The Penny Ferry da-2

by Rick Boyer

  "Johnny was the only one of us carried a piece. Now I'm carryin' this one every day."

  He tapped the bulge under the jacket for emphasis.

  "Every day. " He shut and locked the big safe.

  Joe's sternness gave way to a helpless look.

  "I assume you're licensed to carry, Sam. But be careful. How long since you've fired that howitzer?"

  "Last month at the Deer Island range. It might surprise you, Joe, but I pretty good with this ol' cannon. Here, you want this logbook anymore?"

  We said no thanks, and told Sam how much we appreciated his coming to Dependable's office on a Sunday. He and Popeye led us out and then he turned and relocked the three big deadbolts and reset the electronic intrusion device. He faced us.

  "I'm not kiddin'. I'm gonna have my ear to the wire. I hear who did that to Johnny- they're dead. I don't care if I go down with 'em. Got nobody waitin' for me… just like Johnny. Don't care if they take me with 'em. They're dead."

  "See you, Sam. Sorry about Johnny."

  "One more time," said Joe. He squatted down in front of Popeye. "Here boy. C'mon Popeye. Caaaaaa-mon!"

  The dog seemed as interested in Joe as he would be in a snow shovel.

  Sam fastened the lead and walked the blocky beast back to the motorcycle. As we drove off I heard the faint popping and rumbling of the old bike starting up. Joe said the lab at headquarters had some news.

  "Two items. One: there was evidence on the corpse in the chimney that he was tortured. Cigarette burns on the sole of his right foot."

  "Oh Christ."

  "Yeah. Two: the emergency room of Union Hospital in Lynn treatedget this- an Italian fisherman for two amputated fingers late Friday night. The guy could barely speak English. Claimed he got his hand caught in a cable winch. Hah! You see how clever that was? Know how many illegal aliens there are in our fishing boats? Especially Portuguese down in New Bedford and Italians on the North Shore? Records show the guy paid cash, had no I.D. Don't you see how perfect it is?"

  "Very clever. About as foolproof as the gas bomb. These guys are pros, or near it. I can just see that doctor who was on call in Lynn. He's sewing up the hand and thinking, this poor, poor fisherman. So far from home, working to support his starving family in Ragusa. And if word gets out, they'll deport him."

  "Shit. It's enough to make me wish Sam does catch up with them."

  "Think he will? And if he does, is he really going to try to kill them?"

  "Oh yes indeed. Sam's no pussycat, in case you didn't notice. He was a paratrooper in World War Two and never got out of jump shape. He was a cop, like he said. I guess he's good with a sidearm. Sure hope he doesn't get himself killed. Whatever happens on this case, I'm keeping mum to Sam."

  ***

  We drove up Mass. Ave. through Central Square, which on a Sunday looked unrecognizably quiet and deserted.

  "Where are we headed?"

  "To the Fogg Museum," said Joe, driving through a thicket of Dunkin' Donuts wrappers that fluttered in our wake. "See if we can get any kind of line on that job Johnny did Friday morning. Then we'll go home, okay?"

  "Fine. Except I think the Fogg's closed on Sundays, like everything else in this state is, except bars."

  "Except bars. Right. The Irish influence no doubt."

  The Fogg was closed. But Joe and I peered through the glass of the Federal-style front door and saw the display screens for the exhibit entitled "Renaissance Treasures of San Marino." On the screens were mural-sized photos of that tiny republic (reputedly the world's oldest as well as smallest) and its flag, showing the three stone castle towers on three summits that mark its crest. The museum was all dark inside though.

  "Help you?" said a voice. It belonged to a Harvard campus security guard, who wouldn't open the Fogg doors for us even when Joe flashed his badge. But he did give Joe the phone number of the right person to contact regarding Fogg exhibits and their sponsors. While Joe went off to make his phone calls, I went to the john in the lower level of a red-brick building that was pointed out to me by the guard. Standing in from of one of the urinals in the men's room, I was struck by the graffiti. Yes Virginia, there is graffiti on the walls of Harvard rest rooms. However, it was all neatly lettered and obviously not the product of average minds. For example, there was a running debate penned on the wall above me concerning the behavior of accelerated particles in cloud chambers at various temperatures. This was complete with lots of Greek letters and appropriate formulas. Underneath the arguments was the wry observation that perhaps the warring factions would do themselves and

  everyone else who used the facilities a favor by transferring to M.I.T. Then there was this: CONSERVE GRAVITY: WEAR THICK-SOLED SHOES!

  Followed by this, from the first book of Gargantua and Pantagruel : Come sit an cack

  With lusty back

  But leave no wrack

  Beside our closet.

  Void, spurt and pump

  Your turdous rump

  But leave no lump

  Here for deposit.

  He shall know shame

  Who misses aim,

  St. Anthony's flame

  Burn his scut sear,

  Who will not swab

  His thingumabob

  To the last blob

  Ere he leave here!

  – Rabelais

  Well, I was impressed. I glanced around and saw the greatest names of science, literature, and philosophy well represented in the Crimson maison de merde. Perhaps fittingly, most of the quotes and diatribes concerned politics.

  Finally, as I dried my hands and prepared to depart, I saw this terse warning: FOOLS NAMES AND FOOLS FACES OFT APPEARIN PUBLIC PLACES

  – Shakespeare

  Hell, I considered as I sprinted up the steps back out into Harvard Yard, I was wasting my money sending jack and Tony to Bowdoin and Williams. I could save almost forty grand a year by making them hang around the Harvard johns. Joe was still on the phone. I heard his cop voice haranguing some poor soul on the other end. He hung up and turned to me.

  "Guess what? We're going to pay a brief visit- I promised her, and I promise you, it will be brief to Lucia Fabrianni over at the Copley."

  "You said we. Where do you get we?"

  "Aw c'mon, Doc. It's only eleven-thirty. We'll only see her twenty minutes."

  So we went to Copley Square, where the Fabriarmi family was ensconced in Boston for the duration of their show. According to our information they owned the whole kit and kaboodle of the treasures from San Marino, and the senior Mr. Paolo Fabrianni was anxious to display the art treasures to increase tourism to his tiny country. But Joe told me during the ride over the Charles River to Boston that Lucia Fabrianni had sounded put out and wasn't at all eager for an interview with the police, especially on Sunday.

  "Know what she said to me?" asked Joe as we strode into the ornate lobby of the Copley Plaza Hotel and punched the elevator Button. "I spoke some Italian phrases to her, you know, to kinda break the ice a little. The extra effort, you know? What she says is, 'You're from the South, aren't you? I can tell you're from Naples.'jeez!"

  The elevator arrived, and we went up.

  ***

  We sat in the small parlor room decorated with Louis Quinze furniture. Or was it Louis Seize? Well whatever, it was one of them. The furniture was white and gold with bent legs and claw feet. The chair backs and seats were overstuffed. ellipses of velveteen. There was scrollwork and curlicues everywhere. Give me Shaker any day.

  Lucia Fabrianni entered the room. She was everything we thought she'd be, and more. She was rich and beautiful. After a few minutes Joe suggested we get coffee. Lucia gladly accepted, and ten minutes later we were in the lobby sipping and munching. Lucia, educated in Switzerland, France, the States, and England, spoke perfect accent-free English. Boy, was she a looker too. Her dark-blonde hair was rather short and swept back soft and thick. I guessed her to be around twenty-five. Her face was finely chiseled and showed no sag or fat. Her mouth
was almost too large and full. But not quite.

  She puckered her lips over the steaming cup and sipped. A gold pin on her blouse glowed with bucks. Her nails were shiny beige. Bracelets twinkled. Four of them on her right arm, but thin, not overdone. Beautiful watch on her left wrist. I stared at it hard. Something wrong with the watch. Why did it make me uneasy?

  "Well," she said, brushing crumbs off her hands, "it's Sunday, and like a good European I don't do business on Sundays, so what is it, please?"

  Joe explained to her about the death of the messenger who had transported a piece for her exhibit. She was shocked and subdued at the news.

  "Oh, I am truly sorry. The poor man. And he was so nice! He let me pet his big beautiful Alsatian dogs. I hope they are all right…"

  "They were killed too, ma'am. It was a gas bomb. They were all killed instantly. Because of the nature of the killing we're investigating all possible motives. You say the cup is safe back in the museum?"

  "Yes."

  "And why was it taken out in the first place?"

  "We took some pictures with it here in the hotel suite for a newspaper. The World, I think."

  "The Globe?"

  "Ah yes, the Globe. This man, he was a black man, sort of old with gold glasses, yes? Well, he brought the cup and then took it back. It is quite priceless. It was made by Baccio Bandinelli in Florence in fifteen thirty. But it is the legend surrounding Romeo's Chalice that makes it especially valuable, even though the legend is false. Supposedly it was the chalice used at the wedding mass by Romeo and Juliet. So it is still called that- Romeo's Chalice."

  "And it is really pure gold?" asked Joe.

  "Yes. Gold inlaid with silver and black onyx. It is a prize one might kill for, but as I told you the killing was quite unnecessary, since the cup was safely delivered by this man and his messenger service. Is this all now, please?"

  "Uh, almost, Ms. Fabrianni. We just want to know if, when you met Mr. Robinson last Friday, anything seemed unusual. Did he seem nervous? Did he say anything unusual?"

  "Well," she replied impatiently, "since I have no idea what his usual was, how could I tell if there was anything unusual, you see?"

  "Yes, I understand. Well thank you, Ms. Fabrianni." He looked wearily at me. "That seems to clear this end up, eh Doc?"

  I shrugged and nodded at the same time. Who knew?

  Lucia rose from the table to say good-bye and return to her suite. Joe had his wallet out but she waved him off, saying she would have it put on her bill and charged as a business expense to her father's corporation. She said this as if she were used to doing it for many things.

  "Uh, if anything further develops, we'll be in touch with you," said Joe.

  "Oh. Why would there be any need for that?" she asked.

  "Well I don't know. just in case."

  "Mr. Brindelli, I have been most cooperative, I think. Have I not?"

  "Oh yes. We thank you,"

  "Well then, I see no reason to continue the matter any further, though I think it was unfortunate that the poor man was killed. Yes?"

  She was lighting a Marlboro with a purple-and-gold lighter that had a tortoise-shell texture. It definitely wasn't a Bic. Probably cost a grand. Again l saw the watch on her elegant wrist and involuntarily shuddered.

  As Joe stammered for an explanation we both saw the spoiled princess emerge from beneath the regal courtesy. Her irritation and impatience were less the product of a Latin temper or a nasty nature than the natural outgrowth of a centuries-old aristocratic view of life, in which the European wealthy were used to commanding obsequious armies of attendants, purveyors, merchants, chefs, valets, and chauffeurs at their beck and call. Sometimes America was a rude shock for them.

  "I think his death had nothing to do with his errand for us," suggested Lucia.

  "Plausible," said Joe, "except that Johnny wasn't the only one-"

  "Uh, Joe," I said quickly, "let's talk briefly with Mr. Fabrianni before we go, okay? And also, Ms. Fabrianni, we really appreciate your help… I was just wondering if you could provide us with a quick rundown of the members of your party? Do you have any pictures we could look at?"

  She balked a bit at this, but relented, and we returned to the Fabrianni suite where we met Paolo, infirm with old age and diabetes, and looked at many photographs in big albums. The watch Lucia Fabrianni was wearing had me on edge. Like the one on the wrist of the elegant young corpse in the old chimney, it was a Bulgari. We looked all through the photo albums, which were full of pictures of the art objects as well as the tour personnel. In none of the pictures could we spot a man who looked like the dead man. But Lucia explained that not all of the tour people were in the photographs; several of the younger assistants had not been around when the pictures were taken.

  "Is everybody here now?" Joe asked Lucia.

  "No. Several are away sightseeing this weekend. Two of them, I think Enzo and Michael, went down to New York on the airplane to see relatives-"

  "They left Friday?"

  "Yes. Friday afternoon," she answered after some thought. Joe was leaning over toward her, his attention held totally by what she was saying. Why was he so engrossed? Then I realized he was staring down at the lighter. He was studying it as one might study a moon rock or the remains of a meteorite.

  "And you have no pictures of either of them we could take a look at?" he finally asked her.

  "No, I don't think so. Why? Are they accused of anything?"

  "No. Uh, would you call me, please, at this number if either one of them fails to turn up when you expect? Thanks."

  We rose to go and she opened the side door, revealing another parlor, and her aged father sitting in his wheelchair in front of a table with playing cards on it. Joe thanked her in Italian. She brightened up and answered him back.

  "Mr. Brindelli, Dr. Adams, you must come for dinner soon. We will have a big banquet before we leave. Mr. Brindelli, you are the brother to Mrs. Adams?"

  "Afraid so."

  "Ah, and what village did you come from?"

  "Oh, a little place south of Naples, like most of us who came to America."

  "I see… interesting. And what is the name of the village?"

  "San Mango d'Aquino, in Calabria."

  "Oh yes," she said distantly, "I've heard of it, I think. It's very poor down there, isn't it?"

  "Yes," said Joe.

  ***

  We left the suite and walked down the hall toward the elevators. "Notice the watch, Joe? Another Bulgari. Don't you think that's more than coincidental?"

  "Yep," he said.

  "What chance is there that the guy in the chimney was one of the Fabrianni party?"

  "Some."

  "And if he is, er, was, then what in God's name does it all mean?"

  He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. Joe wasn't saying much. But I knew what was bothering him.

  Joe looked down at the patterned carpet as we walked. He didn't say anything. He scowled.

  "That norte bitch," he said finally.

  "Don't let it get to you," I said. "She doesn't know anything else. Like a lot of rich people she's both worldly and ignorant at the same time."

  " ' It's vevy poor dawn there, isn't it? ' " said Joe, mocking her. "Well goddamn right it's poor down there; why the hell you think we all came over here?"

  We got into the elevator and rode down alone. We didn't say anything. In the lobby we paused near the old gilded clock as if unsure of what to do next. Then we drifted along the corridor to the library bar. We sat in two leather chairs and gazed absently at the bookshelves and paintings. A waitress came by and we waved her off. I sighed and Joe rested his cheeks in his palms.

  "Did you see that Orsini lighter?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Jeez. Must've cost a mint. 'Course, she's probably got one of them for every day of the week and two for Sundays."

  "Uh-huh."

  Joe popped a Benson amp; Hedges into his mouth and lit it with a paper match.
He dropped. the matchbook on the table between us. On its cover it said in bold letters EARN BIG $$$$$$!

  "I hate those nortes," he said. "They really think their shit doesn't stink."

  "Uh-huh."

  I waited patiently (I have the patience of a saint sometimes) while he moaned and pouted, then we went outside and crossed Copley Square to where Joe's cruiser was parked on Boylston a Street.

  "Want to walk down to the Boylston Street gym? Liatis Roantis is giving a savate demonstration today," I said. I thought it would I take Joe's mind off Lucia Fabrianni, the stuck-up norte.

  "What's savate?"

  "French-Burmese foot-fighting. Roantis is really good at it."

  "I bet he is. Why doesn't he cut the fancy bullshit and just use a machine gun?"

  "I hear he's good with those too."

  "I bet."

  "Want to go over to the North End?"

  "Nah."

  "Want to go down to Dunfey's and get a couple of draft Harps?"

  "Nah."

  "Want to quit feeling sorry for yourself because your forefathers weren't from Florence?"

  He shrugged and said yeah, okay. We swayed over to the storefront window of Ehrlich's tobacco shop. We stared at the pipes, pewter beer mugs, cigars, fancy ashtrays, and lighters in silence. Joe shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands shoved down into his trenchcoat pockets. He moved his arms in and out, flapping the coat open and closed idly like a giant wading bird on its nest.

  "Look at those lighters," he said.

  "Uh-huh. What about Lucia's watch? Think it means anything?"

  "Yep. It's a helluva coincidence if it doesn't. Remember I said the guy looked Italian. I'll make you a gent's wager that at least one of the Fabrianni staff turns up missing tomorrow. Hell, maybe we should get a post-mortem pix of the guy and check it out now. Question is, why? What's the connection between the dead guy in the chimney and the Fabriannis and their treasures? The cup was safely returned to the Fogg from the hotel, so Johnny didn't have it in his pouch."

  "Okay, right. But maybe the thugs didn't know that. They're associated with the show and know the value of the piece. They set up the ambush-"