by Robert White
“Hi John, are you okay? You sound upset.”
“I’m fine..”
“Listen, I wanted to thank you for last night. I know it wasn’t a lot of fun for you, but it was a big help for me.”
“Sure, no problem. Anytime.”
Andrea got up and walked across the back yard, down towards the pond.
“I also was wondering if we could have dinner one night next week, maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. I could come down your way. Tosca? I think we need to talk about things.”
“Sure, either night is fine. What things?”
“You know, us things. How about Tuesday at eight-thirty? Tosca?”
“Yes, that’s fine. I love you Lauren.”
“I’ll see you then.”
I closed the phone and held it, going back over the conversation in my mind, trying to come up with a better interpretation.
Andrea came back up the yard and onto the deck. “Want another beer?” she asked, as she passed through the door into the kitchen.
I nodded. I realized I had been holding my breath since I got off the phone. I held it a bit more, until it hurt, then exhaled.
I dropped Andrea at the dock around eight forty-five, laundry folded and neatly packed in her duffle. I watched her dinghy head down the river towards the bay, until she made the turn and drove out of sight. Then I got into my truck and drove to A Street, arriving just in time to see her clear the mouth of the river, cross the bar at the end of Bumpkin and pull up alongside Highlander. I flashed my lights, and then drove home.
Back in my kitchen, I emptied the manila envelope onto the table. I then got a brand new legal pad and a few pencils from Lauren’s desk. I drew a vertical line down the center of the first sheet, labeling the left side Eddie and the right side Nolan. Using the information in the reports, I created a rough timeline of events. A picture began to emerge, but not any real answers. I put everything back in the envelope and headed for bed.
Sunday -3:00 PM
The day was classic summer, blue skies, sunshine, a touch of humidity, and a warm southwest wind. The bay was busy with sailboats tacking up towards the Fore River, reaching down to the Gut. Power boats pulled tubes full of kids around big lazy circles. The diehards were still fishing the shoals and corners. I was headed back from my afternoon patrol, coming up on Bumpkin Island. Standing in Highlander’s cockpit, Andrea waved me over. A minute or two later, I came alongside.
“I just wanted to thank you again, for letting me do my laundry, and for the supper.”
“No problem,” I answered, “It was nice to have some company.”
“I’d like to repay the favor. My dad stopped by this morning, it was weird. I’m not sure how he knew I was here. Anyway, he gave me some lobsters. Can I cook you dinner tonight?”
I must have hesitated a bit too long. Her smile faded. “Sorry, I’m being pushy again.”
“No!” I fumbled for words. “I’d love to. What time?”
“Whenever you can get out here. Or should I pick you up?” She was all smiles again.
“I’ll come out in my boat. Around seven thirty okay? Should I bring anything?”
“Nope, I already shopped. And we’ll raid the wine cellar here on the boat.”
I drove slowly back to the pier, wondering just what the hell I was doing. Tom was there, waiting to take lines. We talked a bit about work stuff, next week’s shifts. I didn’t mention my evening’s plans. I wondered if he would see my boat out there tonight. I supposed everyone would. Oh well, what the hell. I was tired of sitting alone at night. And she was a nice, bright young woman. And it was just dinner.
Once at home, I ran the mower around the grassy spots. I don’t have much, so it only took about fifteen minutes. A few more minutes’ attention aimed at some weeds in the front flower bed, and the weekly yard work was done. I took a cold beer into the shower and washed off the sweat and dust, both inside and out. Then I stood under the hot water, thinking about the past week, trying to gain a bit of perspective. None came. I shut off the water, dried off, and put on clean khaki shorts and a blue polo.
At seven fifteen I was rowing out to my boat. The harbor was busy with people closing their day, putting away their boats. The yacht club launch crawled by, low in the water and full of tired, happy, sun-drenched people. The driver slowed even more and shot me a wave as he passed, another former student, now home from college for the summer.
“Hey Mr. Smith,” he yelled.
I waved back, working on his name. By the time I remembered, he was out of earshot. Next time I’d be ready for him.
I climbed over the side of my boat and dragged the dinghy forward to the mooring, attaching it to the port pendant. The engine started easily and I gave it a bit of warm up throttle. Once again asking myself just what I thought I was doing, I dropped the other pendant and headed out the channel and across the bay towards Highlander.
Andrea was waiting in the cockpit, dressed in a light green sundress, her hair was loose, and her brown shoulders, legs and bare feet seemed to glow with warmth in the low sunshine. I dropped a couple fenders over the side and tied up fore and aft, then climbed aboard. She handed me a very cold glass of white wine and raised hers.
“Welcome. I was afraid you might not come,” she said, nervously.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I drank some wine. It was very good wine. I saw the bottle in an ice bucket, near the companionway. Pouilly-Fuisse, Burgundy, the label said. I'd have to remember that one.
“This is good,” I said, holding up my glass. “I’m not usually a white wine fan, but this is different.”
“Oh good, I wasn’t sure what to open. I figured white with lobster, and there was a case of this. I put another one in the fridge.”
We sat across from each other and both seemed to relax a bit. The wind was dying down and the boats still on the bay were all heading away from us, into one or another harbor.
“I don’t think I ever realized how beautiful it is here, when I was a kid. And I had forgotten how long it takes to get dark in the evening. In the Caribbean, day goes away like somebody threw a switch.”
“How long were you down there?” I asked.
“About ten years, pretty much ever since I finished college. I was just going to spend a year or so, finding myself. I guess I did. I started working on boats, got my license. I ran charters for a while, and then moved on to private yachts. But it was getting old, always living somebody else’s life.” She paused for a minute, drank a bit. “Mark, the guy who sailed up here with me, he and I, we were going to start our own lives, up in Maine.”
“How did you meet?”
“He was tending bar in St. Maarten. He’s really a nice guy, and smart. I guess he just wasn’t ready to settle down. And I think we both realized we weren’t right for each other while we were at sea. I think Captain Andrea unsettled him a bit. Anyway, he’s gone and I’m here now, alone. That’s probably why I came home, if this is home.”
“Where did you and your mother go, when you left Hull?” I reached the bottle of wine and filled both of our glasses.
“Yarmouth, on the Cape. She’s still there. I didn’t tell her I’m up this way. I figured I would wait until I was settled in Maine.”
“Won’t your father tell her?”
“They don’t speak. Actually, none of us speak very often. Mother has a new, rich husband and is a busy little social bee. I suppose I should be glad she is happy.”
We sat quietly for a while, watching the colors form in the sky as the sun pushed down into the Boston skyline, off in the distance. The bay was almost empty now, only a couple sailboats ghosting along in the calm. The channel markers blinked their reds and greens. A lone gull flew along the beach on Bumpkin.
After the sun set, we went below and boiled the lobsters. A salad, some Cape Cod potato chips and the other bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse completed our meal. We talked about the past, remembering people neithe
r of us had thought of in years. When the dishes were done, we headed back up to the cockpit to finish the wine.
“I wonder how my dad knew that I was out here.”
“I’m sure Tom Evers told him. They’re old friends from back when Tom fished.”
She nodded. “That makes sense. I remember him from the docks. But he didn’t lobster, he had a small dragger. He fished off shore a ways”
“That’s right. So what did you and your dad talk about?”
“Not too much, it was awkward. He did ask me to come to his house for dinner, to meet his wife and my little half-brother. Now that’s weird.”
“Are you going?”
“I guess. We didn’t say when. Like I said, it was awkward.”
We sat quietly for another while, next to each other, leaning back against the coaming. The moon wasn’t up yet, so there were lots of stars visible. I tried to find the pitiful few I can identify.
“So what’s up with you and your wife?” she asked. “I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
“I’m not really sure,” I said. I told her the story, and then I told her we were having dinner Tuesday. “I think she is going to ask me for a divorce,” I concluded.
“Do you think she is seeing somebody else?”
“No. That would be easier, in a way. At least that would be a reason, somewhere to place some blame.” As I spoke, I started to gain some understanding. “No, I think she is just ready to move on.”
Andrea put her hand on my wrist. We sat quietly for a while longer, and then I got up.
“I guess I should head in,” I said. “Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed it.”
“Thanks for coming. I enjoyed it, too.” She got up on her toes and kissed my cheek. “Be my friend,” she said. “I realized the other day that I don’t have any.”
It was after midnight when I got home. I should have been tired, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. My thoughts were racing all over the place, from Lauren to Andrea to Eddie and Sharon. I got out the files Kounadis had left me and read through them all again. The connection must be Eddie’s drug bust. Nolan must have been involved in some way, but he was killed, too. And what was Charlie Donnelly’s role, if any. Something was missing. Somebody.
Monday-8:00 AM
I slept in a bit Monday, and stayed in bed a while longer, taking stock yet again of the past week’s events. Nothing made sense; my head was just running in circles, but none of them even overlapped.
Finally I got up, made coffee and took it out to the deck. It was a sunny morning, but clouds were gathering to the west and a chop was kicking up on the pond, pushed by the building breeze. We would have some rain before too long. I was just heading in for a second cup when I heard a car pull up around front.
Kounadis was on his phone, sitting with the car door open, tapping an unlit cigarette on his knee in time with his nodding head. He looked ready to explode. I held up my coffee cup and he nodded faster in my direction. He growled something into the phone as I headed inside, then the car door slammed shut. He was sitting on the deck by the time I got out there with the coffee.
“What did you think of Mary Ann Kerrigan?” Kounadis asked as he took the coffee from me.
It took a second to place the name: Charlie Donnelly’s sister and campaign manager. “There is sugar and milk inside,” I said as I thought about his question. He shook his head no. I sat down and considered a bit. “She bought me a beer, asked me what I thought had gone on that night. I told her I had no idea. That’s about it.”
“Did Jack Nolan come up?”
“Yeah, I offered condolences, said I heard he was a family friend. She downplayed it. How did you know I talked to her, anyway?”
This earned me the Kounadis stare. He put the cigarette he had been holding back into the pack. “Thayer’s wife is not doing better. She’s still not responsive, and her vitals are slipping, systems starting to quit.” He took the cigarette back out, fished out a lighter and gave me a questioning look. I shrugged. He lit up and took a long drag, then exhaled smoke out his nostrils.
“They’re all alibied-up, working late on campaign stuff at Kerrigan’s house the night of the shootings. They had a staffer there with them.” He shook his head. “My boss told me that it will be my head if I go back and ask either of them any more questions.”
I looked at him, shaken by the implications of what he had just said. “What questions would you ask them?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “I don’t know. Something stinks, though.” He stood, put out the cigarette in his coffee, and started walking around the house towards his car. “The staffer’s name is Lisa Sheehan,” he called back to me. “She works out of the campaign office.”
I spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the kitchen and doing a bit of housework, all the while thinking about Eddie and Sharon, Jack Nolan, and Charlie Donnelly and his sister. The connection between Eddie and Nolan was obvious on one level, but missing on another. The tie in to Donnelly was nebulous at best. Still, I agreed with Kounadis; something was not quite right.
Just before noon, I headed over to the hospital. Sharon’s mother was there with Danny in the ICU waiting room. Both were staring blankly at a news show on the television. Both looked empty and exhausted, but managed weak smiles. We talked for a bit, saying hopeful things, cautiously. Much like at a funeral, I felt like I was there more to see them than Sharon. The realization angered me.
It was raining when I left the hospital, an annoying kind of light drizzle that is just enough to ruin the day but not enough to do any good. On an impulse, I turned onto the entrance ramp to the highway and found myself headed north, towards the city.
South Boston, or Southie, has been both vilified and glorified of late. Tales of gangsters on the lam, rampant drug abuse, ignorance, and poverty are interspersed with fierce loyalty to family and an insularity which, at its best, led to a neighborly way of life from a past era, but was now regarded as a big piece of the problem. Add in condo-conversions, an influx of upwardly mobile, educated professionals, and a changing economy, however, and you start to get the complete picture. The old cohesiveness is disappearing. The modern world is creeping in, making demands that are unpleasant and disruptive to many invested in the old status-quo.
From what I had learned, Charlie Donnelly had leveraged this dichotomy of old and new into a successful political career, first as a state rep and then as a city councilor. Now he was running for Congress, looking to fill the seat recently made available by the sudden retirement announcement of the incumbent. His campaign had quickly and effectively shifted its focus from city council reelection to the open seat. Any opposition was considered only token, his election a sure thing.
The campaign office was easy to find, located in a storefront on the corner of L and Seventh, right in the heart of the neighborhood. I parked my truck on the street, a half block down, and walked back up the street, past the large windows in front. A young woman was sitting at a desk, working at a computer, near a hallway running to the back. A couch and some chairs were arranged around a coffee table. Piles and boxes of campaign materials sat on the floor against the side wall. I kept walking another block, past the tavern and down Eighth to a little pub where I knew I could get a sandwich.
After some lunch and bit of consideration, I headed back to the campaign office. A jingle bell rang as I opened the door. The young woman was talking quietly to herself and pointedly finished typing her thoughts before looking up.
“Can I help you?” she asked, standing and coming around from behind the desk.
“Are you Lisa?”
“Yup.” She smiled and waited.
She was in her late twenties, pretty in a pale kind of way, dressed in a skirt and a short sleeved blouse. Her bare feet fidgeted, looking for her sandals. A piece of her hair fell in front of her eyes. I handed her one of my harbormaster cards. She took it without looking at it.
“My n
ame is John Smith. Could I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure. What about?” More smiles.
“I was wondering if you knew a man named Jack Nolan.”
The smile went away. “Jack was killed last week.”
“I know. So was my cousin. The same night.”
The quiet hung between us for a moment.
“So you did know him?” I asked.
“Sure, he helped out around the office, drove people around, you know. He was such a nice guy.” Her smile was starting to come back, but then retreated again. “I can’t believe he was killed. I mean, I know he used to be….. But, not anymore.”
“Was he around last Monday?” I asked, while thinking to myself he used to be what?
She thought a moment, trying to remember. She shrugged.
“Were you at the campaign meeting that night? At Ms. Kerrigan’s house?”
Just then, a door popped open in the back hallway. Mary Ann Kerrigan came out, holding a large manila envelope. She acted surprised to see me. “Mr. Smith, isn’t it?” She turned to the staffer, “Lisa, I need you to run this right over to the councilman’s office. Here, take my car.” She handed her a set of keys.
Lisa Sheehan looked at me, smiled, and shrugged again, before grabbing a bag from her desk and heading out the front door. Mary Ann Kerrigan and I both watched her leave, the doorbell ringing in the otherwise awkward silence.
“So Mr. Smith, what can I do for you? Are you interested in the campaign? I thought that you live in Hull. That’s not in our district.” She smiled coldly.
“I was just hoping to find out a bit more about what happened to my cousin and Jack Nolan. I understand he was working on the campaign? The other night you said he was just an old acquaintance.”
