He jogged slowly up the stairs, crossed the crowded street and lost himself in the Newton Center shopping district for a few minutes. He then circled back, descended the stairs, and crossed the tracks to wait for an inbound train. He was alone on the platform, confident he had not been followed.
Twenty-five minutes later he stepped out of the Boylston station and onto Newbury Street. It was just eight o’clock and, though there were still a few people scurrying into stores to do some holiday shopping, the frigid evening winds had driven most people off the normally bustling street. Bruce raised his collar, walked down Newbury Street to Massachusetts Avenue, and turned right toward the Charles River.
Bruce had always loved the Back Bay, both for its Victorian architecture and its vibrancy. Nobody would dare call it a slum, but few people realized that its population density was twice that of other grittier Boston neighborhoods such as Brighton and Dorchester. This density gave the neighborhood the critical mass necessary to support the world-famous restaurants and shops on Newbury Street, yet the wide, tree-lined boulevards gave the area a feel of luxury and spaciousness. Someday he would own a townhouse here. With views of the river.
He crossed Commonwealth Avenue, then Marlborough Street, then Beacon Street, and was at the river. Massachusetts Avenue continued, bridging the river, but stairs from the bridge descended to the Esplanade park below, a grassy area with bike paths and picnic areas that ran along the river for the length of the Back Bay.
Bruce gripped the brass knuckles, went down the stairs. In the summer, the area was crammed with bikers and joggers, but on a cold winter night the river’s edge was dark and deserted. He shuffled along the icy bike path until it passed under the bridge, then stopped to examine the spot he had chosen as a meeting place. A few broken bottles, and a cardboard box that at one point had provided shelter from the cold, but otherwise the area was abandoned. He kicked the glass into the box and dragged the box to the river’s edge—he did not want to leave the glass around as a possible weapon for Gus.
He looked at his watch. Still a half hour before Gus was set to arrive. Bruce trudged back up the stairs and crouched down, leaning against the bridge railing. From his vantage point, he could see Gus as he arrived from either the bike path or from Massachusetts Avenue. He wanted to make sure Gus arrived alone. No police, and no friends.
Gus arrived promptly at nine o’clock. Bruce smiled to himself—Gus was notoriously late for everything, except when it came to working with Bruce. From the beginning, Bruce had insisted on military precision when planning their heists, and Gus had learned the lesson well.
Bruce waited five minutes, confident that Gus had not been followed, then descended the stairs again to join his ex-partner.
Gus was waiting, his hands in his pockets, stomping the ground in an attempt to stay warm. Bruce strolled up to him casually, arms dangling loosely by his side. He nodded, then stepped forward and swung his right arm through the shadowed night, burying his fist deep into Gus’ mid-section.
Gus dropped to his knees, groaning, struggling for air, spittle dripping from his lower lip and chin. A Russian-style fur head he was wearing tumbled off his bowed head to the icy walk. Bruce leaned against a bridge support. It occurred to him that he had never hit Gus before. “That was for setting me up last month. Don’t you ever pull that shit on me again.” Things had changed between him and Gus, and he had to change with them. No longer could he count on Gus’ loyalty to keep him in check. But fear should do the trick, at least for a while.
Gus coughed out a response. “Fuck you.”
Bruce ignored it. There’d be plenty of time for more rough stuff later if necessary. “Now where’s the tape recorder.” He wasn’t going to let Gus tape their conservation a second time.
Gus struggled to get to his feet, but sank again to one knee. He spit out another curse.
“Fine. Have it your way. But I bet it doesn’t work when it’s wet.” Bruce grabbed Gus by the front of the jacket and lifted him to his feet. He dragged him, stumbling, across a small grassy area and down to the river’s edge. The river had just begun to freeze, and there was a thin layer of ice in certain sheltered areas, but the spot where Bruce and Gus stood was open water.
Bruce didn’t give Gus a second chance. He hoisted his boyhood friend onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, waded out a couple of steps into the river as Gus flailed in desperation, and flung him through the air into the icy Charles.
Gus gasped in agony. He tried to crawl out of the waist-high water, but the combination of the punch to the gut and the shock of the cold water left him powerless to do more than slap at the water. When Bruce saw his eyes begin to flutter closed, he reached in and dragged his friend to shore and tossed him on the frozen ground. Gus shivered and moaned.
Bruce wanted Gus to be at least semi-coherent. “Where did you park?” Bruce knew that Gus drove everywhere, no matter how impossible the parking situation.
Gus mumbled a response. “Beacon, near Hereford.”
“All right. Let’s go warm up in your car.”
Bruce pulled the fur hat low over Gus’ thin, orange hair, then half-carried and half-dragged him back up the stairs and down Beacon Street to his car. Gus’ hands were shaking too much to dig the keys from his pocket, so Bruce retrieved them and deposited Gus into the passenger seat. Bruce started the car, cranked the heat, and waited for Gus to thaw. This was turning out to be a longer night than he had anticipated—he hadn’t planned on having to throw Gus into the river over the tape recorder. Maybe he hadn’t punched him hard enough.
Gus unleashed a flurry of curses, interrupted periodically by a gagging cough. Bruce took it as a sign that his friend was warming up.
“All right. So tell me about this plan of yours.”
Gus looked away, remained silent.
“Look, you’re the one who wanted my help. And you’re right, you probably will get caught without me. So come on, let’s get to work.”
Gus continued to look away, then finally turned to face Bruce. Bruce had never seen Gus cry, even during the worst of the cancer, but there was moisture around his eyes that hadn’t come from the river. It hadn’t occurred to Bruce that his attack would do more damage to Gus’ psyche than to his body. For a brief moment, Bruce was tempted to reach out and embrace his old friend. But that would be rebuilding a bridge he was trying to burn.
Instead Bruce stared back at Gus impassively, waiting for him to speak.
After a few seconds, Gus sighed and began mumbling in a sluggish, pained voice. “They got no security. Just a couple of guards. College kids. One sits at a desk in an office near the side door. One walks around. Four video monitors at the security desk. No external alarms.”
“Any internal sensors?”
“Yup. But they’re wired back to the security desk. Not to the cops.”
“You sure?”
“The guy I’m working with knows a kid who used to be a security guard there.”
Bruce nodded his approval. “All right. So everything is keyed back to the guard sitting at the security desk. If you can take him out, the place is yours.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Step one is getting in the door. How do you do it?”
“Cop uniforms. We’ll knock on the door and tell the guard some neighbors reported a disturbance. He opens the door, then we take him out.”
Bruce shook his head. “Come on, Gus, that’s not a plan. You might get in, but how are you going to take him out? He’s going to be sitting there with his finger on the button. He may be a college kid, but he’s going to be a nervous college kid. And any idiot can push a button if he thinks there’s a problem. So you gotta get him out from behind the desk.”
“What if we tell him to come with us to check out the disturbance?”
“No. That’s what the other guard is supposed to do. This guy is supposed to stay behind the desk.”
Gus frowned. “You got any ideas?”
“I like the cop
uniforms, maybe we can use that.” Bruce thought for a minute. “What if you tell the kid that he looks familiar? Maybe you say you’ve got a warrant for his arrest, ask him to show you his ID. But make it look good—tell him to move slowly, with his hands up in the air where you can see ’em. Then tell him to bring you the ID. That’s when you take him out—pull a gun on him or something.”
Gus nodded. “I like it. What about the other guard?”
“He’s not as dangerous, because his hand isn’t on the button. But I think it’d be best to get him in the room with you before you take out the first guard. Otherwise the first guy might yell or something.”
“Right. So maybe tell the first guy to call his partner down before we do the whole ID thing.”
“No, I’ve got a better idea. When you tell the first guy to bring you his ID, that’s when you tell him to call his partner down to watch the desk. Tell him to stay behind the desk until his partner shows up. That’ll make it look like you guys are concerned with the museum’s security—you are the police, after all. When the second guy comes into the room, that’s when you tell the first guy to come out from behind the desk. Then you got ’em both in the same room, with neither near the alarm button. What next?”
“We pull our guns, then bring ’em down to the basement and tie ’em up. Then the place is ours.”
“What about the cameras? You can’t go in there with masks on, you’re supposed to be cops.”
“Who cares about the cameras? Nobody’ll be watching the monitors.”
Bruce shook his head. Gus was in over his head here. “Did you ever think the cameras might be connected to a video tape machine? You’ve got to trace the wires from the cameras back to some equipment room that has the recording devices. Then just take the cassettes out and bring ’em with you. There should be four, one for each monitor.”
“You sure about the tapes? Our guy didn’t say anything about any tapes.”
“Of course he didn’t, Gus. He probably didn’t even know about ’em. That’s how a security system works—nobody sees the whole picture, except the top guys. That way you cut down on the risk of an inside job.”
“What if we can’t find the wires?”
“Look, this is an old Victorian mansion. When it was built, it didn’t have a guard’s office next to the side door. So they probably added one when they put in the security system. And while they were at it, they probably built a second room right next to it to house the equipment. So my guess is that the recording equipment will be in a room next to the guard’s office. But if I’m wrong, you may have to rough up the guards to get them to tell you where the mechanical rooms are. If you can’t find the tapes, you’re screwed.”
Gus nodded, but said nothing. He was still shivering.
Bruce continued. “All right, so you take what you want and get out quick. I don’t want to know what you’re going to take or what you’re going to do with it—I figure you can handle that part. So when’s this going down?”
“Few weeks, maybe middle of January.”
Bruce gritted his teeth. That was too soon. He was hoping Gus would wait a few months, which would allow Bruce some time to pull off his real estate scams. If Gus made a move now, and got caught, Bruce knew he was screwed. “Bad idea, Gus. You should wait.”
“Why?”
“Couple of reasons. First, remember those guys up in Glens Falls?”
Gus shook his head.
“They hijacked a FedEx truck, then headed to the museum. Their plan was to go in with a delivery right at closing time and rob the place. But they got stuck in traffic because of a snow storm so they didn’t get there until after the museum closed. Missed it by like eight minutes. Got arrested the next day for kidnapping the FedEx driver. But if it hadn’t been for the storm, they would have been long gone with a truck full of paintings.”
“Sounds like they were idiots.”
“That’s not my point, Gus. My point is, why risk it? If it’s too cold, maybe your car won’t start. If there’s a storm, maybe the guard can’t get to work and the supervisor has to take his shift. Or maybe your car gets stuck in a snow bank. Don’t screw with the weather, Gus. Wait until spring. This is all about minimizing risk, that’s how this business works.”
Gus didn’t seem convinced. “What’s your other reason?”
Bruce was prepared to do what it took to delay Gus for at least a few months. He hoped he could convince him through persuasion, but he had a back-up plan if necessary: He would overpower Gus again and break both of his thumbs. Gus would have no choice but to wait until they healed.
Bruce stretched and yawned, then reached down casually and slid his seat back. He wanted to be able to maneuver freely if necessary. “The other reason is that your whole plan depends on beating these guards. Well, if they’re college students, they might still be on break in early January and you might have pros filling in for them. And even if you wait a few weeks, you might end up with a new guy just starting out for the second semester. He’ll probably have a supervisor with him, and even if not he’s likely to pee his pants and push the alarm button as soon as you guys knock. I’d wait until they’re back into their routine, wait until they start getting bored.”
“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know, I’ll talk to my partner.”
Bruce had one card left to play, then it was thumb-breaking time. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he would do it if that’s how the cards fell. He had already made an enemy of Gus by attacking him by the river, so it wasn’t like a further assault would cost him Gus’ loyalty. Bruce knew that Gus would seek revenge someday, with or without broken thumbs. Not that Bruce could really blame him.
“I know what I would do if I was you guys. I’d do it St. Patrick’s Day. The whole city’ll be out partying, and you know that the cops will be too busy to waste time cruising by the Gardner. Plus the guards will probably have a few beers before they come in to work that night.”
Gus nodded, even smiled. “Yeah. That’s good. That’s the perfect night.” He nodded again.
Bruce smiled in relief. “Good. I’m out of here.” Bruce opened the door and stepped out of the car. He no longer felt any allegiance toward Gus, but, all in all, he was glad he could at least leave his old friend in a condition to drive himself home.
CHAPTER 19
[December 21, 1989]
Shelby tried not to gasp when Charese plopped down opposite her in a booth at a diner outside Harvard Square. Shelby had just finished finals and was herself looking a bit haggard, but Charese’s whole being oozed despair and neglect. Her skin was blotchy, her features drawn, her shoulders slumped. Shelby decided to confront her.
“You look terrible. What’s going on?” They hadn’t spoken in a few weeks, and Shelby was glad she had suggested this lunch before leaving town on Christmas break.
“That bad, huh? I just don’t seem to have any energy. It’s like the thought of getting my revenge on Roberge had pumped me up, and now I can’t even get out of bed in the morning. So some days I don’t.”
“Are you doing drugs?”
She looked down at the yellowed tabletop, twisted a paper napkin between her fingers. “Yeah, I’ve been shooting a little heroin. But please, no lectures. When we win this case, you can stick me in some rehab center. Until then, I’m just trying to get by.”
Shelby eyed Charese for a few long seconds, until Charese finally met her glance. “All right, no lectures. But please be careful. Are you working?”
“Just the streets. It’s my best talent.”
Shelby took another long, hard look at her. What was her role here? Lawyer? Guardian? Social worker? Friend? They didn’t teach this stuff in law school. “Look, you’ve got to hang in there. Just because Reese fucked up the settlement, you’ve still got a good chance in this lawsuit. But it’s going to take some time, and all the money in the world won’t do you a damn bit of good if you get AIDS in the meantime or die of an overdose. Can’t you get a job cutting hair or
something?”
“I’ve looked, believe me. But it’s not like the economy’s so great right now, you know? There’s nothing out there.”
Charese was getting defensive, so Shelby backed-off a bit. “How are you set on cash?”
Charese seemed to relax a bit. “Not great, but if I need some, I just go down to the ATM on the corner around eleven at night. I don’t even need a bank card, just my tongue. Works every time. You’ve heard of living hand-to-mouth? Well, I’m living mouth–to-mouth.”
Shelby smiled and rolled her eyes. “You have a sick sense of humor. What about protection?”
“Nah, the guys won’t wear nothing for blow jobs, you know?” Actually, Shelby had no idea whether johns wore condoms or not. “I mean, they figure they can’t catch it from my mouth, right? Anyways, enough girl talk. Any news on my case?”
“Roberge took a mortgage out on the condo. Our injunction prevents him from selling it out from underneath you, but he can still mortgage it.”
Charese nodded her understanding. “His daddy probably cut him off, so he needed cash. Anything else?”
“Not really. This is the stage of the lawsuit called ‘discovery’ where both sides try to gather information from the other side. What it really is, is a good way for the lawyers to run up their fees by fighting over trivial little issues. And it also causes lots of delays. Right now I’m fighting over whether we have a right to question Roberge’s new wife about what she knows about his relationship with you. Not that I think she knows anything, but it will make life miserable for Roberge and he might be more willing to settle this thing. Which is why his lawyer is fighting it.”
“Do you think he might still settle?”
[Boston Law 01.0] Unlawful Deeds Page 12
