Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  Hamish’s father’s work at the Telegraph had offered up years of stories of hate crimes and prejudice. In the first war, his father had been given a card and forced to report as an enemy alien to city hall for months, despite the fact he had no further ties to his home country. But even the persecution and loss of his job were nothing in comparison with what Errol’s ancestors had suffered through for centuries. The world’s progress was little more than a long train, and while the first-class cars sped into the future, the third class chugged at a slower pace behind.

  “It hasn’t stopped me from playing and it won’t.” A sadness crept into Errol’s eyes, glistening their kind intensity, and Hamish blinked away at the vulnerable display. “I’m still his hero, Hamish.”

  Reggie hopped up. “We will do whatever we can. What do you need us to do?”

  While Reggie shifted, Hamish rummaged through a pile of contracts and articles for a fresh piece of paper on which to take notes.

  “Can you tell us anything that happened the day that . . . the day that Toby was injured? When you found that awful . . . that heart?”

  Errol nodded. Hamish pressed the point of the pencil onto the page.

  “It’s—what day is it now—the eleventh?”

  Hamish nodded.

  “The heart was just as we were beginning training for the season. Practices were long and brutal in the rain. Nerves were high. Anxious excitement, as my father would say. There was a fish the next day. Or what was left of a fish. A carcass of a fish that stunk up the entire locker room for a week after.” Errol exhaled. “It’s a long line of this nonsense in my world—but I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I can defend myself, but I don’t want to have to, you know?” He shook his head. “It won’t help my career to have any blight on my name or reputation. But if I have you two . . . He looked between them. “There’s one more thing.” He reached into his pocket. “These men have been holding gatherings near the ballpark. Passing out pamphlets. Spreading their viewpoints.” He held out a pamphlet. Hamish took it and Reggie stepped over so she could lean in at his shoulder.

  “These are frightening views.” Hamish frowned. The Christian Patriots leaflet spoke to an all-white American Camelot that would slay the dragon of encroaching war. That sided with the fascism and treatment of Poles and Jews in Germany’s war. It quoted the book The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the underlying thesis of the work being a Jewish conspiracy for domination.

  Hamish looked up at Reggie. Her nose was scrunched.

  “It doesn’t speak to me specifically. But I know enough to know that men who will spout these ideas are not the ones who would like black people in the Red Sox.”

  Hamish looked up from a line about Jewish financiers plotting World War I so they could profit from the shipping on both sides. The paragraph alleged the same thing was happening with the war in Europe. The one Hamish’s country was already fighting. Hamish studied Errol a moment, and a slight change in his face unsettled him. His heartbeat thrummed a little more quickly. “There’s something you’re leaving out.”

  “I got in a fight. With one of the men who hands out the pamphlets. Name is Bricker.” Hamish flicked a look at Reggie, but her face was unreadable. “He dresses all nice but he’s uncouth. And a bit of a terrible fighter, truth be told.”

  “And you think he would be angry enough to do this?”

  “I don’t know. He seems like the type who likes to be seen. Who wouldn’t take the time to do something if he didn’t get the credit.”

  Hamish nodded then looked at his open calendar and rapped a pencil on it. “You play tonight?”

  “Yes.” Errol flicked a look at his watch. “I really must be going.”

  “Well, I have tickets tonight.” Hamish looked at Reggie. “Nate and I already had tickets.”

  Errol inclined his homburg at Hamish. “So I can count on you?”

  “Sure!”

  “Thanks for your time. Honest. I appreciate your doing your best.”

  After Errol left, Hamish turned to Reggie with a smile. “What a client!”

  “A fan, are you?” Reggie laughed.

  “You know Nate and I keep a close eye on the Patriots.” His smile stretched. “What happened to you? Didn’t see you all morning.”

  Reggie hopped on the side of his desk and swung one leg over the other. Hamish blinked a few times and focused every kernel of energy on keeping his eyes on her face and not on the gams that so perfectly ended in Spanish heels.

  “I went to see Vaughan.”

  Hamish stretched out the knot that tightened his chest. “Oh. Took the whole morning off, eh?”

  “It wasn’t a social call. I wanted to know what Dirk is up to. Vaughan is working on a project on Tremont, and it seems that Dirk Foster is aiding him.”

  “Did he mention anything?”

  “He mentioned a political party he’s a part of.”

  Hamish held up the pamphlet. “Christian Patriots?”

  “Yes.”

  “Same group that Bricker is part of. I rang over to Reid this morning.” Hamish rolled the corner of the pamphlet down with his finger. “And Vaughan knew nothing?”

  “Don’t sound so suspicious. Vaughan said that he is working on a big project and that Dirk must be doing this on his own. I trust that. Vaughan’s not a liar, Hamish.”

  “I know that . . .”

  “Then don’t insinuate.”

  “Reg . . .”

  “It’s hard enough for me to learn that my childhood friend has turned into . . .” She spread her hands, shook her head. “Whatever he is. The most I can do is stay on top of it in case it has something to do with what we saw at the harbor.”

  Hamish nodded. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t like Dirk any more than you do. And he was a complete fiend about it. But at the very least Vaughan isn’t involved. That’s a relief.”

  Hamish studied her a moment. Vaughan was a page in a closed book he hoped he could open and pry into for a little bit. She looked up at him and he looked away, reached for a pen.

  Nate arrived at three o’clock. Hamish watched Reggie beam as their friend strolled in.

  “You haven’t come for Winchester in ages.”

  Nate smiled and took the bag of almond cookies she pulled from her desk. “I can’t stay, Reggie. Swamped this afternoon.”

  Hamish studied Nate and noticed his focus drift from Reggie to the window. Hamish fingered his brace.

  Nate must have sensed Hamish’s eyes on him, because he looked down at him with an unreadable expression. Hamish’s hand slowly shook and something happened to his heart. Inauthenticity pained him.

  “Hey! You’ll never guess who was just here . . .” Hamish ironed out his voice. “Errol Parker.”

  Nate startled. “Robin Hood?”

  Hamish smiled. “He hired us.”

  “Someone’s been pranking him.” Reggie wound the static out of the radio dial, and the first portentous chords of Winchester Molloy pulsed through the speakers.

  “You’re still coming tonight?” Hamish directed the question to Nate.

  “I . . .”

  “Nate, come on. We’ve had these tickets forever. You love spring training games.”

  “I’m busy right now, Hamish.”

  “What is making you so busy that you can’t spare a few evening hours? I don’t—”

  “Shhh!” Reggie’s voice was louder than the stomp of a foot and the blast shut of a door and the fire of a gun on the serial.

  Hamish lowered his voice a decibel. “If you need me to help look over anything, I will.”

  Nate nodded. “I know.” Nate looked over his shoulder. Hamish recognized the movement as a developing habit.

  “Are you expecting someone?”

  “No. Not really. Though, aren’t we always? Should get back.”

  Nate was always excited about a night at a Patriots game. Sometimes even more so than the nights they spent in the stands at Fenway. “You know I love the Re
d Sox and those seats at Fenway,” he’d say. “But sometimes the best baseball is watching people who could be the next Double X.” He meant Jimmie Foxx—“The Beast” as he was sometimes known—who could nail a home run as easily as anyone, even the Babe.

  But as much as they loved the energy of Fenway, they also enjoyed the farm leagues. The Boston Patriots played just over the river on the Charlestown side of the city. Tonight’s tickets were the first they’d had in weeks. Hamish had taken Bernice Wong once, but she was so fidgety and anxious to graduate to the second promised part of the evening—a Charlestown club—that he didn’t really enjoy it to the extent he always did with Nate.

  As if she could read his mind, Reggie spoke. “Tomorrow night we should go to the Top Hat.”

  Hamish looked up quickly and his glasses slid down his nose a little.

  “If you could see your face, Hamish! Dirk Foster’s taking a friend there, and it is the perfect opportunity to talk to him about Hyatt and Price. I’ll bring a girl from the boardinghouse too. So it looks like you just happen to be there.”

  “I don’t know, Reg.”

  “I might not get everything if I have to play nice with this friend of his. Please. It’s also an excuse to take a turn around the floor with a good band. Hamish, your dance card’s been full for ages. I want a turn.”

  Hamish couldn’t tell if she was flirting. But he also knew he would never decline her. So he tried to focus on the turned pages of Errol’s story the way his father had taught him from years of reporting. Then he turned to some documents Mrs. Leoni’s friend had sent over. Her husband was working part-time for a grocer and was docked an inordinate amount of pay for a lost shipment.

  A few hours later Reggie disappeared for a picture with a friend and Hamish rapped on Nate’s office door.

  “Hmm?” Nate barely looked up.

  “Nate, we have the game tonight.”

  “Hamish, I told you . . .” His exasperated statement was accompanied by a look Hamish was not used to seeing on his friend. Even when he was drowning in work, Nate’s optimism and energy surged through the office, working magic on everyone around.

  “Either we go to the game or you tell me what is going on.”

  “Nothing is—”

  “Nonsense! I will sit here and pester you with question after question until you finally spill it.”

  Nate glared at him. “Some friend you are.”

  “I am such a friend that I am taking you to see the Patriots. To see Errol Parker! Your favorite player.”

  Nate exhaled. “Two more minutes. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Hamish followed Nate to the elevated trolley that saw Reggie to and from her boardinghouse to the city every day. He leaned against the windowpane as the Charles River dimpled below them and tried to imagine what Reggie thought of. If she stretched out her legs or set her purse on the empty seat beside her. If she closed her eyes against the glaring bright of the setting sun at the end of the day, running her gloved hand over the back of her neck. He blinked the thoughts away and turned to Nate, who calmly smiled at a passenger on the other side of the car. The man across from them, Hamish noticed, did not return Nate’s pleasantry. Rather, he was looking at Nate with a look that bordered on challenge and disgust. Hamish watched him intently as his glassy eyes settled on Nate. He rolled his newspaper but not before gesturing at a headline (though neither Nate nor Hamish could read it) and rapping it on his knee.

  Hamish straightened his shoulders and curled his fingers into his palms. Nate must have sensed him stiffen beside him, because he leaned into his ear. “Not worth it, young DeLuca. Angry words. Angry man.” He gave Hamish a smile. “No sense in dying on this hill.”

  They trundled along, Nate distracted and Hamish keeping an eye on the gentleman who seemed to slay Nate with daggers before walking away. Hamish studied his friend in profile a moment. Still that feeling of artifice caused his chest to clutch and his fingers to tremble. But Nate was naturally calm. Hamish had lived with Nate for well over a year and rarely saw his friend in a bad or agitated mood. The only time his feathers were ruffled was in the midst of perceived (and often acute) injustice when Nate felt he could not find a solution. That and his (somewhat comical) agitation at Aaron Leibowitz.

  They alighted several blocks before the Bunker Hill Monument: its majestic height drawing nearer as they sauntered toward it, Nate happily sounding off about Joseph Warren and Colonel William Prescott. “Do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes,” Nate mimicked. But Hamish was lost to the history lesson. There was something that crept in the incendiary blood orange of evening’s first rise. As they ascended the Town’s hills, Hamish kept returning to the man on the subway. Clearly the war’s shadows and premonitions had crept over the border. His father sent letters and clippings from the Globe and the Telegraph in Toronto to satiate Hamish’s curiosity for news. The war was the first time he had felt torn between two worlds: Boston had become home to him until the nation of his birth requested its young men be available and willing for battle.

  “You’re quiet, Hamish,” Nate said as they settled in the stands.

  Hamish gave him a quick smile. “Paying attention.” He was watching the dynamic of the players and their interactions with Errol. Errol wasn’t in the dugout laughing with his teammates. Rather, he stayed to the side when he wasn’t on the field.

  Nate kept jovially companionable but also silent. It was one of the reasons Hamish liked him so much. Nate never felt the need to fill a silence. He studied Nate intently, remembering what his father told him during his home visit about his experience as an immigrant during the war twenty years back. When Hamish was a baby. Ignorance and racism shook Toronto, especially the immigrant communities. Ray DeLuca was seen as an enemy alien and forced to report with a card to city hall every month. Even while the fighting of the Great War exploded an ocean away, its toll of boiled hatred resounded in the death knell of a city’s innocence. He had read enough to know that the persecution of Nate’s people in Europe echoed in prejudice far from the battlefields. The man on the trolley and his reaction to Nate crept under Hamish’s collar, while the only thing ruffling Nate was a perambulatory spring breeze wrinkling his otherwise perfectly pressed cotton shirt.

  “Well, don’t let what you think you saw on the ride over here bother you. At least not on my account.”

  “Maybe I’m more sensitive about it than you are.” Hamish studied the diamond for a moment. Another thwack of the bat, another run for the opposing team.

  Soon the next in the lineup for the Patriots saw Errol Parker in his natural habitat—well, almost. He was far more adept sliding between second and third than he was facing off the pitcher, drawing a hasty line in the dirt before swinging the bat over his shoulder and jigging his weight on his right knee.

  In the handful of games Hamish had seen with Parker in the lineup, the man nearly flew in an effort to steal base, and in five of the six attempts he succeeded. The urgent grace and immediacy that found him straddling second and third, tricking the pitcher with an eagle-eyed premonition that allowed him to always be a slide ahead of the action of the game, was at complete odds with the man Hamish had met for the first time in his office: polite but nervous. Hamish couldn’t keep his eyes off of him.

  For the first year of his and Nate’s friendship, Hamish shared Luca’s season tickets to Fenway. But with his cousin long gone and even with Hamish and Nate’s combined incomes, they couldn’t keep splurging on expensive Red Sox games. There was something so unassuming about the Patriots games. The crowd settled in without pretension. Wherever you sat you had a close look of the diamond, and people were more willing to get loud and uninhibited. Nate held a theory that the cheap hooch smuggled in all manner of thermoses and jars was responsible for the rowdy language of the crowd.

  “I was just thinking of another Coke,” Hamish said, rising before a commotion on the field drew his attention.

  Nate tugged him back into his seat and they l
eaned forward to hear words expected from the inebriated spectators around them but echoing from the diamond as a fistfight erupted in the middle of the field—between Errol Parker and one of the players in the same Patriots uniform. Hamish supposed if a fight broke out it would most likely be between players from opposing teams. He had seen several of those before. Skirmishes and congregations over a call. Managers yelling, umps trying to break them up, and spectators booing like an underscore of bass to the rising music of anger on the field. Errol shoving a player was at complete odds with the well-mannered man Hamish had seen in his office earlier, and also with the Errol he had seen on the field a dozen times before. Often just his taking the plate was enough to inspire off-color remarks about the color of his skin. Sometimes heckles from fans of the opposing team. Errol always straightened his shoulders and stared straight ahead.

  When the players were pulled apart, Hamish clearly saw that the player he assumed was the instigator was Sam Treadwell, left fielder. Both were expelled for the rest of the game even while the Patriots won with a walk-off in the ninth against a team from Baltimore. Hamish was determined to learn what the fight was about. Perhaps Errol had discovered the culprit behind the recent pranks.

  “I find these games more exciting than Fenway,” Nate was saying as they meandered through the stands with the rhythm of the crowd. The banter from the bleachers around them was of a very different tone. Nate’s conversation seemed almost comical in contrast.

  “I can’t keep my eyes off Parker. He’s so fast. And he seems to know what’s going to happen before it happens,” Nate said.

  Hamish imagined Errol showing up at his locker room the day after contributing to a memorable win, only to find everyone against him. Even more so after a fight.

  The moon was gobbled by a cloud, and Hamish realized for the first time that winter was shouting down the earlier tease of spring. The diamond faded behind them, the stadium lights going off, extinguished with a flick like smoke. As they followed the crowd out of the ballpark, a kid was hurrying in, winding by. He ran into Hamish in his hurry.

  “Slow down,” Hamish said. “Don’t kill yourself.” He placed a steadying hand on the kid’s shoulder. He was tall and lanky and left Hamish with the impression he had seen him before . . . Right. Kelly’s messenger. There was a bandage above his eyebrow. Errol’s nephew. He smiled and the kid took off with a wave and a “Thanks!”