by Rick Boyer
The Penny Ferry
( Doc Adams - 2 )
Rick Boyer
Rick Boyer
The Penny Ferry
THE HOT ITEM
That lady standing out there in New York Harbor has welcomed a lot of people to this country. Some, like my wife's father, made out very well here. A lot of his countrymen weren't as fortunate, and wound up working in the mills.
Two of them, a shoe trimmer who lived in Stoughton and a fish peddler from Plymouth, got an especially raw deal. But that was a long time ago, and nobody cared much anymore except the Italian community. Or so we thought…
Then a friend of ours came to grief up in the factory town of Lowell, and even his two attack dogs couldn't save him. Somebody still cared about those two guys. Cared enough to kill people. At first I just went along for the ride. But then I kept inching my way into the mess, bit by bit, until I was right smack in the middle of it.
CHAPTER ONE
Mary and I wound our way down the plush pile-carpeted stairs of Joe's Beacon Hill apartment building. The paint and carpeting of the dimly lighted stairwell smelled new. They were. Joe leaned over the banister and yelled down at us.
"Have a good time at the ball, children. And Doc, if you see Hunter Greyson there, ask him why I wasn't invited."
"Why would they think you were a Republican?" I asked. "With a name like Brindelli?"
"Are you a Republican?"
"Naw. Not much of anything. You know that."
"Yeah. But your last name is Adams. See what I mean?"
Mary paused on the lower landing and looked back up at me. "I don't think I want to go to this thing, Charlie. Hell, it's only because Hunter and Kathleen insisted we go… Hey, Joey- if it's real snooty I'm coming back here, okay?"
"Now, Sis, it wouldn't be fair to all the Brahmins if you- "
"Shove it," she said, swinging her way around the final newel post and down into the lobby. I heard her high heels clicking and clacking on the terrazzo floor. I joined her in the lobby. The wallpaper was burgundy-colored silk with thin white stripes. The oak doors were covered with lots of brass, and the windows were thick bevel-cut leaded glass that gave off a prismatic effect of rainbow hues.
"Hard to believe that a cop lives here,?' I said. And indeed it was, since the fourth-floor apartment had cost a pretty bundle. Joe had skylights, two terraces, and a tiny rooftop garden. This was not made possible through his salary as a state policeman; it was possible because Joe's and Mary's late father had done extremely well in business. And although Hunter Greyson, senior partner in the law Firm of Greyson, Morrison, and Stands, knew we were related and close to Joe, he had not extended him an invitation to the Beacon Hill fund-raising party for Joseph Critchfield, the man who was supposed to be our next governor. I wondered why.
We walked along the ancient brick sidewalk of Pinkney Street, where Joe's fiat was, to Cedar Street and over to Mt. Vernon, which Henry James once said was the only civilized street in America. Typical of him. I'm partial to South State Street in Chicago myself. Mary clicked and bounced along. Her cheeks shook a tiny bit with each step, and her ample bosom jounced.
She's a knockout.
"What's the matter with these creeps anyway?" she finally said. "They think every Italian's a Democrat?"
The party was being held at the Greyson home in Louisburg Square. We entered and joined the other two hundred or so guests. Sipping champagne, we ambled our way down the hall and up the stairs to the formal living room, which was huge, with a fourteen-foot molded plaster ceiling. Here there was more food and drink, and an informal receiving line where we met "the next governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts," Mr. Joseph Carlton Critchfield III.
He shook my hand warmly, and beamed.
"Are you of the Boston Adamses?" he inquired. I told him no, the Chicago North Shore branch. He looked momentarily confused, then complimented Mary on her beauty. She couldn't help smiling. He was pretty slick, and had Grade A credentials and a flawless record of public service to go with the poise. Joseph Critchfield III was a graduate of Choate and Harvard, and had taken a law degree from Harvard as well. He had distinguished himself in his own Firm and more recently in several state offices, which he'd handled admirably. In fact, his grandfather, who was still alive, had once been the state attorney general. And Joseph Critchfield was only forty-six- younger than I. It was hard not to be impressed by him.
Mary and I walked through the line and took another champagne into the sunporch. A big hand clapped me on the shoulder from behind, and I turned to see my hunting and fishing buddy, Brady Coyne. Brady's an independent lawyer who specializes in sueing the very rich. As a graduate of Yale, he's somewhat of a maverick in the town that worships the Crimson. It was Brady who recommended me to treat Hunter for a badly abscessed tooth several years back. Even the very rich and successful can get abscessed teeth. And Hunter Greyson and Joe Critchfield were classmates at Harvard and still bosom friends. So that's how it happened that Mary and I were among the invited to meet, and contribute to the campaign of, the candidate who would replace the current Democratic governor. This incumbent represented corruption, patronage, nepotism, and all the other bad things associated with the big-city machine politics Boston is infamous for.
"We need this man, Doc," said Brady. "We need him very badly if Boston is to stay competitive with the Sun Belt cities that are drawing away our high tech. I mean, jeeez… who's going to put up with this kind of bullshit forever, huh?"
"I agree," I said. "People are sick of paying through the nose for the privilege of getting ripped off."
We followed the flow of guests back to the big room, where chairs were being set up. Mary looked around the room. She was going to drool any second, I thought. She gazed covetously at the oil paintings, antique Chinese porcelains, Persian rugs, and Hepplewhite furniture. And we don't live in a slum, either.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said a loud voice. "If we may have your attention for a few minutes, Joe Critchfield would like to say a few words about his platform to save the Commonwealth of Massachusetts."
There was applause and cheering, and the impeccably dressed Joe Critchfield positioned himself next to the concert-grand Steinway. Resting one hand on it, he assumed a casual yet elegant stance and gave a brief speech, in which he thanked us for our support and explained his program to bring our city and state back on course. It was good. Afterward he answered questions, and did an equally good job. Certainly, if the gubernatorial race came down to a televised debate, Critchfield's opponent would be hard pressed.
Then came a tough question. "Joe, I'd like to open by saying that your platform sounds terrific," said a middle-aged lady. She was standing in the back and had on a bright flower-print dress. "But I suppose I have one big reservation about how you're going to implement it. How do you propose to defeat the Catholic labor-ethnic coalition? How can a Republican break up the Irish-Italian bloc vote?"
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. Apparently the lady had hit it on the head: how indeed defeat this vast, monolithic majority?
"That's a very good question, Anne. But I'm going to answer by saying something that may shock some of you. I say this: the so-called Irish-Italian Catholic voting bloc no longer exists. Certainly the ethnic groups do. Our Irish and Italian neighborhoods are still very strong and sharply defined. I also think they're a tremendous asset to this city and to the Commonwealth. But I submit to you that as a voting bloc that's impregnable- I simply say that it's a myth. Don't forget, ten years ago we had Frank Sargent, a Republican, in the statehouse. It's been done; it can be done again. People are sick of the way the state's being run. I ask you, all of you: what issue or event could occur tomorrow; that would unite them? For e
xample, if the Sacco and Vanzetti case were tried today, would the law-abiding citizens of the North End support those two radicals? I say no, and furthermore-"
"Just a minute!" came a clear voice. It cut through the room like a tungsten ice pick. Now who would have the nerve to interrupt Joe Critchfield in the middle of his talk? Critchfield was staring at me, his mouth halfway open. No. He wasn't staring at me, he was staring at the person who'd stood up next to me. He was staring at Mary.
"Are you implying that Sacco and Vanzetti were common criminals? And if so, that they were guilty?" she demanded.
There was another murmur that rippled through the room. But this one was confused, chaotic, disgruntled.
"I, uh… no, that's not what I meant- or implied- I was speaking of their radical connections, that's all. But as to their guilt or innocence, surely you cannot deny that the evidence was overwhelming in favor of their having been connected-"
"If everyone will excuse me," cried another female voice, "I really think it will be most constructive, considering all we have to accomplish here, to confine the discussion to the issues at hand rather than to history."
There was applause. Loud, steady applause, directed at Anne, the lady with the flower-print dress in the back, who'd gotten Joe C. III nicely off the hook. Mary sat down, folded her arms across her chest, and glared.
After the talk was over she didn't clap. People looking at us saw that she didn't clap. 1 clapped a little, and she glared at me. People avoided us afterward. All except Brady, who winked at Mary and said, "Way to go, Mare!" But we both had the feeling he didn't really mean it. I thought we'd better thank Hunter and Kathleen before we left, but they seemed to be nowhere near us. Ever.
"I think it's time to fade, Toots," I said under my breath.
"Yeah. Sorry, Charlie. It was just a reaction. A conditioned reflex. I guess it reflects my childhood more than anything. Hell, I don't know if they were guilty or not-"
We filed out of the house, smiling bravely. A few people returned the smiles, but mostly everyone looked away. We passed the small table where people were writing checks and stuffing them into envelopes. Nobody even seemed surprised when we walked right past it.
"I'm still voting for him," I said as we walked back down Mt. Vernon Street. "I think he'll do a good job."
"I think so too. But his attitude. I just- 0h, forget it."
As we turned the corner I saw a gigantic Cadillac limo sweep along the street at a whisper. It swung to a slow stop in front of Louisburg Square. It was probably the original Joseph Carlton Critchfield, the candidate's granddaddy. Purportedly, he was backing young Joe financially. If this was true, then Joe would run out of gold pieces about when the rocks would melt into the sea and the lion would lie down with the lamb. It made me a little less regretful I hadn't written a check.
So we walked back to our Joe's. He greeted us at the door and asked Mary if she'd lost her glass slipper.
CHAPTER TWO
Next day I was just sitting out there in our sunporch sipping on a silver bullet when I saw Joe's unmarked cruiser slide into our driveway. Here to get a free Saturday dinner. He got out of the cruiser and made a beeline for the porch steps. He moved fast and gracefully for a big man. I had been listening to James P. Johnson riffle the ivories in a stride number called "Old-Fashioned Love." The sidemen were good too: Cootie Williams on cornet and Eddie Dougherty on drums. I took another sip of ice-cold gin.
"Hi, Doc," he said as he came in. "What's for supper?"
I set the martini down on the coffee table and looked up at his dirty mask of beard stubble. He hated to shave on Saturdays. Maybe because shaving was such a big job for him- like a farmer cutting a field of wheat. On a normal person a day's growth is a faint shadow; on a Calabrian it's a death mask. I slid the glass along on the rattan, watching the trail of condensed water it left in its wake.
"Spaghettios," I said.
His face fell slack.
"Say it ain't so!"
He grabbed a cane chair and spun it around in front of him. He straddled it backward, laying his head on his big beefy hands, which rested on the top of the chair back. He tapped a Benson 8c Hedges out of a long pack and lit it. He studied my drink carefully, the way Itzhak Perlman would study a Strad.
"It might interest you to know, Joe, that I've been on the phone all afternoon trying to locate someone you introduced me to last year: Johnny Robinson."
"Well, Johnny's usually not too hard to track down, Doc… you know where to look. If you're using him professionally, then what, may I ask, is Dependable Messenger Service carrying for you?"
"Remember Tom Costello? The stockbroker? Well, I've completed an anterior fixed bridge for him. That's a whole set of uppers all the way back to the canines, plus all the interior joinery. In materials alone the piece is worth maybe a grand. In terms of labor, add another grand. So I've been using Robinson and Dependable to carry these expensive pieces from the lab. Lately a lot of the mails from there have been ripped off-"
"Don't I know it. Post-office junkies looking for the gold."
"So now I've got Tom all over my back. Don't blame him, either. How can a broker peddle stocks with no mouth? The piece was due yesterday, but so far I can't raise Johnny."
"Did you call Sam at Dependable's office?"
"Yeah. Closed. Saturday."
"Of course. Well, we could go up to Lowell and hunt Johnny up if you need the thing right away. I know his hangouts pretty well. Hey, were you serious about Spaghettios for supper?"
"Could be."
His eyes returned to my frosty glass. He eyed the silver bullet wistfully.
B "Nice-looking booze you got there."
"Yes, isn't it though? Mmmmmmm. Dee-lish."
He drummed his big fingers on the cane back irritably. He glared in my direction. Joe was about as subtle as his sister. After ten seconds the glare became pronounced. Oh, all right.
"Would you uh, care for a drink, Joe?"
"You bring it and I'll care for it."
"Don't steal mine while I'm gone. I'll get Mary and we can, uh, plan supper. To pass the time you might telephone Robinson again. Want the number?"
"Naw. Every good detective in Boston knows Johnny's number. But if he's not home I know where he is. Leave it to me."
I headed for the sideboard to make him a gin and tonic, and on my way thought about the unique career of john Robinson. He was a black man about sixty years old. In his younger days he was a lighter, although he never made it to the big time. But he was tough and he was straight. These two qualities comprised a natural foundation for what was to become his career. john Robinson was a foot courier. With his partner, Sam Bowman, he had founded Dependable Messenger Service in Cambridge. He walked around the city carrying important papers, cash, stock certificates, jewelry, and prize lottery tickets. Much of his business centered around the wholesale jewelry houses down on Washington Street, for whom he toted pocketfuls of ice and bars of silver and gold.
With his Smith and Wessons, his rearview mirrors, his stun gas canister, and his two German shepherds he was a human Brinks van. Only he could go through the twisty little Boston alleyways, up and down dark stairs, and in elevators and such, where a van could not go. He was routinely seen working in places and with people that most security companies want no part of.
Mostly Robinson kept his mouth shut, discretion being essential in his work. But every now and then he'd dangle a little tidbit on the grapevine. Joe had told us several stories in which he played a key part in bringing bad guys to justice. Generally he put information on the line when he sensed that somebody good or innocent was about to get hurt. Once his indiscretion almost cost him his life. He screwed up a big deal for some North End biggies and they had his legs broken. Then they had him dumped into the cold harbor water off the General Ship and Engine Works in East Boston. Johnny couldn't swim so well anyway; with two broken pins- not to mention the pain- it was a bit tougher. But Robinson was nothing if he wasn't t
ough, and he somehow got out of there before he died of exposure. Later, he helped send the two thugs to Deer Island.
Mary was in her atelier firing pots. She was hovering near a brick beehive structure in the center of the large workroom, wearing old stained overalls, welder's gloves, and dark goggles. She was looking in through the kiln peephole, and a bright circle of orange light was flickering on her face. A blast-furnace roar came from the kiln, which was fired by the bottled gas in big steel tanks outside. I shook her arm and she removed the goggles.
"Baby brother's here."
"Joe's here: it must be Saturday. It's Saturday? Oh jeez Charlie, and I haven't even thought about supper yet."
"Better start thinking; you know his delicate appetite."
We walked back to the porch. On the way Mary doffed her baggy overalls, which left her in jeans and a cotton blouse. The cassette deck was now playing Bessie Smith singing "Merry Christmas Blues" with James P. Johnson backing her up on the piano. No trills and frills,. just solid stomping chords to accompany that legendary voice that never sang a note without bending it.
"I can't get Johnny at the Lucky Seven," said Joe.
"What's the Lucky Seven?"
"A bar up in Lowell where Johnny hangs out on weekends. He doesn't go there to drink, just to visit with the neighborhood regulars. Whenever I've gotten in touch with him before, I've reached him either at home or at the Lucky Seven."
"Well, if and when you get him ask him about my package from the lab, will you?"
A new number came over the tape: Art Tatum riffling through "Cotton Club Stomp." It was a toe-tapper. Tatum was going through the piece with that pyrotechnic, no-holds-barred style of his that put his lingers all over the keyboard. He was everywhere at once, making all other piano players, past, present, and future, seem like they've got triple arthritis. The sound was so spellbinding that Joe stopped and listened.
