A Trouble of Fools

by Linda Barnes

“You will, babe. You’re practically a one-woman blizzard.”

  She scribbled Gene’s locker number on a scrap of paper. The phones were starting to ring in earnest now, so I left her to it. The mechanic kept a rusty bolt-cutter in a spiderwebbed corner behind the workbench. He’d flipped the calendar pages as far as April, only five months behind. Maybe the siliconed blonde straddling the red motorcycle was the stuff of his dreams.

  The lockers along the back wall had collected a few more dents, but were otherwise unchanged—khaki-colored and smeared with greasy fingerprints.

  No need for the bolt-cutter. The lock of 8A hung open. There was nothing inside.

  I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against the cool metal door of 7A. Maybe Margaret knew about the locker after all. Maybe she’d found the key, taken Eugene Paul et cetera’s extra shirt home to iron.

  There were a few crumpled scraps of paper in one corner of the locker. I smoothed them out. One was a bank withdrawal slip, the kind you get from those automated tellers, for fifty bucks. The other was a receipt from an all-night grocery for a dollar and change. Big whoop. Fifty wouldn’t get him far. I shoved them both in my shoulder bag, and ran my fingers around the dusty edges of the locker.

  “Ouch!” The damn thing stuck me, whatever it was. I sucked the tip of my finger and put in my other hand, gingerly now, to investigate. Some rare breed of biting cockroach, no doubt.

  The thing I came out with was gold, or at least goldplated. It was kind of a pin, a collar stud. I’ve got one on my bulletin board at home that spells out ERA. This one said GBA, which meant nothing to me.

  “Greater Boston Association? Greedy Buggers of America? Goof Balls Alliance?” Back in the office, I tried a few possibilities out on Gloria.

  “Maybe it’s a rock band,” she said, slapping a half-empty Pepsi bottle down on the desk.

  “Punk or heavy metal? Which was Eugene into?”

  She laughed. When Gloria laughs, you can’t help joining in. Somebody ought to record it for shut-ins.

  “Well, thanks a lot,” I said, even though she hadn’t told me much. I guess I was thanking her for the laughter.

  “Glad you came by. Do it again. Bring that little Spanish girl.”

  “You give her too much candy.”

  “So long, Carlotta.”

  I was halfway out the door when she yelled after me. Not yelled. Her voice just gets deeper and richer as it gets louder.

  “Hey,” she said, “I meant to ask, that cute guy find you?”

  “Guy?”

  “Somebody here asking about you, maybe three days ago. It’s why you were on my mind when Miss Devens popped by.”

  “Give a name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What did he want?”

  “How long you worked here, stuff like that.”

  “You tell him?”

  “He already had your address and phone, babe. Client, I figured.”

  Or maybe just a potential housebreaker.

  “Looks?” I asked.

  She gave it some consideration while biting into a marshmallow. “Cute, like I said. Straight, or doing a good imitation. Dark hair. Medium tall. Medium build. Thirties. White.”

  “If he shows again,” I said, “give me a ring.”

  Who knows? Maybe he could play Thomas C. Carlyle when I tried to pick up my twenty K.

  “How you doing with that crazy bird?” Gloria asked.

  “Want it?”

  My eagerness must have betrayed me.

  “Hell, no,” Gloria said.

  Chapter 3

  “Life,” my grandmother reputedly used to say, “is a big headache on a noisy street.”

  “Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

  The telephone played a syrupy version of “A Hard Day’s Night” into my left ear.

  “Yoo hoo.”

  On hold again.

  “Testing,” I said. “One, two.”

  Muzak has no charms to soothe this savage beast. I checked the sweep hand of my Timex. Thirty more seconds, I’d give them. Or else.

  Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen. The recording switched to something that could have been “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” before it got processed into mush.

  Ten, nine.

  A voice that matched the canned music told me to hang on, she would switch me to blah-blah.

  “What?” I said.

  Raindrops kept falling on my head.

  I murmured a few other things. I probably wouldn’t need to teach the parakeet to swear after all. She could just pick it up around the house.

  A human voice, female, nasal. “And here is our Mr. Andrews at lovely Cedar Wash Condominiums.”

  I inhaled. Before I could speak the music started up again, then stopped, lush strings mercifully strangled.

  “To whom am I speaking?” demanded a gruff bass voice. He sounded like I’d kept him waiting.

  “Carlotta Carlyle,” I repeated for the umpteenth time. “Want me to spell it?”

  “Ah. Wife of Thomas C. Carlyle.”

  “Ah,” I echoed.

  “You’re calling about the contest,” he continued.

  Bingo.

  “Mrs. Carlyle,” he said excitedly, sounding like he was auditioning for TV game show host of the week, “could you read me the number on the top left-hand corner of your letter?”

  I am not Mrs. Carlyle. Carlyle is my maiden name, which I never abandoned. I am Ms. Carlyle, sometimes Miss Carlyle, although I don’t see what business my marital status should be to people who don’t even know me on a first-name basis. I wasn’t even Mrs. when I was married. But I don’t quibble with folks who want to give me money.

  The letter was tacked low on the refrigerator door, with one of those magnets that looks like a hamburger. A gift from Roz. All my plain silver disk magnets have disappeared. Roz again. She borrows various household objects with the intent of immortalizing them in acrylics. A vase here, a box of steel wool pads there. Her variations on the theme of dead Smurfs trapped in Windex bottles are impressive. Sometimes the magnet, the vase, the Windex will return as mysteriously as it flew. Sometimes substitution occurs.

  I tucked the phone between my left shoulder and ear, and stooped to get a better look.

  “How about A-198306?”

  “Congratulations.”

  “This is for real? Twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Or the trip to Italy. For the entire family. Up to eight individuals. Deluxe accommodations, first class all the way.”

  “My, my,” I said.

  “You’ll want to make an appointment,” he said firmly.

  “I will? Oh—yes, I will.”

  “Already more than half the two-bedroom units at exciting Cedar Wash are pre-sold, but if you place your order within the next thirty days, you and your husband can select a custom-colored hot-tub.”

  “About the twenty thousand—”

  “In order to win the grand prize, all you have to do is view the property. No obligation to buy. Would next Saturday be convenient?”

  “My husband is out of town. I’d be available.”

  “Both you and your husband must be present.”

  “Like I said, my husband is out of town.”

  “Well, as long as the two of you collect your prize within fourteen days, we can be quite flexible.”

  “Flexible” probably didn’t extend to cats.

  “Thomas is overseas,” I said gravely. “It might take me a while to contact him.”

  I pictured an imaginary Thomas C. Carlyle, traveling through remote and rugged mountains with a band of Afghan guerrillas, burnoose waving in the breeze. He looked like Robert Redford. Younger.

  T.C. rubbed against my leg. He didn’t look at all like Robert Redford.

  “That is too bad,” the man on the phone said. He sounded sincerely concerned.

  “Any possibility of an extension on those fourteen days?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s very unusual. I would have t
o speak to my superiors.”

  “Why don’t you do that,” I said, “and I’ll call back.”

  “Try to get in touch with your husband, Mrs. Carlyle.”

  “Right,” I said.

  I hung up and stared balefully at T.C. I mean, you can kiss a frog on the nose and have a chance at a prince, but what the hell can you do with a cat?

  Chapter 4

  I suppose I could have tried the direct approach, sidling up to one of the Geezers, buying him a whiskey or three in memory of our former camaraderie at Green & White, then easing in the crucial questions: So where’s old Gene Devens? What’s he up to these days? But I suspected that some of the old coots might remember my transformation from cabbie to cop. And if they hadn’t told Gloria about Eugene’s disappearance, I figured they weren’t about to give me the inside scoop.

  The situation called for subterfuge. Sneakiness. I live and breathe for that kind of stuff. If I thought I could possibly agree with half—well, a quarter—of their activities, I might have joined the CIA. Spying has its attractions for me. Government does not.

  I knew one important fact about Eugene Devens. He drank.

  I could have tried every Irish bar in Boston, beginning with the Eire Pub in Southie, grandaddy of them all, but that would have taken six months of hard drinking, and Margaret Devens didn’t look like a lady who’d take kindly to footing the bill for a six-month bar tab.

  Now a man might give up his home. He might stray to the arms of a thoroughly unsuitable suburban divorcée, say, or even hit the skids and forget the joys of domestic life with a devoted elderly sister. But if that man has a history of drink, and a group of buddies with whom he regularly takes a drop, odds are he will show up in their company one night.

  Gloria declared she hadn’t the faintest clue where Gene and the Geezers did their boozing. So starting fresh Monday night, I hung out with her—keeping away from the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups by sheer force of will—until, with a nod, her mouth too full of Twinkie for polite conversation, she informed me that a couple of Eugene’s cronies were bringing their cabs in for the night.

  The first time I tried to follow them, they split, and zoomed off in different directions. I took a chance and tailed old Sean Boyle, who went straight home to bed.

  So did I.

  The second night was more of the same, except Gloria’s brother Leroy, a mere bruiser of six three, took ten bucks off me at five-card stud. When Leroy wins, I always breathe a sigh of relief. This time, I followed Joe Fergus home to his apparently blameless sheets.

  The third night, Wednesday, was more promising from the start. Three of the old coots piled into a yellow Dodge Charger that looked like a graduate of a demolition derby. Now cabbies aren’t easy to follow. They do the damndest things with the most righteous air, secure in the knowledge that traffic laws apply only to nonprofessionals. I’d almost forgotten the thrill of the illegal U-turn, the music of the two-wheeled corner, the joy of navigating the narrow back street. These guys had a route that took them along roads no full-sized car had discovered, at speeds never intended by Chrysler. I don’t think I breathed until that Dodge pulled into the parking lot of the Rebellion.

  The Rebellion is the Irish bar in Brighton. It’s on Harvard Street, in the middle of a working-class block that’s experiencing Vietnamization. “Vietnam Eggrolls” reads the neon on the new take-out joint. The laundries have signs in an alphabet I can’t read, and so does the Kao Palace Fish Store and Restaurant, which, by the way, is a great place for softshell crabs.

  I could see that the shamrock was still the bumper sticker of choice on the beat-up Chevys and rusty Fords in the Rebellion’s pocket-sized parking lot. Two G&W cabs were tucked into the lot as well, which would have given Gloria apoplexy. She wants those cabs on the road every second.

  I pulled around the corner and ditched my Toyota in a loading zone, locking it carefully. The thing I miss most about being a Boston cop is that little sticker you put on your windshield that keeps you from getting a parking ticket every hour on the hour. It also has a sobering effect on potential car thieves, if they can read.

  It was close to midnight. I was glad it was Wednesday, because Wednesday is not pick-up-a-date-at-a-bar-and-take-her-home-for-the-night night.

  I can pass for Irish. I’ve got that kind of coloring, red hair, green eyes. I am part Irish, for the record. Also part Scots, and half Russian Jew. Somewhere back in the misty past, I am reputed to have had a great-grandma, on my mother’s side, who stood well over six feet, accounting for my otherwise surprising height. My parents were both shorties, Mom a passionate union organizer, Dad a Scots-Irish Catholic cop, at war with himself when he wasn’t doing battle with Mom.

  It not being Saint Patrick’s Day, I didn’t wear green. I aimed for working-class chic: skinny black jeans and a blue and black lumberjack plaid shirt, belted. Shoes tell all; if I’d worn four-inch black spikes with that outfit, not that I own any four-inch black spikes, I’d have looked like a working girl. In sneakers, I was okay—as okay as any woman gets who walks into a bar solo.

  Someday unescorted women will walk into bars without getting the glad eyeball from every guy who can still lift his face from his beer. But that great day has not yet arrived. Oh, I’m not making a fuss—I’m not bitter, don’t get me wrong. I just hate feeling like I’ve got a price tag hung on my ass. There’s no way to stop it. No way to win or get even. Once I spent an entire summer wolf-whistling at construction workers, reaching new heights of hollow achievement when I made some poor jerk blush.

  The Rebellion’s management eased my entrance by choosing a dim orangey light that made me suspect they didn’t want to draw attention to their food. Baseball, the Red Sox vs. the Orioles, lit up a big TV screen over a scratched dark wood bar. Smoke laced the air, and the place smelled like they emptied the ashtrays every Easter, need it or not.

  A wood partition shielded half a dozen tables from the bar. Most were square, and big enough to accommodate a four-person card game. A platform at the back of the room had space for a microphone and a folding chair. “Entertainment Weekends,” a hand-lettered sign promised. “Authentic Irish music.” In a rear corner, two tables had been shoved together, making a decent-sized table for eight. The table for eight had twelve chairs squeezed around it.

  My three cabbies were making themselves at home at the big table, joining friends, judging from the handshakes and smiles all around. Their table was the farthest from the bar, wouldn’t you know it, tucked in the corner near the restrooms.

  My threesome sat together, an oddly matched trio. Sean Boyle first caught my eye, the Old Geezer I’d followed home Monday night. He had a shock of white hair and a round flabby face. Red veins stood out in his doughy nose, making him look like a cross between Santa Claus and a wino.

  If I’d hailed his cab I would have demanded to smell his breath before climbing aboard. Then again, I’m not sure I’d have wanted to get that close.

  To Boyle’s right sat a man who still had muscle instead of fat. Maybe fifty, I guessed, his hair flecked gray, he looked like a former Hell’s Angel, but maybe that was just the black leather jacket. He had a thin, sharp nose and a thin-lipped mouth. Mean-looking eyes. I thought he might be Costello, a guy who’d worked the day shift while I was at G&W. I didn’t think he’d remember me.

  Third was Joe Fergus, as mild-looking a little man as you might want to meet. He’d shrunk since I’d seen him last, and he couldn’t have been more than five feet six then. He was wiry and wrinkled, and possessed of a legendary temper. I’d never seen him blow, but I’d heard stories. Drivers who cut Fergus off on lane changes came out the worse for wear.

  Of the eleven men at the table, maybe six looked familiar. G&W drivers, no doubt, but I couldn’t recall their names. They seemed to be in their fifties or sixties, except for one. He seemed younger than the rest, although I couldn’t be sure because his back was toward me. He moved his hands around a lot when he talked. The old guys smiled an
d nodded, and apparently agreed with everything he said.

  All I could hear was the Red Sox score, and that was depressing.

  Four pitchers of beer, untouched, squatted along the dividing line between the two tables. There was a formality about the setting that seemed odd in view of the orange light, and the smoke, and the TV glare. Hands were solemnly shaken before the brew was poured, and the men murmured as the glasses clicked. It had the air of a toast. If there’d been a fireplace in the immediate vicinity, maybe they’d have tossed their glasses in the grate. I couldn’t catch the words over the canned excitement of the sportscaster.

  I’d never worked this section of town when I was a cop. I’d been a downtowner, combing the Combat Zone for strung-out hookers, trying to nab their pimps. But it took me only about two seconds to figure out that the cops were here. Not uniformed cops either, plainclothes detectives.

  Ah, you say, what perception. Able to ID a cop by the smell, by the distinctive air of authority. Much as I hate to disillusion you, I knew the guys. Or one of them anyway. Mooney.

  Chatting with Mooney was one of the few things I’d liked about being a cop. Moon and I got on so well together I wouldn’t even consider dating him, although he is not bad-looking. Plenty of guys are good at sex, but conversation, now there’s an art. Staring at him across the smoky room, his brow furrowed, his face animated with talking and listening, I wondered if it might be time to reconsider.

  He was deep in discussion with two other gents at a table near the makeshift stage. He hadn’t spotted me yet, and I wasn’t sure discovery would be to my advantage. Did I want to be associated with cops? Would cops want to associate with me? Were they working? Just drinking? Would Mooney want to know if I was working? Margaret Devens had ordered me not to file a missing persons, not to breathe the sainted name of brother Eugene near the cops.

  From my perch on a black leather barstool I couldn’t see any kingpins of organized crime, but I figured I’d let Mooney make any approach. Far be it from me to blow a man’s cover.

  I gave up smoking years ago, but when I’m in a bar I still get the urge. It’s so natural. Slide onto your barstool, light up, it’s springtime. Cancer waits till autumn. My dad died of lung cancer. They should have made a Marlboro commercial out of his last few days of tubes and pain and small indignities. Still, the craving for smoke tugged at my stomach, and my hand reached automatically for my bag, as if I’d find a pack of Kools inside.