In 1991, a few weeks after he pummeled Gilbert Dele to win the WBA world junior middleweight title, Vinny woke up in the hospital with a broken neck. A car crash had cracked his third and fourth vertebrae. Doctors told him he would never fight again. He was lucky he could even move his legs. Three months after the accident, he limped out of the hospital with a medieval-looking brace still screwed to his skull and went right into the gym. Just thirteen months later, he outpointed former WBC world super welterweight champion Luis Santana in a tune-up fight and set his sights on bigger things.
Over his twenty-one-year ring career, Vinny took some beatings. Héctor “Macho” Camacho bloodied him. Roger Mayweather and the great Roy Jones Jr. knocked him around the ring. But along the way, he beat the legendary Roberto Duran twice, and by the time his final fight ended with a victory in 2004, he was a five-time world champion. His final pro record: ten losses and fifty wins, thirty of them by knockout.
When I walked into the gym Joseph was already at work, his fists thudding against one of the heavy bags hanging on a chain from the ceiling. Each time he slugged the bag, it swung away from him as if it feared for its life. He had to wait for it to swing back so he could punish it again.
“Hold this fuckin’ thing still for me, will ya?” he said.
I stood behind the bag and steadied it while Joseph clubbed it with lefts and rights. He fired a ten-punch combination of hooks and uppercuts, backed off to catch his breath, and then went at it again. He completed his workout with a flurry of blows that traveled through the bag, up my arms, and down the length of my spine. Then he backed away, snorted like a bull, and said, “Your turn.”
Joseph showed me how to wrap my hands with strips of two-inch-wide cloth, weaving it between each finger, over each knuckle, and back around the wrist to protect the joints and tendons. When I was ready, I approached the bag and threw a couple of tentative left jabs. I tried a right cross, a left hook, a right uppercut, and found a rhythm. I liked the smacking sound my fists made when they met the bag. It felt good to be beating on something that didn’t hit back.
Afterward, we reconvened over beers at Hopes.
“You beat the crap out of that bag,” I said. “That how you hit King Felix when he pulled a gun on you?”
“Fuck, no. Asshole wouldn’t still be walkin’ around, I hit him like that.”
He chugged his Bud and waved for another. “You know,” he said, “you smacked the bag pretty good yourself. For a rookie. Got some pop in that skinny-ass frame.”
“Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
“Sure. Anytime you want.”
When the waitress arrived with his beer, I ordered another for myself, but I was already two beers behind him.
“I need to ask you something,” I said.
“If it’s for the fuckin’ paper, I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Off the record,” I said.
“That means you won’t write what I tell you?”
“That’s what it means.”
“What, then?”
“Think the Maniellas could be making child porn?”
Joseph’s face drained of color. “Do you?” he said.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“I ain’t ever heard nothin’ like that,” he said. “If I thought they was…” He clenched his fist and shot a right jab past my ear.
“One more question.”
“Still off the, uh…”
“Off the record. Right.”
“What?”
“Ever heard the Maniellas or anybody who works for them mention a guy named Charles Wayne?”
“Who the fuck is that?”
13
The Brown University Medical School’s official name is the Warren Alpert Medical School. Despite what it says on the stationery, nobody calls it that. Aside from getting sick and dying, Alpert didn’t have anything to do with medicine. He was the founder of Xtra Mart, a convenience store chain that keeps America hooked on nicotine, caffeine, and high-fructose corn syrup. But he gave the medical school a hundred million dollars a couple of months before his death.
Dr. Charles B. Wayne, the school’s dean of medicine and biological sciences, had an office on the third floor of the Metcalf Infant Research Laboratory just off Waterman Street. I had no reason to think he was connected to the Maniellas, but outing a Brown honcho as a pedophile would make a hell of a story.
I found a parking spot across from the building and saw that the front door was blocked by a knot of people waving hand-lettered picket signs: “Brown Trains Abortionists.” “Thank God for Abortion Clinic Bombers.” “God Hates Brown.” “God Hates Rhode Island.” “God Hates America.” And just so everything was covered: “God Hates the World.”
As I started up the walk, a lean septuagenarian in a porkpie hat and a long black coat separated himself from the group, tottered up to me, and placed a skeletal hand on my shoulder. He reminded me of Reverend Kane, the creepy old man played by Julian Beck in Poltergeist II. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to deliver the scariest line in the movie: “Are you lost, sweetheart? Are you ’fraid, honey? Well then, why don’t you come with me?”
What he did say wasn’t much better: “Do not enter this house of evil, brother. Heed my words or you will be doomed to eternal hellfire.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, and brushed by him.
He yanked my shoulder with unexpected strength and spun me back to him. “Pray with me,” he said, “and let us save your immortal soul.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” I said. “It’s too late for me anyway.”
“It’s never too late to turn your back on Satan and return to the righteous path, brother.”
I extended my hand, and he shook it. “My name is Mulligan,” I said, “and you must be Reverend Lucas Crenson of the Sword of God. I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“At your service,” he said, removing his hat to display a few wisps of white hair on a shiny bald pate. Then he honored me with a theatrical bow from the waist. Gee. I guess he’d seen the movie, too.
“Look, Reverend,” I said, “I don’t work in there. I’m a reporter for the Dispatch. I’m going inside to see if I can expose the evils that lurk within.”
“Don’t you lie to me, boy!”
“It’s the truth. I swear.”
“On your soul?”
“On my immortal soul,” I said, although I wasn’t sure I had one.
“Then you shall be allowed to pass.”
“Thank you, Reverend,” I said. “Say, do you think I could attend your service some Sunday? I’d like to hear you preach.”
“Most certainly,” he said. “Anyone seeking the path of righteousness is welcome in God’s house.”
He turned to his picketers, spread his arms as if he were parting the waters, and smiled benignly as they opened a path for me. As I passed them, I counted five grown-ups, three kids who should have been in school, and two more who weren’t old enough for it yet.
I took the elevator to the third floor, strolled down a corridor, peeked through the glass in the door to Dr. Wayne’s outer office, and saw a blonde sitting behind a computer on an otherwise clean desk. The nameplate on it read “Peggi Simmons, Administrative Assistant.” I made her as one of the seven types of blondes Raymond Chandler described in The Long Goodbye: the perky little doll who’s everybody’s pal and has learned enough martial arts to throw a truck driver over her shoulder.
At five in the afternoon, I was loitering on Waterman when she popped out of the building and elbowed her way through the picketers. They howled at her—something about a she-devil, but I didn’t catch all of it. She ignored them, dashed across the street, and turned north on Thayer. Accosting her on the sidewalk didn’t seem like the best idea, so I trailed behind her on the College Hill business strip as she strode past fast-food joints, copy centers, the Brown University Bookstore, and several bars. I was hoping she’d
pop into one of the student watering holes so I could follow her in and strike up a conversation. Instead, she walked six blocks, turned left on Keene Street, and disappeared into a three-story Victorian that had been broken up into student apartments.
I was standing on the sidewalk, contemplating the wisdom of knocking on her door, when she popped back out with a Bernese mountain dog on a leash. He was just a pup, maybe nine months old, but he was already closing in on a hundred pounds. He took one look at me, broke into a doggie grin, and bounded straight for me. “Brady, no!” she shouted, but Brady wasn’t listening. He kept coming, ears and big pink tongue flopping. She outweighed him, but not by much, and he was a lot stronger. He dragged her right to me. Good doggie. I squatted on my heels to meet him at his level. He draped his front paws over my shoulders and worked that tongue into my ear.
“Brady!” she said again, and tugged on the leash with no discernible effect.
“He can’t help himself,” I said. “Dogs and women love me.”
I peeled Brady’s paws from my shoulders and stood. He nuzzled my leg, so I reached down and rubbed him behind the ears.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No need to apologize. He’s a magnificent dog.”
“Thank you. I just wish he had better manners.”
“He’s about nine months old, right?”
“Nearly ten.”
“How were your manners when you were ten months old?”
“I see what you mean,” she said, and stuck out a hand for me to shake. “I’m Peggi Simmons. You’ve already met my Brady.”
“Named after Tom Brady?”
“How’d ya guess?”
“Half the dogs in Rhode Island are named after Patriots, Red Sox, or Celtics players,” I said. “A lot of the children, too. By the way, my name is Mulligan. I’m a reporter for the Dispatch. And you’re Charles Wayne’s secretary.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’m a reporter for the Dispatch. We reporters know all kinds of stuff.”
“Including how to get Brady to stop pulling me down the street on his walks?”
“Sure,” I said. “Hand me the leash.”
She did, and we strolled together on the sidewalk.
Brady walked nicely for ten yards or so. Then he spotted a kid on a bicycle and bolted, nearly jerking the leash from my grip. I pulled hard on it, freezing him in place. Brady tugged harder. When that didn’t work, he reared on his hind legs like a spooked horse. I held on tight, cut in front of him, and pointed at my nose.
“Brady, look at me,” I said. Brady looked. “Brady, sit.” He sat. I held my hand, palm out, in front of his face and said, “Brady, stay.” He stayed. I kept him sitting there for twenty seconds. Then I gave him a little more leash, said, “Okay,” and started walking.
“Brady wants to be in motion,” I said. “We have to teach him that walking is his reward for not pulling.”
The dog trotted along by my side for a few yards. Then he spotted a woman pushing a baby carriage and bolted again. I reined him in and made him sit. After we repeated the routine a dozen times, Brady got the idea and stopped pulling.
“Smart dog,” I said. “Now let’s see how he does when you hold the leash.”
Sensing his opportunity, Brady started pulling again. Each time he did, I grabbed the leash to stop him from dragging Peggi down the sidewalk, and she repeated the series of commands I’d shown her. Before long, Brady was walking nicely with her, too.
“How do you know so much about dogs?” she asked.
“I studied up a few years ago when my wife and I bought a Portuguese water dog pup that I named Rewrite,” I said. “When we broke up, she didn’t want him, and with my crazy hours I couldn’t take care of him. Had to give him away. I really miss that crazy little guy.”
Our walk had taken us back down Thayer Street. As we passed Andréas, I suggested we pop in for a drink.
“What about Brady?”
“We’ll take him in with us.”
“I don’t think they allow animals.”
“They make an exception for service dogs,” I said.
I pulled sunglasses from my pocket, slid them on, gripped Brady’s leash six inches from his collar, and groped toward the bar door. Inside, the maître d’ took me by the elbow and led us to a booth. As we settled in, Brady scooted under the table, rolled over on his back, and started tugging on my shoestrings. When the waiter came, I gave him a Stevie Wonder head bob and remembered not to read the menu. We ordered, and within a few minutes he returned with a Samuel Adams for Peggi, a club soda for me, and a raw hamburger patty with water on the side for Brady.
“So,” she said, “are you really this nice, or are you trying to pick me up?”
“Neither. The truth is, I’m working, Peggi. I need your help. I’ve got some questions about your boss.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
She stared at me for a moment before saying, “You really do like Brady, though, right?”
“Sure do. I like his owner, too.”
“Why are you interested in my boss?”
“I think he might be involved in something bad, Peggi.”
“How bad?”
“The kind of bad that rapists and murderers look down on.”
“Oh, my God!”
“I could be wrong about this. All I’ve got so far are suspicions.”
“And you want to know if I can confirm them?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I can’t. I mean, I always thought he was a little creepy, but nothing like that.”
“Do you have access to his computer?”
“His office desktop, sure.”
“Does he have a laptop?”
“He does. He usually carries it around with him, but sometimes he forgets and leaves it in the office.”
“Do you think you could look through his computer files without getting caught?”
She fell silent for a moment, thinking it over. “I guess I could,” she said. “What would I be looking for?”
“Video.”
“What kind of video?”
“You’ll know when you see it.”
Peggi checked her watch. “The office is empty now,” she said. “We could go over there and take a look.”
“I probably shouldn’t go with you, Peggi. If someone walked in on us, you could say you were working late, but my presence would be hard to explain.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s my card,” I said. “Call me if you find something.”
14
That evening, I stretched out on my Salvation Army mattress and cracked open the new Michael Connelly novel to see how Harry Bosch would solve his latest caper. Maybe I’d learn something I could use. Wouldn’t be the first time.
My apartment was on the second floor of a crumbling three-story tenement house in the city’s Italian section of Federal Hill. It wasn’t much, but since my breakup with Dorcas, it was all I could afford. Besides, I felt at home in this working-class neighborhood of store clerks, hairdressers, and bus drivers raising big, close families. People here had a history of keeping their priorities straight. In 1933, Federal Hill voted to repeal Prohibition by a total of 2,005 to 3.
Angela Anselmo, the single mom who lived in the apartment across the hall, was cooking something spicy again tonight, the aroma seeping through the inch-wide crack at the bottom of my front door. My mouth watered. I switched off my iPod speakers so I could listen to Marta, Angela’s ten-year-old daughter, practice the violin. She was getting really good.
She was in the middle of Hungarian Dance no. 5, for the fifth time, I think, when I heard someone trudging up the worn wooden stairs to the second-floor landing. Someone heavy, by the sound of it. Then a sharp rap on my door. I got up, walked into the kitchen, peered out the peephole, and got a good look at the center of a massive chest. Not a someone my door could keep out if he wanted to get in, so I unlocked it and turned the
knob.
The someone turned out to be two someones. Both wore their hair military style. It was a chilly night, but they wore no jackets over their muscle shirts, one black and the other gray. I could see they were in shape, but there’s a difference between iron-pumping shape and fighting shape. Then I spotted their matching tattoos—an eagle clutching an anchor and a Navy SEALs trident in its talons—and I knew these two were both.
They stepped inside, and Black Shirt gently closed the door.
“Mind if we sit?” he asked.
“Anywhere you’d like.”
They looked around the kitchen and saw nothing but a greasy stove and a wheezing twenty-year-old Frigidaire.
“Sorry,” I said. “The wife got all the furniture.” I squatted on the floor, my back against the wall. They chose to remain standing.
“You dropped in on the Maniellas’ place at the lake yesterday afternoon,” Black Shirt said.
“Guilty,” I said.
“Never a good idea to go there uninvited,” he said.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“You’ve also been hanging around the clubs,” Gray Shirt said.
“Didn’t know I needed an invitation for that.”
“You’re welcome there anytime,” he said. “But you were asking questions.”
“Kinda goes with the job.”
“Miss Maniella would like you to stop,” Black Shirt said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Cuz we might not be so polite if we have to come back,” he said.
“And none of us want that,” I said.
“We understand each other?” Gray Shirt said.
“We do.”
That’s when Black Shirt spotted my only piece of artwork suspended in a shadow box on the chipped plaster wall.
Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel Page 7
