A Trouble of Fools

by Linda Barnes

  “What’ll it be?” The bartender smoked and I inhaled. I know it’s cheating and dangerous and all that, but hell, you can always get hit by a gold Mercedes and go out in a quick flash of glory.

  I ordered Harp on tap, and earned an appreciative smile for my Irish expertise. I dated an Irish guy from Boston College once. The bartender sped off and I settled back to observe my three cabbies in the mirror. They didn’t seem to be waiting for a companion to fill the single empty chair. Intense discussion was taking place back there. I wished they’d raise their voices so I could hear.

  The bartender came back with a foaming glass and set it before me so gently he didn’t disturb the suds. He had an engaging gap-toothed grin in a youthful florid face. He looked like he sampled his own wares. He looked like he ought to arrest himself for serving somebody underage.

  Never go to bars to pick up men. A few young guys in one corner were slapping each other on the back and giggling and pretty soon one of them would come over and make me an offer I could easily refuse. Maybe it was their collective leer that made me slide my license out of my wallet when I put down my money for the beer. The bartender gave it the eye.

  Sometimes I’m subtle, sometimes I’m not. I figured I’d level with the guy, in case the young toughs in the corner got rowdy, or Mooney dropped by to chat. Besides, the barkeep looked like the type who’d enjoy a little intrigue.

  His eyebrows slid up and he grinned. It was a nice grin, not primed with disbelief. “You want to ask me a few questions, right?” he said, like he’d been waiting for the day when somebody would come by and do just that. He looked around as if he expected TV cameras. TV has practically wrecked the investigation business. People have such unrealistic expectations.

  “Eugene Devens,” I said under my breath, trying to play the role.

  “Gene,” the bartender agreed.

  “Yeah.”

  “In trouble?”

  “No trouble.”

  He gave the place a quick once-over. “He’s not here.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh.”

  “He come by often?”

  “Why?”

  “Pour yourself a beer,” I said. “My treat.”

  “Why?” he repeated, reaching for a glass. He rubbed a few spots off it with a grayish dishrag.

  “His sister hasn’t seen him in a few days. She’s worried.”

  “Since when’s a guy that old need a permission slip to go on a field trip?”

  “Got me,” I said. “Did he take a field trip?”

  He shrugged. “Probably just a breather. It’s tough living with your sister.” He spoke with feeling and I wondered about his domestic arrangements.

  “You know him pretty well.”

  “I take an interest in my customers.”

  “He hang out with the group back at the big table?”

  “Why?” he said, smiling brightly.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Billy.” He stared down at my photostat. “Carlotta. Does a nickname go with that?”

  “Nope,” I said, wondering why bartenders always have little boys’ names. “Look, suppose Gene Devens decided he couldn’t take living with his sister one more night, where would he go?”

  “Ireland,” Billy said without missing a beat. “Ireland.”

  “He talk about going?”

  “All the time. Practically didn’t talk about anything else. Hadn’t seen the old country since he was a kid, you know, but he had a picture in his head. Anything wrong here must be right there. It’s like, you know, in his mind Ireland stayed exactly where it was when he was a kid, while this country went to the dogs, see?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Green fields. Pretty girls who don’t mind if you call ’em girls.”

  “Isn’t Gene getting old for that?”

  “Not Gene.”

  “He have a woman friend? A girlfriend?”

  “He wouldn’t have brought her in here. You can see the old guys clucking about you. This is a pub. The men come in after work. The women stay home.”

  “How quaint. Gene talk about a woman? A girl?”

  “Nope.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  “The old country. The glorious rebellion. The terrible Brits. The great poets.”

  “Grand.”

  “Gene and I were tight.” Billy finished off his beer and wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand. “You’ll see. Couple of days, I’ll get a note from him. Dublin, maybe. Wishin’ all his old buddies were there.”

  “He have the money for a trip like that?”

  “He worked. Drove a cab.”

  At least we were talking about the same guy. I slid one of my cards across the bar. “Call me if you hear from him,” I said.

  A fellow down the bar signaled for another Scotch, and Billy made tracks. I sipped at my beer, which was strong and cold, if not my favorite.

  Ireland. Does a man go off to another country without saying good-bye to his family, without packing a suitcase? If Gene was in Ireland, why were the old coots playing it so close to the vest? Why not cheer the return of the native son so loudly you could hear it clear over to Southie? Why not tell his sister, dammit?

  Well, first thing in the morning, I’d check all the planes and ships bound for the Emerald Isle.

  “Hiya, doll,” a voice said close to my ear.

  I turned, ready to disillusion the hopeful stud, and came face-to-face with Mooney. He didn’t look like himself because a leer is not at home on that open, honest mug. I knew right off he didn’t want me to recognize him, because Mooney knows that “hiya, doll” is not an approach I favor.

  “Hiya, jerk,” I said softly. Anybody watching from his table would think I was saying something nice.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, smiling like he was telling me something else.

  “Drinking.”

  “I have a bet going down, Carlotta. I can earn a quick hundred if you leave with me.”

  “What do you get if I pour beer down your crotch?”

  “I can trade you something,” he said.

  I must have left the price tag on my ass after all.

  “No bet, Moon,” I said. “The lady leaves alone.” I drank up, shook his hand. “Tell your friends I’ve got a social disease.”

  “I guess my line is less than irresistible.”

  “You catch on fast. That’s what I like about you.”

  “I do have something to tell you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Something important. Something worth a favor.”

  “So tell me.”

  “Somebody’s asking questions about you.”

  “Oh, crap,” I muttered. Somebody asking Mooney questions. Somebody asking Gloria questions. “Are the guys at your table cops?”

  “No. And I could seriously use a good reason to get out of here.”

  “Then I want the hundred.”

  “Ten,” he countered.

  “Ten, hah,” I said. “Eighty.”

  “Half! And that’s robbery.”

  “Arrest me,” I said. I added a generous tip to the price of two beers on the counter and winked at the bartender. “Let’s go.”

  The old guys at the bar chattered like a bunch of monkeys when we left. Mooney draped his arm loosely around my shoulders. I stepped on his foot. Clumsy old me.

  Chapter 5

  “That’ll be fifty bucks,” I said cheerfully, as soon as we’d cleared the front door. The night air smelled of spilled beer and car exhaust. Faint stars struggled to compete with the city lights. A leather-jacketed teenager strutted by with a blaring boom box perched on one hunched shoulder.

  Mooney kept his hand on my arm longer than strictly necessary. “Most I ever paid to squeeze somebody’s shoulder,” he said.

  “But worth it.” I smiled to take the sting out. “Hand it over.”

  “When I collect, you collect.”

  “Oh, God, Mooney. Co
llect from those goons you were sitting with? I can’t wait that long.”

  “If I can wait, you can wait,” Mooney said. “You’re still a kid, you’ll outlive me.”

  Mooney plays at this old guy stuff, and I guess he is starting to catch sight of the big four-oh. He’s got a few gray streaks, and you can see crow’s-feet when he smiles, but he keeps in shape, and it shows.

  “Live hard, die young,” I said. Roz has a purple T-shirt with that slogan blazed across the chest in bright gold. Roz must be twenty or so. I keep wondering how long she’ll wear it.

  “You got it wrong, Carlotta,” Mooney said. “I learned it in school. It’s ‘Only the good die young.’ Before they get a chance to fool around.”

  “What were you doing in there?” I asked.

  “Police business.”

  It came across as a snub, and I took a step back to let Mooney know he’d made his point. Sometimes I think he’s still pissed at me for quitting the department. “It’s like that, huh? Drugs? I didn’t recognize the punks at your table.”

  “What were you doing in there?”

  “PI business.”

  “No kidding? You got a case?”

  “It would be more flattering if you didn’t look so surprised, Mooney.”

  “Didn’t know you could see my face.”

  “It’s the streetlamps. They cut down on crime.”

  “My car’s over on Woodlawn.”

  “Let’s just stroll around the block,” I said.

  We walked in silence for a while, the kind of silence you get on a city street, car doors slamming and horns tooting. I don’t know what Mooney was thinking, but I was enjoying the stretch it took to match my stride to his. I used to love late-night walks. My ex-husband and I were great walkers. Boston’s a walking town. And now—well, I haven’t been for a late-night prowl in a long time.

  It’s not that I’m scared. I can take care of myself. I grew up in Detroit, and compared to the kids of the Motor City, most of the punks around here don’t know what tough means. I’m not scared of the streets. Maybe I’m afraid of the great I-Told-You-So. You know how it goes: “Gee, Carlotta, none of this would have happened if you’d had the sense to stay indoors.”

  Sorry state of affairs, isn’t it, when a six-foot-one-inch woman starts acting like a prisoner in her own home after dark? I inhaled the pungent smell of a Szechuan take-out stand, and vowed to start treating myself to nighttime walks again.

  “Up for some ice cream?” Mooney asked.

  Mooney says my sense of taste got arrested somewhere in childhood. Ice cream is my favorite food, and Boston is a mecca for the stuff. I did a quick mental survey of the local spots. “Herrell’s?” I asked, not quite keeping the eagerness out of my voice.

  He grinned. “Sure. We’ll take it out of the fifty.”

  “Whose fifty?” I asked.

  Herrell’s has mocha ice cream to die for. Herrell is really Steve, see. He opened this place called Steve’s years ago in Davis Square, Somerville, and started the ice cream revival almost single-handedly. Then he retired, and sold his successful empire, a chain of stores by then, to a guy named Joey, so Joey owned Steve’s. But then Steve decided to make a comeback, except he’d sold his first name to Joey. So Steve’s is Joey’s and Herrell’s is Steve’s.

  Remember that if you come to Boston.

  I got a large cup of mocha with M&M moosh-ins. The real name for the goodies they blend into the ice cream is mix-ins, but, you guessed it, Steve sold the name to Joey, so now he’s got moosh-ins. Makes an adult cringe to order in there, but I’ve gotten used to it. Mooney ordered vanilla, can you believe it? I wonder if I could ever love a guy who orders vanilla.

  The accommodations at Herrell’s are not lush. A few tiny round tables and some wire torture chairs lurk in a corner. Mooney and I bagged the most isolated spot we could find. A teenager with a dyed spiky blond mohawk sat at a table across the way. Her ears were pierced. That is, the right ear was pierced once and adorned with a simple safety pin. The other ear was pierced five times and had five different earrings in it, including one cascading multicolored rhinestone number that brushed her shoulder. I stared openly—I figured that’s what she wanted.

  She scowled. I’d have to tell Roz about the earrings. In detail.

  “So how’s Paolina?” Mooney asked.

  I smiled, caught off guard. Paolina’s my little sister. Not my blood sister. I’m an only child. While I was still a cop, I joined this group, the Big Sisters. They pair you up with a kid who could use an older female friend, a role model, you know. I lucked out. I got Paolina.

  “She’s ten years old,” I said. “Can you imagine? Birthday last week.”

  “You celebrate?”

  “I guess. I took her to the ballet. I asked her what she’d like to do most, and that’s what she wanted, the Boston Ballet. Must have seen it on TV or something. I’d never been. I was embarrassed to tell her, so we just went. And she watched. I mean I have never seen anybody watch anything like that. A couple times I thought she’d stopped breathing. Her eyes, God, her eyes got so big. It was as if she were trying to swallow every movement, memorize it, hang on to it. For me, well, I thought it was okay, the dancing, but mostly I watched her. And then I took her out for ice cream, and home.”

  “Nice,” Mooney said. He’s divorced, too. His mom moved in with him when his dad died.

  “They got Big Brothers, Mooney,” I said.

  “I don’t need a brother, Carlotta.”

  I dropped my eyes and ate ice cream. I wasn’t going to touch that one, not the way he said it. To tell the truth, Mooney seemed pretty attractive to me that night, but I fought it. I retired young from the man-woman business. Gave myself an honorable discharge.

  “Carlotta?” I could tell from his voice, kind of gruff and deep, that I wasn’t going to get off so easily. “So,” he said, when I looked up, “you wanna go out sometime?”

  I bit down hard on an icy M&M. “No.”

  “Look, Carlotta, I understood, sort of, when we were both cops. Same chain of command, and I had rank on you and all. It could have been sticky, but now—”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe I turn you off that much.”

  “Don’t get angry, Mooney. Please. You don’t turn me off.”

  “So?”

  How do you explain? Somehow I couldn’t see myself telling Mooney, in a goddamn ice cream parlor, that I’d kind of come to terms with life minus sex. That if I didn’t have it, I didn’t miss it so much. It didn’t seem the time or place to rehash the horrors of the singles bar routine I’d fallen into after Cal and I split. Retirement, abstinence, emptiness … nothing was a hell of a lot better than that. Someday, maybe, I’d get strong enough to risk waking the sleeping demons again.

  “I’m not ready,” I said lamely.

  “You look ready. It’s been a while since—”

  “Besides, I need somebody to talk to.”

  “I can talk anyplace, Carlotta. Even on a date.”

  We ate ice cream for a while. The punk with the mohawk was eavesdropping, practically hanging out of her chair.

  “So,” I said finally, “somebody looking for me up at the station?”

  Mooney said, “Right. Back to business.”

  “Let me guess.” I repeated Gloria’s description. “The guy asking questions about me was medium height, medium build, dark, kind of cute—”

  “You know him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “Nothing I know about.”

  “He said he was from DSS.”

  I breathed a sigh of pure relief. Department of Social Services. Something about Paolina, probably. They could check from here to Tuesday on me and Paolina and find nothing but boundless affection.

  “Except he didn’t look like DSS,” Mooney said. “Too smooth. Too well-dressed. Expensive shoes. So after he left, I dropped a dime, and they didn’t have anybody by that
name working for them.”

  “What name?”

  “George Robinson. He had a business card.”

  “Eighteen bucks for a box of three hundred, right?”

  “It looked pretty good,” Mooney said.

  “Shit.”

  “So watch your back.”

  “I get a crick in my neck,” I said.

  “Anything I can do.”

  “Anything?” I said.

  “Got something in mind?”

  “Look, how about if we forget that fifty bucks you owe me, and just call it favor for favor?”

  “A fifty-buck favor sounds like trouble, Carlotta.”

  “I want you to find out some stuff about what could happen, legally I mean, in this hypothetical situation.”

  “Hypothetical,” he repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go on.”

  “It has to do with impersonating a cat.”

  “Crawling around on all fours and meowing?”

  “It’s important, Mooney. It’s about T.C.”

  “Somebody’s impersonating your cat?”

  “Mooney, if I tell you about this, you have to promise not to screw it up for me. I mean, I’d be telling you as a friend, not a cop.”

  “Well, that would be an improvement.”

  “I just want to know what kind of trouble I can get in if I have, say, you or some other guy present himself as Thomas C. Carlyle.”

  “Me, huh?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess it depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Do I get petted?”

  Chapter 6

  I woke the next morning in a tangle of sheets with a sour beer aftertaste coating my tongue. Funny how neither ice cream nor toothpaste really kills that telltale beer taste. T.C., curled up on the pillow next to mine, is not too fussy, so I wasn’t overly concerned about bad breath. Either I’d forgotten to set my alarm clock, or else I’d flipped it off and gone back to sleep. Just as I was about to soothe myself with a calming well-you-must-have-needed-the-rest, I realized it was Thursday morning. Which made it twenty minutes before my regular 8 A.M. volleyball game at the YWCA.