injected a word of caution, saying “The investigation is ongoing,” but the smug smiles and the celebratory mood made it clear they thought Wu Chiang was their man.
When it was over, the crowd at Hopes applauded. Three cops and a half dozen firemen, segregated at two tables in back, rose to their feet and raised their glasses in a toast. Then they crossed their invisible line of mutual hostility to share manly hugs, the black eyes and split lips from the brawl at last August’s PD vs. FD softball game momentarily forgotten.
33
Seems like I’m always hustling for something—a lead, a quote, a free parking space, space above the fold. When there’s time to take a breath, it usually involves sucking in a lungful of Cuban and wheezing out a cheer for the developmentally arrested millionaires with “Red Sox” stitched across their chests. Tonight I’d gotten myself into something different, and I liked the way it felt.
We strolled past Nordstrom, an anchor in the sprawling mall just downwind from the stench of the statehouse. Behind the plate-glass windows, mannequins were draped in my annual salary. I focused on my companion’s hips as they drew silky circles beneath her skirt. A minute or two slipped by before I noticed she was speaking.
“… wanted to share the byline but Lomax wouldn’t go for it, so I gave you and Mason contributing lines at the end of the piece.”
When I realized she was talking business, I felt oddly deflated. “We make a good team, Veronica.”
“You and Mason?”
“You and I.”
“I think so too,” she said.
Suddenly I was hungry. I wanted food too.
Before us was one of those pretentious places with ferns, brass railings, hardwood floors, and preening waiters with names like Chad and Corey. As we settled into a corner booth, I felt Veronica shed the day. She pulled her jet-black hair out of an elastic tie and shook it loose to settle on her shoulders. Then she sighed and crossed her legs, diverting my attention from the twelve-page menu.
Veronica ordered veal. I asked for the rib eye. There are times when nothing will do but meat.
She was at it again. Talking. I caught about every third word. Arson. Deadlines. Wu Chiang. I just wanted her to tie that hair back up and pull it loose again. To uncross her legs and recross them.
“You ever get lonely, Mulligan?”
That caught me by surprise. I felt myself about to stutter, then remembered what a cool dude I’m supposed to be. “How could I get lonely with you, Gloria, and Polecki all wanting a piece of me?”
She didn’t smile like I thought she would. Instead, she lowered her eyes and ran a slow finger along the rim of her wine glass.
“We kiss, we roll around in your bed, we sleep. What you want from me now is something you can get from anybody.”
“No way,” I said. “From Gloria, sure, but Polecki’s a lousy lay.”
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“Most things. Not everything.”
I was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say or how to say it.
“You’ve figured me out,” I said. “You know the shit I slog through every fucking day, how I stink of it, and you still think I’m good enough to be with you.”
As she raised her eyes to stare at me, Chad or Corey materialized, working me for a tip. No, I don’t want any more water. No, we haven’t finished our drinks. Keep your cracked pepper to yourself. Go the fuck away.
We ate in silence. It was a cozy silence, and it scared me a little. I’d said too much. Or not enough. What exactly had I said? Ah, yes. Shit, and stink, and fucking—the three magic words of romance.
“Mulligan?”
Silence broken.
“You get me too. And I’ve been told that I’m a hard woman to love.”
Love? Jesus! Who’d said anything about love?
I sawed at my rib-eye, stalling for time. Then she tossed that gorgeous mane, and my breath caught on something.
When Chad or Corey showed up with the check, Veronica snatched it, handed him her AMEX card, and headed for the ladies’ room. Love? Who said anything about love? I was still pondering that when I felt her hands on my shoulders and her breath in my ear.
I followed her out of the restaurant, and we strolled arm in arm to her car. We were through the door to my place and out of our clothes before I could decide whether the rush of blood to all the right places was lust or something more.
Heavy necking, Mulligan at full mast, then a cold shower. I knew the routine. But when I stretched out on the bed, her hands were insistent. So was her mouth. Then she moved to place me inside of her.
An interesting development, to say the least. As the sportscasters say, the crowd went wild.
What had I been doing with Dorcas those two wasted years? Whatever it was, it bore no relation to this. We tangled and writhed, slipped and adjusted, bumped noses and giggled, rode and shivered. And when it was finally over we—gulp—cuddled. Spent and sweaty, I hoped that I had been at least mildly entertaining. This lady was a keeper.
The lady lifted her head from my chest and smiled.
“That test I asked you to get?”
“Yeah?”
�
�You passed.”
So she had been just stalling for time. Be nice if she’d found a way that didn’t involve me getting stabbed with a needle, but I had to admit it had worked. I suppressed a pinpoint of irritation. What exactly had been the point of waiting?
“So,” she said, “are you all tuckered out, or shall we try that again?”
Love? Who said anything about love?
34
I awoke to the familiar sound of Angela Anselmo shrieking at her kids. Something about paste, confetti, and “How could you do that to poor little Toodles?”
I swung my feet to the floor and gazed back at Veronica in the light filtering through the shade. Her breathing was deep and regular. Resisting the urge to bury my face in the tangle of jet hair on the pillow, I tiptoed to the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and lathered up. Suddenly there was a sleepy, naked court reporter beside me in the cramped stall.
“Who’s Toodles?” she asked. Looking at the rivulets of hot water streaming over her skin, I had other questions, but I answered the one she asked.
“The family cat.”
I pulled her into my arms, and we kissed under the spray. She scrubbed my back, and I took my sweet time with hers. I would have taken all day if she hadn’t reminded me that our jobs were waiting. There’s nothing better than a wet woman.
My fridge was empty, so we headed for the diner. Charlie raised a shaggy eyebrow as Veronica and I walked in together. Aside from Wu’s arrest, it had been a slow news day in Rhode Island, the editors filling the news columns with spin from the presidential primaries, lies from Washington, and gore from Iraq.
While Veronica scanned the “Lifestyle” section, I turned to the sports. Curt Schilling’s shoulder had mysteriously worsened over the winter, and doctors were debating whether he needed surgery. But with Beckett, Matsuzaka, Lester, Wakefield, Buchholz, Colón, and Masterson, we had more starters than we needed anyway. Charlie scraped a layer of grease from the grill, wiped his hands on his apron, and turned to grin at us.
“Your taste in women is improving, Mulligan. Whatever happened to that skanky blonde you tripped down the aisle with, the one who thought your name was ‘Bastard’?”
Whenever I ate at the diner, day or night, Charlie was there to cook for me. You’ve got to work a lot of hours to put a daughter through Juilliard. I grunted and dropped a twenty on the counter, grateful to be in a place where I could treat my girl to a meal without applying for a loan to cover the check.
35
“I’m about to push the send button, so go stand next to the fax machine, Liam,” Aunt Ruthie said. “I don’t want someone else to get his hands on this and start wondering where it came from.”
It was ten pages in all, Wu Chiang’s Visa charges for November, December, January, and February, and a partial bill for the first few days of March. I carried it back to my desk to check the billing dates against the dates of the fires, but a quick glance had already told me this was going to be trouble.
Wu was a copy-machine salesman, and most of the charges spoke of a mundane existence: CVS, Stop & Shop, Texaco, Target, B & D Liquors, although $249.95 spent at Victoria’s Secret looked intriguing. He had a girlfriend, or maybe he was a cross-dresser. But what concerned me was a $477 November charge for a U.S. Airways flight and $2,457 for a twenty-one-day stay ending December 20 at the Hotel Whitcomb in downtown San Francisco. A business trip, maybe, or a winter vacation. Or could this have been an elaborate alibi?
I called the Whitcomb and got the concierge on the line. Yes, he remembered Wu. The guy’d been a chronic complainer. He didn’t like the view from his window. He whined that his no-smoking room smelled like cigarettes. There was never enough J&B in his minifridge. And on the way out, he argued about his bill.
To be sure, I e-mailed him a photo of Wu, and the concierge called back with a positive ID.
I turned to my keyboard and started to write it up, a slam-dunk, page-one byline. Then I thought about it and realized I owed some people a heads-up.
36
“Sonovabitch!” Zerilli said.
“Technically this just clears him of the three December fires,” I said. “Looks like he was in town for the others. But to suspect him now, you’d have to think more than one serial arsonist is working Mount Hope.”
“Not fuckin’ likely.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
“Shit! Last night I asked the DiMaggios to turn in their bats. Told ’em they could keep the hats. Guess I better get ’em back on the streets.”
“I think you should.”
The phone jingled. He picked up, gave odds on the Celtics-Nets game, licked his pencil stub, recorded a bet on a scrap of flash paper, hung up, and absently scratched his balls through his boxers.
“Ah, fuck,” he said. “Good of you to come by though, letting me know in person ’stead of havin’ to read the bad news in the fuckin’ paper.”
We smoked silently for a moment.
“CD player workin’ okay?”
“Yup.”
“Out of Cubans yet?”
“Not quite yet.”
“How about putting fifty down on the Yankees, hedge your sucker bet on the Sox?”
“No thanks, Whoosh,” I said. “If the Yankees win, it would just feel like blood money.”
* * *
The blinds were open in Jack’s little apartment, and the sun slanting through the slats lifted the atmosphere from depressing to merely dreary. Jack had replaced the terry-cloth robe with pressed jeans and a blue oxford shirt. He was freshly shaven, a razor burn on his left cheek, and his thin gray hair was neatly combed. His weatherproof nylon jacket—the blue one with the letters PFD in white on the back—was draped over his arm. He was getting ready to go out.
“Hear the news?” he said. And then he smiled wide enough to show most of the teeth he had left.
“Jack, I …”
“I was just on my way over to the firehouse to hang with the guys,” he said. “Wanna walk along with me?”
I grabbed his arm. “Jack, wait.”
He caught my eye and saw something that stopped him.
“What’s wrong, Liam? Are your brother and sister okay?”
“Jack, the police arrested the wrong guy. They probably won’t want to admit it just yet, but they’ll have to release him in a day or two.”
“You sure? The TV said …”
“I’m sure.”
His shoulders slumped, and I watched the air go out of him. He let the jacket drop to the floor.
“So it’s not over.”
“No.”
“Porca vacca!”
My favorite Italian curse. Literally it means “pig cow,” but it’s reserved for times when most Americans would say “Oh crap!”
“This means Polecki and Roselli will start looking at you again, Jack. Remember what I told you to do if they come around again?”
“Don’t say nothing. Don’t go with them unless they arrest me. If they do, ask for a lawyer.”
“Right. And don’t tell the cops I told you not to talk.”
“Yeah. I got it.”
He collapsed into the armchair by the table where the Jim Beam bottle, only a couple of inches of amber left in it, still stood on the doily.
“Stay for a drink, Liam?”
Together we sat in silence and drained the bottle, not bothering with glasses.
“Come visit again when you get the chance,” he said.
“Maybe next time I’ll have better news.”
At the door, I turned and wrapped him up in a hug. It seemed to embarrass him a little.
“Just hang in there, Jack.” As I headed down the stairs, my ulcer was grumbling.
* * *
It was another thin crowd at Good Time Charlie’s. Marie wasn’t waiting tables this afternoon, and her body stocking was gone, replaced with nothing at all, unless you counted the garter on her right thigh. When she saw me walk in, she flowed like water to the edge of the
stage and hooked a thumb in the garter so I could slip in a dollar and give her butt a pat.
“Thanks, Mulligan,” she said.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I said, and meant it.
I chose one of the empty booths in back, started to slide in, noticed a beer spill on the seat, and chose another with a decent view of Marie, who was hanging upside down now from the stripper pole.
A few years ago, the place would have been packed, but six new strip clubs had opened up in the last few years, most of them down in the old Allens Avenue industrial area. They’d drained a lot of the regulars from Good Time Charlie’s and were pulling in customers from all over New England, some of them arriving on chartered buses from Boston, Hartford, and Worcester.
The boom had gotten underway after a bright young lawyer representing an escort service actually read the state’s prostitution law and discovered it referred to the crime as “streetwalking.” That, he argued, meant the law explicitly criminalized the stroll but was silent on the legality of sex for money when the transactions occurred indoors. A judge agreed, and suddenly there was no need to fly to Thailand or Costa Rica anymore. The new clubs featured strobe lights, DJs, and private booths where local girls, reinforced by silicone-enhanced talent from New York and Atlantic City, performed thirty-dollar private dances and hundred-dollar blow jobs.
So far, the only thing the state’s lawmakers had done about it was make some indignant speeches. Call me a cynic, but I suspected money was changing hands. The old fart who’d operated Good Time Charlie’s since the seventies limited touching to the occasional fanny pat. No wonder his business was flagging.
I was on my second club soda when Polecki showed up a half hour late and squeezed in across from me, the space between the seat and the table not quite wide enough to accommodate his Kentucky Fried girth.
“What is it now, asshole?” he said.
Rogue Island Page 12
