A TROUBLE OF FOOLS
by
LINDA BARNES

Boston-based private eye Carlotta Carlyle is the newest creation of the author of the lively Michael Sprague mysteries. In addition to being red-haired,
61 tall, a former cabbie and an ex-cop, Carlotta is the sort of storyteller capable of enlisting readers' sympathies at the very outset. Her first adventure
involves a missing person. An elderly Irish woman hires her to find her brother, Eugene, who has vanished from their home, leaving behind a mysterious
cache of $13,000. Eugene's cronies, who, like himself, are drivers for a taxi fleet and secret sympathizers with the Irish cause, seem to be involved with
a scheme in support of the IRA. Having once worked for the cab company herself, Carlotta hires on again to monitor their activities, an action that eventually
sets her at odds with a major drug ring, the FBI and a certain Mafia-connected former lover. All of the above learn that it's not wise to step on the toes
of someone who wears size 11 shoes. Carlotta first made a brief appearance in a prize-winning short story called "Lucky Penny"; in this longer form, she's
pure gold. 

Also by Linda Barnes
THE BIG DIG
THE SNAKE TATTOO
DEEP POCKETS
COYOTE
STEEL GUITAR
SNAPSHOT

Available from St. Martin's/Minotaur Paperbacks

ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you
should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was
reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and
neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

"Three Marching Songs." Reprinted with permission of Macmillan
Publishing Company from The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Copyright
1940 by Georgie Yeats, renewed by Georgie Yeats, Michael Butler Yeats
and Anne Yeats.

"No Second Troy." Reprinted with permission of Macmillan Publishing
Company from 77k Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats. Copyright 1912 by
Macmillan Publishing Company, renewed 1940 by Bertha Georgie Yeats.

"Woodstock" by Joni Mitchell © 1969, 1974 Siquomb Publishing Corp.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.

"Angels From Montgomery." Words and music by John Prine. Copyright
© 1971 Walden Music, Inc., and Sour Grapes Music (ASCAP). Used by
permission. All rights reserved.
A TROUBLE OF FOOLS
Copyright © 1987 by Linda Appelblatt Barnes.
Cover photo by John Halpern.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in
any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information
address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-35943-8
Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin's Press hardcover edition published 1987
St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / July 2006

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

In loving memory of
Bertha and Jacob Grodman,
my bubbe and zaide
£6.99


Remember all those renowned generations,
They left their bodies to fatten the wolves,
They left their homesteads to fatten the foxes,
Fled to far countries, or sheltered themselves
In cavern, crevice, or hole,
Defending Ireland's soul.

Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.

Remember all those renowned generations,
Remember all that have sunk in their blood,
Remember all that have died on the scaffold,
Remember all that have fled, that have stood,
Stood, took death like a tune
On an old tambourine.

Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.

Fail, and that history turns into rubbish,
All that great past to a trouble of fools;
Those that come after shall mock at O'Donnell,
mock at the memory of both O'Neills,
Mock Emmet, mock Parnell,
All the renown that fell.

Be still, be still, what can be said?
My father sang that song,
But time amends old wrong,
All that is finished, let it fade.

--William Butler Yeats
from "Three Marching Songs"
1939
I'd like to thank my reading committee: James
Morrow, Karen Motylewski, Richard Barnes,
Bonnie Sunstein, Steve Appelblatt, Amy Sims,
and Susan Linn. The ladies who lunch—Bonnie
Sunstein, Joan Dunfey, and Gail Leclerc—helped
with their support and friendship. I'd also like to
acknowledge Matthew Bruccoli and Richard
Layman, editors of A Matter of Crime, for their
enthusiastic response to "Lucky Penny"; my editor,
Michael Denneny, for his valued insight; and
especially my agent, Gina Maccoby, for taking
such good care of Carlotta and me.


CHAPTER 1

If Margaret Devens had told me the truth right off the
bat, things might have turned out differently. Or as my mom
used to say, in Yiddish or English depending on the situation,
"If your grandmother had wheels, she would have been
a truck."
I never met my bubbe, my grandma, the source of all my
mother's Yiddish proverbs, but thinking about it now, I guess
I wouldn't mind if she'd been a ringer for Margaret
Devens--stubborn, smart, and crafty behind the sweet-old
lady facade.

"congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Thomas C. Carlyle," the letter began cheerily. The stationery was thick and
creamy, sharply creased, names typed in boldface, the way
they are in those "personal" computer-generated mailings.
No such couple existed. I read on.
The vacuum cleaner hummed pleasantly. If you've never
considered your Hoover's voice soothing, you've probably
been shoving it across a high-pile carpet. From the right distance,
propelled by other hands--in this case the paint
smeared hands of Roz, my tenant cum new-wave artist cum
sometime assistant--vacuum cleaner buzz could make the
lullaby obsolete.
Roz gets reduced rent in exchange for basic household
chores. As a cleaner, she's a great artist. My spice rack is
color-coded, my knickknacks adroitly arranged. Books and
papers are stacked in tidy piles at attractive oblique angles.
My floors have never been filthier, but then Roz doesn't have
much time for nitty-gritty cleaning. She dyes her hair a new
color every three days and that takes up the hours. I like Roz.
A firm of Omaha lawyers was pleased to inform me that
the above-mentioned Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle were the lucky recipients
in their GRAND GIVEAWAY After a courteous tour
of a "luxurious time-sharing condominium resort," located
someplace I'd never want to visit, much less live, I--or rather
Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle--could claim the GRAND GIVEAWAY
FIRST PRIZE of, take your pick, a trip to Italy for the entire
family, all expenses paid--or twenty thousand bucks.
I searched for the fine print that said "valid until yesterday,"
or "provided you make a thirty-thousand-dollar donation
to the United Church of Holy Poverty." I didn't find it. I
read the whole thing again. It said trip to Italy, all expenses,
twenty thousand dollars.
Claiming the prize was going to be a problem.
I know Mr. T.C. Carlyle pretty damn well. The T.C.
stands for Thomas Cat, aka Tom Cat. Right. A good sort, Mr.
Carlyle, but definitely of the feline persuasion. Sleek and
black, with a right forepaw so white that it looks like he
dipped it in a dish of cream, Thomas Cat has a disposition
you could describe as independent, which I prefer, or surly,
which is closer to the truth. He is not your eager three-piece
suit-and-tie type. I have trouble getting him to wear a bell
around his neck, a necessary indignity that keeps him from
dumping dead sparrows on my carpet, which in turn prevents
the parakeet from going bonkers.
I list my home phone under Thomas C. It's okay with him.
He loves getting calls from admirers of the late essayist, survey
takers, anyone at all. I didn't want to put my name in the
book, first because women get crank calls, and second because
ex-cops get crank calls. So I listed Tom, since he's the
only male I share the place with regularly. And what do you
know, he started getting letters. Begging letters from charitable
organizations and pleas from campaigning congressmen.
Credit card offers and magazine subscriptions. He subscribes
to the New York Times Book Review and Mother Jones.
As far as cats go, Tom's a prize, but I didn't see how I
could get him married off in time to claim the trip to Italy or
the cash.
The doorbell sounded over the vacuum hum, the way it
does when you're wearing ratty sweatpants and have your
mouth half-full of Swiss cheese and roast beef on rye. I
waited, hoping for three rings. Three rings means Roz, the
third-floor tenant.
The bell rang twice, stopped.
"Hang on!" I yelled, swallowing fast.
The bell rang again, twice in rapid succession.
It isn't that I have far to travel from the dining room to the
hall. It's that I have about five locks on my crummy front
door. Filing burglary reports has replaced baseball as my
neighborhood's prime pastime.
It was slightly past noon on a late September Sunday that
had no business being so cool, and I wasn't expecting anybody.
I squinted my left eye shut and pressed my right one to
the peephole. If I had been expecting someone, it wouldn't
have been the cozy old lady who perched on my front stoop
like an inquisitive bird. As I struggled with the last deadbolt,
always sticky, she turned up the collar of her wooly pink
coat, and got ready to hit the buzzer again. She wore white
cotton gloves. I haven't seen a pair of white gloves in ages.
"Coming," I yelled, forestalling the buzzer.
She was too old for a Mormon missionary, so I steeled
myself for the Jehovah's Witnesses pitch. Possibly Antivivsection.
I hoped she was antivivisection. I wondered if I
could keep a straight face while I asked her where to donate
the parakeet for lab research.
She had sparse white hair, like powdered sugar frosting on
her pink scalp, and a round face that must have been cheerful
when she smiled. Her skin was crosshatched with fine lines.
Deeper ridges creased her forehead and carved channels
from her broad nose to her small anxious mouth. Her gray
eyes, unsettlingly steady, stared gravely at the peephole.
The lock gave, and I yanked open the screen, apologizing.
She didn't respond like a proselytizer or a fund-raiser.
"Margaret Devens," she announced hopefully. "Miss,"
she added, "Miss Margaret Devens, spinster."
I smiled at the quick glint of humor in her eyes, at the outmoded
term, at the clean white gloves, but the name meant
nothing to me. She stretched her small mouth into a grin,
and nodded as though it should.
"And you," she continued, giving me the once-over with a
nice touch of disbelief, "are Miss Carlyle, the investigator?"
Now I admit I have looked better. My sweats had seen
their heyday long ago, and most of my right knee was visible
through a tear. My shirt was slightly more reputable, an
oversized bright red pullover. I don't wear it much because,
to tell the truth, it doesn't go well with my coloring. I've got
red hair, really red hair, the kind that beggars adjectives like
"flaming," and Mom always told me to wear blues and
greens, but every once in a while I break loose. For the rest,
I was barefoot, and hadn't even thought about makeup. I go
barefoot a lot because I'm six one and I wear size 11 shoes.
You may not realize this, but for all practical purposes,
women's shoes stop dead at size 10. Much of my life is spent
shoe shopping. I hoped I'd brushed my hair before I plunked
it on top of my head and stuck in the hairpins.
Probably I had. I mean, I don't always remember brushing
my teeth in the morning, but I do it. With my hair under
control, I almost look my age, which is on a different side of
thirty than most people suspect.
"I usually work by appointment only," I said, not so much
to discourage her as to excuse my appearance.
"This is not a usual matter." Her voice was soft and quavery,
with the hint of a brogue.
With a caseload so light I was reading the cat's mail, I figured
I ought to welcome any nibble, so I ushered her inside
and draped her coat on the rack in the foyer. My nose
twitched with the smell of mothballs and lavender. Underneath,
she wore a blue flower-print dress of such high
collared respectability that she must have come straight
from church. The wooly coat had given her an illusion of
bulk. Without it, she was so thin I could see the sharp shelf
of bone between her shoulders.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out except
a small dry cough, so she closed it again and spent some
time fiddling with her gloves, rolling them together in a tight
ball and depositing them in the pocket of her coat. My
clients are a nervous lot, on the whole. Most of them would
rather have root canals without novocaine than discuss their
troubles with a stranger. I offered coffee to break the uneasy
silence.
She nodded gratefully, and took her time crossing the living
room. I couldn't tell if she moved slowly because of her
age, which I put in the high sixties, or because she was
checking out the decor. Her eyes lingered on the furnishings
and she clucked and murmured as if she approved.
If she was using the living room furniture as a clue to my
character, she was making a big mistake. Mostly it's the way
Aunt Bea left it when she died. I even kept her dumb parakeet,
but I moved the cage to one side of the bay window so
it didn't block the light. Old Fluffy squawked indignantly for
a week. The living room's not my style, but I don't mind it.
The oriental rug's a little threadbare, but it looks terrific
when the sunlight pours in, like some glistening ruby-and
sapphire brooch. The sofa velvet is worn around the wood
scrollwork, and I don't polish the mahogany the way my
aunt did. Neither does Roz. Her idea of cleaning is a halfhearted
flick of the feather duster here and there, but then
she's got her thoughts on higher things.
Margaret Devens went unerringly for Aunt Bea's favorite
rocker, and settled her narrow backside against the embroidered
cushion with a satisfied sigh. She fit the chair like the
missing piece of a puzzle. I half expected her to yank out her
knitting and clatter away. I hadn't realized how much I
missed that sound.
I fetched coffee, a cup for myself, too--cream and two
sugars--and crammed a quick bite of sandwich into my
mouth. Chewing steadily, I rolled a few chocolate chip cookies onto a plate. By the time I got back to the living room,
Miss Devens was rocking steadily, staring straight ahead,
chin high. She looked like a woman who'd made up her
mind, bitten the bullet, and disliked the taste.

I sat on the sofa, which creaked to let me know that while
it hadn't collapsed under my weight, it was only a matter of
time. I steer plump clients away from the couch. No danger
with Miss Devens. She touched her coffee cup to her lips,
and gave the cookie plate a welcoming reception.

"You know, I'm only here because my brother's gone,"
she said between bites, as if we were continuing a conversation
instead of starting one.

"Gone?" I wasn't sure if she was using a euphemism for
"dead" or what.

"You handle that kind of thing, do you?"

I don't handle communication with the dead, so I assumed
she meant just what she said. Gone, as in vanished. I
wondered if she'd seen my ad in the Yellow Pages. I wondered
if anyone did. I paid extra for fancy red print. "If
you're talking about a missing persons investigation," I said
gently, "the police are the place to start. More personnel,
more clout. Step number one: file a missing persons report."

She bit her lower lip, and looked helpless. "I wouldn't
like to involve the police."

"Any particular reason why not?"

She examined her hands as if she expected to see the
right answer written on them. "Well, you see, I'd hate to embarrass
my brother, you know. He's younger than I am, and a
bit foolhardy still. But a good man, you understand, a good
man." There was something almost defiant in her insistence.
She started another sentence, gave it up. Her hands fluttered.

I eyed the pile of past-due bills next to the cat's mail on
the dining room table. Had to keep T.C. in Tender Vittles until
I could figure out how to collect his twenty grand. Of
course, I could always take in more tenants. I've got rooms
galore, and students will kill to be within walking distance
of Harvard Square.

"What's your brother's name?" I asked.

"Bless you," she said, "bless you."

"Whoa. I haven't decided anything yet, Miss Devens."

"Oh, of course." More fluttering of hands. "Well, you
haven't decided against it, have you?"

"I need a little information. Like your brother's name."

My tone must have gotten sarcastic. The lady's lower lip
trembled, and I felt like I'd kicked my unknown grandmother
down the stairs. My tour of duty as a cop did not do
much for my manners or my vocabulary. The sleazebag bastards
I dealt with did not go in for "please" and "thank you."

'Take your time, Miss Devens," I muttered. "More coffee?"

"Thank you," she said, beaming as if I'd given her a present.
The smile faded quickly from her eyes and she pressed
her lips together, as if embarrassed that they'd been caught
tilting up. "My brother is Eugene Paul Mark Devens."
Again, I had the feeling that she expected more of a reaction
from me than she got. I wondered if she always gave his full
baptismal name.

"How long,has he been missing?"

"All of ten days," she said, not trying to keep the worry
out of her voice. "And he's lived with me for sixteen years,
ever since his wife passed on."

"And?"

"That's it. It's hard to imagine, much less say, but one day
he was there, and the next day he wasn't."

"You, uh, had some kind of quarrel?"

"I'm not much of a fighter, Miss Carlyle." She patted her
white hair, and rocked gently back and forth. "Truly, I'm at
my wit's end."

"What about work?" I asked. "Does your brother work?"

"Sure, he's a driver, nights mostly, for the Green and
White Cab Company. That's why we don't talk as much as a
brother and sister should. The hours, you know. I'm a busy
woman myself, with my volunteer work and all, and our
hours didn't—our hours don't coincide."

Green & White. Bingo. Light bulbs lit over my head.
That's where the name Devens came from. I had only the
faintest recollection of the guy's face, but I remembered
those smelly cigars of his. His term at G&W had overlapped
mine on both ends, but the part-time drivers, especially the
ones labeled "college kid" like me, didn't mix much with the
lifers.
Green & White. That answered the referral question.
G&W's dispatcher, the formidable Gloria, was always good
for a boost. Someday one of my old cop buddies would tip
someone off to my existence. I wasn't holding my breath.
"A cabdriver." Miss Devens pursed her lips and shook her
head sadly. "He could have done better for himself, no doubt
about that. If ever there was a boy with all the advantages,
well, that was Eugene. I can't say he was lazy, but he had a
mind of his own always, and no will to follow the plans of
others. Not his mother, not his wife, not his big sister,
surely ... But that's no matter now, is it? I saw my brother
last on Wednesday, September tenth, before he went off to
work. And then I haven't seen him since." Her hands
clutched each other for support. "Should I write that down
for you, now?"
"I'll remember. I have a good memory." Once it's jogged.
"I did, too," she said, "once upon a time."

I said, "What do you think happened to him?"
"I don't know."
"You said he was married ..."
"Could have done better for himself there, too. The story
of his life. Could have, should have, might have. But he married the first girl... his wife, Betty ... well, she wasn't our
kind of people."
"Irish?"
"Oh, she was Irish all right, I'll give her that." Miss Devens
used the word "Irish" the same way my Dad's relatives,
lace-curtain Irish all, used it when they talked about the
folks they called shanty Irish. "It wasn't what you'd call a
happy marriage. I think, when she died, it was a release for
him. But who am I to judge? What do I know about it, love
and marriage, happy or not?" She smiled ruefully. "I could
have joined the convent for all I know about it."

"Your brother have children?"
She sighed, and the smile faded. "The union wasn't
blessed. In many ways."
"Could your brother be staying with a friend?"
"I'm afraid I--I don't know his friends as well as I
might."
"Does he drink?" Considering cabdrivers I have known, I
thought I'd better get that one out of the way.
"Some. At an Irish pub."
Ah, now I knew where to look. There are two hundred
Irish pubs in Boston. Maybe another hundred in Cambridge.
"To excess?" I inquired, putting it as politely as I knew
how.
"At times," she answered cautiously. "You know what
men are."
I ignored that one. "Has he gone off on benders?" I
asked. "At times?"
"Well, I can't say no. After Betty died, he'd go off once in
a while. He'd get, well, bleak-looking, and then he'd be out a
night or two. But it's been years now. And he never stayed
away so long. Never."
I bit into a cookie. "Did he take things with him?"
"Things?"
"Did you check his room? Did he pack a bag?"

"If he had I wouldn't be here, would I? If he'd taken a
trip, I'd know where he was. My brother and I are close,
truly we are." She fumbled in her lumpy handbag. "I brought
his picture," she said, and when she looked at her brother's
photograph, her face melted. She tried to smile, but the corners
of her mouth quivered, and tears welled up in her eyes.
"May I see it?"
She offered it with a shaky hand.
If there ever was a man with the map of Ireland on his
face, Eugene Paul et cetera was it. I recognized him from the
cab company, remembered him vaguely, a cheerful red
faced man with unruly hair. He looked a bit like his sister
with a fuller face, minus most of the worry lines. He looked
like he knew how to have a good time.
"How old is he?" I asked.
"Fifty-six. Doesn't look it, does he? Baby of the family
and all. Spoiled."
He seemed a lot younger, boyish even. Charming.
When my Aunt Bea looked at you in a certain way, you
knew all was lost. She knew you hadn't done your homework.
She knew you'd failed that history test. She could see
clear to the back of your soul, and plumb the depths of unworthiness
lurking there. Imagine my surprise when I
glanced up and found Margaret Devens peering at me with
eyes like that--determined, purposeful eyes.
Quickly, she turned away, and made fluttery motions with
her hands, distractions that came too late. I'd recognized her.
No, I didn't know her from some other time or place, not
personally. But I have known women her age, women of
steel who grew up in an era when feathers and fans and batted
eyelashes were the name of the game. The smart ladies
learned the score, played along. I recognized Margaret Devens's
silly gestures and flowered dresses and wooly pink
coats and white cotton gloves for what they were: camouflage
fatigues.
She might have slipped past me if she hadn't been sitting
in Aunt Bea's chair. Aunt Bea's shawls and scarves and bangles
and hats were armor-plated, every one.
"What exactly do you want?" I asked. "To know where he
is? To talk to him, to see him? Do you want him to move
back?"
"I want you to find him," she said, smiling and nodding
and dithering away. "That's all."
"Women?" I asked.
"Possibly." She blushed demurely, and for a moment I
wondered if I'd imagined the whole thing. I mean, she was sitting in Aunt Bea's chair. Maybe I'd had some kind of
flashback. Certainly there was nothing in her demeanor now
to suggest anyone but a dear old biddy come from church to
set her mind at rest about her brother.
So I didn't mention the dire possibilities--the hospitals,
the refrigerated drawer in the morgue--because of the blush,
out of deference for her age, because of the look on her face
when she saw her brother's photo. I don't have a little
brother, but I've got sort of a little sister, and I have the feeling
that when I look at Paolina's school photos, I get a goofy
expression on my face, too.
"How much do you charge?" she asked.
I glanced down at her shoes. My full-price clients are
mainly divorce lawyers with buffed cordovan Gucci loafers.
Margaret Devens wore orthopedic wedgies with run-down
heels, much worn, much polished, shabbily genteel. My pay
scale started a downward slide.
"I'm not a charity case," she said firmly. "You tell me the
same price the rich ones pay. I've plenty of money. What do
the wealthy pay you?"
"Three hundred a day plus expenses," I said, knocking a
hundred off the top. "But with missing persons cases, I generally
take some expense money up front, and charge a flat
fee on delivery. Maybe I'll find him with one phone call.
Maybe I never will."
"Will a thousand do for a retainer? Or an advance, whatever
you call it."
I nodded. It wasn't the cat's twenty K, but it would sure
help pay the bills.
I waited for her to pull out a checkbook, but she took a fat
leather change purse out of her handbag. She crowded it behind
her purse, trying to block my view.
By sitting up tall, I had a perfectly clear view of a huge
wad of bills. She peeled off ten hundreds, squared the edges
neatly, and placed them on the cookie plate.
So, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I didn't think
something was fishy right from the start.



CHAPTER TWO

"Workers of the world, unite!" I intoned, enunciating
carefully.
"Fluffy wanna drink," Red Emma chirped. Seeing she
hadn't pleased me, she tried again. "Huffy is a dirty bird,"
she said.
"Fluffy is a twit," I responded.
To tell the truth, I didn't rename her just because she
squawked so much. "Red Emma," Emma Goldman, the infamous
anarchist of the teens and twenties, was one of my
mom's heroes. One of mine, too, I guess, even if I tend to
see her as Maureen Stapleton in Reds. I grew up on my
mom's glorious tales about her mom and the New York garment
workers' strike. My grandma-to-be evidently bopped a
scab on the head, got caught, and spent the night in the Bowery
lockup. My mom made that night in jail seem like the
Medal of Honor--my dad called grandma a jailbird. As I
grew older I recognized those as fighting words, and I'd sit
on the front stoop till the barbs and pots stopped flying
through the air.
Maybe I could teach the bird to swear. She seemed to
have no trouble with F words.
If I could teach her to swear intelligibly, I could put her
on the phone the next time some hospital's Patient Information
Department zapped me on hold before I could blurt out
a protest.
As you may have gathered, I had not located Eugene Devens
at the local hospitals. Unless he'd contracted that soap
opera standard, amnesia, he was healthy and managing on
his own.
Amnesia. Perhaps if I rapped Red Emma gently on the
head, her previous existence as Fluffy would evaporate. She
would return to budgie infancy, ready for me to instruct her
further in what dad and I used to call The Sayings of Chairman
Mom.
One good thing. I had gotten through to the morgue, and
they didn't have any unclaimed corpses that matched up
with Eugene Devens.
"Budgies of the world, unite!" I said to the parakeet.
"You have nothing to lose but your brains."
"Fluffy wanna cracker," she replied hopefully.
Seeing that we'd reached an impasse, I said good night,
stuck her back in the cage, and yanked the hood down, providing
instant sunset. That bird has my late Aunt Bea's exact
voice. She's just as stubborn, too. Sometimes it's like being
haunted.
I fed T.C. his dinner, pulled a windbreaker over my
Grateful Dead T-shirt, and checked my jeans. Both knees intact.
I made sure all the lights were on before I left. That way
the burglars don't trip over anything. I leave the radio blaring,
too, since T.C. is not much of a watchcat.
I was going to have to do some legwork for Margaret Devens's
thousand. Legwork I was looking forward to with,
shall we say, mixed emotions.
My old red Toyota kicked over on the second try. I love
that car, first one I ever bought, and still feisty. I indulge my
passion for red in automobile ownership. Cars don't have to
complement your hair.
Green & White is not one of your more prosperous cab
companies. It's tucked into a block of cut-rate auto-glass
dealers and used-rug shops that front on the less-than-scenic
Mass. Pike. The garage is ugly yellow brick, with an interior
done in Early Oilstain. Eight cabs can park inside, as long as
nobody needs to open any doors. There's one hydraulic lift,

14

just in case the mechanic gets ambitious. The mechanic they had in my day rarely had the energy to flip the pages on the
girlie calendar.
The office is the real treat. The two eight-by-four windows
have never been washed. If you didn't know that, you
might think they were supposed to be opaque. The left-hand
Venetian blind, a blotch of black smudges trisected by strips
of yellowed tape, is out-uglied only by the right-hand one,
which is dirtier, and broken to boot, so that the slats list to
the left. A pegboard full of car keys is the most attractive
item of decor. You wouldn't want to peer in any of the corners.
I
hacked part-time while I majored in sociology at U.
Mass.-Boston. It taught me how to get around the city without
ever being obliged to stop for a red light. It also kept me
away from waitressing, which was a good thing because I've
never gotten the knack of taking orders.
I worked nights. From eleven to seven the voice of the
late-night dispatcher came over so smooth and fine it was a
pleasure to hear the squawk box. I bet we got a lot of business
from guys just dialing for the pleasure of hearing that
sexy contralto say she'd pick 'em up in five minutes. I didn't
meet the owner of the voice till months after I'd formed a
picture of her in my mind.
I guess I'd always imagined her black. A deep huskiness
in her voice, the kind I associate with gospel singers and
fire-and-brimstone preachers, gave it away. In my imagination
she was tall and svelte and exotic as hell, breathing
heavily into the microphone, a future Motown R&B star.
Her color was the only thing I got right.
Gloria. Her immense bulk caught me totally off guard.
Not to mention the wheelchair. I mean, that low sexy voice
never gave a hint of anything but ease, even when the board
was lit up from here to Tuesday and all the cabs were broken
down and a hurricane was set to blow.
Gloria. Spinal cord injury in a car crash at nineteen.
Lived in a room at the back of the garage; no steps to interfere
with the motorized chair. She kept herself to herself,
seemed to socialize only with her three behemoth brothers.
When the cabbies joked about her--which wasn't often, and
always in stifled tones coupled with quick over-the-shoulder
glances in case said brothers were present--they'd say she
was suicidal, eating herself to death.
I got in the habit of dropping by her office, shooting the
breeze. At the beginning, I guess I went out of pity, but Gloria
wasn't buying. She sat in that chair like a queen born to a
throne, and she ruled the G&W kingdom with a gloved iron
fist.
She never took lunch or dinner breaks, because she ate all
day long, maintaining her bulk while sitting by the phones.
Now I'm a snacker, but I've never seen anything like Gloria.
She packs this huge handbag every morning with stuff that
would make a nutritionist gag. She is Hostess's best client,
bar none. If she ever goes off the deep end, she can use the
Twinkie defense.
"Hey, Glory," I said. She lifted her face from a bite of
cream-filled cupcake, and flashed me a grin. She looked fatter
than ever, her face so smooth she seemed ageless. "Hey,
babe," she said.
I parked myself in a faded orange plastic chair, first
checking for roach occupation. "Thanks for sending Miss
Devens by."
"Just paying off, babe."
"We're square by now."
After graduating U. Mass., I'd given up hacking and
joined the Police Department. I'd been able to do Gloria a
favor or two.
She grinned wider and said, "Who's counting?"
"Got a minute?"
The phone rang. She scratched a number on a pad,
pressed a button on her microphone, and sang out, "Kelton
Street. "Who's got it?"
Static, then a tinny voice filled the room. "Scotty. Park
and Beacon."
"One-eighty-five," she said. "Third floor. Guy named
Booth. Got it?"
"Copy."
"Out."
"I can chat between calls, Carlotta," she said. "Sunny day
like this. Warm. The folks are walking."
"Business okay?"
She held up a plump hand and waved it back and forth.
Not many people know Gloria's a full partner in G&W. Sam
Gianelli, the smooth-talking son of a Boston mob figure, is
Gloria's other half. Sam, who specializes in running small
businesses into the ground, had taken her on to save himself
the embarrassment of losing another company, pumping
cash from her insurance settlement into G&W's collapsing
veins, building the wheelchair-accessible room in the back
as part of the deal.
Possibly the smartest day's work he'd ever done.
Sam and I had history. He was the reason I looked on my
visit to the garage with apprehension. I'd dated him. Even
learned something from the experience: Never sleep with the
boss.
"Bet you didn't come by to ask if business was okay," she
said. "What's up?"
"Sam's not here, is he?"
"You care?"
Everybody wants to be a psychologist. "Eugene Devens,"
I said flatly. "Off on a toot?"
She said, "Shit, Carlotta, I don't like this business with
Gene. Didn't even bring his cab in. Left it down by the
docks, and they towed it to that damn Cambridge yard."
"The one with the two Dobermans?"
"Yeah."
"Maybe he scampered so he wouldn't get stuck for the
tow fee."
Gloria shrugged her massive shoulders. She can move
fine from the waist up.
"Ever do anything like that before?" I asked.
"Reliable, on the whole."
"So what do you think?"
Gloria finished her cupcake, and carefully swept the
crumbs off her desk to feed the creatures below. "Seen the
sister?"
"Uh-huh."
"Maybe she made him go to church twice every Sunday.
Maybe he just kicked over the traces," Gloria said. She
sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
"Is he thick with anybody here? Anybody he'd move in
with?"
"They're all thick," she said. "More ways than one. You
remember the crowd he hung out with."
I smiled. "The Old Geezers, right? Isn't that what we
called them?"
"Right. Eugene Devens, Sean Boyle, Joe Fergus, Dan
O'Keefe, Pat O'Grady, all the old Irish coots. Joe Costello's in
with them, but I don't know what kind of Irish name Costello
is. They're tighter now, what with all the new cabbies. I mean
for the Geezers, the Russian Jews were bad enough. Now
they've got Haitians, and Jamaicans, and the Afghans are
moving in fast. Devens and his buddies see themselves as the
last American cabbies. They hang out and booze and moan
about how the industry's going to hell." She smiled one of her
wicked smiles. "Funny, they don't bitch much to me. I think
they figure I might be prejudiced. Can you beat that?"
Nobody complains much to Gloria. First of all, she's got
a tongue so caustic it ought to be registered with the Nuclear
Regulatory Commission, and second, she's got those three
devoted brothers, each bigger and tougher than the last. The
smallest, nicest one got tossed out of the NFL for biting
some guy's ear off, or so the story goes. Her brothers rigged
up the room behind the garage with every electric gizmo
available. Wires and motors everyplace. There's even a network
of pulleys and ladders and metal bars so she can haul
herself up and get to the fridge or the stove. Walking into
Gloria's high-tech room and bath, tucked behind that grimy
garage, is like charging from the nineteenth century straight
to the twenty-first with no pit stops.
"What about Pat?" I said. "You ask Pat where Eugene
went? He used to be plugged into every little intrigue."
"Pat left, Carlotta, maybe six months ago. Cancer. Operation,
chemotherapy, the works."
"Shit." Pat almost made the rest of the Old Geezers bearable
with his self-deprecating humor and ready smile. "Well,
you ask the guys where Eugene went? You ask Boyle?"
I waited while Gloria took another call. She frowned as
she hung up. "Look, Carlotta, I hope this whole thing is a lot
of smoke. It could be. I've asked all the Geezers about Gene,
and I'll tell you, they're not worried. They're, I don't know,
kind of weird and excited and, well, they're not saying shit.
He coulda run off with some woman, somebody his sister
would have hated on sight, some teenybopper, for Christ's
sake. All I know is he's gone."
"He pick up his last paycheck?"
Gloria stared down at the desktop. "We owe him two
days."
"I don't like that much."
"We'll hold it for him."
"He leave anything?"
The phone bleeped, and Gloria went into her spiel. I'd
changed my question by the time she hung up.
"What did he leave, Gloria?"
She spent some time rooting for a cookie in her bag, removing
a bag of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, then a sack of
marshmallows. I doubt she has room in there for keys or a
wallet or a comb. "Well," she said finally, "I didn't tell his
sister about his locker."
I just raised my eyebrows.
"Oh, I don't know, Carlotta. She looked so, hell, sort of
sweet, but, you know, white gloves and a flowered hat. I figured
she'd bust it open and find stuff she could use against
him for the rest of his natural life. Box of condoms or something
sinful, you know?"
"I wouldn't hold it against him, Glory."
"I don't have a key."
"You got a bolt-cutter?"
"He comes back, he won't like it."
"He comes back, we'll buy him a new lock."
"Sam won't like it."
She watched me obliquely, with half-closed eyes, when
she mentioned Sam's name. She always does, so I was ready.
I met her with a blank stare that would have done credit to a
cardsharp.
"Sam won't know," I said evenly, "will he? And if he
should happen to find out, we'll snow him somehow."
"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 spider
webbed 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 wididrawal
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.

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 to 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

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 divorcee, 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 and 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.
"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

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. Collect 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

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.
I shoved back the covers and leaped out of bed.
The Y is the only place to go when you oversleep. Nobody
cares if you don't put on makeup. Lipstick before 9
a.m. is regarded with suspicion at the Y.
I spike for the Y-Birds, which says a lot fast. We play
killer volleyball, not beach blanket stuff, and we do it three
mornings a week. That's why my knees and elbows are unusual
shades of magenta and yellow. I am intimately acquainted
with the wooden gym floor at the Central Square Y,
and I wouldn't miss a game for the world.
Volleyball is also why the fingernails on my right hand
are clipped short and square. I always keep my left-hand
nails short because I play blues guitar, not as well as I used
to, but pretty damn well considering how little I practice
these days. Acoustic only. The good old stuff: Lightnin'
Hopkins, Son House, Reverend Gary Davis. No sweet love
songs, just wailin' done-me-wrong blues.
I would like to point out that while my nose has been broken
three times, accounting for a slightly off-center bump, it
has never been touched during a volleyball game. The first
time, I was just a kid. Ronnie Farmer, the little boy next
door, banged me on the nose with a hammer, for no apparent
reason other than to see how hammers and noses interacted
when they met; the second time, my nose came in contact
with the steering wheel of my cab. The third time was cop
business.
People I like say my nose has character.
I play volleyball because I can't stand exercise for exercise's
sake. I shudder at the very thought of those stationary
bikes, peddling to nowhere. The symbolism is just too grim.
Volleyball, though, I love. And the women I play with are
terrific: the phys ed coach from Cambridge Rindge and
Latin, a couple cops, a computer jockette, some M.I.T. students.
We play hard, but we treat each other kindly. You dive
after a ball, give it everything you've got, and even if you
miss the damn thing, you get a pat on the back and a hand
up. I like that. And after the game, I swim laps to cool off.
Three days a week, that's my morning. Good healthy exercise.
Makes me tingle with righteousness while I eat
breakfast at Dunkin' Donuts afterwards.
I brought my Eugene Devens notebook along and flipped
it open on the orange Formica countertop, next to my two
glazed donuts and sugared coffee. I'd called a few more hospitals
with no luck. If Gene was getting doctored, he was doing
it under an alias, and while I could come up with about
fifty reasons for seeking anonymous medical care, I couldn't
blend any of the reasons with what I knew about Eugene Devens.
Which
was not a hell of a lot.
I stared at my notebook, at the sum total of all I'd gleaned
about the man, from his sister, from Gloria, from Billy the
bartender, from my few remaining cop contacts.
Eugene Paul Mark Devens. No criminal record. Born,
May 28, 1929. Delivered at St. Margaret's in Dublin, Ireland,
second child of Mary Margaret and Patrick Joseph Devens,
if you didn't count the two stillbirths and three
miscarriages in between Margaret and her baby brother.
What a treasured child he must have been. How do small babies,
swaddled in those tiny blankets, grow up to be men
who disappear without a trace?
Eugene Paul came to the States at the age of five and was
educated at the usual assortment of Catholic schools. I wondered
if his mom had meant her only son for the priesthood,
been disappointed when he'd quit high school. I wondered if
she'd been disappointed or relieved when he'd finally married
at thirty-five. Married Mary Elizabeth Reilly in 1964.
Wife died six years later, sixteen years ago. No kids.
Nobody had mentioned vices other than drink and ladies
in connection with Gene. I hadn't found any involvement
with, say, the numbers or the track, but if there were heavy
loans involved, if Gene couldn't pay the sharks, that would
be a hell of a reason for him to stay lost.
Eugene Devens did not own a car, which might seem
strange for a cabdriver in any other city. In Boston, which
has ample parking for, say, one in ten of its residents--not to
mention commuters--not owning a car makes sense. You
save--not only on parking tickets, but on medical expenses
for mental-health-related ailments. Unfortunately, one of the
best ways to trace a missing person is through automobile
registration. Eugene's gain was my loss.
The Central Square Dunkin' Donuts has a phone booth at
the back, one of the few real phone booths left in the world
where you can talk with any privacy. By using up a lot of
dimes and impersonating a dotty travel agent cursed with a
missing middle-aged tourist, I learned that no Eugene Devens
had traveled via Aer Lingus from Logan to either Shannon
or Dublin. Aer Lingus is it as far as direct flights from
Boston to Ireland. I figured anyone who felt as Eugene Devens
did about the British would hardly set foot on the hated
soil of Heathrow, but I checked out British Air and TWA and
Pan Am. Nothing. I even checked People Express out of
Newark, in case he'd gone cattle car.
I called a genuine travel agent, and discovered that the
only charters to Ireland departing within the past two weeks
had consisted entirely of M.I.T. faculty members, a group
with whom Gene Devens would hardly have felt at home.
No, she had not heard of any travel organization with the initials
GBA. Ships she eliminated in no time. Boston is not the
great port it once was. Zip. Nada. No passenger ships had
sailed for the Emerald Isle in the past month.
So if Gene was in jolly old Ireland, he'd traveled incognito.
Walked across the water. Sailed solo. Parachuted from
a secret military jet. And pretty soon, he'd send a postcard to
Billy the bartender, and all would be well, except I'd feel
morally obligated to refund most of Margaret Devens's
thousand.
I checked my notebook again, searching for God knows
what. My notes looked like an obit. Born, schooled, married.
Everything but date of death.
I shook the thought away with the doughnut crumbs. It
was time to speak to my client again. I needed a look at
Gene's room.
My car was parked in one of those back lots off that narrow
street right behind Mass. Ave., Bishop Somebody-or
Other Drive. It's the kind of street that makes you think the
bishop wasn't held in high esteem. My little red Toyota was
still there though, untouched. Did you know that when a
woman who grew up in Detroit buys a Japanese car, it's
close to treason?
Before heading to the Devens house, I swung by
Paolina's housing project. It's one of those low-rise brick
townhouse developments, better planned than the ghetto
towers, with less concentrated poverty and hopelessness, an
occasional tree, a small square of grass. It's tucked in a back
pocket of East Cambridge. The steel skyscrapers of the
high-tech boom have grown up around it, encircling it,
blocking the sun.
It's not so bad in the daytime, but nights, I want to haul
Paolina's whole family out of there. Paolina's mom, Marta,
is Colombian. She married some Puerto Rican guy over
here, and he scampered after the fifth kid. There's a rotating
mass of visiting cousins and uncles. Marta's a character. Put
her down in the desert and she'd sell you sand. Not only
would you pay through the nose for it, she'd make you enjoy
the privilege. If she hadn't come down with a crippling case
of rheumatoid arthritis, the family would never have wound
up in the projects. Every once in a while she shows a trace of
me old spark, but mostly she just goes through the paces.
Paolina would be in school for the day, but I wasn't planning
on a visit.
He was sprawled on the stoop of the building next door to
Paolina's, leaning against the dirty yellow bricks, staring at
something only he could see. Same guy I'd been watching
for three weeks, a scrawny Hispanic with unhealthy yellowish
skin drawn tight across a narrow face. He had a droopy
mustache, a wispy unkempt beard. Dark shadows around his
eyes made him look older than he dressed. His T-shirt had
sweat circles around the armpits, and his jeans were faded to
the color of the pale morning sky. He hugged a worn leather
satchel.
It was the satchel that interested me. More than that, what
came out of it.
Drugs and housing projects go together like cops and
robbers. I know that. But not drugs and Paolina. Those two
are never going to be spoken of in the same breath.
I'd noticed Wispy Beard a few times when I'd come by to
pick her up. I got curious. I confided in a Cambridge cop I
know, a nice enough guy, but too busy to do the kind of surveillance
needed for a bust. I'm not too busy. Maybe I can't
clean up the world, but next door to my little sister, nobody
is going to dole out little packets from an old leather satchel.
I sat in my car and took notes. Comings and goings. Two
kids, one not more than twelve years old, gave something to
Wispy Beard, got something in return. Full descriptions
went down in the notebook. As soon as I got a definite pattern,
I'd give my cop friend a date and a time, and make sure
the bastard got himself busted good.
His days were numbered in my mind.

CHAPTER

I'd stayed at my observation post too long, so I flew
down Memorial Drive, my thoughts grimly fixed on that
scumbag drug dealer. I was halfway to the Boston University
Bridge before I shook myself out of it, and noticed that the
elm leaves were edged with gold, and high clouds filtered
the sunlight into fine visible rays. With breathtaking suddenness,
the road reared up and flashed a spectacular view of
Boston's church steeples, brownstones, and skyscrapers. It
still gives me goosebumps after all these years.
On crisp autumn days, no city compares to Boston, especially
when you sneak up on it from the Cambridge side of
the Charles. It's the river that makes the magic, frames the
city with a silver band. Today the Charles was flat as glass,
except for two single sculls cutting the water, gliding toward
the M.I.T. boafhouse. The skyline is a jumble downtown, but
off to the right the Hancock and Prudential towers guard the
Back Bay. At the top of Beacon Hill, the gold dome of the
State House caught a shaft of sunlight and beamed it back in
my eyes, forcing me to look down and pay attention to the
road.
They say fish swim in the Charles River these days. You
no longer have to race to the doctor for a tetanus shot if you
fall off your sailboat. Ever since I came to Boston to live
with Aunt Bea after my parents died, they've been saying
people would be able to swim in the Charles in five more
years. Then five more years. Then five more.
It looked like I might have to wait that long at the foot of
the B. U. Bridge. Cars honked, drivers swore, but to no avail.
The college kids were back in town, in sufficient numbers to
take the right of way by force. When the swarm of students
finally parted wide enough for my car to pass, I took the
curve onto Park Drive and followed the Riverway out to
where it turns into the Jamaicaway. The road traces Olmsted's
chain of city parks, and it's got twists and turns
enough to delight a former cabbie. I drove it too fast, but
then everybody does. Unlike everybody else, I stayed in my
lane.
Left at the Jamaica Pond boathouse. Right on Centre
Street. I followed the tracks of a trolley line that hasn't run in
God knows how many years. Jamaica Plain's a real part of
Boston, a neighborhood, a nontourist section of town. I remember.
Centre Street lined with shoe repair shops, laundries,
mom-and-pop convenience stores, and restaurants
with counters where the regulars stopped for eggs, bacon,
and political arguments on their way to work.
Now Centre Street has florists, at least I think they might
be florists. One had two pink lilies plunked in a single vase
by way of window display. Another, fearful of garish overstatement,
featured a single spray of orchids. I counted three
croissant bakeries, four small shuttered restaurants with
hand-lettered menus, two shoe boutiques. The signs of gentrification.

Where will all those young urban professionals get their
shoes resoled?
Give me an address anywhere in Boston and I can find it
cold. Margaret Devens had started to babble directions over
the phone, but I'd shut her down. Cabbies know.
I took a right onto a quiet residential street of big old Victorians;
a few weary down-and-outers with chipped aluminum
siding, some newly pastel-painted numbers with
geranium-filled window boxes. Big houses for big families.
Most of the Boston Irish who'd escaped the Southie slums
made a beeline for the elegant South Shore suburbs, but
some, particularly the ones with city government ties,
headed for areas of Jamaica Plain like this one. Lace-curtain
Irish, it must have been once, with a lively parish church,
and houses bursting with kids. Now, most of the better
decorated places looked like they'd been sliced into separate
apartments, probably condos. They didn't look as luxurious
as the dream townhouses my cat and I were invited to view
at Cedar Wash, but I bet the price tags were pretty steep.
When I saw the white Victorian monster on the corner, I
stopped wondering why Margaret and Eugene hadn't exchanged
many confidences. If just the two siblings lived at
number 19, they could use separate floors and never meet.
They'd need two phone lines so they could call each other in
case of emergency.
There must have been money in the family once, to buy
that house. There'd have to be some left over, to pay the
property taxes, refresh the gleaming white paint, keep the
sloping lawn neatly manicured, the yews and azaleas
trimmed.
Well, Margaret had a stash of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
And Eugene drove a hack.
One thing about Jamaica Plain, you never have much
trouble parking. I pulled the Toyota to the curb smack in
front of the Devens house.
A walkway of concrete squares and grass rectangles
tempted me to hopscotch up to the porch. I controlled myself
in case my client was peering from behind one of the
window shades.
The front door wore a polished brass knocker in the
shape of a pineapple. I ignored the doorbell for a chance to
get my fingerprints on its bright surface. It clanged a bold
satisfying note.
I waited awhile, humming a tune Paolina had taught me,
something that named a lot of animals in Spanish, then tried
the bell. I could hear it buzz and echo inside. I rang again,
hollered Margaret's name.
Damn. I checked my watch. Eleven-twenty. I'd spent
longer than I meant to in Cambridge, but surely Margaret
would have waited an extra twenty minutes.
Well, maybe she'd forgotten. She was old, after all.
Maybe she was at church, or visiting some neighbor, gossiping
over coffee while I shivered in the chill. Just for the hell
of it, I turned the front door handle and gave the door a push.
It opened easily and I stood there gaping.
City people lock their doors.
"Margaret!" I called again, yelling it loudly, as much to
warn anybody in the house of my approach as to get a response.
My hand reached reflexively for the gun on my service
belt, the way it used to when I entered unsecured
premises as a cop. As a private operator, I leave guns alone if
I can help it.
I always remember what Humphrey Bogart says in that
old movie when he takes the gun away from the punk: "So
many guns, so few brains."
The foyer was big and cool, with wooden floorboards
worn mellow. No quick sand-and-polyurethane job here.
Only care, years of care--the kind my Aunt Bea had lavished
on her Cambridge home--gave it that warm sheen.
The wallpaper was one of those old grass-papers, in a faint
beige. A worn octagonal Chinese rug colored the center of
the floor. Overhead, a multiarmed chandelier hung low
enough to menace.
The foyer had four escapes: three archways, the back one
smaller than the right or the left, and a steep flight of beige
carpeted stairs. I turned left toward what must have been the
living room, and stopped with my jaw hanging wide.
Stuffing erupted from an overturned couch. Someone had
slashed three huge X's in the flowered upholstery and done
his best to turn the sofa inside out. A wooden end table was
cracked, baring pale wood under a dark finish. An amputated
armchair leg stuck out of the shattered leaded glass door of a
curio cabinet. A pile of smashed crockery lay at the base of
one wall. It looked like someone had hurled Margaret's treasures
against the wall for the pleasure of hearing the crash
and tinkle.
I swallowed and shoved my hands automatically into the
pockets of my jeans so I wouldn't be tempted to right a
chair, smooth a torn cushion.
Margaret.
As I opened my mouth to call her name, I heard footsteps,
heavy running steps, and the slam of a screen door.
Back door, side door, how the hell did I know? I ran out
front, stared right and left, saw nothing, no one. I raced
down the narrow walkway to the back of the house. Somewhere,
a car engine roared to life and tires screeched on
pavement. Through a stand of lilac bushes, I caught one
glimpse of a hurtling dark van. By the time I'd vaulted Margaret's
back fence, it was gone.
Margaret.
I ran back to the house, calling her name, but my voice
cracked and I don't think I got much in the way of volume.
I started searching, careful where I put my feet. The destruction
was even worse in the kitchen--canned goods, cereal,
flour, emptied in a pile in the middle of the floor.
This didn't look like robbery. It looked like vengeance.
Or war.
I found her in the dining room, crumpled in a corner, her
flowered dress rucked up under her, a big white apron half
covering her face. A trickle of blood oozed from one corner
of her mouth. I put my ear to her chest, and felt the rise and
fall of her breath. I don't think I could have heard a heartbeat.
Blood was rushing in my ears, screaming.
I touched her shoulder, spoke her name, both more
roughly than I intended. My hand was shaking, and I realized
my teeth were clenched tight with anger. Anger at the
chaos, at the broken useless dishes. Anger at myself, for not
arriving moments earlier, not preventing this. Anger at my
helplessness, as I knelt by my client's battered face.
"It's okay, Margaret," I said softly, once I could force the
words between my dry lips. "Don't try to move. I'll be right
back."
The jack was ripped out of the wall, so I ran across the
street and used a startled neighbor's phone. I know a number
that gets a faster response than 911. Mooney's number.
"You're going to be fine," I crooned in Margaret's ear,
straining to hear the wail of the ambulance. I touched her
hand. It felt cool and dry. It moved, curling limply around
my own, tightening. She moaned, or maybe she tried to say
something. I put my head close to her lips, but I couldn't
make out any words.
All I could think of was Aunt Bea, and the way her hand
gripped mine in that awful hospital room just before she
died. I heard a voice whispering in the still room, and it was
mine, begging Margaret to hang on, hang on.
If Eugene Devens was responsible for this, I would find
him. I would find him all right.

CHAPTER
8

Room 501 South, Boston City Hospital. In spite of the
fresh white paint and the red and blue poppy-splattered curtains,
I've seen prison cells a whole lot cheerier. It was a double
room, the size of a large closet. Sliding curtains were
ominously closed around the bed of the occupant who'd arrived
first and copped the window view of the trash dumpster.
Margaret's eyes were closed, too, one of them swollen
shut, purpling nicely. Breath rasped through her nostrils. An
IV bag dripped colorless fluid through a thin tube connected
to the veins in her left hand by needles and tape. The 
elevated hospital bed dwarfed her. White lab coats surrounded
her. All that white, all that machinery--the combination
made my stomach quake.
A broken collarbone, abrasions, contusions, probably a
concussion. An impossibly young and cheerful doctor said
she was lucky she hadn't broken a hip.
Hospitals and prisons both make me sweat. Maybe it's
the smell. More likely, it's something about places that hold
you against your will.
At least prisons don't have doctors who tell you how
lucky you are.
Margaret had briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance.
In a shaky voice, she'd informed the EM"I that she
had a mess to clear up at home, and he could just stop at the
corner and she'd be on her way, thank you very much. And
all the time, you could see she was hurting like hell, barely
able to squeeze the words out of her swollen mouth. I hope
I've got half that much spunk when I'm her age.
1 waited in a dismal antiseptic-smelling hallway while
two cops I didn't know tried to question her. A pimply blond
teenager in hospital greens slid one of those heavy buffing
machines in lazy arcs across the linoleum floor. Over the
hum, I could hear the cops' voices. I couldn't hear Margaret.
Every once in a while a loudspeaker would cough out a doctor's
name or a room number, "Code Red" or "Code Blue,"
and a sudden rush of white uniforms and scuffling feet
would follow. Otherwise it was just the floor-buffer man and
me. We exchanged brief smiles.
When the cops came out, I introduced myself. One of
them knew Mooney.
"He sends his best," the guy said. He was long and lean and
wore the uniform well. 'Too busy to take the squeal himself."
"Yeah," echoed the second cop. He was older, short and potbellied, with a jutting chin. Didn't do a thing for the uniform.
I
nodded toward Margaret's door. "She tell you anything?"
"Too
woozy," the fat cop said immediately, with a 
warning glance at his partner. He wasn't the type to give information
to mere civilians.
"Said she fell downstairs," the lean cop said softly.
A hefty blond nurse breezed into 501 carrying a tray with
a glass of chipped ice and a straw. I excused myself and followed.
The
closer I got, the worse she looked, and believe me,
the view from the doorway window had been bad enough.
From two feet away, her skin, the part of her skin that wasn't
bandaged, or raw and red, or purple from the bruises, was
gray. The bandage across her forehead was neat enough, but
a brownish stain was seeping through on the left side. All the
tubes and drains made her look like some helpless old marionette,
controlled by the huge mechanical bed and the display
of instruments on the wall behind her head.
The nurse addressed her as if she were awake. I wasn't
sure, but I figured the nurse ought to know.
"I hope those policemen didn't upset you," she said
briskly, smoothing an offending wrinkle out of the top sheet.
"They have to ask their questions, I suppose." She glanced at
her wristwatch, then at me. "I'm sure your, uh, granddaughter
can help you with the ice water."
I nodded obediently, and tried to look young and earnest.
The beating had added years to Margaret's appearance.
The tray also held a syringe. The nurse uncapped the needle,
lifted it to the light, checked something scrawled on the
chart at the end of the bed.
"What's that?" Margaret was awake after all.
"It's for the pain."
"I don't want it."
"You'll feel a little pinch, Miss Devens, that's all."
"I don't--" She tried to turn away, but didn't have the
strength to resist.
"There," the nurse said calmly, removing the syringe
from the vicinity of Margaret's hip. "The medication will
take effect soon, so don't worry if you start feeling drowsy.
Maybe your granddaughter will stay with you till you fall
asleep."
I beamed her a sincere, appreciative, family-member
smile. The cops got a grudging three minutes. I'd just been
granted unlimited bedside time, albeit with a drugged client.
Sometimes there's a benefit to not looking like your typical

cop.

"She'll feel much better tomorrow, dear," the nurse promised
me as she left.

I maneuvered a chair close to the head of the bed, sat

down, and waited.

"Go away," Margaret whispered. I hadn't seen her open
her eyes since the nurse left, but she'd turned her head in my
direction, so I guess she must have peeked.
"What did he want?" I asked.
She said nothing and kept her eyes shut.
"Did you know him? Them?"
Again nothing.

"Was it Gene? Did your brother do this to you?"
That forced her good eye open. "No."
"Then why are you trying to cover it up?"
Silence. The eye closed.

"Margaret, listen to me, I'm not a cop. I'm on your side.
You paid me. Maybe I can help. You didn't fall downstairs. A
tornado did not strike your house."
I	No response.

"Did they get what they wanted?"

"No." The single syllable came out with grim satisfaction.
She repeated it and her voice cracked.

"Water?"

I held the glass while she made an attempt to suck at the
straw through swollen lips. She winced at the feel of it, and

waved the glass away.

"Listen." Her voice was so faint I had to lean over the
bed. She grasped my hand, which was chilled from the icy
glass. Hers was colder. "Find Gene. Please."

"I'm looking. I'll keep looking."

"If I die—"

"You're not dying, Margaret. The doctor—"

"Doctors." She practically spat the word. "Eugene ... If I
die, there's nobody else."

I thought she'd dozed off, but when I tried to release my
hand, she drew me closer with surprising strength. "Hide it,"
she whispered. "Hide it for me. Don't tell."

Whatever they'd given her, Demerol, morphine, was
starting to take hold. Her one open eye was wide and vacant,
staring at the ceiling. I'm not sure she knew I was there.

"Hide what?" I said.

She gazed at me blankly, as if she'd never seen me before
in her life.

"Hide what?" I repeated.

"Go ... home," she murmured. Each word was separate,
disjointed, like the beginning of a new thought. "Home ...
attic... toy trunk."

"A toy trunk in the attic?"

She stared at me intently, pleading out of that one wandering
eye. "Home ... behind ... trunk ... attic ..." She
talked the way a drunk walked, trying to toe a straight line,
wavering uncontrollably. She couldn't manage to get the
right words out, only the urgency. "Home ... hide the ...
hide it. Gene ..."

"Margaret, what does Gene have to do with it? Did you
see Gene?"

She gave up, sighed deeply, closed her eye, and slept.

I sat with her a little while. The IV dripped. The second
hand of the big clock described steady circles. Her breathing
grew soft and even, her hand warmer.

Before I left, I tucked her hand underneath the thin blanket,
and smoothed a strand of white hair off her forehead.
Like I said, I never met my grandmother.


CHAPTER
9

I stopped at a deli on the VFW Parkway and ordered a
pastrami on light rye, two half-sour pickles, and a can of Dr.
Brown's cream soda. That's the kind of food I was raised on,
and while Boston's delis can't compare with the Detroit of
my childhood, I find them soothing in stressful times.
"I gobbled a huge wedge of strawberry cheesecake for
dessert. If it weren't for volleyball and a speedy metabolism,
I swear I'd be as fat as Gloria.
By the time I'd patted up the last crumbs with my fingertip
it was after three, which meant Paolina would be home
from school. The deli has one of those minibooths Ma Bell
has installed now that Superman no longer needs a place to
change. I punched the buttons. Sometimes I even miss dial
phones.
"Alio?" She answers the phone the way her mom does:
"Alio?" instead of "Hello?" At school and with me, she
speaks good old American slang. Except every once in a
while, she starts a phrase with that multisyllabic "Nooooo!"
which identifies a Colombiano every time. "iComo esta usted?" I replied.
"Carlotta'." she said immediately. "Hi!"
My high school Spanish is good for one thing. It gets a
guaranteed giggle out of Paolina, who says I have an accent
like a Venezuelan peasant's parrot.
You could tell she was glad to hear from me. When I was
a cop I guess I never really got used to the fact that pimps
and hookers were not pleased when I showed up. Even now,
folks are not always delighted to invite a PI into their parlor.
Paolina is my antidote, my official welcoming committee.
"How're ya' doin', Carlotta?" Sometimes she gets deliberately
slangy to show off.
"You take your history exam?"
"You remember everything."
"That's not an answer."
"I got eighty-eight. But I think she's going to grade on a
curve, so maybe I got an A."
"You study?"
"Yeah."
"You panic?"
"Right at the beginning, when Miss Vaneer was passing
out the papers, my heart started pounding, you know, but I
thought about taking deep breaths, like you said, and then I
was okay. I didn't rush or anything, and I finished on time."
"You did great. Even without a curve."
"I did?"
"Terrific," I said.
'Terrific," she echoed. I could tell she was smiling, and I
pictured her at the phone, sneakers untied as usual, eyes
shining.
When I first met Paolina she was seven years old, going
on thirty, thin and tough as whipcord, with a knuckle splay
of bruises across her right cheek, courtesy of one of her visiting
"uncles." Marta, Lord bless her, didn't stand for that
kind of thing. The guys could slap her around--something
I've never understood, something I don't want to
understand--but mess with her kids and that was the end.
When he wouldn't stay away, she preferred charges against
the guy who'd smacked Paolina, and some kind soul at the
police station suggested Big Sisters for the small scared girl
with the wide eyes.
Marta doesn't offer Paolina much in the way of praise,
especially for schoolwork, because she's not sure it's any
use to females. I've talked to her about it, and we've sort of
agreed to disagree. So I try to fill the gap. I make sure I know
when the tests come, and what the grades are, and I'm 
extremely generous with compliments. Paolina used to be so
scared of taking tests, so sure she'd fail, that she'd faint or
throw up. She used to spend testing days in the nurse's office.
Now she's pulling As and Bs.
Am I proud? Not so you'd notice, provided you're blind
and deaf.
"Hey, about Saturday," I said.
"You can't come?" Paolina's always prepared for disappointment.
"Of
course I can come." Sometimes, when I was a cop, I
had to back out on our regular dates. Now I'm private, that
doesn't happen anymore. Ever. When you're ten, there ought
to be somebody you can rely on. "I just wanted to make sure
you remembered."
"Noon, no?" she said, using the multisyllabic national
marker. "I'll be ready."
"I'll honk."
"Where are we going?"
"Surprise," I said, to cover the fact that I didn't know yet.
"Jeans and sneakers."
"Okay. And I want to talk to you."
"You're talking to me."
"Not on the phone. When I see you."
"Anything special?"
Her voice sounded troubled, but all she said was, "It's
about volleyball."
"Can it wait till Saturday?"
"Sure," she said, but she didn't sound right.
"Any tests tomorrow?"
"Just a quiz. In Spanish."
"Better you than me," I said.
"Es verdad," she agreed with a giggle.
"Adios, amiga." I hung up. There was this guy waiting to
use the phone. I hadn't even noticed him.
It used to be easier to find places to take Paolina. Puppet
Showplace in Brookline was great, but now she's kind of old
for that. They get so sophisticated so young, it kills me. And
one of the Big Sister rules is not to spend much money. The
kids come from poor families, and we're not supposed to
come on like fairy godmothers. Just friends.
On the way back to Margaret's, I decided I'd drive
Paolina to this wild-animal farm in New Hampshire. The
trees up north would be in full fall color, and she really likes
animals. She's got two scraggly cats already, and if Marta
would okay the deal, I'd give her Red Emma in a flash.
Paolina calls Red Emma Esmeralda, because she's green.
She's trying to teach her a few choice Spanish phrases, and
says the bird's accent is better than mine.
What with having three names, the bird probably can't
learn anything because she's in the middle of an identity crisis.
I
cruised Margaret's block to see if any cops still lurked
there. No blue-and-whites out front, no anonymous vans, no
suspicious unmarked sedans with elaborately casual guys
reading newspapers in the front seats. The door didn't have a
police seal on it, but I could tell the lab boys had come and
gone by the gritty residue on the brass pineapple door
knocker. They must have gotten a great set of my prints.
Since I had the front door key in my pocket, it didn't take
me long to get inside. I'd snitched it from Margaret's handbag
during the ambulance ride. As an honorary granddaughter,
I figured the least I could do was bring her robe and
slippers to the hospital.
And as a private investigator, I could do what I'd intended
to do that morning. Search Eugene's room.

I'll
 tell myself I have a mind above housework, but one
glance at Margaret's living room and I was sorely tempted to
race to the kitchen for a broom, a mop, a bucket, Handy
Andy, Spic and Span, anything. The memory of what the
kitchen really offered--more chaos--held me back. That
and the fear that maybe, God forbid, I was developing a latent
housekeeping streak.
If the crime lab team had bothered to step into the living
room, they hadn't righted the furniture, restuffed any cushions,
vacuumed the rug, or dusted the mantle. They might
have swiped a few bits of smashed china, but there was
plenty still scattered on the scratched floorboards. From the
foyer, the shards looked like exotic flower petals.
Paolina painted a watercolor once, for art class, of three
soggy crumpled yellow Kleenexes, next to a pile of orange
peels. I keep that picture in my bedroom, framed. I like it.
Her teacher didn't. Her teacher asked her why she was painting
garbage.
Paolina told me it hadn't been garbage from far away. In
the picture, the Kleenex and the orange peels, floating gently
in a gutter, are magical water lilies.
It was the same with Margaret's broken plates and vases.
Far away, flowers. Close up, garbage.
I tried to piece together two chunks of purple glaze, and
dropped them back on the floor in disgust. Maybe I could
bribe Roz to clean. Nobody should have to come home from
the hospital to a house that looked like the target of a 
wrecking ball. And Margaret Devens, I reassured myself, would
come home.
The cops had left a trail of muddy footprints on the stair
carpeting. I followed them.
Four bedrooms and a tiled bath opened off the narrow
hallway. I glanced in each doorway. Picking Eugene's room
seemed easy. Only the left front bedroom, a largish room,
maybe twelve by sixteen, lacked a pastel dust-ruffle and
frilly lace curtains.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway, I tried to imagine the
room before the whirlwind struck, make a few guesses about
the guy who'd slept there for sixteen years' worth of nights.
It didn't seem like the room of a fifty-six-year-old man. I
wondered if I'd stumbled on Gene's boyhood bedroom, preserved
intact as some family shrine.
I checked the other rooms again, just to make sure. Frills
and lace. Scented dusting powder. Only one room smelled of
cigar smoke, the one I'd singled out first.
The narrow bed's brass headboard was barred and
knobbed. The mattress had been yanked onto the floor, and
slit repeatedly. Coils of wire poked out of the springs like
jack-in-the-box toys. Over the bed hung a giant poster of
young Carl Yastrzemski, Red Sox hero.
So the searchers had been looking for something substantial,
not a key, or a photo, or anything flat that could be taped
behind smiling Yaz.
I took a few steps into the room, letting my eyes wander.
It's hard to get to know a guy from his room when that
room's been trashed by persons unknown, and possibly rifled
by the cops to boot.
On surfaces not graced by old baseball posters, Eugene
favored taped-up pages from girlie magazines. That was the
total of his decorating pizazz, at his age, unless the previous
searchers had stolen the Picasso prints off the paler rectangles
on the walls. More likely Miss September had fallen
into disfavor, or under the bed. Eugene read soft-porn "male
adventure novels" that looked like Harlequin Romances for
men. I loved the titles: Beyond Glory, Glorious Flames,

Gunrunner to Glory. A whole lot of glory on the covers; that
and big-breasted women falling out of slinky nightgowns.
The day after I covered my first homicide as a cop, I went
home and scoured my bedroom. Threw out all that embarrassing
junk I'd hoarded, marveling at the bizarre items I'd
thoughtlessly shoved into the bottom drawer of my dresser for
the cops to smirk at on that inevitable day. The gonzo Diet
Aids I'd purchased, convinced I was two pounds over the fashion
limit for my latest bikini. They made me throw up, but I'd
paid so much for those dumb pills, mail order, sight unseen,
that I'd been too angry to toss them in the trash. So I'd heaved
them in the bottom drawer instead, along with the book of illustrated
religious poetry (can you believe it?) that was the
very first gift my very first boyfriend gave me when I was an
old maid of fourteen. I tossed out the early letters from Cal,
my ex, letters I suppose could be called love letters, if you
stretched the bounds. Out went the old tube of birth-control
foam, along with one of those sexy uplift bras, and the torn
jeans I'd worn, almost exclusively, my eighteenth summer. I
found and discarded a coupon for breast enlargement cream,
corny birthday cards, a mercifully brief attempt at a diary.
If the cops come and toss my room tomorrow, they won't
find much of a personal nature. Pictures of my mom and
dad. My wedding album, a curiously impersonal item, since
the smiling bride seems a total stranger to me. Aunt Bea's
oval gold locket, with its two photos of faded young men.
My aunt Bea never married. I have no idea who those men
were or what they meant to her, but she treasured that locket,
and I shine it up every once in a while in her memory. Probably
the most personal item in my room is my old National
steel guitar, and there's no way those cops will ever know
what that guitar means to me.
My worst cop trait was insubordination. My best was
sheer stubbornness, and I haven't lost it. Even though I knew
the place had been plundered by the bad guys and the good
guys both, I searched it again. I shook out the pages of those
trashy novels, twisted the stupid knobs off the brass headboard,
poked inside them with a wire coathanger.
Did I find any terrific clue the cops had overlooked?
Of course not.
One loose scrap of paper fluttered out of a paperback, and
it made me feel a little better about brother Eugene. It was a
poem, "No Second Troy," by William Butler Yeats, copied on
lined notebook paper, the kind you tear out of ring binders.

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?

I remembered what the bartender had said, about Gene's
interest in the glorious rebellion, and the great Irish poets. It
added a little depth to a character otherwise defined by
sports memorabilia, Playboy centerfolds, and sisterly devotion.
I read the rest of the poem out loud. I liked it, but I have
to admit I enjoyed the contrast, too. It's not often you come
across a poem by Yeats stuck in a semiporn paperback that
would probably have caused the poet to puke.

CHAPTER
11

The attic steps were narrow, steep, and uncarpeted.
They took a ninety-degree turn ten steps up, and from that
point on I had to crouch to avoid the ceiling. At the top step,
the paneled door swung open with one of those creaky
horror-movie noises I absolutely adore as long as I'm safe in
the depths of my cushy cinema seat. I'm ashamed to say it
had a different effect in Margaret's attic. The spit in my
mouth dried up so fast my tongue felt like a prune. My ears,
suddenly sharp, started to register each faint noise as a
threat. Passing cars, wind-whipped branches, ratlike scamperings
... Was that a footstep? In the house?
I swallowed, took a deep breath, and sternly ordered myself
to stop behaving like the women on the covers of Eugene's
hot novels. I tried to whistle, but my mouth wasn't
wet enough, so I hummed a few bars of an old Lightnin'
Hopkins blues tune I'm learning to pick.
The door opened into shadow, not darkness, therefore the
attic had a light source somewhere, one sadly insufficient for
a search. I dipped into my shoulder bag--which weighs
about a ton because I keep it crammed with pick-locks, my
trusty Swiss army knife, MBTA tokens, and stray lipsticks-- in hopes of locating a flashlight. My first find the right shape
turned out to be a can of that old-style lacquery hairspray,
which, believe me, is just as off-putting to muggers as a can
of Mace, much cheaper, and you don't need a license for it. I
never use hairspray for anything else.
After a bit more groping I came up with a flashlight. Not
quite a full-sized one, but adequate. I beamed it through the
doorway, and stepped into its pool of light.
As haunted attics go, Margaret's was a real disappointment,
consisting of two semifinished slant-roofed rooms, the
smaller a sort of anteroom to the larger. Both had been
painted beige within the past century. Pink insulation of a
more recent vintage peeked out from behind an occasional
unpainted joist.
They seemed to be storage rooms, containing no big
items--which would never pass the bend in the staircase-- but lots of small stuff. An old wire birdcage hung on a metal
stand, door ajar, occupant long gone. Two china-doll figurine
lamps, chipped, eyed each other from opposite ends of
the smaller room. Between them was a cracked vase, sloppily
glued, a pile of ratty velvet curtains, and layers of
undisturbed dust, which led me to believe that neither the
cops nor the robbers had lavished their attention on the attic.
In the larger room, I located a single stingy window and
yanked at its stained shade, which snapped up with a bang
and hit the roller so hard that it brought the whole business
down in a heap. The sudden alarm made the silence eerier,
and I found myself listening for footsteps again. I hummed a
few more bars of the Hopkins blues. The room had a nice
echo.
A pedal sewing machine sat on a mahogany case against
the wall opposite the window. A dress dummy wrapped in
India-print cotton gave me an uneasy moment or two. Four
chairs shared a corner, set up in a square, their upholstery
faded to uneven rose. I wondered where the card table had
gone.
The place smelled like an attic, dry, stale, and dusty, a
haven for moths. I thought about opening the window for a
little ventilation, but a spiderweb bridged the frame, and I
hated to disturb the pattern on the dirty glass, much less the
crawly little beast who'd designed it. I am no fan of spiders.
I know most of them are harmless wee creatures, the dogoOders
of the insect world, but honestly, yuck.
No toy chest in the first room. No toy chest in the second
room.
Talk about stubborn. I searched those two rooms, side to
side, top to bottom, methodically, and probably damn close
to maniacally. I played my flashlight into every cranny, got
my hands filthy, and my hair full of cobwebs. I strained to
shift heavy cardboard boxes, kicked the lighter ones across
the floor as my frustration level soared. I kept banging my
head on the sloped side of the ceiling, which gave me a
headache, and did not improve my temper.
Nothing.
As the light faded in the attic window, I sank to the floor
in the middle of the larger room, clasped my arms around
my knees, and let my eyes and my brain do the work for a
change. I pivoted slowly, dusting a small circle with the seat
of my jeans, checking the floor and the walls. The attic
seemed small for the house beneath it.
My first thought was that one patch of flooring was less
dusty than the rest. By the time I stood up, I'd registered that
the clean square was near one of the unpainted joists, that
the wallboard next to the joist leaned at a slight angle. It
moved easily when I wiggled it. And when I gave it a shove,
it slid to one side, revealing the rest of the attic, the real unfinished
attic.
I poked my flashlight in the four-by-three gap, but I didn't
have to follow. A wooden arch-topped trunk sat right behind
the panel. I grabbed it by one of its two brass handles and
hauled it triumphantly over to the window.
It was latched, not locked, and the lid was heavy. The
layer of kid's stuff on top startled me. Halloween costumes,
mostly. I pulled aside a net tutu, gray with age, and tried to
imagine it on an eight-year-old Margaret. A magician's hat
and cloak followed, then a feathered Indian headdress. The
dust made my nose itch. I gave in and sneezed loudly. It
echoed. If anyone else were in the house, he'd hear it.
Stop it, Carlotta, I scolded myself. Nobody else around.
Just you and the boogeyman.
I kept emptying the trunk, figuring Margaret probably
hadn't been worried sick about the safety of her old tutu.
I have never seen that much money before.
It took my breath away, a lovely sight, done up in neat
bundles, banded in green. Most of the bills were old, so the
stash didn't have that phony TV-ransom-money-in-fhe
attache-case look to it. Stacks of vintage tens and twenties
lined the entire bottom of the trunk. On top, a few thinner
stacks of bright, new, mint-fresh hundreds perched like
candy roses on the top of the cake.
I knew where Margaret had gotten the cash to pay me.
I wasted a while staring at the loot, wondering whether
there was more or less than my cat's promised twenty grand
involved.
Hide it, Margaret had begged. Hide it.
To tell the truth, it seemed pretty well hidden already. I
could drag the trunk back to the gap in the wall, replace the
wallboard, wipe out the tracks in the dust with a kitchen
broom.
But the absence of dust would be a clue. That stopped me.
That and the fact that I'd found the trunk in the first place. If
I could find it somebody else could too. Especially somebody
who suspected it was in the house. Somebody who'd
already exhausted the possibilities of the first two floors before
being interrupted by a nosy red-headed private eye.
I picked up a stack of bills. I really hadn't meant to touch
it, but the money drew my hand like a magnet. I riffled the
edges of the hundreds, flipped the stack over to admire
whichever president was pictured on the face, and that's
when I noticed that the cash was not only banded, the band
was initialed.
With the letters GBA.

CHAPTER
12

The stash would never have wound up where it did if it
hadn't been for Mooney.
My favorite part of those Gothic suspense novels, aside
from the climactic moment when our heroine gets a message
from our hero and waltzes off to meet him at midnight in the
old abandoned warehouse, is where the heroine goes outside
carrying thousands of bucks belonging to some secret organization,
armed only with a can of hairspray.
Granted it was barely ten o'clock when I locked Margaret's
front door, balancing a suitcase and two Hefty Bags,
but I sure had that dumb heroine feeling as I peered into the
backseat of my Toyota and glanced furtively into the nearby
bushes. A fleeing squirrel could have given me heart failure.
Once in the car, I felt more resolute. I drove like the excabbie I am, and I can absolutely guarantee you that nobody
followed me from Margaret's house to my own.
What I didn't count on was Mooney. He was sitting
smack in the center of my front stoop, the porch light gleaming
off the top of his head in a kind of halo effect. If I didn't
make a habit of leaving lights on to illuminate the burglars, I
might not have seen him.
Shit. I didn't want to leave that much cash in my car for
five seconds, much less the time it would take me to deal
with Mooney. Boston is the car-theft capital of the Western
world, and Cambridge runs it a close second. Quickly, I
pulled into the driveway.
I had my door open before the car actually came to a halt.
I keep my trash on the back landing, and I hurriedly swung
the two Hefty Bags up to join the three already awaiting tomorrow's
garbage pickup. Then I grasped the suitcase, and
headed toward the front door before Mooney got the bright
idea of coming around back to see what was taking so long.
"Hi, Carlotta," Mooney said, still seated in the porch
light's glow. I was trying to breathe normally. Inhale. Exhale.
He
indicated the suitcase. "Moving in or out?"
"Robe and slippers," I answered truthfully, "for the lady
who got clobbered over in Jamaica Plain."
Mooney said, "I hear she's gonna be okay."
"Yeah," I said.
"I was hoping you'd invite me in," Mooney said.
"So, you wanna come in?" I said.
"Thanks."
"Play with the cat for a minute," I said apologetically as
soon as we got as far as the living room. "I'll be right back."
I turned the kitchen faucet on full blast to cover the noise of
the back door opening, grabbed the two garbage bags, and
hauled them into the bathroom.
The cash smelled a little the worse for wear because I'd
layered a level of Margaret's kitchen trash over each batch
of money, just in case, for camouflage. Maybe that's what
gave me the idea.
I'd bought this new litter box for T.C., one of those plastic
Rubbermaid things that I thought His Majesty might prefer
to his old dilapidated box, but no way. So I took the
plastic tray, filled it with the cash, shook it so the bundles
were level and then plunked T.C.'s old litter tray on top of it.
A perfect fit. Nobody could have guessed that the cat was
doing his business over a fortune.
I flushed the toilet, and went back out to face Lieutenant
Mooney.
Mooney doesn't dress like a cop, off duty or on. He wears
button-down Oxford cloth shirts and tweedy jackets.
Sweater vests. Blue jeans. It's a soft, comfortable look, like
the image some Harvard prof might choose, except that
Mooney's shirts bulge around the kind of biceps you don't
get from sitting at a desk correcting exams.
He'd seated himself in the rocking chair, which was
thoughtful of him because the sofa isn't up to a man his size.
He was surveying the room with the same quiet, focused attention
he gave to crime scenes.
"I like it," he said gravely, "but it's not what I expected."
"Disappointed?"
"No. It's just not the way I see you," he said.
"It's not me, if you want to know the truth. I didn't decorate
this place. My aunt did."
"Ah," he said.
The only room in the house that I really call my own is
my bedroom. I chose it for the three wide windows--they
give plenty of morning sunlight for my jungle of plants. I
started from scratch on that room. I sanded the floorboards.
I steamed off the wallpaper. I stripped sixteen coats of
paint--sixteen!--off the window moldings, until the natural
wood came through. The bed is huge, king-sized, because I
finally got fed up with mattresses that dangle my feet over
the edge. I make my bed twice a year, so I buy good-looking
sheets on sale at Filene's Basement, always solids, never
pastels. I've got this fantastically warm down comforter, also
bought on sale, with a charcoal gray cover. I wanted a brass
headboard, but talk about expensive! So I settled for a white
wicker one that's really two single-bed headboards laced together
with invisible wire. The dresser and the bedside table
are vaguely Chinese, picked up cheap in a Cape Cod antique
shop. Plants, books, my big illuminated globe, my record
and tape collection, and my guitar are the decorations. I'd
like to have one really good oil painting, but so far Roz
hasn't delivered. The stereo system, which is so high-tech
glossy it's practically blinding, probably cost more than
everything else in the room combined, even if you toss in the
old black-and-white TV that I keep in the closet along with
my underprivileged wardrobe.
Who knows, maybe someday Mooney will see my bedroom.
I wonder if he'll think it looks like me.
He earned points by not starting out the way most cops
would, barking questions about Margaret. We'd worked together
long enough that he knows I'd just clam up. He's got
roundabout ways, and that makes him a dangerous man in
my book.
He said, "So, how are you doing collecting the cat's
loot?"
For a panicky moment all I could see were the bundles of
cash hidden under T.C.'s kitty litter. Then I remembered.
"Oh, yeah," I said quickly, recovering, "I called the guys.
They just want me to bring old Thomas along and I--or
rather we--get the cash."
"Has to be the both of you?"
"Yep."
"That's the only obstacle?"
"It looms fairly large."
"If you propose nicely, say down on one knee, and maybe
buy me a bunch of daisies, we could get married tonight,"
Mooney said.
"Takes three days for a license," I said.
"I know a JP who takes bribes. I wouldn't even hold out
for an engagement ring."
"You'd change your name?" I said, letting the sarcasm
flow. "Your whole name?"
"Women can take any name they want when they get
married. What's wrong with tiiat?"
"Unless it's done to defraud, Mooney."
"Hey, I'm willing to try to make the marriage work. I'm
not talking about one of these quickie divorces."
"Come on, Moon. Don't tease. I've been there."
"Carlotta, not all guys turn into Mr. Hyde on their wedding
night."
Right. Even Cal waited a while. Mooney met Cal once.
Arrested him even. God, I was young when I married. Didn't
know what the words "addictive personality" meant. Cal was
a walking time bomb from day one. He didn't smoke, he
chain-smoked, lighting the next cigarette from the stub of
the first, ignoring a hacking cough. He didn't drink beer, he
guzzled six-packs. He didn't just play guitar, he led all-night
marathons, grabbing the bass when the bass man dropped
out, jumping and shouting, singing till the neighbors howled.
He didn't make love, he ...
Well, we might have made it through all that, the good
and the bad, if he hadn't discovered cocaine, found that he
loved, adored, worshipped that white powder he snorted up
his nose more than he loved or needed me.
I know I'm not supposed to think about it that way. I'm
supposed to think about it as a disease. Go ahead, try to control
the way you think. Especially if you've been brought up
by a Jewish mother whose house specialty was GUILT. Then
you say to yourself, where did I go wrong, how did I fail
him?
"Hey," Mooney said gently. "Come back. So you need a
husband named Thomas in order to collect. What else?"
"That's it."
"These contests usually have other requirements. Like
you and Tom have to earn fifty grand a year, and you need a
major credit card, or stuff like that. You read the fine print?"
'There isn't any. Wait, I'll show you." I went into the
kitchen and yanked the winning letter off the refrigerator
door, brought it back, and held it out. He read it intently, 
almost without blinking, just the way he always studied police
reports.
"Looks okay," he said.
"Yeah," I said, with the same lack of enthusiasm. "I
should probably run it by the bunco squad. Maybe the Attorney
General's Office. There's gotta be a catch, right?"
"Let me take care of it," he said, folding the letter. "You
mind if I borrow this for a day or two?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Come on, Carlotta. What have you got to lose?"
'Twenty thousand," I said, going along with his smile.
"Sure."
"Mooney," I said, kicking off my shoes and sinking onto
the creaky sofa, "thanks and all that. But don't mess this up
for me. I mean, if they're broke, go ahead and arrest them.
But if they've got money, even if they're illegal or something,
don't you dare bust them until I figure out a way to
collect T.C.'s twenty grand."
"I'll be careful," he said. "Trust me."
"Hah," I said. "Trust a cop."
So then he started in on Margaret Devens and I dodged
questions for a good fifteen minutes.
I must have been awfully tired because I actually thought
about spilling the whole thing in his lap. My natural wariness
won. I admitted that Margaret Devens was my client,
that the work involved was of a confidential nature, that, of
course, I had every intention of cooperating with the police,
but that I could not say whether today's attack had anything
to do with the work Margaret had hired me to perform. Miss
Devens was, after all, under sedation, and I had no reason to
assume the attack was perpetrated by other than random
thugs. I mean, aren't things getting out of hand in our fair
city when decent people are attacked in their own homes-- "Carlotta, I have heard this speech before," Mooney said.
"Well, hell, I don't want to bore you."
"You don't," he said with a smile that told me he wasn't
about to take my hint to leave.
"Coffee?" I said.
"No, thanks. That guy ever show up?"
"What guy?"
"You must have a lot of them around. The smoothie who
said he was with the Department of Social Services. The
pseudo George Robinson. Remember?"
That's when the first thud came from upstairs. Mooney
was on his feet before I could speak. His size is deceptive.
He can really move. He'd taken about three steps toward the
stairs before I stopped him.
"Relax," I said. "It's my tenant."
"I thought you lived alone."
"I have a tenant."
"He lifts weights? And drops them?"
"She takes karate lessons. Her name is Roz. Her
boyfriend and instructor owns the truck parked across the
street. They've covered the whole third floor with tumbling
mats, and sometimes they get a little loud."

They do get a little loud, particularly Roz, and not just
when they practice karate. She picked that particular moment
to start making the kind of noise that doesn't go with
fighting, and Mooney sat back down, grinning broadly.
Damn Roz, anyway. To keep the lieutenant's mind off the
upstairs activity, to keep my mind off it as well, I led with
the first question that sprang to my lips. I asked Mooney if
he'd ever heard of an organization with the initials GBA.
"GBA," he said, and I swear the smile on his face got
even wider. "God, I haven't heard that one in years."

"What, Mooney?"
"My dad used to belong. All my uncles. I think it's defunct
now, has been for years. It was big in the old days, the
NINA days."
"Nina?" This was getting worse by the minute.
"No Irish Need Apply. NINA. I forget you're not a
Boston native. Boston natives know these things."
"Do they know what GBA means? Am I the only one who
doesn't? And are you ever going to tell me?"
"Let me see, I guess it stood for the Gaelic Brotherhood
Association. It was a social club. Must be dying out by now."
"Oh," I said.

CHAPTER
13

First thing the next morning, I locked myself in the
downstairs bathroom, crouched between the cat box and the
toilet, and counted the cash under the kitty litter. I stopped,
overwhelmed, at $12,480, with a few piles left untotaled. I
mean, what the hell, what's a few hundred here or there? I
rocked back on my heels, smacking my right elbow a mean
one on the edge of the sink, and thought about safe-deposit
boxes. The abundance of loot must have unnerved me because
I actually considered mailing bundles of bills to myself
in large manila envelopes, in spite of the fact that my
experience of the U.S. Postal Service indicates that it would
be more reliable to flush the money down the toilet than trust
it to a mailbox. If I flushed it, at least I'd know it would
eventually wind up in Boston Harbor.
I decided to let the money stay put. T.C. didn't seem to
mind, and Roz doesn't do cat boxes.
Friday's a volleyball morning, so I played volleyball. The
Y-Birds won a resounding victory over some elite health
club whose members didn't want to chip their nail polish. I
swam laps, ate two jelly doughnuts, drank two cups of coffee,
and staked out Paolina's neighborhood drug pusher for
an hour. This time I'd brought my camera--I took candids.
Wispy Beard's customers seemed so young I started wondering
if he might be dealing crack.
Heroin, as in white powder injected into the veins, is expensive.
Cocaine, as in white powder sniffed up the nose, is
expensive, which puts them both within the reach of football
players, rock stars, and high-tech executives, which is okay
by me, because most of them are old enough to ruin their
lives if they so desire. But crack, also called rock, is cheap,
smokable coke. You can cook it up in your kitchen--just add
baking soda and water--wait till it hardens, and chip it into
saleable chunks. No chemists needed. We're not talking sophisticated
toots through rolled hundred-dollar bills. We're
talking ten, fifteen bucks for a half-hour high, not to mention
addiction. The users are young. Kids. Like Paolina.
I dialed Boston City Hospital from a vandalized pay
phone, and was informed by a nasal voice that while Miss
Devens's condition continued to improve, she could not take
any calls, but would be allowed to receive two visitors, members
of her immediate family only, between the hours of
seven and nine that evening.
Somehow I didn't think Eugene would show up. And I
needed to talk to her before then.
Hospitals are confusing places these days. They used to
seem organized, back when the nurses wore caps that told
where each one went to school. Nurses' uniforms used to be
just that: uniform. Now, anything goes, as long as it's white,
so I stopped home long enough to change into white slacks
and a white cotton sweater, an outfit a bit summery for late
September. I retained my scuffed, once-white Adidases.
They didn't quite cut it as typical nurse footwear, but my
choices were limited--sneakers or stack-heeled peekaboo
sandals. I scraped my hair back into as severe a bun as I
could manage, scowled into the mirror, and departed, Margaret's
robe and slippers stuffed into an official-looking
briefcase that I tucked under my arm.
Act like you belong and folks tend to let you be. What
with nurses' strikes and part-time workers and day-night
shifts, I was sure nobody would pay attention to me unless I
strolled into the operating theater and started to perform

brain surgery.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, walked briskly past
the nurse's station with a crisp nod at the woman on duty,
stared at my watch, and plunged ahead. Clutching the briefcase
and a hospital administrator's clipboard that I'd borrowed
from a nearby desk, I entered Margaret's room and
closed the door behind me. The bed next to hers was empty
this time, but looked just as forbidding with the curtains
open. I yanked the chart from the end of Margaret's bed
with professional aplomb. Most of the stuff written on it was
gobbledygook, but her temperature and blood pressure
seemed pretty normal, which was what I wanted to know. I
mean, I needed to talk to the lady, but I didn't want the shock

to kill her.

The color TV suspended high on the far wall was tuned to
some daytime game show. The sound was mercifully off, but
a couple who looked like Barbie and Ken dolls were jumping
up and down and pointing at a huge roulette wheel as if

it were a holy vision.

Margaret Devens's good eye was fully open, but she
wasn't paying any attention to the animated dolls on the TV
screen. The area around her purpled eye had a yellowish
tinge to it. At first glance, it looked even worse than yesterday,
but when she turned her head, I could see that the
swelling had gone down and the eye was actually open a slit.
I was wondering just how severe her concussion was when
she said calmly, "Well, thank God for small favors. You're

not a nurse."

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"That's what they all say," she mumbled. "Not that any of

them gives a rat's tail."

I smothered a smile that seemed inappropriate to the surroundings.
"Remember me?" I said.

"I know who I am," she responded fretfully, "and I know
who you are. Now please, be a good girl and march over to

that front desk and get me out of this place. I'll never get well
here. They don't let you sleep, and the food can't be eaten.
Just because I'm old and I've got Medicare doesn't give them
the right to keep me. Every soul who comes in here jabs me
with a needle or stuffs pills down my throat or—"

"Whoa," I said. "I want to talk about the money in the toy
chest."

Her mouth snapped shut, and all the animation left her
face as if it had been wiped clean with a rag. She stared at
the silent TV, which now displayed a young woman surveying
the triumph of her day, her freshly mopped, gleaming
kitchen linoleum. The happy housewife got so excited that
she whirled into a little dance. Roz would have puked.

"Miss Devens?" I got no response, so I made a production
of pulling over the visitor's chair and seating myself,
just to let her know I had no intention of leaving. "Margaret?"

She didn't meet my gaze, and when she spoke, her lips
barely moved. "I didn't mean to say anything. It was unfair,
them giving me that drug, you asking me questions—"

"You asked me to hide the money and I did. I'd say that
gives me the right to a few answers."

Her hands laced themselves together across the bedclothes.
The IV line was still fastened to her left hand. She
fingered the tape that held it in her vein. "First you have to
promise me," she said slowly.

"Promise you what?"

"You'll look for Eugene."

"I have been looking for Eugene."

She closed her eyes. Her lips were still swollen and I had
to lean forward in my chair to hear her clearly. "If I answer
your questions, maybe—I don't know—maybe you'll give it
up, walk away."

"How can I promise before I know?"

She opened her eyes wide. No doubt about it, the stubborn
Aunt Bea streak I'd noticed while she sat in the rocking
chair in my living room had been real. "If you can't," she
said firmly, "then I think I'm much too weak to answer any
questions." Her right arm stretched out and grabbed a black
box fastened to a long rubber hose. She held it so tightly her
knuckles whitened. "This buzzer calls the real nurse, Miss
Carlyle, and I'm sure she'll agree with me."
I should have quit right then. Instead I counted to ten and
said, "Hey, I brought your robe and slippers."
"Thank you." Her hand poised over the call button, she
was stubbornly polite.
"Is there anything else I can bring you? A book?"
"No, thank you." Just as stubborn, just as polite.
"Okay," I said. "How about a deal? I keep looking for
your brother, no matter what you tell me, provided you let
me file a missing persons report with the police."
She closed both her eyes. The IV tube trickled liquid into
her left hand. The white sheets had more color to them than
her cheeks. I felt nasty bargaining with a battered old
woman. I had to remember that steely streak in her before I
could make myself speak.
"Deal or no deal?" I said.
"Deal," she said, releasing her grip on the black box.
"Did you recognize the man who beat you up?"
"Man," she said scornfully. "Men. Two of them."
"Did you recognize them?"
"They had blurry faces, all bulgy. Eugene always told me
keep the door on the chain, even in the daytime, but I don't
know, maybe I thought it was him coming home. I didn't
I think, I just opened the door."
Blurry, bulgy faces sounded like stocking masks to me.
'They knew about the money?" I asked.
"They knew about it. I told them I didn't have any idea
what they were blathering about."
"Why?" I asked softly.
She consulted the TV. It showed the roulette wheel again.
She didn't answer.
"Just because you're stubborn?" I insisted.
"Yes," she said angrily, "just because I'm stubborn."
"The Gaelic Brotherhood Association," I said. 'Tell me
about it."
She stared at me for a long time, stared through me like
she was seeing someone else.
"Deal or no deal?" I said.
She took a deep breath and shuddered like it hurt her
somewhere inside. "It is, it was, a social organization, folks
from Ireland. It's old. My parents belonged, my uncle
Brian--"
"I know what it was. What is it now?"
"Maybe eight months ago, maybe a year ago, it started up
again. I used to belong myself, but this time Eugene said I
wouldn't enjoy the meetings, it was just a bunch of the cabbies,
and they met odd hours." Her right hand tapped the
edge of the bed restlessly and she murmured, almost to herself,
"I should have known something was wrong."
Catholics and Jews are tied, I think, for the guilt championship
of the world. Here was this old woman, beaten to a
pulp, probably because of something her brother had done,
blaming herself for not having the gift of second sight.
"Go on," I said. I probably sounded a little angry. I was.
"That's all he told me, all I know to this day, I swear. A
harmless little social club, an excuse for a few drinks. It
wasn't till after Eugene disappeared that I looked in the toy
chest. We used to hide things there, secret messages and
such, when we were children. That's why I looked. And
when I saw what was there, all that money, I didn't know
what to do. I came to you."
"After you visited the cab company."
"Wouldn't you have gone? I tried to talk to some of the
men, Sean Boyle, Joe Fergus. I couldn't find Pat--Patrick
O'Grady. He might have told me something, but he was out
sick. Oh, those men! Some of them I've known for years,
and they smiled at me and said go home, don't worry. It
made me so angry I can't even tell you. They gave the old
biddy a pat on the head and said go on home, don't trouble
yourself, it's only your one relative in the world gone missing.
It'll all turn out fine--"

"Did you open Eugene's locker?"
"Locker? I didn't know--"
"Why didn't you mention the money when you came to

me?"

Silence.

"Where do you think the money came from?"

She tried to shake her head, winced with the pain of the
effort, and said, "I don't know."

"Where do you think it's going?"

It was a question she must have expected, but it made her
hands jump as if an electric current had passed through
them. She swallowed with an audible gulp. "I pray God I'm
wrong, but in the old days we used to send money, the Gaelic
Brotherhood Association, I mean, used to send money—to

Ireland"

"The IRA," I said flatly. Oh, shit. Deep shit.
Margaret twisted her hands together, forgetting about the
IV hookup. "You don't know how it was, Miss Carlyle.
You're too young. I remember though, I remember. When I
was still a child my mother took me to Boston Common and
there must have been a hundred thousand Irish-Americans,
all gathered together in protest against the British, for the
Cause. It was so different back then, it was like another
world. Before the troubles started again in the sixties, it was
organized. The money was for food and clothes, to help the
families of the men rotting in the British prisons, to help the
children go to Catholic schools—"

She stopped, out of words and breath, and seemed to
want me to say something. "Sure," I said. I guess I am too
young. I've got some respect for the Irish; I'm part Irish after
all. The music and the poetry are terrific. But then you've
got the divorce laws. And the IRA ...

Margaret seemed satisfied with my one-word contribution.
She started talking again, more slowly. "The American
money tapered off. The fund-raisers were desperate by 'seventy-five.
Noraid contributions were way down because of
the horror stories in the newspapers. Children maimed. Husbands
shot in front of their wives. It was too much, too
much, and there was no end to it. And the trickle of money

still coming stopped dead on Saint Patrick's Day in 'seventy-seven,
when the Four Horsemen said, 'No more.'"

"Four horsemen?"

"Teddy Kennedy, and Moynihan, and Tip O'Neill, and
Governor Carey. They spoke out against the IRA, and we listened.
The groups were disbanded. The GBA stopped meeting.
The churches preached against the violence. It ended."
She closed her eyes and I could tell by her pallor that I'd
have to stop soon.

"Did it end for your brother?"

"I don't know." Her voice was flat and toneless. "I
thought so then. He didn't have much money to give, and if
he'd given to the Provos, he wouldn't have mentioned it to
me. Terrorists, I call them now, even if some of them are my
own people."

"Do you have family in Ireland?"

"Not anymore. Not that I know of."

"If somebody said your brother went to Ireland, would
you believe him?"

"Not Eugene. He might have talked about going now and
again. But he was like the rest of the old men at Green and
White, all talk."

"He didn't think life might be better there?"

She tried to smile, battered lips and all. "One of the
things my brother believed, with all his heart and soul, was
that the Irish were a terrible people, if you left them in Ireland.
It was his joke, that the Irish weren't so bad once you
got them away from the old sod. He used to say the trouble
with Ireland is they've got too many Irish there."

The knock on the door startled me enough to bring me to
my feet. It announced the entrance of an earnest young
woman, who declared it time for Miss Devens to accompany
her down to X-ray. A name tag was pinned to her white
cardigan. Before she had a chance to continue her set
speech, I said, "Nurse Hanover, mis patient is a witness in a
police case, and she tells me she's been bothered by unwanted
visitors."
"Visiting hours aren't till seven o'clock--"
"I know when visiting hours begin. I suggest you phone
the Police Department, Area D, speak to Lieutenant
Mooney, and ask him to provide a guard for Miss Devens s
door."
"If you think that would be best--"
"Take care of it immediately. Personally. And until the
police arrive, alert the nurse at the station to be extremely
careful about who enters this room. People dressed in white
tend to look alike." I pushed back my sleeve, checked my
watch, made a notation on my clipboard, and nodded a quick
farewell to Margaret.
I'm not sure, what with the state of her eyes, but I think
she winked at me.

CHAPTER
14

I need more time," I said.
"Let me get this straight." The voice on the line was the
same gruff bellow I'd heard the last time, belonging to "our
Mr. Andrews." I had a lot less trouble getting through to him
this time. Either his name moved mountains, or I was finally
getting my just reward for my charm school manners. I
wolfed a bite of tuna sandwich while he summed up the situation.
"You haven't been able to reach your husband."
"That's right," I replied truthfully enough. "I've left messages,"
I added, less truthfully.
"And he hasn't gotten back to you."
No doubt about it. This man had a grip on reality. I
shooed fluffy Red Emma away from my potato chips. She
adores potato chips, but then she has to drink about a gallon
of water because she gets salted out.
"Er," the gruff voice sounded oddly hesitant. "Er, I don't
quite know how to put this, but are you and your husband
having any difficulties?"
I swallowed. "Difficulties?"
"Of an, er, marital sort? You're not separated, are you?"
"Would that disqualify us?"
"Oh, er, no. Not at all. As long as he, uh, as long as both
of you show up to claim your prize."
"Well, like I said, I'll keep trying."
"Where exactly is your husband?"
"Why?"
His voice got all smooth and jovial. "Oh, I just thought
we might be able to phone him. Cedar Wash has operators
on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
"Thomas hates to be bothered by strangers," I said, which
was an out-and-out lie. T.C. will rub up against any stranger,
any time, any place. "I'll get through. I just need time."
"Can you call me back in two days?"
"Sure. No problem. Don't give the money away till then."
I held the phone to my ear long after he'd hung up, because
I could swear I'd heard an extra click at the beginning
of our conversation. It made me wonder if someone didn't
know wiretapping was illegal.
They've got this bug detector in the Sharper Image catalog,
this monthly bulletin of trendy gadgetry that I get
through the mail due to some computer error. Anyhow, this
item only costs forty-nine bucks plus two-fifty postage,
"thanks to a breakthrough in microcircuit technology." And
it only weighs two ounces, so I could keep it in my shoulder
bag.
Roz picked that moment to enter the kitchen. At least I
thought it was Roz. Her hair was a bizarre shade of pink, and
I wondered if she had done it on purpose or if this was the
end result of all that dye. She yanked open the refrigerator.
The seat of her skintight black stirrup pants looked like the
scat of Roz's skintight black stirrup pants. When she turned

around, a jar of peanut butter in one hand, I knew beyond a
doubt that it was Roz and that she, at least, thought her hair
had turned out fine. She had a dreamy, faraway smile on her
lips, in anticipation of the peanut butter, which she adores
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and she was wearing one of
her signature T-shirts.
Roz is a sweet kid, honestly, underneath the fake eyelashes,
the pouty makeup, the garish jewelry, and the tough
gal, heavy-metal image. She has a fake leopard skin coat.
She's only about five two, and she's really thin, except for
these incredible breasts, which may be why she has the best
T-shirt collection in the world. The messages range from
"McGovern '72" to "Tofu Is Gross" to "Stamp Out Smurfs."
Today she wore one of my favorites, a copy of the classic
crimson T, with Psychotic U. emblazoned where Harvard
ought to be. My absolute favorite comes from a shop in Harvard
Square and is a wild shade of purple, imprinted with
the following verse:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm schizophrenic
And so am I

I never comment on Roz's appearance.
"Yo, Carlotta," Roz said. "How're ya' doin'?" She unscrewed
the peanut butter jar and scooped a glob of yellowish
goo onto a green-painted fingernail. We use the same
refrigerator, but we buy separate supplies. Her attack on the
peanut butter made me glad about that.
I wondered if her karate-instructor boyfriend was still lurking
upstairs. Roz calls him Lemon. I'm not sure if that's his
genuine nickname, or just Roz's special term of endearment,
but his real name is Whitfield Arthur Carstairs in, I swear, and
when he's not teaching karate, he's a performance artist.
Some days he stands immobile, on a soapbox, for hours, in the
middle of Harvard Square. I once saw him juggle four grape
83

fruits. He also does sporadic underground theater, and has one
of the most gorgeous bodies I have ever seen.
"You busy today?" I asked Roz.
"Not especially," she said. At least I think that's what she
said. Her speech was slurred by the peanut butter.
"Want to earn a few bucks?"
"Today?"
She's sharp as a tack sometimes. I don't hold it against
her. She's at least ten years younger than I am, and she was
probably weaned on television and marijuana. When she's
cleaning the house she sings TV-commercial jingles. On the
other hand, she really can paint when the mood strikes her;
wild abstract oils, layered with color and energy. She also
does an occasional, surprisingly delicate, watercolor.
"Yeah," I said. "Today. You have other plans?"
"Lemon's coming by."
Hah, I thought, you mean Lemon's here. I'm a detective,
for crying out loud. His truck is still parked across the street.
I wondered if she thought I'd charge more rent for the two of
them, or if she imagined I'd be scandalized by his overnight
presence. The last thought kind of offended me. I mean, I'm
not that ancient, and I'm not particularly righteous. I comforted
myself by recalling the anguished and delighted
grunts and groans of the night before. If Roz really wanted
to keep Lemon a secret, surely she would have muted her ecstasy.
"If
he wants to earn some dough," I said, "I can use him,
too."
"Great," she mumbled through the peanut butter. "What's
up?"
"Wear working clothes. And you'd better bring rubber
gloves."
"Rubber gloves," she repeated. "Is this weird?"
"The job is housecleaning. At a client's house."
"Time and a half for housecleaning, if it's not this place,"
she said. She is sharp where money's concerned.
"Okay," I said. I had access to a lot of cash. I gave her
Margaret's address, made her write it down. She's scatterbrained
on addresses.
"Bring your camera," I said. "And before you touch anything,
take photos. For insurance, okay?"
Roz brightened. She loves photography. She converted
this old root cellar in the basement into a darkroom, and
sometimes she stays down there for days, coming up only
for an occasional hit of peanut butter.
"No artsy-fartsy stuff, Roz," I warned. "For a straight
arrow insurance company. And the place is a real mess.
You'd better have Lemon drive his pickup so you can haul
stuff away."
"Okay."
"And bring Hefty Bags."
"Hefty Bags, rubber gloves, and a camera," she said.
"Lemon's gonna love it."
"Leave the Wesson Oil home," I said.
She giggled.
"Look, Roz, seriously, here's the key to the front door,
and if anybody rings the doorbell, check them out before
you open it. The lady who lives there is mixed up in some
heavy-duty shit, and I don't want you taking any chances."
"Me and Lemon--"
"I know the two of you can kick anybody's ass around the
block, Roz, but you can't kick a gun unless they let you get
close enough."
"Okay," she said. "I'll be careful." She returned the
peanut butter jar to the fridge. Breakfast was evidently over.
I wondered what poor Lemon subsisted on. "Hey," she said,
"did I tell you that guy came by again?"
"Huh?" Sometimes I don't catch on very fast either.
"That guy you went to school with."
"School," I repeated. "Where?"
"I don't know. I thought U. Mass., probably, but he
looked kinda well dressed for that."
"You've seen him with me? Here?"
"No."
"He have a name?"
"Yeah. Let's see. Smith. Roger Smith. Didn't you see the
note on the fridge?"
We both stared at the forest of paper on the refrigerator
door. Time for a little local housecleaning, I thought.
"Oh, Roger Smith," I said finally.
"A really nice guy," she said. "You dating or what?"
"I wouldn't know," I said.
"Huh?" It was her turn to look bewildered.
"I don't know anybody named Roger Smith, and I never
went to any school with anybody named Roger Smith."
"Well, how was I supposed to know?"
I shook my head sadly. The phantom had struck again.
According to Roz, he'd made two appearances at the front
door: the first, about five days ago; the second, the day before
yesterday. The first time, he'd worn a navy blazer, charcoal
slacks, black loafers, a light blue shirt, and a patterned
tie. The second time, he'd worn a three-piece gray suit with
a faint stripe, white shirt, dark tie, wing tips. He'd been sorry
to miss me, just wanted to know how I was doing. Was I still
driving the Toyota? Did I have another car? Did I ever buy
that place on the Cape?
Huh?
I have to say that for an artist, Roz was terrible when it
came to describing the guy's face, which tickled me because
she had his clothes down cold. Maybe she concentrates on
bodies. Lemon is certainly evidence of that. She told me the
guy had a definite mauve aura. When I questioned her
closely, it sounded like he was the same man who'd chatted
with Gloria, the same preppy, good-looking soul who'd
passed himself off to Mooney as Mr. George Robinson of
the Department of Social Services.
"Was he alone in the house, in any room, even for the
briefest moment?" I asked.
"Well, I guess," Roz said reluctantly, "I mean, when I
went to get a piece of paper to write his name down and all."
Shit. I was definitely going to buy that bug detector.



CHAPTER
15

While Roz and Lemon were over at Margaret's--
cleaning, I sincerely hoped--I rescued Red Emma from
T.C., who had her treed in the curtains. I fed and watered the
menagerie, and tried to teach the dumb bird more Marxist
propaganda. Then I hauled out the phone books, Boston and
suburban, and ran my finger down the list of Carlyles, hoping
to find a genuine Thomas C. of a slightly larcenous bent.
There was a Thomas D. Carlyle in Brockton, and a Thomas
C. in Walpole, who had the nerve to spell his last name
Carlisle. There were several T. Carlyles, and I dialed them
all, and sure enough, they were Thelmas and Theodoras and
Tinas; females every one. I gave it up, puttered around,
picked some guitar, which I found frustrating, since I don't
practice enough to sound the way I used to sound, not to
mention the way I'd like to sound. I gave up and fed a cassette
of Rory Block's "High Heeled Blues" album into the
tape deck, because she sounds the way I'd like to sound, effortless
and funky. I sang along while I answered the mail--
which for me means shoving unread junk mail into those
postage-paid envelopes enclosed along with the other junk
mail.
After making a dent in the mail pile, I began a detailed
report of the Eugene Devens case thus far. Turning my
chicken-scratched notes into typed sentences reminded me
that I hadn't talked to old Pat, the cabbie, so I dialed Gloria's
back-room number, the unlisted one, and asked for his address.
I
may have woken her up. She sounded downright hostile,
but then if I were a cab dispatcher, I wouldn't even own a
phone of my own, I'd get so tired of answering the damn
things. It took a while, but she eventually gave me a number
and street in Dorchester.
Before leaving the house, I took two precautions. Using
most of a roll of wide duct tape, I neatly joined the two litter
boxes in the downstairs bathroom, making a money sandwich.
The ensemble looked like a slightly high-rise cat box.
I also took my gun out of its wrappings in the locked bottom
drawer of my bureau, and loaded it.
You can't live in Boston without acquiring a certain
awareness of the IRA--initials spray-painted on mailboxes,
fund-raising announcements tacked to laundromat bulletin
boards, shamrock green collection cans strategically positioned
beside certain cash registers in certain bars. But to
judge by the Boston press, most of the juicy IRA stories--the
bombings, the kidnappings, the shootings--are either foreign
or ancient history, far away or long ago. The only recent local
cause celebre that came to mind was the Valhalla affair.
The Valhalla was a gunrunner, an "alleged" gunrunner, I
should say, that allegedly steamed out of Gloucester Harbor
one September morning in '85, carrying more than $1 million
in alleged munitions (guns, bombs, et cetera) to the alleged
Irish Republican Army. A federal grand jury had been
investigating the hell out of everybody who had anything to
do with the Valhalla, but so far, after a full year, no indictments
had been handed down, which made me wonder about
the ancestry of the jury members. In the meantime, one guy,
an alleged informant, had disappeared under "very mysterious
circumstances which rule out the possibility of flight,"
according to the Boston Globe, and the rumor had duly circulated
that he'd been taken out by the Boston IRA.
On the strength of that rumor, and just in case I ran into
Margaret's stocking-masked thugs, there I was, staring at a
38-caliber S&W with a four-inch barrel, a ringer for standard
police issue, and believe me, standard police issue revolvers
have nothing but bad memories for me.
From where I stand, the whole bloody Irish carnage
makes no sense. It might have made sense once, but now it
seems to roll on from force of habit as much as anything
else, turning into some kind of modern Hydra. Chop off one
head--one British soldier, one Irish Republican, one Protestant
UDR man--and ten more sprout from the bleeding
wound. From the heart of Massachusetts, the "troubles"
seem more mythic than real. There are too many factions,
too many righteous grievances, too little hope of reconciliation.
A whole generation of children has been born to violence
in Northern Ireland. It's what they expect from life.
For them, the Glorious Struggle is daily life. Something To
Do. A Way To Pass The Time Until You Die. Or, more likely,
until some passerby, who chose the wrong street at the
wrong time on the wrong day, dies.
I prepared myself for any encounter with the Boston
branch of the IRA by adding two pounds' worth of gun to
my overcrowded, overweight shoulder bag. A lot of effect
that was going to have on hundreds of years of oppression,
right?
I stopped at a liquor store on the way, and made the sort
of cheap-whiskey purchase that raised the young clerk's eyebrows.
I remembered Pat's taste.
The old man hadn't made a fortune driving a hack. The
address I hunted was in an area folks escaped from if they
could. Pat's apartment was on the second floor of the skinniest,
seediest triple-decker on a block that had seen better
days. The outside of the place was gray, but I couldn't tell if
that was the intended color or the result of years of bleaching
sun and lack of care. Not a bush, not a sapling. Clumps
of crabgrass made an ugly excuse for a lawn. The porches on
the top two levels sagged. A single lawn chair perched on the
front stoop. Faded strips of once-gaudy yellow, blue, and red
webbing drooped dispiritedly. One broken strip trailed on
the ground.
On the spur of the moment, I reached into the depths of
my shoulder bag, and groped around until I located the gold
pin with the GBA initials, the one I'd found in Eugene's
locker. I held it up to the light. It was scratched and slightly
bent. I stuck the pin into the collar of my blouse.
Patrick Day O'Grady was my man. There was a button to
push under the crooked nameplate, but the door to the stairwell
was ajar, propped open with a broken cedar shingle, so
I just walked up to the second floor and rapped on the door. I
could hear a TV voice, loud over organ music.
I counted to ten and knocked louder. The hallway was as attractive and well kept as the outside of the house. Either
the first- or third-floor tenants had eaten something greasy
last night. Bad hamburger, maybe. I tried not to breathe, and
banged my fist against the door hard enough to rock it on its
hinges.
I heard a shuffling on the other side of the door, mixed
with a syncopated tapping sound, and then a determined and
familiar old voice ordered me to go away and stop bothering
an old man, you should be ashamed of yourself, all of you
young kids with nothing better to do than taunt an old man
who worked every day of his life and now was brought to
this, and don't bother breaking in because I haven't got anything
worth stealing, and the German shepherd would as
soon eat you as look at you.
All uttered in one breath.
"Pat," I said for about the tenth time, trying to interrupt
his speech before the curtain call. "It's a friend. From Green
and White. An old friend."
"Call the cops on you, I will," continued the refrain from
the other side. "And don't you think I won't. You can't scare
me. Bums is what you are, bums, the lot of you."
"A friend," I hollered. "A friend with a drink." If I yelled
much louder somebody would call the police.
Silence from behind the door, followed by a suspicious
inquiry. "You're not selling anything?"
"No."
"What's your name, then?"
"Carlotta. I used to work with you, at Green and White."
"Carlotta," he repeated. "A girl." Long pause, then some
more shuffling. "And what color is your hair?"

90

"It's red, Pat, and I don't dye it."
The first of an impressive series of locks clicked. The
door creaked open to the limit of a solid three-inch chain. A
single reddened eye peered out. The door closed firmly in
my face, then swung open wide.
"And why has it taken you seven years to come courting?"
Pat said. "Come in, girl, come in. I've got to bar the
door against the Huns."
Illness had hit him hard, sucking off most of his muscle
and fat, leaving a gaunt shadow behind. His face drooped as
if somebody had released a valve and deflated it. His feet
were encased in huge floppy slippers, which accounted for
the shuffling noise. He leaned heavily on a walking stick.
That was the tapping. He was wrapped in a chenille bathrobe
way too large for him. The ends of the self-tie belt dangled
almost to his knees. He was wearing pants under the robe.
The cuffs flapped around his waxy ankles. He'd aged twenty
years in seven. I'd seen healthier-looking cadavers.
"Don't bother telling me how fine I look," he said
quickly, noting the expression on my face. "I know I'm gorgeous.
Just give me a kiss, and slip off your clothes, and I'll
die a happy man."
"Jeez," I said, "you haven't changed."
"Come in, come in. You're more beautiful than I recall.
Say thank you for the compliment. A blush would be nice if
you could manage it. Are you married yet or still an old
maid?"
Shit. Was I going to interview him, or was he going to interview
me? I breathed in a considerable amount of air and
was surprised to find it sweet. The place was clean. Pat's flat
was a shabby affair, Spartan, the final resting place of a fussy
old flirtatious bachelor. Probably a virgin. A faded print
couch anchored one wall. Blowsy off-white curtains framed
the windows. A framed picture of Jesus hung on the wall over
the sofa, a crucifix next to it. A threadbare easy chair with a
fat dented cushion faced off against a huge color TV. The furniture
wasn't arranged with conversational groupings in
mind. It was set up for one man watching TV alone.
Pat flicked the set off quickly, rightfully embarrassed at
being caught watching some overwrought evangelist.
"Where's the German shepherd?" I asked. "The one
who'll rip me limb from limb?"
"Died," he said. "Years ago. I resurrect him when the
neighborhood youth come to call. You married or what?"
"How's your love life?" I asked.
"No rings on your fingers," he said.
"Nor on yours."
"I thought you said something about a drink, or I'd never
have let you in."
I looked at the pasty color of his skin, and wondered if a
drink would finish him off. His cheeks each boasted a dime
sized circle of color. Excitement, or maybe a flush of fever.
"Be a dear," he said, "and fetch two glasses from the
drain on the kitchen sink. It'll take you less time than it
would me." He sat heavily in the TV chair.
The kitchen was as barren and neat as the living room.
One plate, one fork, one knife, one spoon in the drain. Two
coffee cups, two glasses. I wondered if he'd entertained another
guest lately. I hauled a kitchen chair into the living
room, and placed it near the TV chair. It was that or sit on
the floor. I noticed marks on the cheap carpeting, grooves
where chairs and tables and lamps had once stood, and I
wondered if Pat had given his furnishings away, paring
down his possessions before he died.
"To the old days" was the toast he chose when I poured
the Four Roses, his preferred label, a brand I link to foul
taste and worse hangovers. He patted the bottle and said
teasingly, "A pint is fine, but a quart would have been better."
"A
gallon, maybe."
"An ocean," he said. He gulped his drink. His smile
turned into a grimace, and he shifted uncomfortably in the
chair. "What do you want from me?" he asked sharply. "Nobody
comes by here anymore unless they want something."
It was a sudden mood change. Pain can do that to you.
"Margaret Devens sent me."
"Margaret."
"Her brother's missing."
"Eugene's not come home?"
"No."
"How long has this been going on, with nobody saying a
word about it to me?"
"Two weeks."
Pat started to pour another drink. His hand shook, and he
replaced the bottle on the table. "Well, I don't know where
he is. If I did, I'd tell Margaret. I admire that woman, always
have."
"She's worried about him," I said.
"Every right to be," he agreed.
I let his words hang there for a minute. Then I said,
"Why?"
"The way things are out there," Pat said, gesturing
vaguely. "Pour me another, will you? And don't ask me
whether I'll be okay, will you do me that favor? I've been
drinking this stuff since before you were hatched."
"What's going on at G and W, Pat?"
"I left," he said.
"Because you were sick."
"Sick and tired," he said. "Sick and tired."
I had hoped he'd notice my lapel pin, but he didn't. "Margaret
says you used to be a big shot in the GBA," I hazarded.
"The old GBA," he said. "Those were good times." He
drank down the whiskey I'd poured in one practiced gulp,
sucked air, and twitched in the chair. It hurt him to drink, but
he was drinking defiantly. "If anything's happened to Eugene
..."
"Why would anything happen to him?"

"I don't know."
"What does the GBA do, now?"
"We started meeting again, maybe a year back, harmless
enough. A bunch of us old men with no better way to pass the
time. We wanted to help the Cause. Everybody was down on
the Provos, you know, and we thought, well, maybe we should
help them out again, and it started very small. We were all
93

cabbies and we'd just collect the donations, pick up the canisters
at the bars, you know. Cabbies have a lot of loose bills and
change, from tips, and sometimes we go to the bank with rolls
of quarters and dimes and nickels, and the tellers know what
we do, so they don't think it's odd. We'd pick up the canisters
and get ten- and twenty-dollar bills instead of quarters and
nickels, and pass it on, that's all. That's what we did. Small
stuff, but regular. Nothing sinister about it, but secretive-like,
and we enjoyed it. A little spice in your life can't hurt."
Yeah. Dimes and nickels to kill small children in Belfast.
Terrific. I kept my mouth shut about the morality of the
whole affair, but I shot a glance at the picture of Jesus on the
wall. I wondered if Pat and I were talking about the same
bunch of guys. It takes a whole lot of quarters and nickels to
tote up to twelve thousand dollars.
"You said it started small," I prompted.
"Huh? Oh, yes, the GBA. Now why did you want to hear
about that?"
I moved the bottle of whiskey out of his reach.
"Gaelic Brotherhood," he muttered. "Fine Gaelic Brotherhood."
He swallowed another mouthful. "A young man, a
man from Ireland, came to us, and he said he'd heard about
us, and would we be willing to risk more."
"What was his name?"
"Jackie's all I know. From Ireland. Doesn't sound any
more Irish than I do. Maybe he was born over here, and went
back to fight. A few of them do, you know."
"What were you supposed to do?"
'That's when I left, and had my operation."
"But Eugene would have told you."
"Friends don't come around much when you're ill. Oh,
they visit at the hospital, but then, well, you start to get the
smell of death on you, and it scares the old folks off."
"Anything you remember could help."
"Memory's a funny thing with me these days. I remember
you clear as a bell, with that silly hat you used to wear.
But ask me what I ate for dinner yesterday, and I'm not sure
I could oblige you."
He was clearly chatting for the sound of it, hesitating.
"Pour me another drink," he said.
"I want your memory to stay sharp."
"Come on, why do you want to know? Why would Margaret
send you?"
"She can't come herself, because two thugs beat her up."
"Holy Mother! She's okay? Margaret?"
"Barely."
"Holy Mother of God," he said under his breath. "Eugene
gone and Margaret beaten up."
"It's time to talk."
"Why would I talk to you? There are police officers. Not
that you can tell around here most days, with the kids smoking
that stuff on the stairs."
I pulled out the photostat of my license. "I'm working for
Margaret Devens."
"I can't read small print."
"I'm a licensed private investigator in the state of Massachusetts."
"Glory
be, what will they think of next? No wonder she's
got no time to marry me."
"Come on, Pat. You're cute as hell, but I need more than
cute."
"And she swears, too. What's the world coming to?"
"Pat."
"One more shot of whiskey. I can be bribed."
One more shot, and he'd probably fall off the chair. I
made it a short one.
His voice lowered to a fuzzy conspiratorial whisper. "I
only know what Eugene told me, you understand, and most
of it he told me in the hospital, and you know, they kept me
under a lot, this drug and that drug, until I thought I was
half-crazy. But it seems to me that Jackie had a way for them
to move a lot of money, IRA money, around the area, bring
it in from Logan, and get it to sources at the air force base
who could change the money into guns and ammunition. A
really big deal, something to make a difference against the
damned Brits, you should excuse me for mentioning them."
"How did it work?"
"I remember how pleased Eugene was, at first. It was
something poetic, I think, something having to do with the
radios, maybe, the cab radios."
I plied him with liquor. I told him the story of my life. I
scrambled two eggs, and watched while he made a pathetic
attempt to eat. But that was all I got out of him until the
shadows were starting to darken, and I'd made my excuses,
and headed for the door.
"Carlotta," he said blearily, "thanks for coming by, dear.
The whiskey was grand."
"Yeah," I said. "Likewise."
"It was something about a woman's name, I think," he
said. "That's what tickled Eugene. A woman's name."
I left my card so he could call if any more pieces of the
puzzle came floating back.


16

I thought about calling the cops, spilling what I knew,
and letting them take it from there. I remembered one of my
mother's favorite sayings, straight from my grandmother
and the old country. I wish I could say it in Yiddish, because
it sounds so funny you don't even need the translation to get
a laugh out of it. The best approximation my mom could
come up with was something like: "With a stranger's hands,
you can tie a string around a cat's neck." In other words: If
you care about the results, do it yourself.
The best time to approach Gloria would be the quiet hour
after the 11 p.m. shift change, but I hesitated, feeling inT
96
creasingly uncomfortable as the time drew closer. Finally, I
let myself admit why 1 was worried. If Green & White was
involved in more than the hackney carriage trade, I had to
face the fact that my pal Gloria could be deep in the shady
side of things.
I tried to envision Gloria as a secret IRA powerhouse.
Failed utterly.
Possibly a sympathizer. Comandante Gloria of United
Oppressed Peoples, or some such group. Even my imagination,
which Mooney has called excessive, refused to provide
a believable link between Gloria and the Provisional Branch
of the IRA. Matter of fact, the image that sprang unbidden to
my mind, Gloria as Grand Marshal of the Saint Patricks
Day Parade, an annual South Boston affair at which blacks
are conspicuous by their absence, tickled me so much I
laughed out loud, and scared T. C. under the bed.
I decided to risk Gloria. Gloria, but not her partner, not
Sam. Maybe it was the memory of last night's noisy third
floor lovemaking that did it, maybe it was Pat's repeated
queries about my marital state, but my face heated up when
I thought about Sam. He was a Gianelli, I reminded myself,
and somehow hoods in stocking masks, the kind who'd
roughed up Margaret, said Gianelli. I wouldn't risk Sam.
Personally or professionally, I told myself sternly. I always
give myself such good advice.
I left the house at eleven, wearing jeans and a wind
breaker, my hair tucked up under the slouch cap I used to
wear for driving.
Renewing my vow to take nighttime walks, I parked a half
mile from G&W, under a streetlamp to discourage car thieves.
The first drops started slowly, a single leisurely splash against
my cheek, another on my hand, then a heavy wet plop on the
bridge of my nose. The drops ganged up quickly, and turned
into an unexpected shower. A sudden gust of northeasterly
wind tried to steal my hat, and the rain began battering the
pavement, bouncing back inches high. I walked briskly. I ran.
Listening to the Boston weather report is a pure waste of
time.
In G&W's office, the phones almost drowned out the
storm. So much for quiet time at the cab company.
Gloria, erect in her wheelchair, was massaging buttons on
the switchboard, playing it like a church organ, and crooning
into the mike, her deep voice commanding, soothing, cajoling.
A vast box of Chicken McNuggets sat within easy
reach.
Ten hectic minutes later, she punched a button, and the
bells abruptly halted, cut off mid-jangle. Lights still flashed
and flickered, but she ignored them, and pushed the McNuggets
in my direction. I eyed them suspiciously. I like my
chicken in identifiable parts. Legs. Wings.
"Downpour like this, I can't pick up anybody in less than
an hour," she said with a shrug. "You tell folks it'll take an
hour for them to get a cab, they get downright surly. Call you
names. Soon as some of the cabs get loose, I'll pick up
again."
She pressed a button on the mike and said, "Free cabs call
home, everybody. Free cabs call home. Forget those hailers
out there,, even the ones waving twenty-dollar bills. I got a
list, so call home to Momma."
The storm whistled and sang. I shook water off my hat,
and sat in the plastic guest chair.
"See Pat?" Gloria asked.
"Yeah. He looks bad."
"Can't sleep?" Gloria divided her attention between me
and the honey-mustard dipping sauce.
"Nope," I said.
"Warm milk's good," she said. "Or a man, so I hear."
"I have nightmares."
"Got to watch what you eat," she said, smiling through a
mouthful of McNuggets.
"I have this recurrent dream---that your cabbies are collecting
IRA cash on the side, maybe dealing for weapons."
"Weird," she said.
"Not so weird, Gloria. True."
She ate a handful of homogenized chicken things in a
thoughtful manner, then said, "This is a joke, right?"


"Nope."
"Are we talking IRA, as in Individual Retirement Account?
Because I don't know much about banking."
"Irish Republican Army."
"Whoo-eee," she said.
"Exactly."
"Has this got something to do with your looking for Eugene
Devens?" she asked, plainly skeptical.
"Eugene was fund-raising," I said.
"Why would you think a thing like that?" Her eyes narrowed.
No dummy, Gloria.
"Trust me," I said. I trusted her, to a point, but I had no intention
of mentioning the cash in T.C.'s litter box.
"IRA, huh?" She made a noise that could only be described
as a snort. "Whoo-eee. I tell you, I wouldn't put
much past some of these old farts. I'm just glad they're not
collecting for the KKK."
"Maybe they are. On the side."
She made a face and moaned, "Why me, O Lord? Why
not Town Taxi? Why not Red Cab? I've got the Hackney Bureau
crawling all over me. You read about those new regulations?
A dress code for cabbies and all. I ask you, shirts with
button-up collars, no shorts? What kind of--"
"It doesn't have to be so bad," I said quietly, before she
launched into a full-blown tirade.
"Carlotta--"
"Listen to me. If I took what I've got to the police, what
would happen? A mess. A couple undercover cops prancing
in here to get hired. Maybe FBI. Maybe ATF."
"ATF?"
"Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Everybody makes them
for cops within two seconds, right, and the surveillance lasts
forever."
"While I'm stuck with two cabs full of cops doing squat,"
Gloria said, glaring at the ceiling. "Lose me a bundle."
"Eleven," blared a voice over the loudspeaker. "I'm at
Beacon and Exeter."
"Yo, eleven," Gloria said, grabbing the microphone as if it
would steady her. "Comm. Ave. one-seventy-six. Guy named
Ervine. That's one-seventy-six Comm. Ave." The lights were
flashing like crazy on the switchboard. Gloria penciled a line
through one of the top entries on a narrow pad. Her fingers,
grasping the skinny stump of pencil, looked like plump
sausages.
"Got it," the metallic voice said.
"Empties call home," Gloria pleaded into the mike.
"Come on, folks, it's raining out there."
"So." She flipped a switch and turned her attention back
to me. "Tell me how I'm gonna get out of this painlessly."
"You handle it my way," I said. "No cops, minimal revenue
loss. If anything's going down, I isolate the perps, and
let the cops mop up. Easy."
"Carlotta, when you say easy, it makes me sweat"
"Come on, Gloria."
"Spell it out for me. ABC."
"I want to look at your records, driver's license stuff, and
all. You got anybody driving who's an Irish national?"
"Some of the old guys were born in Ireland, but they're
all citizens."
"Somebody young."
"Nope."
"You got people driving for you with priors?"
"What do you think?"
In Boston, there are four kinds of cabbies: the regular
working stiffs; the overeducated, underemployed Ph.D.'s;
the undereducated, coffee-colored gents right off the boat
from Haiti or Barbados; and the guys with rap sheets.
"I want to check out your drivers. And borrow your radio
log, say, for the past six months."
"Anything else? My shoes? Shirt off my back?"
"Sarcasm goes over big with the cops, Gloria."
"Right. Anything else?" This time her voice was sugar
and spice.
"Tell me about the radio. The equipment's new, right?"
"This year," she said proudly. "State of the art. Cabbie
can tune in across the band and catch all the calls, or he can

fine-tune, and just pick up what I give him. Most of the guys
start out taking all the stuff. Gives them a headache, and they
quit. It'll drive you crazy, all that yapping."
"Maybe," I said, deep in thought.
Gloria was cooperating. All was going as planned. Except
the storm kicked up such a fuss I didn't hear Sam Gianelli
come into the office until he was practically dripping
rainwater on my sneakers.

CHAPTER
17

I had forgotten how handsome Sam was. Repressed it
entirely.
"Hi, Gloria," he said, halting three feet inside the doorway,
underneath one of the swaying lamps, grinning and
shaking water off his dark hair. "Busy night. Hope it rains
forever." He noticed me, and the grin turned mechanical,
like he'd been waiting too long for the photographer to snap
the shutter. "Carlotta?"
Warm brown eyes and an easy smile have always attracted
me. I find a stubborn chin a challenge. Add to the
above a body both well proportioned and taller than my
own, and I could see how a younger Carlotta had fallen hard.
"Sam," I said.
He was more elegant at thirty-six than he'd been at-- what?--twenty-nine? Grown up. His face was still bony,
broad through the cheeks, narrow at the jaw. He walked differently,
his stance more erect, more--I don't know-- substantial. His chest filled out a well-cut charcoal suit. He
used to look like he was wearing hand-me-downs, and I was
never sure if it was the clothes, or the burden of being born
the youngest son of Anthony Gianelli.
Anthony Gianelli, for those outside the immediate area,
is as connected as you can get. LCN, La Cosa Nostra, the
Mafia, call it what you will. Everybody knows it, and nobody
does much about it. Sam, the baby, is supposedly
clean. He has bad business sense, which doesn't matter all
that much. Your last name's Gianelli, your credit's good.
Sam hadn't gone running to Pop or begging for loans to
keep G&W afloat. He'd partnered up with Gloria instead,
and ran the company on the straight and narrow.
Maybe that helped the fit of his clothes.
"Hey," he said, adjusting his smile, "you slumming?"
"She wants--" Gloria started, ignoring my silent plea.
"I need a job, Sam," I interrupted quickly. "Driving."
"I thought you were a cop." It came out too quickly. He
hesitated, and added, "Or something." Wouldn't do to let the
lady know you'd kept tabs on her.
"Didn't like it."

"Law school?"
"Dropped out."
"You don't look like you're doing so badly," he said, gazing
at me, top to bottom and back again, like I was some
naked statue in an art museum. Normally, I hate that, I really
do. This time I could feel my face redden because I realized
I'd just done the same to him.
"I can't seem to get a handle on things," I said lamely. "I
keep thinking I'll do some more grad school--"

"Do we have an opening?" he asked Gloria. He said it
without looking at her, without taking his eyes off my face.
"We could use somebody nights," she said crisply. "To
replace Eugene Devens."
"Imagine him taking off like that," Sam said. "After all
those years."
I watched him with hawk eyes, but I couldn't see any discomfort
in his eyes or hear any secret knowledge in his
voice. But then Gianellis have been lying to grand juries
since before I was born.
"Somebody nights," he repeated, smiling. "Well, she'll
do fine. You still at the old place?"
What he was really asking was if I had the same phone
number.
"My aunt died--"
"I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago. She left me her house."
"That old Victorian in Cambridge? The big one? You live
there alone?"
What he was really asking was if I was married.
"I'm the landlord," I said.
He smiled. "I can't picture that," he said.
There was one of those pauses. I could hear Gloria
breathing, and I wished she'd say something, say something
or disappear.
"I'm still at the same apartment," he said finally. "Same
phone. Here." He reached in his pocket and brought out a
slim leather billfold that was as ritzy as his apartment's
Charles River Park address. He dug out a business card and
passed it over. I took it, and our hands brushed for an instant.
"Day or night," he said. "Anytime. Give me a call. I've got
one of those machines, but leave a message and I'll definitely
get back."
"I've got a machine, too," I said, kind of inanely, I admit,
but I was still feeling the fine wispy hairs on the back of his
hand.
I have unerring chemistry with men. If I breathe faster
when they enter the room, if the hairs on the nape of my
neck stand up, and my pulse races, I know, beyond the
shadow of a doubt, that I have found the wrong guy for me.
The kind of man I like, and the kind of man who'd be good
for me, make up two nonintersecting sets.
He'd stopped by for cash and the books. Gloria passed
over a tin lockbox and a black ledger. He left, and I swear,
the lights in the room dimmed.
"Shit," I said, letting my breath out slowly. "You could
have warned me he was coming."
"Whoo-eee," Gloria said. "Now that's better than the
soaps. What's that I smell in here? Ozone? Smells like lightning
hit this very spot."
"Fuck off, Glory," I said halfheartedly. I don't swear that
much anymore, which I guess comes from being raised half
a Jewish princess. Now when I was a cop, boy, did I cuss.
When I put on the badge, I put on the mouth. I was tougher
than tough. It took me a while to realize that I didn't much
like the person I was turning into. Anyhow, when the spirit
moves me I can still say shitass-motherfucker with the best
of them, but mostly I don't.
"Temper, temper," Gloria said. "I never know exactly
when Sam's going to drop by. Or who's gonna come with
him."
"If you're talking about Sam's girlfriends, I couldn't care
less," I lied. "If he brings his daddy around, I'm not sure I
want to risk driving for you."
"Temper," Gloria repeated, but her lips twitched. "Just
trying to see how big a torch you're carrying. I always
thought you married that bum Cal on the rebound."
"Look, Gloria," I said. "About the records."
"The books flew the coop with Sam. You better give him
a call, like he said."
"Employment applications, driver's license stuff."
I could tell she was deep in thought because she wasn't eating.
"Sam is my partner, Carlotta. I should let him in on this."
Would anybody with the name Gianelli be an avid promoter
of the IRA? I didn't think so, but I didn't trust Sam.
He got accustomed to having his own way while he was still
in the cradle. He got used to calling all the shots, and back
when I knew him, he wasn't about to give up any of the God
given privileges of the Gianelli male.
"You think he lets you in on everything he's up to?" I
said.
"He's not going to like this."

"He's not going to know."
"Yeah. Sure."
"If the shit hits, tell him I lied to you, Gloria. Tell him I
stole the stuff."
"That's right, babe. That's what I'll do."
Somehow I didn't think she would. We exchanged frozen
smiles that gradually broadened and turned into the real
thing, and I accepted another one of the chicken things, taking
it as a sort of peace offering. It tasted like fried dough.
"You know, it might not be a bad idea," I said.
"What?"
"Driving for you."
"What?"
Cab number 403 got free, and called in his location. His
voice was a little scratchy and distorted, but I thought I recognized
Sean Boyle. Gloria informed him that Maudie
waited at 44 Audubon Court.
"Seriously," I said. "You need a replacement for Eugene,
right?"
"Yeah, but--"
"If anybody asks, you just say I'm coming back for a
while because I'm not making it on my own."
"Sam bought it," she said. "Anybody ever tell you you're
one fine liar?"
"All the time."
"And no need to say you're not making it as a private
cop."
"No need to mention it." I warmed to the idea. "From the
inside, I can figure the patterns out. Who talks together,
drinks together."
"A regular fly on the wall."
More like a roach in the corner, around that place. "I know
the ropes, so I won't be any bother at all," I said breezily. If I
had my own cab, I could listen to all the radio calls.
Cab 827 called in and got his new assignment. The list
was dwindling, the console lights flashing, the rain holding
steady.
While Gloria deployed her army, I slid Sam's card into
my pocket. I thought I'd done it unobtrusively, but Gloria
gave me one of her complacent Buddha looks. I had no intention
of calling Sam. I should have tossed the card in the
trash can.
It took Gloria some time to dust the cobwebs and cookie
crumbs off the employment records. Then we argued about
when I'd start driving, what my hours would be, whether I'd
actually pick up fares, and if I did, what I should get paid. I
could get flush, working two jobs, getting paid for both. Better
catfood for T.C. High-class birdseed for the budgie. Steak.
Just being in Gloria's company makes me fixate on food.

uwwuwtf
CHAPTER
18

Saturday, I picked up Paolina five minutes early, because
she gets jumpy if I'm not right on time. She came
charging out the door, pigtails streaming behind her, hollering
good-bye to Marta and hello to me at the same time,
wearing sneakers and jeans and a pink hooded sweatshirt
with a double-front kangaroo pocket.
After buckling her seatbelt, she tucked her hands in the
pocket pouch, and we drove out Route 2 to 128 to 3 while
she filled me in on all the school gossip. Who was cute and
who was "fresh," which means "cool," and who was in and
who was out. Ten-year-olds these days--at least urban,
street-smart ten-year-olds--have the kind of dividing lines
that I don't remember showing up till high school. Remember?
The jocks and the preppies and the hoods? Except
Paolina calls them the fresh, the freaks, and the nerds. The
week's news update was highlighted by the adventures of
one Emanuel Rodriguez, a twelve-year-old dreamboat too
fresh for words.
"He even told that jerky old guy where to go," Paolina
said proudly.
"What jerky old guy?"
"Nobody. Just this freak who sits on the stoop all the
time."
"Emanuel walked you home?"
"We walk together sometimes," she admitted, "with some
of the other kids."
"T-shirt? Leather bag? The old guy have a beard?" Wispy
Beard didn't seem old to me, but to a ten-year-old, everybody's
ancient.
"Yeah."
I breathed, in and out. "Listen, tell Emanuel to stay away
from him."
"Yeah, well, he better stay away from Emanuel."
"Paolina," I said quietly, "I mean it."
"Yeah, sure," she said.
"That guy ever bother you?"
"No."
"He talk to you?"
"No."
Her second "no" came out after a pause. I didn't say anything.
It didn't sound right.
"He sells stuff," she said finally. "You know, Carlotta,
drugs and stuff like that."
It's a good thing traffic wasn't heavy, because I had a moment
of what people must mean when they say "blind
anger." I couldn't see. I could hear, faintly, and Paolina was
talking.
"I'm okay," she said. "You know that. But he goes right
over to the school. You know, where there are really little
kids, second-graders, dumb kids who'll do anything on a
dare."
I didn't say anything. For once I wished I was still a cop.
If I were a cop, that jerk would be in a cell.
"Carlotta--"
"Listen, Paolina. He ever bothers you, he ever talks to
you again, you tell me. Call me."
"Okay."
"Keep away from that guy."
"No big deal. I'm sorry I said anything." She dug her
hands deeper into her pocket and stared at the floor, sure she
was at fault for wrecking my mood.
Damn that druggie bastard.
I reached over to pat her shoulder, and after a while she
relaxed, and started seeing what was out the window.
"Hey, Paolina," I said, "I'm glad you told me about that
guy. Thanks."
"No big deal," she said. It's her favorite phrase.
After that we oohed and aahed over every red and gold
leaf. I didn't want to think about that damn drug pusher. It
made my hands tense on the steering wheel. I thought about
Paolina's crush on Emanuel Rodriguez instead. I don't talk
to Paolina much about boys. I haven't got a lot to say on the
subject. Sometimes I worry about her. I mean, neither Marta
nor I is a terrific role model in that respect. But how many
kids have that perfect role model, that perfect marriage to
shelter and nurture them as they grow up? Anyway, we admired
the trees, and I let my mind wander....
I'd had a busy morning. I'd filed a missing persons report,
bemused as always by the bureaucratic blandness with
which the guardians of law and order greet a sudden disappearance.
I'd spoken briefly to an overworked, ornery
Mooney, who informed me that he hadn't a single extra officer
to guard Margaret Devens's hospital room, and what the
hell was she paying me for anyway?
Then I drove over to Boston City, to check on my client's
progress and drop off an updated copy of the case report. It
looked so skimpy, typed out single-spaced on plain white
bond, that I was all set for Margaret to say forget the whole
thing. I'd gone so far as to itemize my bill.
Her face looked bad, but I knew, from grim experience,
that the most colorful bruises are not the most painful. She
sported a single large bandage on her scalp, but the IV line
was no longer attached, and she was sitting up, supported by
a nest of pillows, knitting something the color of oatmeal.
The TV was blank.
Her face was so swollen she couldn't perch her reading
glasses on the bridge of her nose, so I read the report aloud.
She had me read some parts twice, while she knitted and
nodded her head. She didn't seem to be concentrating on my
voice, but then she didn't seem to be concentrating on her
knitting either, and a complicated pattern was rapidly taking
shape, with the tension even and no stitches dropped.
"Working at the cab company," she said when I'd finished.
"I suppose that's the best way."
"Considering what Pat said, yes."
"How's he doing, the poor man?"
"He's dying, and he knows it, and he's still making
jokes."
"Ah, Patrick," she murmured. "I wish he'd never retired.
He could always talk sense into Eugene." She turned her attention
back to her knitting and for a moment I thought the
conference was over, but then she said, "This cab driving,
would it be dangerous for you?"
"Driving in Boston is always dangerous."
"Will it help you find my brother?"
"If you want me to go on, it's the only lead I've got. I suspect
your brother was doing something illegal. I suspect it's
connected to an organization of cabbies. I'm not saying it's
guaranteed, but if I can gain the cabbies' trust, they might
tell me something. Your brother could be in hiding. He may
be wanted by the police for questioning. By the FBI."
I thought it far more likely that he was wanted by the
IRA, not for something he'd done, but for something he
hadn't done, like passing along the cash. I didn't say that because
I didn't want to scare Margaret. I saw this BBC documentary
once, and one scene chilled me to the bone. A
parade of maybe ten IRA "soldiers," armed with machine
guns, was marching through throngs of cheering civilians.
Each member of the army was anonymous, a black hood
tied over his head, eyeholes slit for vision. While nine of the
Provos emptied their machine guns toward the sky, one
calmly blew the head off an informer. I remembered wondering
what the hell the filmmakers thought they were doing,
and why hadn't they stopped filming and done
something, anything, to save the poor man's life. It was the
only execution I've ever seen where the executioners wore
masks instead of the condemned.
Margaret sighed. "No matter," she said softly, "we have
to keep on. What they're doing, it's got to stop somewhere."
"I'll keep in touch."
"I'm tired," Margaret said fretfully. "The kind of bone
tired you get when you have to fight the battle over again, after
you thought you'd won. Grinding tired, and I do wish
mey'd let me go home."
I lowered my voice. "What should I do with the money?"
"Keep it away from the Provos. Keep it out of their filthy,
bloody hands. Is it safe where you've put it?"
I envisioned the cat box. "I think so. Yes."
"Then leave it, just leave it. I don't want it. Lord, I'm so
tired." She closed her eyes, and the knitting collapsed
against her chest. "I don't know what to do, but you have to
go on. Certainly, go on. I can't look for him, stuck here like
this, but I have a bad feeling about it. If he were nearby, he'd
have heard about what happened. He'd have come to see me.
He was always good like that, always good ..."
She fell asleep while she was talking, which I found so
disconcerting that I went in search of a nurse, who reassured
me that this was a normal effect of the medication, that Miss
Devens's concussion was minor, but that the physician in
charge felt a few more days of observation would do no
harm. Margaret must have had all her medical insurance
paid in full.
I was glad she did. Margaret in die hospital, even unguarded,
was safer than Margaret at home ...
The Toyota, which had been on automatic pilot for some
time, arrived at its destination, and Paolina tugged me back
to the present. She led me around the wild-animal farm,
proudly tracing the map they'd given her at the entrance.
Some parts of it were fine, spacious and open and clean.
Some were like those awful old zoos, with animals in metal
prisons so small the inmates could barely pace, back and
forth, back and forth.
Paolina liked the huge fenced-in range with the Siberian
tigers best. Mom and three cubs. Paolina names all the animals
at the zoo. She started the game years ago, when I first
took her to Franklin Park, and it's become a tradition. She's
not interested in the animals' real names, and scorns those
signs they sometimes put up to educate the public. All the
names must be alliterative. Jeremiah Giraffe. Penelope Penguin.
Since the tigers were Siberian, the three cubs became
Sonia, Sasha, and Sofia. We watched them stalk and tumble,
imitating mom, but too clumsy to be fierce. We ate ice
cream, and cotton candy, and got our hands sticky. We
picked a bouquet of colored leaves for Marta.
It wasn't until we were getting back into the sun-baked
car for the drive home that I remembered our phone conversation.
"You wanted to ask me something about volleyball,
right?"
Her face fell. One minute she was smiling, holding the
bright leaves like a trophy, the next minute grim.
"Hey," I said. "What's this?"
She pulled a grubby, folded square of newsprint out of
the pocket of her jeans, and passed it over wordlessly. I unfolded
it. I'd seen it myself, in the Globe.
"Where'd you get this?" I asked.
"Somebody brought it in for current events."
It was a combination news item and obituary. A filler, really,
from the sports section, with an inch-square photo that
could have been anybody. The caption said it was Flo Hyman,
co-captain of the women's U.S. silver-medal-winning
volleyball team. Dead. Died suddenly while playing an exhibition
game in Japan. Thirty-one years old.
"I didn't play hard this week," Paolina said when I looked
up after reading the brief sentences. "I wish--how old are
you? I don't want you to play."
"Oh, honey." I put my arm around her and drew her close.
"This doesn't happen. This is a freak, a one-in-a-million
shot."
"I don't want you to play," she insisted, her voice a stubborn
parody of Maria's.

When I was a cop, she was always afraid I'd get shot. You
take a kid when she's young, and expose her to a lot of loss
and death, and either she toughens up so hard she never risks
loving again, or she's scared all the time.

"Paolina," I said as gently as I could, "this is like being
hit by lightning. Run over by an ice cream truck. Like getting
eaten by a shark."
Like having your husband turn into a drug addict, I
thought but didn't say.
"She was sick. She had a disease called Marian's syndrome,
or something like that. It hits mostly tall, thin
athletes--hey, a lot taller and thinner than me, and mostly
blacks. These things happen, but they happen very rarely."
"If she hadn't played so hard--"
"She might have lived longer, but I'm not sure she would
have wanted to." I had vivid memories of watching Flo Hyman
hurl herself across a court as if she thought she could
fly. I'd hauled my old black-and-white TV out of the closet
in honor of the Olympics. We'd watched the volleyball
games together, Paolina and I, but I thought she'd be too
young to remember. I'm always surprised at the things she
remembers. And the things she forgets.
Paolina's voice was muffled by her hand. I could barely
hear her, but I think she said, "I'm scared," said it in Spanish,
the way she does when she's not completely sure she
wants me to understand.
"That's okay. It's okay to be scared."
"It made me think about dying. I'm scared I'll die, and
I'll go someplace, and nobody will tell me what to do, and
I'll be all alone."
Oh, God. Let me get this one right.
"Paolina," I said slowly. "There are a lot of things that
people believe about what happens when you die. Some
think you go to heaven, where it's beautiful and peaceful.
Some people, and I'm not one of them, think bad people go
to hell and get punished. Some people think you just stop,
that it's like sleeping at night, with no dreams at all. But I've
never heard that you're lonely when you die."
You're lonely when you're alive, I thought but didn't say.
I remembered it late that night, curled on my half of the
king-sized bed I'd bought for the extra length, never mind
the width that made me feel so wasteful. I couldn't get to
sleep, so I played my old National steel guitar well into the
night, cutting into my calluses till they bled.
When I divorced Cal, people told me I was lucky to be rid
of him. I suppose so. Except the guy I was rid of wasn't Cal
any longer. Acquaintances said to be glad we hadn't had
kids. I wasn't. I was happy to have Paolina.
There's this old song that kept rattling through my mind.
It's a Blind Lemon Jefferson tune, bluesy and upbeat, but
you wouldn't think it to hear the words:

There's one kind favor I ask of you.
There's one kind favor I ask of you.
There's one kind favor I ask of you.
Won't you see that my grave
is kept clean, pretty momma,
Won't you see that my grave is kept clean?

I played it three times, trying to remember the order of
the verses.
I turned off the light, but I couldn't sleep, and finally I got
up and searched for Sam Gianelli's card. I found it tucked
into the pocket of my jeans, and stood staring it down for a
long time. Anytime, he'd said. Day or night.
He won't be home, I thought. I'll hang up if he answers, I
thought.
I should have called Mooney, but I called Sam.
And he was home, and alone, and awake.


CHAPTER
19

Funny how the old moves come back when you need
them.
Reporting for Sunday's graveyard shift at G&W gave me
a genuine shiver of deja vu. Because I was the new kid on
the block, I got stuck with one of the worst of the vintage
Fords. Gloria, blank-faced, handed me the key to Eugene's
locker--now, temporarily, mine. I had nothing to store, but I
chugged on back and tugged the door open, pretending to
make sure the lock worked. I was really spying on a group of
cabbies gathered near the bench, talking Red Sox, talking
Bruins, talking Celtics.
Usually you don't have to follow the Sox to comment on
them. Their autumn slide to box-score oblivion is sadly predictable.
This year was different. They seemed unbeatable,
but the loyal fans were waiting for them to fold.
I went through the motions, bitching about the high
salaries those bastards get for striking out three times in
game, but all the time I was watching the other drivers, and
how they reacted to me, to the fact that I'd appropriated Eugene's
locker, to the GBA pin sparkling on my lapel. I felt
like an undercover cop, and I didn't like the sensation. It's
too weird. First you join up with the baddies, identify with
them, and then you betray them. If you don't keep a part of
yourself separate, shut off, you wind up bonkers.
I recognized a few members of the pack. One middle
aged woman, who'd been hacking for all eternity, was
named Rosie, or Happy, or some cheerful name completely
at odds with her forbidding face and dim view of the sports
world. I said hi to her first, and she either vaguely remembered
me, or politely faked it. Then Sean Boyle said hello,
and a couple of the others. Rosie--that was her name--took
charge of introductions. I nodded and smiled and tried to
match the names to the employee records, which was difficult
because intros were strictly on a first-name basis. A lot
of the drivers had nicknames, like Red Light, and Speedy,
and Mad Dog.
I'd have to run the noms de cab by Gloria.
Cab number 223. It had a ding in the right front fender
and smelled like the inside of an old shoe. I made an immediate
detour to buy air freshener. 223's supposedly bulletproof
plastic shield, required equipment on all Boston cabs,
was so scratched and cloudy that the rearview mirror was
useless.
Tucking my license into the slot on the sun visor, I felt
like a TV actor caught in a rerun. Just walking into that
grimy garage, dressed in jeans, work shirt, and driving cap,
made me think about who I'd been when last I'd hacked for
a living--and who I am now.
And Sam Gianelli.
Funny how the old moves come back ...
He'd wanted to drive over at two in the morning, as soon
as he'd recognized my voice on the phone. I'd backed off.
We'd compromised on Sunday brunch at a small North Cambridge
restaurant. It was a place we used to visit, jammed
with closely packed tables for two, and probably a choice I
should have vetoed. Too many memories of ravenous afternoon
breakfasts, delayed by hours of lazy lovemaking.
At ten-thirty, a guy banged on my front door, and presented
a bunch of flowers. Not one of those awful dyedcarnation-in-a-pot
things, but a bouquet of iris, alstroemeria,
and freesia. Freesia's my favorite for its apricot smell. That's
the kind of thing you can hustle up on a Sunday morning if
your name is Gianelli.
I dressed casually, maybe to show Sam I set no great store
by our meeting--lie number one--and wasn't impressed
with the flowers--lie number two. I chose white jeans and a
hot turquoise knit top that's a perfect match for my malachite
beads. I wear necklaces. No rings or bracelets, on account
of volleyball. I never wear earrings. They bother me,
the whole idea of earrings bothers me, not to mention the
pressure on my earlobes. And I can't stand the thought of
poking holes through my ears. It seems, I don't know, barbaric
or something. Earrings and nail polish, I can't stand. I
wear makeup though, so try to sort that out.
I wore sexy silk underwear, so I won't pretend I was
shocked by the outcome of the afternoon.
Of course, he wanted to see the house. And, of course, the
area of the house that is really mine, that I'm proud of, is my
bedroom. And that's where the stereo sounds best. Sam and I
don't share a common taste in music. He's more into jazz.
But we agree that Billie Holliday makes everyone else sound
mediocre, so I stuffed a tape in the tape deck, and soon we
wound up just where I knew we'd wind up when I saw him
shake water off his hair under the light bulb in Gloria's office.
"I remember you," he said. "You're the one who likes to
climb on top."
"You look like you could hold your own weight, Sam," I
said, turning over, obligingly prone. He did. He could. He
looked like he'd been lifting weights, sculptured and sweaty.
We took turns on top, and it was great. I found myself
making noises that would put Roz to shame, and I secretly
hoped she and Lemon were upstairs, ears glued to the floor
in astonishment at the landlady's afternoon antics.
Funny how the old moves come back ...
A beat-up VW bus charged out of an alley masquerading
as a street, and I had to yank the wheel over to the right to
avoid a collision. My tires screeched a protest.
Back to work.
Downtown traffic was faster paced, more tightly packed
than I remembered. Aggressive driving is the Boston norm,
but things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. Rudeness
reached new heights. People leaned on their horns, really
leaned on them.
All the way down Storrow Drive, the crush of cars got in
the way of my three objectives. Number one was the radio. I
I	intended to listen in on every call and note it down. Later, I'd
see if I could figure any code, any pattern. Number two was
I	to match names with faces and voices, to figure out who was
piloting which cab. Number three: follow one of the Old
1 '	Geezers each night. See if anybody's dumb enough to do
, I' {	something openly suspicious.
1 ' i	My candidate for the evening was my old pal Sean Boyle,
driving number 403. Now I couldn't have done it in sunlight.
A one-on-one tail job is ridiculous enough, but in the daytime
it's impossible. At night, in order to be just another set
of anonymous headlights, all I had to do was shut off the
roof lights. By hard-won arrangement with Gloria, I had to
pick up fares only if every other cab in the city was busy. I
hoped we'd have no more typhoons.
Late-night cabbing is alive and well in Boston, mainly
because the T, public transit, shuts down at twelve-thirty in
order to discourage the citizens from staying out late and indulging
in wild revelry. If you revel in Boston, be prepared
to stumble home or flag a cab. The best places to score fares
are the areas devoted to revelry, like Kenmore Square, home
of the college student, the disco, and the punk bar; and the
Combat Zone, home of the lowlifes, the strip show, and the
XXX movie.
Sean Boyle cruised the Zone, sandwiched between Chinatown
and the struggling theater district. It's a place I'd just
as soon avoid. My cab smelled bad enough. The Zone is one
reason I quit being a cop. They kept sticking me in that
damn stinkhole, and pretty soon I thought the world was
composed of nothing but creeps. All I saw was the gutter,
and I couldn't take my eyes off it for fear something would
crawl up out of the depths flashing a straight razor. At first, I
felt a kind of awed fascination, sharpened by unadmitted
fear. Life's cheap in the Zone. It's where people peel off that
p|	thin veneer and get right down to bone. Thirteen-year-old
runaways trick for ten bucks a throw. Respectable suburban
daddies screw kids younger than their daughters. "Working

117
late at the office, honey, sorry I can't make Sally's band concert."
You've got your choice of alcoholic derelicts and drug
fogged former beauty queens. It's a place that breaks your
heart, or turns it into granite. Mine must have been seven
eighths petrified before I threw away my badge.
I reached under the seat of the cab and, sure enough, felt
a reassuring hunk of lead pipe. Cabbies aren't allowed to
carry guns in Boston. Mine was within arm's reach, resting
on a layer of junk in my bag, but I haven't used a gun since
one of my last cop days. A bad day in a bad place, not far
from the corner of Washington and Boylston.
Boyle hung a right on Tremont, then a couple of lefts, and
drifted over to the Pussy Cat Lounge. A blond male hooker
semaphored his desire to use my cab as his traveling
boudoir. I drove by quickly, wondering if there was any
long-term denizen of the Zone with sufficient brain cells intact
to remember Carlotta, the cop.
I followed Boyle all night. He ferried lost souls out to the
suburbs. Once he had to wait in the cab while this guy went
inside and found some dough. Poor bastard probably got
rolled by some hooker, and was too embarrassed to report it
to the cops. Boyle dropped by several bars. Either he had to
drink a lot, pee a lot, or pick up the dimes and quarters from
those green canisters.
I wrote it all down; time, place, everything. If other cabs
were in the area, I noted the license plates. I collected a hell
of a lot of data. I could toss them up in the air, and see how
they came down. That was the best organizational scheme
that came to mind.
By 7 a.m., when Boyle turned his cab in, my ass was
numb, an occupational hazard I'd forgotten. I hung around
by the lockers, but nobody talked about anything more significant
than Wade Boggs's batting average, so I waited until
the office was clear.
Gloria tore herself away from a bag of chocolate-covered
peanuts long enough to answer a call. Then she glanced up at
me with arched eyebrows.
"Comfy cab," I said, rubbing the seat of my jeans.
"How long's this going to go on?"
"I just started, Gloria. Give me a break."
She snorted M&Ms.
"Gloria, one of these records is--" I was going to say
"nothing but a piece of shit." That's how far I'd retreated into
undercover cop mentality. I stopped myself. "One of the records
is incomplete."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You hired a guy named John Flaherty a year and a half
ago, and all you've got on him is an address."
"So?" Gloria was in a talky mood.
"So on everybody else you've got an employment history."
"Maybe
it's his first job."
"At thirty-one? He a slow learner?"
"Look, he drives his cab. He shows up. He's okay."
"He shows up out of the blue, without even a Social Security
card, and you hire him? Come on."
"Leave this one alone, Carlotta. It's got nothing to do
with Eugene Devens."
"Convince me."
She pursed her lips, then bit down on them until they disappeared.
"If you want to know more about Flaherty--"
"Yeah?"
"Talk to Sam."
I tried to keep my face as blank as hers. "Gianelli recommend
this guy?"
"Talk to Sam, that's all I can say, and I shouldn't have
said that much. You coming in tonight?"
"Yeah. See if you can give me a car that drives."
I shouldn't have said it so angrily, because my ire had
nothing to do with Gloria. She looked at me in a kind of
speculative way, and raised both eyebrows. Sometimes I
think she can see my thoughts in the air, floating inside a
cartoon balloon.

CHAPTER
20

I was exhausted, and my butt ached. Maybe I'd have
fallen asleep if I'd gone right home, but then I would have
missed volleyball, which might not have been a bad thing
considering that Caitlin, our best center setter, was down
with the flu, and all the women were trying to make up for
her absence, crashing into each other as well as the floor. I
took a flying elbow in the ribs that knocked me breathless.
After winning three out of five from a team we should have
beaten three straight, I did my twenty laps, and finished up
with an adrenaline overload. Ah well, I read somewhere that
it's easier to adjust to a new shift if you stay awake extra
hours instead of forcing yourself to sleep when you're not
tired.
I jaywalked to Dunkin' Donuts out of force of habit. My
stomach wasn't sure if it wanted dinner or breakfast. I ordered
a lone cinnamon cruller and black coffee. If I stayed at
Dunkin' Donuts, I didn't have to go home. If I didn't go
home, I didn't have to check my answering machine. If I
didn't check my answering machine, I wouldn't have to respond
to any messages left by Sam Gianelli. If I didn't talk
to Sam, I wouldn't have to figure out a discreet way to question
him about John Flaherty, the man with no employment
history.
I could hear myself casually tossing probes about Flaherty
into our pillow talk. "So, Sam, I been meaning to ask,
you hire anybody at the cab company, say, in the past year
and a half?"
I burned my tongue on the coffee, and set the cup down
so fast that it teetered in the saucer and almost spilled all
over the counter. Why do simple things always get so mixed
up? I'd seen the man, and liked what I saw. I was ready for a
little uncomplicated coupling. I should have known better.
Sex without strings attached is a rare commodity.
I called Missing Persons at Area D, and harassed some
poor sergeant. Nothing on Eugene Devens. I called my
client, in the hope that the wayward brother had suddenly
seen the light and come to visit his ailing sister. No such
luck.
I'd parked the Toyota in its usual Bishop Richard Allen
Drive slot, and since I was close to the project, I kind of
gravitated to Paolina's school, ugly yellow brick with bars
on the windows, just like a prison.
The kids were outdoors, although it seemed early for recess,
divided boys and girls, just the way we used to be back
in my Detroit elementary school, not by decree, but by custom.
A red-faced male teacher with a silver whistle on a
chain around his neck supervised an intense game of late
season baseball among the boys. The girls played halfhearted
unsupervised volleyball, which made me angry. I
mean, why teach girls to play, right? They're never going to
make millions in the big leagues, right? As if all the tubby
little boys on the field were hot prospects. I wanted to join
the girls' game. Take it over.
I yawned and stretched, and told myself to stop being so
bad-tempered. It was easy to shift moods. All you had to do
was watch the kids. They wore bright colors, and they
moved fast. Spots of yellow and blue and red flowed over the
playground. I felt like I was staring through a huge kaleidoscope
at a swirl of color come to life.
I tried to sort through the color spots to see if I could find
Paolina. The kids seemed about the right age.
One white and brown blob stood out. I swear the hairs on
the back of my neck stiffened.
He was behind the high fence, half hidden by a brick
121

wall, but I picked him out. I knew him. Old Wispy Beard
with his satchel, selling dope by the schoolyard.
I had the car door open before I realized I'd moved, and I
had to force myself to stick my legs back inside and cool off.
What was I going to do anyway? Assault the guy in front of
fifty young witnesses?
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
Instead I breathed deeply for a count of ten. I took my
Canon SLR out of the locked dash compartment, and took
several long-lens shots. I breathed for another count of ten.
I located my little sister on the volleyball court. I was
glad to see her involved in the game. She was holding back,
you could see that, letting a taller girl on her right smash
most of the shots. But she was playing.
No doubt about it, I was going to have to teach her a few
finer points of volleyball.
I waved, even though she didn't see me. I drove off.
I didn't go far. Just over to the police station.

CHAPTER
21

The lone parking space at the curb, smack in front of a
police business only sign, was a tight one. I wedged the
Toyota in, rubbing bumpers with two cruisers, and trotted up
the front steps.
I'd been dealing with a Cambridge detective named
Schultz--a guy I knew from my police academy days--on
the Wispy Beard business. While I waited for him to answer
the desk sergeant's call, I wondered if he'd be clued into


rtli
IRA activities in his fair city. I've never heard of an Irishman
named Schultz, so I figured he wouldn't be likely to lie if I
asked him outright. On the other hand, you can't always tell
by the name. I mean, with a tag like Carlotta, wouldn't you
expect a trace of Spanish blood on my family tree? Not a
drop. Dad named me for some starlet who was eclipsed the
day after her movie debut.
Even if Schultz turned out to be a whiz on Cambridge
crime, that didn't mean he'd know squat about Boston. Cambridge
and Boston don't cooperate. As a Boston cabbie, I
couldn't even pick up a hailer in Cambridge, which makes
cabs in both cities more expensive, and folks on the street
corners angry.
Schultz didn't rush across the linoleum once he saw me. I
figured that meant he hadn't done a thing.
Detective First Class Jay Schultz looked like he combed
his hair about every fifteen minutes, and carried a mirror for
spot checks. Maybe he used the mirror to see who was gaining
on him. He was a test taker, a promotion chaser, a potential
captain on the make. Good-looking, if you like the
boyish sandy-haired type, which I don't. He gave the impression
of a certain coolness, a cultivated so-what. I didn't
take a so-what attitude about Wispy Beard. In regard to that
situation, I was definitely uncool.
"So," I said, as he guided me to his desk, resting one hand
heavily on my shoulder in that proprietary manner I despise,
"you know where that bastard I asked you to nail is? Right
this very minute?"
"I know he ain't in my jail." Hearty laugh.
"Funny."
"Hey, hey," he said, pointing to a battered chair in his
dingy corner. "Cool off. Not for lack of trying."
"Really?" I tried hard to keep the disbelief off my face.
Well, not too hard.
"Hey, Carlotta, we busted the creep. Nothing on him."
"Jay, that guy hasn't had nothing on him since the nurse
first diapered his ass."
"We thought he had something but he didn't."
"Not in the satchel?"
"No satchel."
"Probably dumped it when he noticed you tailing him."
"Not me personally."
"Of course not, an important guy like you. Jeez, I
wouldn't expect anything like that."
"Look, we blew the collar. But we got some interesting
stuff."
"Like?"
"Name, date, serial number. Rap sheet, if you're interested,
and the creep is into something heavy."
I waited. When they teach cops to interrogate suspects,
rule one is never interrupt.
"You know who that bastard called after we charged him?
I mean, we charged him with some bullshit vagrancy rap,
because we didn't have the evidence. Probably should have
kicked him loose, but we wanted to see what shook when we
rattled his chain. So you know who he called?"
I shrugged my ignorance.
"Wendell Heyer."
Now that was a name to give one pause. Wendell Heyer, a
man who did more than his bit to make "lawyer" a four
letter word, emerging from under this particular rock. Word
was that when Wendell surfaced, the mob was not far below.
Let me tell you, it gave me pause.
"Now, look that over for yourself," Jay continued. "You
think this freak of yours is an independent, and just happens
to have the bucks to retain Wendell, that's your business. But
I think we just found the tail end of some big mother, and
I'm gonna take some time before I yank it again."
"But you'll let me see the file on this guy. I'm getting
tired of calling him by a nickname."
Wispy Beard had his own nickname: Bud. The poor
sucker had been named Horace by his adoring mom about
thirty-six years back. Horace "Bud" Harold. I could practically
hear the schoolyard jeers: "Whore-Ass, Whore-Ass."
Destined for a life of crime. Ever notice how all those mean
looking football players are named Lynn and Marion and
stuff like that? That's how the best of the weirdly christened
turn out. The rest wind up behind bars.
Bud's rap sheet was not quick reading; it was too long for
that, but so far it was light. Started boosting cars at eighteen.
Either he was pretty good not to get caught until then, or,
more likely, he had a sealed juvie record. Nabbed in his
nineteenth year for armed robbery. Suspended sentence.
Tried it again, seeing as how he got off so easy, and sent a
victim to the hospital this time with a chunk of his ear blown
away. Four-year sentence at Concord, of which he served a
big six months. Just long enough to learn more sophisticated
ways to boost. Long enough to hook up with the sort of companions
every mom hopes her kid will cultivate.
No drug-related arrests.
Not yet.
"What's the plan?" I asked when I finished reading.
"Wait," he said.
"What do you mean, wait? He's over at the schoolyard
now."
"What I said."
"You got an order for a wire? An undercover? What?"
"Look, next week I can put somebody on it. Maybe two
weeks. We haven't got enough detectives to cover this right
now."
"So I just keep watching the guy."
"Don't spook him."
"Me? You rousted him."
"It's different now."
"Is he dealing crack?"
"Do you know or are you asking?"
"I'm asking."
"I can't say."
"You can't say?"
"Right."
"So tell me," I said to Jay after silently digesting the
whole mess, "on a different subject altogether, you got much
IRA action going down over here?"
I guess I was just pulling his chain, the way he'd yanked
old Horace's. He looked at me as if I'd sprouted horns, and
repeated the initials.
"IRA?"
"Yeah? Irish, et cetera, et cetera."
"You kidding? That bunch is out. No more support. No more wicked Noraid collecting money for guns. The government
forced Noraid to register as an agent of the IRA, and
that was the end of it. It's all respectable these days. The
Irish Fund, thank you very much, faith and begorra. Ritzy
dinner dances at the Parker House, thousand-dollar-a-plate
banquets with Tip O'Neill as emcee. They even made a TV
commercial. All the money to the church and charity, and
not one penny for the IRA."
"You sure about that?"
"Why?"
Ah, cops. Always a question. "Well, see, on the way over,
I met this leprechaun, and he came up to me, and--" I saw
the look Jay was giving me, and decided not to ride him.
Sometimes cops have bad days. Most of the time, cops have
bad days.
"So long, Carlotta."
"Thanks, Jay."

CHAPTER
22

It's a good thing my Toyota knows the way home. As
soon as I got near the car all my volleyball adrenaline and
most of my righteous anger leaked out, leaving me deflated
and sleepy and kind of ornery. A double-parked patrol car
blocked my exit, so I had to clump back up the stairs, and
1
126

trade insults with the desk sergeant until some jerk grudgingly
moved it. I spit on the fender. I'm not proud of it. I just
did it.
Roz was in the kitchen, yakking on the phone in her usual
position, cross-legged on the countertop. She is a motor
mouth phone gabber, and it's a miracle anybody ever gets
through on my line. Paints, brushes, palette knives, and bottles
of oily gook were spread over the kitchen table, and as
far as I could tell, she was composing a still life of steel wool
pads and a Windex bottle. I always know the cleaning aids I
purchase will come in handy.
"Carlotta, great, I've got messages," she said, dropping
the phone to one shoulder. "Tequila, how about I call you
back? At the Rat? Tonight? Gross. Jeez. Okay. Later." She
hung up on Tequila. I wondered if Tequila was a boy or a
girl. I knew it wasn't a rat. The Rat is this punk hangout in
Kenmore Square. If Mooney got a call to go to the Rat, he'd
bring rubber gloves, a chair, and a whip.
I stared blankly at the refrigerator, wondering if anything
inside would make me feel human. The clock said three, and
the sun was blazing through the window over the sink, so
that made it three in the afternoon. Monday afternoon. I felt
like it was 3 a.m. on some planet where everything was
slightly out of focus. I held open the refrigerator door until it
started doubling as an air conditioner. A container of cottage
cheese looked vaguely appealing, except I couldn't remember
buying cottage cheese, so chances were that if I opened
the carton, furry green curds would greet my eyes. I shut the
refrigerator door.
"Messages," Roz was saying. "You okay?"
She was wearing this fifties housedress get-up, with lacey
white socks and black pointy-toed ankle-high boots. She'd
added a purple streak down the left side of her pink hair. Her
earrings looked like Coke bottle caps.
"Me?" I said in a dead voice. "I feel great. Absolutely."
"It's the riotous living," Roz said.
Maybe she had eavesdropped on me and Sam. The idea
perked me up.
"Carlotta?"
"Yeah?"
'This guy keeps calling. Sam Gianelli."
My face got warm, all of a sudden. I hoped I wasn't
blushing. "Yeah?"
"He's phoned like five times. Awesome voice."
"Yeah."
"I told him I didn't know when you'd be back."
He might call Gloria to check when I got off. That would
be great. Gloria would razz me for the next hundred years. I
stared ruefully at the telephone, picked up the receiver, and
slowly replaced it in the cradle. I didn't want to call Sam. I
didn't want to see Sam. I didn't want to ask him about Jack
Flaherty. Sam's no dummy. He'd know I was investigating at
G&W. He'd realize I didn't trust him. And that would be the
end. Better leave it for a few days. Then I could say I'd met
the guy, and wondered if Sam had ever run into him. Something
like that.
I opened the refrigerator again. I had a faint memory of a
salami in the meat tray. Three anonymous tinfoil bundles
later, I located it. I keep leftovers until they get fuzzy. That
way I don't feel guilty about throwing out good food.
"And Mooney's been calling," Roz said. "The cop. Just
one message, repeated over and over and over. Call Mooney.
Call Mooney. Call Mooney. Capitalized. Underlined. Totally
emphatic, with sugar on top."
I shrugged. It took all my concentration to slice three
rounds of salami without severing a thumb.
"He got the hots for you, or what?" she asked.
"Didn't he say?"
"He said urgent. Something else, too."
She's like that. Saves up the good parts. Eats her pie
starting at the crust end.
"Contest," she said, nodding her head gravely. The bobbing
purple streak ruined the solemn effect. "Contest. Urgent,
about some contest."
I scooped up the phone so fast I almost dropped the knife
on my foot.
And, of course, Mooney was nowhere to be found. I left a
message.
Urgent.
"Jeez, that was some mess over in J.P.," Roz said. "Wow.
There was this pile of glop in the middle of the kitchen floor
you wouldn't believe. Flour and honey and cherry pie filling
and oatmeal. Totally gross. Wanna see the pictures?"
"While I'm eating?"
"Lemon wanted to, like, blow the place up or something.
He didn't think we could ever get it clean."
"Did you?"
"We had to use boiling water, and the ice scraper from the
pickup. I'm going back over today to put another coat of
wax on the floor."
I excused myself, and dove into the bathroom. T.C.'s cat
box looked untouched by other than feline paws. Leave the
money there, Margaret had said. / don't want it. I wondered
how long I could live with IRA cash in the bathroom. It generated
a bit of tension, like juggling eggs.
Roz was staring critically at the Windex bottle when I got
back, edging it a shade to the right of the S.O.S.
"You didn't see my old school friend, did you?" I asked.
"Uh, Roger Smith or something?"
She cast sheepish eyes at the floor. "Nope, he hasn't been
by." She frowned and returned the Windex bottle to its original
position. "Unless--"
"Unless?"
She bit down on her tongue, then realized it impeded her
speech. "Well, you got one more call, from a weirdo who
sounded kind of like Roger Smith. But he said his name was
Andrews. From Cedar Wash Condominium Resorts. You're
not buying some gross condo, are you?"
"Relax. I'll still be here to collect the rent."
"You like the Windex picture? You think I should put in
some fruit? Garlic?" She likes to paint bulbs of garlic. Those
I can always find later.
"Lot of potential." That's what I say when I'm baffled by
one of Roz's masterpieces. I'm scared she'll explain the
deeper meanings.
I ate two slices of salami, called it a balanced meal, and
went upstairs.
I didn't call Mooney again. I didn't call Sam. I didn't get
back to Andrews at Cedar Wash. I slept six and a half hours,
like a rock.


CHAPTER
23

I didn't like John Flaherty.
It took me two days to cross the guy's path, although we
supposedly worked the same shift. The bastard's hours were
so irregular Gloria should have given him the boot, except,
of course, he'd been personally recommended by her
partner--my lover--good old Sam Gianelli.
I finally asked Sam about him, worked it in real casually while we were up in my room, sated and lying back on the bed. Bonnie Raitt crooned "Angel From Montgomery" in the background:

"I am an old woman, named after my mother.
My old man is another child that's growin' old.
If dreams were thunder, and lightnin' was desire,
This old house would have burnt down
a long time ago."

I sang along with the first verse. Whenever I hear that song I have to restrain myself from leaping up and grabbing
my guitar. It didn't seem appropriate at the moment.
"You know this Jack Flaherty?" I said, running my fingertips
down the line of dark curly hair on Sam's chest. "At
GandW?"
"Nah." Sam yanked my arm lower, and I couldn't hear
any tightness or discomfort in his voice. "You think I know
all the drivers?"
"Just the women," I said, to keep it light.
"Oh, yeah, that Rosie, she's one hot dame."
"Yeah?" The idea cheered me up. I hoped crabby Rosie
went home to one steamy romance after another.
"Oh, you got a lot to learn before you're in Rosie's
league," he assured me. A pretty good liar, Sam. Papa Gianelli
should be proud.

"Just give me one thing that I can hold on to.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."

Raitt gave the song one of her fine wailing finishes. Her
voice quieted the other noises in the room, from the ticking
clock to T.C. meowing in the corner. He likes to warn me
when I pay too much attention to another male.
After that, I didn't feel bad about not telling Sam why I
was driving for G&W. I figured we were even, both lying. It
might not be the perfect basis for a meaningful relationship,
but it was fine for what we had going.
Anyhow, it took me two days to meet this Flaherty, two
minutes to decide I'd seen him someplace before, and two
seconds to spot him for a jerk. He was a couple years older
than me, which made him young by G&W standards, maybe
the only Caucasian driver under fifty. He had bad teeth, yellow
and crooked. His face was well shaped, but all the features
seemed squeezed together in the center. His eyes, nose,
and mouth were too small for the flesh surrounding them. He
was the kind of guy who gabs with men, but takes a friendly
hello from a female as an attempted seduction, so I couldn't
get into the kind of conversation that would have naturally
led to the questions I longed to ask: So where'd you work
before this? How do you know Sam Gianelli? Ever been in
Ireland? Collect much money for the IRA last week? Buy
any machine guns?
I followed Joe Fergus for half a night, Andy O'Brien the
other half. Choosing the guys who'd met at the Rebellion,
and giving precedence to Irish-sounding surnames, the next
night I followed a Maloney and an O'Keefe. None of them
robbed the Bank of Boston. O'Brien made a brief stop at the
Rebellion, but I didn't see any other cabs in the parking lot.
O'Keefe dropped somebody off at the Yard of Ale. Maloney
picked up a fare in front of the All Clear. I tried to make
something of it, but taxi drivers get a lot of barroom business
these days, what with bartenders worried about getting sued
if some drunken patron piles his car into the neighborhood
nursery school after tossing back one more for the road.
I listened to radio calls, wrote each one down, but couldn't
find a pattern. No calls from a mysterious woman in red at
midnight. I was careful to note any woman's name that
blared out of the squawkbox, because of what old Pat had
said about a woman being involved. But G&W, a small cab
company, tried for personalized service. Gloria radioed the
name of each caller along with the address: George Burke at
468 Beacon, Mrs. Edelman on Cumberland. Sometimes just
a first name, sometimes just a last. I wrote down a lot of
women's names.
I was getting nowhere, and Margaret Devens was coming
home tomorrow. Not only was Margaret coming home, but
I'd called Mr. Andrews and Cedar Wash Condominium Resorts
was threatening to revoke my twenty K unless I showed
up with my husband, Thomas, within the week. The missing
persons report on Eugene Devens had drawn a fat zero. Between
Sam and screwed-up biorhythms, I couldn't sleep. I
couldn't connect with Mooney on the phone--
As my grandmother used to say: You're such a brain, you
can worry more in one minute than other people can in a
whole year.
Wednesday night, I decided John Flaherty was the one to tail. I waited until he signed in--late again. He sailed off in
cab 442, one of the brand-new ones, which didn't make me
like him any better, since I was stuck with another antique.
He spoke up maybe ten minutes later, accepting Gloria's offer
of a fare in the South End.
Now I know the back roads of Boston. I can beat a civilian
to any city location with minutes to spare, but another
cabbie, that's a different story. I screeched the tight curves
on the Fenway, cut over to Huntington Avenue by the Museum
of Fine Arts, and was blessed by the god of traffic
lights for once in my life.
A well-dressed young couple promenaded the sidewalk in
front of 117 Pembroke Street. The man carried a slim briefcase,
and the woman was decked out in Ralph Lauren's version
of what Connecticut WASPs wear to the market. I
pulled into an unlit sidestreet with a decent view, and waited
maybe five seconds for G&W 442 to catch up with me.
Well, we had one exciting night, let me tell you. Cab 442
took the couple as far as the Westin Hotel. I mean, they
could practically spit as far as the Westin from Pembroke
Street. Walk? At night? God forbid.
442 queued up for the Westin's doorman, and was rewarded
with a fare, a lone businessman. From the Westin we
journeyed to the Hyatt Regency in Cambridge, tracing Storrow
Drive to the Mass. Ave. Bridge, which is a mess of construction
lights and battered yellow barrels. Then Memorial
Drive up to the Hyatt's front door. Nothing odd in that. I ran
my meter just the way Flaherty should have been running
his. I'd check the total with Gloria. If I couldn't nab him for
anything else, maybe I could get him for embezzlement.
Gloria gave him another fare. Allston, near Boston University.
I stayed close around the rotary and across the B.U.
Bridge. Whatever else he was, Flaherty was a good driver.
Fast. I hoped he didn't keep his eyes glued to his rearview
mirror.
So it went. He kept busy. He wasn't dogging it, that's for
sure. He grabbed hailers off street corners, worked Kenmore
Square cab stands, took his share of radio calls. I was starting
to enjoy myself, finally getting accustomed to the timeT
zone shift, discovering how city nightlife had changed since
my last stint as a cabbie. Miniskirts and patterned stockings
were back, but with a tough high-heeled edge to them. I saw
women wearing black lipstick; men, too. I liked the gritty
feel of Kenmore Square. It seemed like a place at home in
the dark, pulsing with the restless energy of the red and blue
neon Citgo sign. It made me want to smoke cigarettes and
listen to funky music, not the bleat of the cab's radio.
At 2:45 a.m. Gloria put out a call to cab 102 to pick up
Maudie someplace in Dorchester. 102 started to respond,
then Flaherty cut in, and said he'd take it; he was practically
next door.
Which was a lie.
I hung way back, over three hundred yards. If I lost him
now, it wouldn't be so bad. I could pick him up from the
street address. It was after he scored the fare that worried
me.
In front of a battered triple-decker, a well-dressed man in
his twenties, with a muscular build and swaggering walk,
was escorted to' the cab by two young males, big fellows,
maybe Hispanic. They looked like the kind of hoods who'd
beat up an old lady like Margaret Devens just for the fun of
it. The man who got into the cab carried a gym bag. I tailed
them toward Franklin Park, keeping well back.
I cut my lights during the race through the park, relying
on 442's taillights and the occasional overhead streetlamp.
The road felt like it hadn't been repaired in twenty years. If
Flaherty didn't actually see me, he could probably hear my
car bottoming out in the ravines the Department of Public
Works calls potholes. I flicked on my lights at the rotary, followed
442 over the bridge past the Arnold Arboretum and
onto the Jamaicaway.
Brake lights flared, too late for me to make an inconspicuous
stop. The passenger bailed out on Brookline Ave., in
front of Fenway Park. I sailed by, took a left, and three
pointed a turn. By the time I nosed the cab back onto the
main street, I could see 442's taillights heading down Brookline
to Park Drive.
I would have followed the passenger, except for one
thing. The young man had carelessly left his gym bag in the
cab.
I prayed for heavier traffic. A nice van to hide behind as
we played follow-the-Ieader over to Commonwealth Ave. No
such luck. I pulled in behind a big old dented Pontiac.
I had to squeeze the yellow light at the B.U. Bridge. I'm
always surprised when I do that and two cars behind me
come barreling through as well.
For a while, I thought Flaherty was homing the gym bag
to the cab company, which got me worried. If Sam was there
to take possession, I didn't want to be a witness. I breathed
easier when 442 passed the shortcut most of the cabbies take
home.
442 coasted to a stop on Harvard Street, across the street
from the Rebellion. I took a quick turn into an alleyway. Angling
my rearview mirror, I could see Flaherty run across the
street, gym bag tacked under his arm. He went to the side
door of the bar.
By this time, it was 3:35. Way after closing time. I got my
cab turned around, a tight maneuver in the narrow alley. I almost
bashed into two parked Green & White cabs. I wrote
down their numbers, and started cruising the neighborhood
looking for more. I found one right in the Rebellion's parking
lot. In a loading zone around the corner, I saw G&W
863, a cab I'd tailed two nights ago. Sean Boyle's cab.
Okay. Something was going down at the Rebellion,
something that looked very much like a meeting of the
Gaelic Brotherhood Association. Something that could involve
the contents of one gym bag picked up at "Maudie's"
in Dorchester. I wondered if the contents of the bag came in
neatly banded little bundles, like the cash in T.C.'s litter box.
I had options. I could sit here like a dummy. I could find a
good location, take photos as each cabbie departed.
The GBA pin I'd found in Eugene's locker seemed suddenly
heavy. It weighed my collar down. I touched it. I could
just walk in.
Damn. There was the matter of the bartender. If it was the
same bartender, old Billy what's-his-face, and if he remembered
me, recalled my questions, my license, my card, I'd be
sunk.
Maybe I'd have gone in anyway. Maybe I'd have taken
some Pulitzer Prize photos, maybe I'd have gotten zip. I'll
never know.
Flashing blue lights appeared out of nowhere, racing up
behind me.
Shit. I smacked my horn in pure frustration, pulled over.
The cops. Always there when you need them.

CHAPTER
24

"It's her, all right." A huge red-faced cop, the kind
they used to call a harness bull, peered in my side window.
"Any problem, Officer?" I said in my sweetest voice. I
wondered if the bull was named Doyle or Donahue, if he
was employed by the IRA to handle things just in case
someone tailed their delivery cab. I thought about the pipe
under my seat.
"Carlotta Carlyle?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Lieutenant Mooney wants to talk to you."
"You're kidding."
"Nah, we're supposed to bring you in."
"For questioning," a bright young patrolman added. He
was sticking his head in the passenger door.
"You don't have to tell her that," the bull snapped.
"Okay." The young guy backed off.
"Bring me in?" I said incredulously. "Arrest me? Mooney
wants to arrest me?"
"He wants to talk to you," the harness bull said, as if that
made everything okay.
"This is harassment," I said.
"Harassment," the bull repeated, pawing his book of traffic
tickets. "You call this harassment?"
"Look, I didn't do anything--"
"Oh, I thought you might not have signaled back tiiere at
the last right tum. Or maybe your high beams aren't working.
Or maybe you ran a red."
That, I call harassment.
"So, you want to talk to Lieutenant Mooney, or what?"
the bull said.
"What," I answered.
"Good. He's over at Area D. We'll escort you."
Just what I always wanted, a police escort.
At the station, Mooney was tilting back in his swivel
chair, big black cop shoes on die desktop, hands clasped behind
his head, eyes half closed. He had a dime-sized hole in
his left sole, and his right shoe could have used a new heel.
His office was like his shoes. The big walnut desk was
scratched and stained. The blotter curled at the edges. Two
four-drawer gray filing cabinets overflowed in a corner. No
flowers, no plants, no pictures. No wonder Mooney kept his
eyes closed.
I knew he wasn't sleeping. I was too damn mad to sit
down, so I stood there, arms crossed, fighting off the urge to
grab both his heels and teach him to do a somersault. I was
probably angrier than I should have been. I tend to get mad
when I enter that police station. It's got too many memories
for me. Some of them good ones, granted, but mainly it's the
bad stuff that lingers. The "partner" who didn't want to let
the "girl" drive. The clubby "boys only" atmosphere. The
carved-in-granite belief that if I achieved anything it was because
I'd slept with the right cop.
I breathed.
Part of it was that when I looked at Mooney, I thought
about Sam. And that made me uncomfortable. I mean, why
should Mooney remind me of Sam? Why should seeing
Mooney's face make me feel guilty? I hate feeling guilty.
"Coffee?" he said.
They have rotten coffee at Area D. They serve it in nasty
Styrofoam cups. Instead of milk or cream, there's this big jar
of powdered beige gunk.
"Am I under arrest?"
"Coffee?" he repeated. This time his eyes were open.
"Am I under arrest?" I repeated.
"Carlotta, you're gonna thank me for doing this. Why the
hell didn't you call? I must have left twenty messages."
"I called. You were out. Am I under arrest, or what?
Should I call my lawyer?"
"Christ, I'm sorry I interrupted your life. I was only trying
to do you a favor. Forget it. No charges. You can leave
anytime."
Now that was infuriating. Mooney knew I'd never leave
without finding out what the hell was going on. He turned
his attention to a file folder on his desk, and yanked a single
sheet of paper, holding it in his right hand. He read a few
lines with pretend concentration, shook his head sadly.
"Mooney--"

"Go on. Get lost."
I took the two steps I needed to get close enough, reached
over, and jerked the paper out of his grasp. I think he let go
on purpose. As I read, I sank into the visitor's chair, a disgusting
molded-plastic job.
I hardly noticed the discomfort. What I had in my hand
was a criminal record, a rap sheet, for one Thomas Charles
Carlyle. And let me tell you, this Thomas Charles Carlyle was
one bad boy, a one-man crime spree. Petty Larceny, Grand
Larceny: three arrests, two convictions. Illegal Firearms: three
violations. Statutory Rape. Rape. Armed Robbery. Et cetera.
There were mug shots attached. No mug shot is great, but
these were dreadful, because Thomas Charles Carlyle
looked like he'd had a fight with King Kong about an hour
before the photographer arrived. His nose was mashed over
on one side of his face, his lips were cut and swollen, one
eye was puffed shut. He sported a handlebar mustache. If
he'd shaved it off, no one could possibly identify him from
the photo, what with all the damage to his face. I glanced
back at his rap sheet and found a token Resisting Arrest
among the offenses.
"Carlotta," Mooney said as soon as I looked up, "there is
no condo company at Cedar Wash."
I opened my mouth and shut it again.
"Thomas C. Carlyle," he continued, "this Thomas C.
Carlyle, the guy with the sheet, is wanted by the FBI. They
got a hot tip. They think he's tied to some right-wing radical
group in the state, the New Survivalist League, or something."
I'd
heard of them. They'd tried to rob an armory someplace
in New Hampshire. Shot their guns, made a rumpus,
got away with a couple of handguns and a box of grenades. I
swallowed and nodded.
"They're using this contest thing to smoke him out,"
Mooney continued. "They did it in Florida a few years back,
tried it out on a few bastards with outstanding arrest warrants.
Lots of the creeps showed up for their condo tour, and
got slapped in jail instead."
The fluorescent lights in Mooney's office made me blink.
"I don't believe this. My cat gets Mother Jones. How could
they link him to a bunch of right-wingers?"
Mooney's shoes hit the floor with a thud and he stood up.
His height was menacing in the small room, and his voice let
me know I wasn't the only angry soul around. He spoke
softly, aware of the cops on the other side of the glass door
pretending to work while they listened. "The Feds are supposed
to inform us, not run their own stinking circus. Doing
it this way tells me they think the department sucks."
"No twenty thousand," I said. T.C. wasn't going to dine
on FancyFeast and Catviar.
"Not a nickel."
"T.C. was looking forward to it."
"You didn't believe this shit, did you?"
"Of course not," I said. Hell, no. I'd just finished asking
Roz if she could fake me a Mass. driver's license. I'd not
only called every damn Carlyle in the phone directory, I'd
proposed fraud to a cop.
I could tell Mooney was trying to keep a self-satisfied
smirk off his face. He shook his head. "Carlotta," he said,
"you know why you didn't last as a cop? Your imagination
runs away with you."
"Wrong, Mooney. I didn't make it because I didn't
brownnose." There's enough truth in that statement to make
it sound good. In spite of the sleaze, and the hostility from
the "boys," I might have stayed if I hadn't had to deal with
Administration.
"So, you want me to tell the FBI they screwed up?" Mooney asked eagerly.
"No," I said slowly. "Don't say anything. Not yet."
He adjusted to the disappointment. "Yeah, well, okay.
Fine. I mean, those FBI bastards, I wouldn't tell 'em if their
ass was on fire."
"Yeah."
"Look, keep me informed, will you? If they pull anything
really dumb, I want a chance to call the newspapers, and
give some reporter a ringside seat, okay?"
Considering how Mooney feels about reporters, he must
really despise the FBI. He rocked back on his heels, and looked uncomfortable, and for a moment I thought he was
going to ask me out again. But all he said was, "How's that
old lady of yours doing? The one who got beat up?"
"Not too bad."
"The case going okay?"
His tone was extra sympathetic. I guess he felt bad about
breaking my Cedar Wash bubble. I decided to take advantage
of his solicitude.
"Mooney," I said, "You remember the Valhalla, that ship
that--"
"The IRA gunrunner. You're not hooked up to that, are
you?"

"Have you heard any gunrunning tales lately, anybody
talking IRA revival?"
"Not a thing, Carlotta. Far as I can tell, the only people
talking IRA gun deals are FBI, or Alcohol, Tobacco, and
Firearms, trying to entrap. Why?"
I tried my leprechaun story out on him. He didn't like it
any better than Jay Schultz had.


CHAPTER
25

I was starting to get a queasy feeling in the pit of my
stomach whenever I thought about Eugene Devens.
Screeching the cab into its G&W parking slot dissipated
maybe a grain of my foul temper. Gloria pretended not to
notice. No doubt she'd given Mooney my cab number. I
might have taken exception to her generosity except that all
three big brothers, including the former NFL ear-biter, were
hanging around the office, glowering on cue.
What I couldn't figure was where Sam Gianelli fit in.
John Flaherty was Jackie, the young Irish firebrand Pat
had described. While Mooney was busy mocking my intuitive
powers, I'd flashed on the outline of Flaherty's head under
the cab's domelight, the set of head on neck, the shape of
his ears. I knew where I'd seen him before: reflected in a
mirror near a sign proclaiming Michelob Light the preferred
weekend brew of every patriotic American. At the Rebellion,
the night I'd trailed the three old coots. He was the
younger, talkative one. Even though I hadn't seen Flaherty's
face that night, on the shape of his ears alone I was ready to
label him Irish Jackie, organizer of the GBA revival.
Why Sam had hired Jackie was another matter. I couldn't
work Sam into the picture. Like I said, IRA and Gianelli
don't exactly mix.
I drove home. The clock said seven-thirty; the sun said
morning. I panicked, then remembered this week's Thursday
morning volleyball had been postponed due to grievous bodily
injuries. My distinctive blend of cab and cop-house
smells would never tempt Chanel, so I stripped, tossed my
clothes in the hamper, and stood under a stinging shower until
the hot water ran cold. I wrapped my hair and the rest of
me in matching oversized green towels. My phone's red
message light was blipping on and off when I stepped into
the bedroom.
"Hey, Carlotta, pretty fancy; answering machine and all,
huh? So, uh, this is Detective Schultz calling. Uh, Jay. Um,
look, you were right about, uh, the merchandise your, uh,
friend is selling, you know. And, uh, if you're taking pictures
still, and you should see him passing any vials, well, that
would help. Or going into any residences, say. Okay. Uh,
good-bye." He'd kept talking as he lowered the receiver, and
I could hear him damn all frigging machines. Frigging machines
were not properly impressed by boyish good looks
and well-groomed hair.
On the whole, I agree. I mean, who wants to talk to machinery?
I replayed the message. Translated, it meant Wispy
Beard was dealing crack, and the Cambridge cops would appreciate
it if I'd continue surveillance, so they could get on
with more important things, like citing teenagers for "lewd
and lascivious behavior" in Harvard Square.
Speaking of lewd and lascivious, another voice boomed
on the tape. Sam's, deep and husky. So sorry, he'd be out of
town for the next couple days. Would call me the minute he
got back. Shit.
I toweled my hair into a state of tangled semidryness, and
slid between the cool sheets. I imagined the FBI arresting
my cat. I thought about Wispy Beard, christened Horace. I
closed my eyes, and saw Jackie Flaherty's face superimposed
on Sam's tanned body. I wondered if Margaret Devens's
heart would withstand the shock of coming home to a Rozand-Lemon-cleaned
house. Pretty soon I'd worked myself
up to full-blown insomnia. You know, one minute you need
toothpicks to prop your eyelids up, the next minute, bingo,
wide awake. I get that way sometimes. The best thing I can
say for insomnia is it isn't fatal. I've learned when I can't
sleep, it's best not to try. So I got up, swore a little, dressed
in comfy old jeans and a long cotton knit pullover, ate bacon
and eggs for breakfast, or maybe dinner, and piloted my
Toyota to Cambridge.
I didn't run into old Horace Wispy Beard right away.
Even scumbag druggies take time off. He was not at his
usual post near Paolina's front door. I dozed in the car, and
woke, with a crick in my neck and a foul taste in my mouth,
a little past five in the afternoon. So much for insomnia.
Horace was in place. Motionless, he looked like a monument,
the statue of the Unknown Drug Dealer. A pack of cigarettes
was rolled into the sleeve of his T-shirt. His skin
seemed yellower as the sun sank behind gray clouds. He sat
and stared with his blind unfocused gaze. I took his picture.
Nobody came near him. A little past eight, he lit a cigarette.
The red point of light flared like a beacon, then moved away.
Without much conscious thought, I decided to follow
him. I could go straight to G&W afterwards.
If he hopped the subway at Kendall or Central Square, I'd
have to let him go. He headed for Central. I followed him.
Portland to Main Street to Mass. Ave. Trailing a walker in a
car requires patience. I kept my headlights on for a while,
flicked them off, then on, pulled ahead of him, parked,
turned off his street entirely, and picked him up again at the
next corner. He seemed oblivious, possibly taking on something
stronger than a Camel.
He passed the subway entrance and crossed Mass. Ave.,
racing against the light, and nearly getting clipped by a silver
Buick. Ran to catch the Dudley bus.
Good thing I'd been hacking the past week. Hanging a
U-turn in the middle of Central Square didn't faze me. I
sped off after bus 2654, one of the new ones, thank God. I
was stiff, my neck hurt, and pretty soon I was going to have to find a bathroom. All I needed was a lung full of bus exhaust.
Horace
Wispy Beard slouched in half a double seat near
the rear of the lighted bus. I drove erratically, one eye glued
to his back. He stayed on board as the complexions of the
passengers slowly changed, and the majority became minority,
and the bus headed into Roxbury.
I know Roxbury as well as the next whitey. To tell the
truth, I feel more comfortable there than I do in Southie.
Don't get me wrong. There are plenty of streets I won't
drive in Roxbury. I drew an imaginary boundary line for myself.
I was not about to cruise down Sonoma Street into the
area cops call "the shooting gallery," both for its heroin and
its firearms.
Horace left the bus before I had much time to plan or
worry, and set off at a determined pace down Albany Street.
He went to the side of a narrow house on Norfolk Street, and
knocked at the door. I didn't see him enter, but then I didn't
see him come back out either.
Without slowing down, I drove around the block and
parked parallel to the Norfolk Street house, in the shadow of
the neighborhood's tallest and only tree. Across the street
was some two-bit pocket playground. Pairs of sneakers, their
laces tied together, decorated the power lines like Christmas
lights. The park must have been crowded. I couldn't see
much, but I could hear sporadic laughter, the heavy bass beat
of a ghetto blaster, and a distant repetitive creak, like someone
rocking in a rusty swing.
I wanted the address of that house. I wanted pictures of
Wispy Beard entering and leaving. I wanted to weigh his
satchel, before and after. I wanted an itemized list of its
cargo.
What I could get was another thing.
The area seemed familiar, not because I'd been there before,
but because it was like a lot of other crowded urban
blocks. A place like this, near a major intersection, with a
tiny park, overcrowded flats, slummy-looking row houses, is
more active by night than by day. The music in the park
blared, suddenly louder.
If I'd tracked Horace to a "crack house," a factory, I could
bet a watcher had already noted the red Toyota's passage.
My car wouldn't freak anybody. A red Toyota is not a cop
car. Even undercover narcs drive American. Still, another
loop with the car might cause panic, and Uien the coke would
wind up in the sewer.
The tree blocked my parking spot from any guards stationed
on the roof. I hadn't noticed a lookout man on the
stoop. So maybe this was Horace's home, a respectable
dwelling, for all I knew. I doubled the volume on my radio,
and flipped to a hard rock station. It seemed an appropriate
neighborhood activity. I started jamming my hair up under
my hat, and that was the first I knew of my body's plans to
leave the relative safety of the car.
Now darkness can hide a lot of things, but a six-foot-one
inch redhead is not one of them. I wanted to take pictures,
but I needed camouflage. Momentarily, I wished Roz was
along for the ride, so she could coddle the right high-speed
film into the Canon, and do the shoot. Roz provides her own
camouflage.
I considered options. I could march up to the front door
and ask everybody to say "cheese." I could sneak up on the
place from the rear, but the neighbor's scrap-heap yard
looked ideal for a nuclear waste dump. I had no desire to get
my toes nibbled by rats.
The tree that hid my car so well prevented picture taking.
It was what we used to call a nice climbing tree back in Detroit,
with a good low split fork, and plenty of heavy
branches. Now I haven't climbed a tree in maybe ten years,
but the impulse was strong. I overcame it. Trees do not have
back doors, and unexpected exits from trees can be both humiliating
and painful. I leaned back in the driver's seat.
I was exhausted. Sleep in a car doesn't count like sleep in
a bed. I checked my watch. Almost eleven. I took pleasure in
imagining the steam rushing from Gloria's ears when I
didn't show promptly at G&W. I thought about bathrooms.
Two giggling teenaged girls passed by talking about what
Clyde did to Germaine in the back seat of that old Buick.
And what Germaine did to Clyde. And what Howie was
gonna do when he found out from Germaine what Clyde did
to her. That Germaine would feel the need to confide in
Howie was a given.
Lights flared in a house across the street and I slid down
in the seat. Slurred voices shouted back and forth, and
"never-was-any-fucking-good-Angela" was given the boot
for the night.
A clatter of high-heeled shoes and a burst of raucous
laughter signaled the arrival of four ladies of the night. I'd
worked the Zone long enough to spot the clothes and the
walk. Hoots from the park confirmed my judgment. These
were not gals returning from a stint at the local convenience
mart. Their workday was just beginning.
Now my least favorite cop job was decoy. That's when
they'd dress me up as bait, wire me, and see if I could put the
fear of God into some John in the market for a quick screw. I
mean, I hated it. Not only did it make me feel like a piece of
meat, but I always had the sneaking feeling that my backup
officers got off on the whole trip.
Ah, the hell with it. All experience comes in useful
sooner or later. I yanked off my hat and ran my fingers
through my hair. I found a lipstick, but no blusher, in my
purse, so Max Factor's Primrose Red had to make due for
both. Rearview mirrors are not great for makeup, but I managed
an exaggerated mouth, and two slanty cheekbone accents.
My
clothes were as wrong as they could be. I checked out
the backseat for whatever I'd dumped there. I spend a lot of
time in my car, and I'm not neat at heart, so things accumulate.
I had my gym stuff: tank top, shorts, sneakers, a terrycloth
headband; none too alluring. On the other hand, my
sweater was one of those thigh-length numbers.
I wriggled out of my jeans, and tugged at the sweater's
neck until it stretched and slipped down over one shoulder.
With my bra strap hanging out, the new neckline didn't have
much pizazz, so I stack my arms inside the sleeves, made a
temporary tent out of the sweater, reached around, unhooked
my bra, and stuffed it in the dash compartment. The new
outfit cried for a wide, studded leather belt. What I located
was a stingy yard of rope. I tied it around my waist and
yanked the sweater up and over, to hide it. The blouson effect
wasn't bad, but it made the sweater damn short.
My shoes were disastrous, but that was okay because I
have plenty of abandoned shoes in my car. I hate uncomfortable
shoes, but since the choice in size 11 is so limited, I often
wind up with clunkers I've purchased out of desperation.
Shoes that raise blisters generally get kicked off on the way
home, because I can't stand driving in them. I found one perfect
heeled sandal under the front seat. It must have taken
me ten minutes to find the oflier. I wasn't sure they were a
matched set. They pinched like hell. No wonder I'd ditched
them.
I bent over at the waist, and gave my head a shake to
make the red curls wild. I stepped out of the car whistling,
shoulder bag tossed carelessly over my arm, and was rewarded
for my efforts by an anonymous wolf whistle from
the park across the street. I turned and flashed my unknown
admirer a come-hither grin.
Walking the way the pros walk, I joined the gaggle on the
corner. My arrival made us a well-integrated group. Two
blacks; one Hispanic, who couldn't have been more than sixteen;
one washed-out blonde, who looked like an escaped
suburban homecoming queen; and Momma's own Jewish
princess.
"Hey," I murmured as a low-key greeting. I knew from
experience these gals were not much for chatter with
strangers.
"Hey," the taller of the black ladies responded, after
silently checking with her cohorts to see if anybody knew
me. She was wearing a leather miniskirt and a cut-off top
that didn't hide the lower curve of her breasts. "Seen Renney
tonight?"
I took a while to respond, keeping my eyes half closed,
leaning up against a lamppost, and humming a few meandering
notes. The streetlight overhead was broken, which was
fine because I look too healthy to be a working girl, what
with all that volleyball and swimming. "Renney, yeah," I
mumbled hazily. "Renney's the man, all right. Ain't nothin'
Renney don't know." I slurred the words together in a
singsong chant. I'd seen enough hookers coming down from
highs to know the routine. I scratched my arm and yawned.
"Jina fixed us up."
There used to be this pimp named Renney who ran a
string in the Zone. I hoped he wouldn't pick tonight for a
spot check. Jina was a local hooker whose body had been pulled out of a railroad car in South Boston.
I listened to the ladies rap about bullshit arrests, with
fifty-buck fines, which don't seem so bad when you make
five hundred a night. The older black woman, Estelle, was
thinking of ditching the life, spending more time with her
kids. The Hispanic lady chuckled and asked her if she knew
what they paid an hour at McDonald's. The blonde had a
friend who'd gotten AIDS. She'd had herself tested, and was
relieved the results were negative. The girls agreed that a
checkup every six months was the only way to go. And condoms.
And weren't the Johns getting freakier, and what the
hell did the cops mean, harassing the Johns like that?
Cars slowed, honked, stopped. The Hispanic girl went for
a ride. The short black lady in the glittery bandeau top and
cheeky shorts took a walk in the park, escorted by a gentleman
in a leather flight jacket and silver sunglasses. I liked
that touch, sunglasses at midnight.
Nothing happened at the house I was watching, but the
lights were still blazing, a hopeful sign. I kept my camera
ready in my hand, blocked by the shoulder bag. I wasn't sure
I could risk walking by the house to get a better shot. And I
wasn't going to compromise my cover for any still life. If
something didn't happen soon, I was going to have to give
up my hooker act, or start a new career.
I wondered how long it would take the gals to get suspicious
about my lack of dates. So far, the furthest I'd strayed
was the all-night grocery where use of a grimy toilet was
available for a buck. Oh, I'd go over to a car and whisper in
the guy's ear all right. At first, I priced myself out of the
market. Hundred-dollar tricks are not turned on Norfolk
Street corners. One guy was so stoned he okayed the hundred.
I told him I hoped he had herpes, too. I hardly had time
to pull my head out the window before he took off.
A shiny Olds shrieked to a halt right in front of me. The
door opened and a new addition to the hooker brigade got
out. I pivoted as soon as I saw her face. I knew the lady. God,
I'd booked her, what was her name? Maria? Marlene? Hell,
I'd booked her so often we were practically best friends.
I backed off, closed my eyes, hunched down, and nodded
against the lamppost.
"Babe, you okay?" Maria knelt down next to me. She was
the motherly type. Maybe that's why she had six kids, all in
state care. I didn't open my eyes. I could hear her breathing,
smell her musky scent. "Hey," she said, "hey, don't I know
you?"
Adrenaline pumped. I hadn't decided between fight and
flight.
"Lemme see now, what's your name, girl?"
I opened my eyes. She stared at me with a puzzled frown,
then caught her breath. My legs tensed.
Our eyes locked for a moment that seemed to last a half
hour. Then she put her hand to her mouth, giggled, and said,
"Bitch, cain't you do nuthin' 'bout that hair?" She slapped
me on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, and the other ladies
relaxed.
Maria's hair was a different color than it used to be. 1
think she was wearing a wig. Five years ago, she'd been a
looker, high Cherokee cheekbones, and legs that wouldn't
quit. She'd put on weight. She had deep carved circles under
her eyes, and wore too much makeup to hide them. At the
moment, she looked beautiful to me.
"Maria, babe, long time," I said. "Hey, let's walk."
We strolled the block. She asked if she was under arrest,
in the kind of hopeful tone that said she didn't have a place
149

to flop for the night. I said I was no longer a cop, and she
shot me a glance of shocked disbelief.
"You ain't hookin'?" she said.
"Look," I said, "you want to make some stand-up
money?"
"What I gotta do?" She was in a profession where wariness
pays off.
"I want some pictures of a house, and anybody who
comes out of it. If we stand right over there, about two feet
from that fire hydrant, and gab, and you shield me so they
can't see what I'm doing, I'll give you fifty."
"Seventy-five," she said. "I get caught, I can't work this
corner no more."
"Sixty-five," I said, because she expected me to bargain.
"You one tight-ass bitch," she said, smiling.
"You doing okay?" I asked.
"Now and then," she said. "The kids are growin' so fast.
Where you want me to stand? And how long? Any bad dudes
involved, they gonna notice us for sure."
That was true enough, considering my outfit and hers.
She made me look downright conservative. Her satin boxer
shorts were cut up the thighs, leaving very little to the imagination.
She wore a lace-up fake gold-lame vest, with nothing
underneath, and the laces spread wide. I tugged my
sweater to get more shoulder exposure. We'd get noticed all
right. But noticed as part of the scenery, if we were lucky.
We were hiding in plain sight, playing statues.
I decided to give Wispy Beard another hour. My thighs
were getting goosebumps, and my self-esteem was suffering,
but like I said, I am stubborn.
Sometimes, very rarely, it pays off.
Maybe twenty minutes later, it went down. Probably the
last thing I expected.
A cab, a Green & White cab, pulled up in front of the
house. The driver didn't sound the horn, just sat there, waiting.
I could read the number on the front right fender: 863.
Maria and I had our routine down pretty well by then. We
turned together, giggling and chatting like old comrades, and
I snapped the camera's shutter. 863 was Sean Boyle's cab, the
Old Geezer himself. I caught a glimpse of his white hair.
He waited all of two minutes, then the upstairs lights in
the house went out. Fifteen seconds later the front door
opened. Three men came out.
The first man seemed in charge. He wore a conservative
suit, a white shirt that gleamed in the darkness, and a fashionably
narrow tie. His features were shadowed by a dignified
fedora. He looked Irish. I'd never seen him before.
The other two walked half a step behind him, like bodyguards.
The one on the left had a set of impressive muscles.
He carried a gym bag. I'd snapped four pictures before I realized
the one on the right was Wispy Beard.
The well-dressed man got into the cab. The gym bag was
passed to him. Everybody kept a careful eye on that bag.
I took pictures until the cab disappeared, and Wispy
Beard and his friend went back in the house. I gave Maria
her sixty-five, plus a ten-dollar bonus of IRA-gotten gains.
Wispy Beard and Sean Boyle. Together.
Faith and begorra.
Or, as my grandmother used to say: All is not butter that
comes from a cow.

CHAPTER
26

As soon as I turned the corner, out of sight of both the
hookers and the house on Norfolk Street, I broke into a run
and almost killed myself racing to the Toyota in those damn
sandals. I kicked them off as soon as I sat down. Then I
gunned the motor and took off.
Damn. Damn. Damn. I'd never catch Sean Boyle. If I'd
had my cab, the cab I should have picked up two hours ago,
I could have flipped on the radio, called Gloria, and found
out where Boyle was heading. I screeched a tarn, and told
myself to cool it. I didn't want to get picked up by the cops;
not wearing this classy outfit, I didn't.
I saw a cab's roof lights up ahead, and jammed the accelerator
to the floor. It was an innocent Red Cab, idling along,
no fare in the backseat.
I braked, hesitated, and decided to head for Green &
White. I doubted Gloria would be in a helpful mood, what
with my tardiness, but I wasn't about to give up following
any guy with a gym bag who took G&W cabs and hung out
with scum like Wispy Beard. At the first traffic light, the guy
next to me honked, raced his motor, and yelled something
out the window. I yanked tissues out of my purse, and managed
to smear most of the lipstick off my face. At the second
light, I untied the rope around my waist and pulled my
sweater down to its full length. I groped in the backseat for
my pants, with no luck.
Instead of taking the shortcut, I decided to scoot down
Harvard Street. It's not far out of the way, and I wanted to
check the Rebellion. John Flaherty had driven his gym bag
there like a homing pigeon. Why not Sean Boyle?
Boyle's cab was in the parking lot.
I shot right past, sure my eyes must be deceiving me.
Some of the same cabs I'd noted the night before were
parked on the street. The bar's neon sign was dead black tubing.
The front door was barred, and a steel-mesh curtain
shuttered the windows, but something was going on inside.
Just like last night. I glanced in my rearview mirror, hoping
Mooney hadn't sicced more cops on me. I reviewed last
night's thoughts: What next? Wait? Take pictures? Risk entering
the bar?
I parked illegally around the corner from the lot. I made
up my mind. I couldn't find my jeans, so I wriggled into my
gym shorts. They didn't show under the long sweater, but
they made me feel better. So did my bra. I found both my
sneakers, but only one sock. I tossed it into the backseat, and
laced my shoes onto bare feet.
I have broken into cars before. I have used everything
from bent wire coat hangers to your latest high-tech wonder
tools, courtesy of a car thief I once arrested, a man eager to
prove his superiority to your average car-stealing punk. If he
hadn't been absolutely wasted on dope--and hadn't thought
himself one of the hunky ladykillers of the world--I doubt
he'd have shown off his prize collection of boosters with
such pride of ownership. He's doing five at Concord Reformatory,
which should curb his desire to impress girls.
Breaking into Sean Boyle's cab was not without challenge.
The parking lot was brightly lit, and Harvard Street's
a main drag, patrolled by many a police cruiser. Since I
hadn't been able to watch last night's gathering of the Gaelic
Brotherhood, I had no idea how long tonight's meeting
might last. An adrenaline spurt propelled me to the cab
faster than my intended casual stroll.
Sean Boyle hadn't bothered to lock the cab, in direct disregard
of Gloria's oft-repeated warning. He hadn't been
dumb enough to leave the keys in the ignition, which was too
bad because "stealing" the cab and searching it at my leisure
seemed like a fine idea. I got inside, and quietly pulled the
door shut. No need to advertise by leaving the domelight
glowing.
I reached under the front seat and found a handful of
dirty leaves, got awkwardly down on all fours, and peered
under the seat. The rough carpeting scratched my cheek. It
smelled of stale cigar ashes and dried mud. I stuck my hands
into the cushion cracks and got an assortment of small
change, which I pocketed. The dash compartment was
locked. I never lock my cab's dash compartment.
Now I can open most locks. Give me time and decent
lighting, and I can do the job. It's one of those small hand
coordination things I do well, like picking the guitar. Time
was the problem. It seemed like I'd been in cab 863 long
enough for Boyle to drink his weight in Guinness. My hands
were sweating.
I inhaled deeply, hauled myself up onto the passenger
seat, and staffed my handbag between my legs. I fished out
my flashlight on the first plunge, scrounged around for eternity
before I located my leather case of metal odds and ends.
I jammed the flashlight under my right thigh, aiming its narrow
beam as close to the lock as I could manage.
The adrenaline was really pumping now. Slow and easy, I
muttered to myself. You can't force a lock. You have to tease
it, gentle it along until it's good and ready. Mooney used to
make a lot of pointed remarks about my lock-picking skills,
but I wish he could have seen me do that lock. If I can't
make it as a private investigator, I can always burgle.
I jumped when the light inside die dash compartment lit
up. It must have been all of five watts, but it seemed like a
wailing burglar alarm. My heart quit leaping around when I
saw the package.
It was a four-by-six-by-two box, wrapped in brown mailing paper. No address. Instead of string or tape, it was sealed
with ornate green wax seals, initialed GBA. I hefted it.
Light. I shook it. Nothing. I smelled it. Not a clue. I figured
a gym bag could hold maybe thirty boxes.
I couldn't open the box because of the damn seals, one on
each end, two across the main seam of the brown paper. I
could steal it, but Boyle would be sure to notice. Not only
that, I could see myself explaining to Mooney how I'd come
by the damn thing, hear him reciting rules of evidence. Reluctantly,
I put it back in the dash compartment, took pictures,
hoping the film was fast enough for the available light.
While taking photos, I noticed another item in the dash
compartment, a whitish rectangle half hidden under a map
of the city. It was a postcard from Ireland, a landscape of
green hills and contented sheep. It was signed "Gene."
That puzzled me, so I stole it. I figure people misplace
postcards all the time.
155


CHAPTER
27

You had to hand it to Margaret Devens. One day removed
from her hospital bed, and she was the perfect hostess.
Margaret's living room seemed less resilient than the
lady herself. Odds and ends of mismatched furniture filled
the floor space. Roz and Lemon had hauled an old couch
down from the second floor to replace the one the goons had
ruined. An armchair wore a temporary splint on one wobbly
leg. The rug had been sent to the cleaners. The doors of the
curio cabinets were missing, sent to a local repairman. An
unbroken vase sat dead center on the mantle, inadequate for
such pride of place. It made the absence of other knickknacks
more noticeable.
The "guests" arrived in straggly groups of twos and
threes. They had the pasty faces of men who worked nights,
slept days.
They squirmed on the ugly sofa, they teetered on card
table chairs imported for the occasion, the old men of Green
& White, the iron core of the Gaelic Brotherhood. Margaret
Devens had handpicked the invitees, her brother's friends,
ten in all.
If Eugene and Flaherty had been present, we'd have had
enough for a jury.
Sean Boyle, looking more sober than usual, was one of
the first to arrive. Joe Fergus was grumpy, ready to pick a
fight. O'Keefe, O'Callahan, Corcoran followed, Irish every
one. All over fifty, some closer to sixty, some older, with
glazed, glittery eyes that had seen days when the Irish
weren't welcome in Boston, when they were "Micks" and
"Harps" and names less specific and less flattering.
The old men stared at the living room's blank walls and
unshaded lamps, at the long extension cord looping toward
the slide projector. They spoke warily, in low, speculative
tones. It reminded me of a wake without a body.
I'd volunteered to start things off, but Margaret had
firmly, politely refused. She would handle it, thank you. Her
sweet, fussy disguise was gone, maybe for good. No flowered
dress, no feathered hat. She wore plain black, buttoned
to a high, stiff collar. Her face was pale, her right eye
blotched with pale bruises. One knee was bandaged. She
didn't smile in welcome as the men trooped dutifully
through the foyer. She didn't seem to notice anyone enter the
living room.
She took her stand at the entrance to the living room, underneath
the archway, and her presence stilled the men's
voices. She carried a sheet of paper in her hand. It rustled as
she raised it to her eyes.
"No Second Troy," she announced.
The men on the couch gave each other that look, the
dotty-old-biddy look, the let's-get-out-of-here look.
Her voice was shaky, not with weakness, but with suppressed
emotion. She sounded infinitely old, infinitely
weary. "This poem, gentlemen, was found in my brother's
room. William Butler Yeats wrote it, about a woman he loved
with a hopeless passion. She was a heroine of the Irish Rebellion.
Maud was her name, Maud Gonne. And for some
reason, my brother, who was no lover of poetry, saw fit to
copy it in his own hand. If he could take the time to copy it,
surely you can have the courtesy to listen. Possibly, some of
you know it already. Please excuse me if I speak too softly-- or too slowly."
She didn't say that her mouth and jaw still ached from the
beating. She didn't have to.
The old guys settled down, doomed to a long sermon in
an uncomfortable pew.
"No Second Troy," Margaret repeated.

156

"Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?"

Silence greeted the ending of the verse. A shrug or two,
maybe a few pairs of guarded, narrowed eyes.
Margaret let the paper fall. It drifted into the hallway. She
took no notice of it. " 'Taught to ignorant men most violent
ways,' " she repeated. "Now--" She stared at the assembled
faces in the room, and seemed to lose the thread of her
thoughts. I wondered if she was searching for a face not
present. I wondered if she was looking for her brother. She
shook her head, and blinked her eyes rapidly. Then she went
on. "To the point of our meeting. I hired someone to look
into Eugene's disappearance, since none of you gentlemen
would tell me where he'd gone. My investigator has some
slides to show you. I trust you will find them enlightening."
She gave up the floor, and moved, ramrod-stiff, toward the
fireplace. Joe Fergus rose as if to offer his seat. She ignored
him and passed by.
There was a murmur when I stood up.
"Still a cop," Sean Boyle muttered. "Worse, a spy."
"Shut your trap, Sean Boyle." Margaret Devens wheeled
to face him, and snapped out the words with more spark than
I thought she had left. "And don't any of you speak until
Miss Carlyle is through. Then you'll get plenty of chance for
talk, and I hope you'll take it."
I'd set up the slide projector early that morning, done a
dry run with Roz--my darkroom wizard--as audience, be157

cause I hate it when my visual aids flop. My first slide was a
view of Margaret's living room, post-goon squad.
"You know Miss Devens is upset about her brother's disappearance,"
I began. "You might think she's angry about
what happened to her house, or maybe about the fact that
you collect for the IRA."
"IRA" got a couple of guys to sit upright.
"And if they did," Margaret interrupted with a quiet intensity,
"it's true they should be ashamed. Big shots, every
one of them. They know what IRA money buys. Bombs at
holiday resorts to kill hardworking people who've finally
saved enough for a trip to the seaside. Plastic explosives in
department stores the day before Christmas. Machine guns,
maybe, to murder mothers and fathers in front of their children--"
I
hadn't had Margaret aboard during the dry run.
"The British have no right--" somebody started to say.
"No right?" Margaret echoed, cutting the protest short.
"No right? Who cares who's got rights? Children with their
arms blown off, and their legs left bloody stumps? Shut up,
you fool. Don't talk to me about rights!"
"Miss Devens," I said. "Should I go on?"
"Oh, yes," she said bitterly. "Let's go on."
Roz, fairly respectable in one of her longer miniskirts,
moved a step closer to Margaret, ready to break her fall if
she fainted. Roz is good like that.
I flashed a blowup of a police mug shot on the blank
white wall. It was greeted by a general mutter of puzzlement.
"This
is Horace 'Bud' Harold," I explained. "He has a rap
sheet that runs to multiple pages." I hit the button, showed
him at the schoolyard, passing something along to a kid. In
the blowup, you could see that it wasn't a packet, wasn't the
glassine envelope I'd expected. It was a small vial, a fact I
was certain would interest my Cambridge cop pal, Jay
Schultz. "He is a drug pusher. That vial is full of crack. Cocaine.
He sells it to kids."
"So what?" The voice came from the back of the room. I
glanced over at Sean Boyle. His red face remained blank. He
hadn't recognized his passenger's bodyguard.
"Let me show you a couple more slides," I said. I did
them in sequence. First, the mug shot, then the dealing shot,
then a good shot of the well-dressed man, in suit and tie,
heading down the front walk accompanied by his strong-arm
guard.
I used a pencil as a pointer. "This guy look familiar?" I
asked, indicating Wispy Beard. Boyle craned his neck for a
better view.
"Now watch carefully," I said, and I showed the slides of
the well-dressed man boarding Boyle's cab, Horace and the
gym-bag-toting goon by his side. The goon passed the gym
bag to the passenger. I'd gotten a slice of Maria's thigh in a
couple of shots, but they were pretty good photos on the
whole.
"A man's got the right to call a cab," Boyle said slowly,
"even if he associates with undesirables." You could tell he
was thinking hard. "You sure those two are the same man?"
I flashed both pictures of Horace Harold on the wall so he
could see for himself. "I tailed him to the house. He brought
a satchel with him. It's possible the contents were transferred
to a gym bag. I assume your passenger left a gym bag
in your cab, as usual, and then you took it over to some bar,
maybe the Rebellion, and split up the boxes, and made your
deliveries--"
"Wait a minute," Joe Fergus said, rising to his full five
six. "We shouldn't say anything. Jackie wouldn't--"
"You're twice-over fools," Margaret said, the words
bursting out of her. She couldn't keep them bottled up, and
her cold intensity drowned out Fergus's tenor. "Big-deal cab
drivers helping out the IRA. Something to brag about at the
bars. And all the time, you're running cocaine, and heroin,
and God knows what poison around the city like the pack of
hoodlums you are."
"What did she say?"
"Cocaine?"
"What the hell!"
"Drugs? None of us would--"
Shouts, denials, accusations, and general bedlam broke
out.
"Hang on," I yelled. "Just look at the damn photos." I skipped a few slots in the carousel projector because things
were moving faster than I'd expected. I hit the button, and
John Flaherty's grinning face appeared on the wall.
"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said flatly, "but I've heard it
from a good authority that you guys have been helping the
IRA for a while, in a small way. You picked up change from
bar canisters, converted the change to cash, and passed it
along to somebody higher up, right?"
"Don't say anything," Boyle ordered the troops, which
was fine by me.
"Then this man came along. John Flaherty, he calls himself.
Jackie."
"Jackie wouldn't have a thing to do with drugs--"
"Shut up, Corcoran," Boyle said. "I, for one, don't believe
a word of it. We know Flaherty. It's some trick to get us
to admit to helping the Provos. Jackie would never get mixed
up with drugs. Cocaine, heroin, where would he get it from,
eh?"
"Did Jackie ever tell you where he used to work?" I
asked.
"In the Republic," Boyle said proudly. "All over the
southern counties. Then in the North. Belfast. Deny. Underground."
"He's
an Irish national, then?"
"Is that a crime?"
"Anybody seen his passport?"
Silence.
"They'd have checked it at the company," somebody
piped up. "When they hired him. You've got to do that with
foreigners."
In her jerry-rigged basement darkroom, Roz had worked
wonders, shooting terrific slides of enlarged B&W negatives
of Flaherty's employment application. The slides, rushed
through a professional lab that offered six-hour service,
were grainy, but legible. Every space remained blank, except
for the name slot: "John Flaherty," and the address rectangle,
which was filled with a number and street in Dorchester. I'd
checked out the address. The Vietnamese couple who'd answered
the door of apartment 2A were extremely polite.
They smiled and bowed, but spoke little English. The building
superintendent had never heard of any John or Jackie
Flaherty. I told the old men about the phony address.
"So what?" Fergus shouted. "He's on the run. There are
plenty of damned informers, and a lot of Ulster storm troopers
who want him dead."
The men, by general murmur, agreed with Fergus.
"If Flaherty was an Irish national, his passport number,
his visa status, would have to be on file, right?" I said. "You
know how strict Gloria is about that staff, don't you? Can
you think of any reason she might have approved an application
like this one, with nothing, no work history, no references?"
I had another slide ready for them. A blowup of a
second sheet of paper, this one with less information on it.
Just a name this time: "John Flaherty." A scrawl occupied
the rest of the page. "Hire," it said. It was signed "Sam Gianelli."
The
second enlargement wasn't as sharp as the first. I
hadn't given Roz much time to work on it. I'd wanted to replace
it in Green & White's locked files before Gloria realized
it was gone.
"Do you want to ask me again?" I said. "How he might
have gotten ahold of drugs? Or have any of you heard of the
Gianelli family?"
"Not Sam," somebody murmured. I was glad it wasn't
me. I'd been singing that refrain for a day or two now.
"Didn't any of you open the parcels you ferried around
the city?" I asked.
"They were sealed. For our protection, so the FBI
couldn't trace us with fingerprints." The voice was Joe Fergus's,
insistent, demanding.
"Listen," I said. "It's no good. I've talked to cops: State.
Boston, Cambridge. I've asked around. The word is that
161

nothing, no money, no munitions, is moving out of Massachusetts,
except legitimately, through the Ireland Fund.
Everything going to Ireland is watched, and counted, and
counted again, ever since the Valhalla business."
"All that proves is that Jackie and the IRA are smarter
than the cops, or the cops are in it with them, and plenty
are," came a voice from the back of the room.
"You tell me," I said. "Where are the guns coming from?
Armories? Dealers? How are they getting to Ireland? Where
are the ships? They're not moving out of Gloucester anymore.
Nothing's sailed from the South Shore. Nothing out of
Boston. What about the planes? Is Aer Lingus taking off
from Logan loaded with guns? Has Jackie found a way to
fool the airport metal detectors? Maybe he's using an Air
Force base. Are planes taking off from Hanscom Field? For
Ireland?" I started at one end of the room and tried to meet
each man's eye, to put the questions to each of them. "Nobody
here got curious enough to ask? Well, let me tell you
this. Irish arms are not circulating in this state. What is moving
in Massachusetts is cheap, smokable cocaine--crack-- in little vials like the one you saw on the screen. And I think
you're moving it, as unpaid, blind couriers. 'Mules,' they
call them in the trade."
"I don't believe a word," Sean Boyle said.
I had an answer. In the form of a slide. A copy of an old
mug shot, granted, but Roz does good work, and the resemblance
was clear.
"Your precious John Flaherty has a record," I said. "A
friend of mine ran the name for me, and came up with a drug
bust and conviction back in 'seventy-nine. Three months in
the Concord Reformatory. He was not an Irish national in
'seventy-nine."
He hadn't even used an alias for his operation at Green &
White. How dumb can you get?
The old guys didn't say anything. They stared at young
Jackie Flaherty with numbers across his chest and a defiant
glare in his eyes. His hair was longer, tousled. I expected
somebody to protest. I mean, a record isn't everything.
There are felons who go straight. I didn't think our Jackie
was one of them.
"Somebody here is FBI," one of the men in the back declared,
a loyalist to the core. "As soon as we admit to anything,
we're all in the slammer."
Margaret Devens drew herself up to her full height. "You
have my word, Dan O'Keefe, and you have no reason to
doubt my word. No one here has any authority to keep you.
Leave if you like. If it were up to me, I'd arrest the whole lot
of you, for what you tried to do, and for what you did. God
knows which is a worse sin, but evil is evil, and either way,
it's a burden you'll carry forever on your soul."
Nobody said anything for a full minute, maybe two. I
could hear the dining room clock ticking away.
"Well," I said, "I've shown you that one of your 'IRA'
couriers hangs out with a known drug dealer. I've given you
a source of the drugs, the Gianellis. Maybe I've even shaken
your faith in Jackie. Here's your chance to prove me wrong,
to say, "I opened that parcel, and it contained one automatic
pistol with a green ribbon tied around the barrel.'"
Nobody said a word.
"How about you, Boyle? You want to tell me that the
courier in the photo didn't use the name 'Maud' when he
called G and W?"
Silence.
"So none of you got curious enough to open a package," I
said.
"My brother Eugene was an inquiring man all his life,"
said Margaret Devens, softly. "A curious man, not one to
take things on faith."
"Oh, my God." The words punched the wind out of Sean
Boyle, and he sat heavily on the couch.
I said, "Tell us where Eugene went."
"Well, he's in Ireland," Joe Fergus said petulantly. "In
Ireland."
"Dear Lord," Margaret whispered, "the man still believes."
"Boyle
had a postcard," Fergus insisted.
While Boyle was patting his jacket pockets, I held it up.
"Never mind where I got it," I said. "Is this the one?"
Boyle grabbed it, checked both sides, nodded.
"Tell them what you told me, Margaret," I said.
"It's not his handwriting," she said. "Not even close."
Roz had enlarged the smeared postmark. I didn't have the
heart to tell them the card had been sent from Dublin, New
Hampshire.
"My God, if this is true," Sean Boyle said slowly, "then
Eugene's not--maybe not in Ireland at all. Margaret, believe
me, we thought he was on his way with a shipment of arms.
It was his dream."
Right out of his boys' adventure novels.
"Where's Eugene, then?" Boyle murmured. Elbows on
knees, he cupped his palms, and let his head sink into his
hands.
Margaret Devens knew the answer to that one. You could
read it in her face.
"Margaret," Sean Boyle said, "I just don't know... I
don't know what to say to you."
"The whole lot of you should go to prison for what
you've done--"
"Margaret," I interrupted. We'd been over that ground.
"All you can say, Boyle," she continued bitterly, "is nothing.
And all you can do is pay attention to this red-haired
woman. You do exactly what she says, and maybe you won't
see the inside of a cell for years to come."
I cleared my throat, to give the men time to think about
what they'd heard, and because it was hard to watch Margaret
and not get caught up in her pain. "I know something
about the distribution plan," I said. "I know it has to do with
the cab radios, and with the code name 'Maud,' from the
poem." I gave a silent thank you to Pat, who'd put me on the
right track. A woman's name. Something poetic.
I thought about Jackie Flaherty with reluctant admiration.
True, he was too dumb to change his name, but he was smart
enough to find a secret organization in place, a band of men
well known in the community, with access to all 
neighborhoods, a reliable communication network--a group ripe for
co-opting. Talk about a respectable cover--God, half of
them must have cousins on the force. A whole fleet of unpaid,
dependable mules, dreaming outdated dreams of glory.
An unquestioning army brimming with unexploited loyalty.
If felons were smart all the time, cops would go out of
business. I wondered if the setup had been Flaherty's idea
from the start. Or if it had come from the top.
"Maud," Sean Boyle began slowly, looking at Margaret,
but speaking to me. "Maud or Maudie, that was the signal.
And it was always a woman's voice that made the call, so
Gloria wouldn't get suspicious, and the calls were made
none too often, and never from the same place twice."

CHAPTER
28

At home the next morning, Red Emma was in a feisty
mood, digging her claws into my index finger and pecking
away at the kitchen phone. I held her farther off so she
wouldn't disturb the cute little bugging mechanism I'd discovered
inside the speaker.
"Budgies of the world, unite!" I intoned at the bird.
"Read my lips, kid."
Muzak oozed from the receiver. I held it a good six
inches from my ear.
"How about 'Better red than dead'?" I asked. Red Emma
was not interested. She wanted to peck my nose off. "Better
green than dead?"
"What did you say?" The voice was female and accusing.
I almost dropped both the receiver and the budgie.
"I'm trying to reach Mr. Andrews," I said politely. "It's
important. Urgent, you might say."
Muzak gushed.
I can always tell Red Emma's mood by her degree of
fluffiness. On those rare occasions when she is cheerful, she
puffs up into a green featherball. When she's pissed, she gets
so skinny you can barely see her. She dug her talons into my
finger, and looked positively anorexic. Not without difficulty,
I waved her off. She contentedly dive-bombed my
head.
"Mrs. Carlyle." The welcoming bass was that of "our Mr.
Andrews" all right. Thanks to Mooney, I knew who he really
was. I kept my knowledge out of my voice.
"Great news, Mr. Andrews," I said eagerly. "I got in touch
with Thomas. Is there any chance you can wait till the end of
the week for us to visit Cedar Wash? He'll be home by then,
and I'm sure he'll want to--"

The bastard tripped over his own words in his eagerness.
"Where did you say he was now? Did he call?"
If he'd called, you'd have heard every word, Mr. FBI
man, I thought.
"He called a friend, a business partner, and the, uh, friend
got in touch with me. But the important thing is that Tom
will be home by, oh, Friday, at the latest. So, do you think
you can stretch the contest rules for us? We can visit Cedar
Wash as soon as he gets home."
"Just a minute," Andrews said. He put me on hold. I
imagined him chortling on the other end of the line, informing
his colleagues that he'd hooked a big one.
"Well," he said, returning after a suspensefuj pause,
"since we've come this far, I suppose we might as well go all
the way. Cedar Wash is run by a group of caring individuals.
We pride ourselves on that."
I almost choked.
"So," Mr. Andrews said contentedly, "as soon as your
husband gets home, be sure to give us a call."
Right.
Believe me, the days never zipped by faster. Friday,
which had seemed a distant prospect when I'd contacted Mr.
Andrews, was looming closer. The clocks speeded up. The
Old Geezers were strung tight. If things didn't start moving
soon, one of them, probably hot-tempered Joe Fergus,
would snap, storm up to Jackie Flaherty, and punch his lights out. Or else the Cambridge cops would wake up, bust Wispy
Beard, plea-bargain him till he talked, and arrest everybody
at G&W.
I was glad I had so much to do. Activity kept me from
brooding over possible points of disaster.
I couldn't use my phone because of the bug. I dropped a
lot of change in pay-phone slots.
Headquarters was Margaret Devens's house. Roz and
Lemon moved in with her for the duration--for protection,
and as an auxiliary work force. It took them a whole day to
record the addresses of all "Maud" or "Maudie" pickups and
deliveries.
I let Sean Boyle split up the list because he kept hounding
me for something to do. He used my old police area map as
a guide. All Area A addresses went on one sheet of paper, all
Area B locations on a second, all Area C--and so forth. Joe
Fergus xeroxed copies at a self-service machine in Harvard
Square.
The main thing the cabbies had to do, the main thing I
hoped they could do, was shut up and play along, not give
Flaherty any cause for suspicion. They also served as onthe-spot
observers, with Boyle as their captain. He divided
them into three squadrons of three cabbies each. Fergus,
O'Keefe, and Corcoran were his lieutenants. Flaherty's
every move was reported, charted, analyzed. Timing was
everything. No way was he going to take delivery of a single
new shipment of dope. I was willing to keep the cops out as
long as no more cocaine traveled the route. But as soon as
the coke came in, the cops came in. That was the deal. I
owed it to the kids at the schoolyard, to Paolina.
I gave Gloria the bare bones of the story. I didn't mention
Gianelli. I felt lousy about it, but I didn't know what else to do.
"What?" She slammed an unfinished Mars Bar down on
her desk, glared at me, and repeated herself an octave higher.
"What?"
"I thought your boys were IRA collectors, right?"
"Right. I got that part."
"Sometime last year, around the time Pat left, they let a
new member into the Gaelic Brotherhood Association-- that's what GBA stands for, by the way. This new brother
outdid all the rest when it came to blarney. Instead of passing
the money along to the IRA, he bought cocaine with it-- maybe not a huge amount at first, but business expanded.
And he fed your cabbies a tale about bigger deals with the
IRA, and pretty soon he got them picking up cash, and
scooting drugs around the city, and feeling proud of themselves
to boot."
I outlined the mechanics of Flaherty's plan. When I got to
the part about her own unwitting involvement through the
"Maudie" calls, she did something I'd never seen her do before.
She tossed the unfinished Mars Bar in the trash can.
"Mules " she muttered sadly. She hit her broad forehead
with the flat of her palm. "I've got a stable full of fucking
mules. No way you can keep cops out of this, Carlotta."
I felt terrible. I wanted to retrieve the Mars Bar. "You're
right, Glory," I said gently. "But maybe G and W can stay in
the background."
"Hah. Right. Background." Gloria's brief peal of laughter
had no humor in it.
"The Old Geezers didn't know what they were doing-- and I, for one, don't think they should go to jail for being
half-assed romantic jerks who live in a time warp."
"Well, I don't want to go to jail either, Carlotta. The food
would sure as hell kill me."
"There might be a way out."
"Oh, Christ, Carlotta, is this the lead-up to one of your
cockeyed schemes? I'm starting to sweat."
"It's your choice, Gloria. You can call the cops now, and put them all behind bars."
"And probably go with them. What the hell kind of
choice is that?"
"Then play along," I said. "Your part is small, but crucial,
Glory. Your chance to be a star."
"Star, hell," she muttered. "Don't give me any of that upbeat
star shit. Next thing, you'll tell me not to worry."
"Calm down, Gloria."
"What I want to know is, will your plan keep my ass out
of jail?"
"I think so. I hope so."
She glanced around for her Mars Bar, shook her head despondently
when she couldn't locate it. "Wait till I tell my

brothers," she said.
I could wait. I'd deliberately picked a time when none of
the bruisers were around. I didn't want them asking me why
I was hassling their sister.
"If you need more muscle," Gloria said, "you let me
know. I'm sure my brothers could help."
I swallowed. "Keep them in reserve, okay, Gloria? The
fewer people who know about this the better."
"This new GBA member," she said, "is he one of my
drivers? Say, somebody who came on about the time old Pat
left?"
So much for keeping things from Gloria.
I swallowed. "I'd rather not say."
"Oh, shit," she said. "I've gotta tell my brothers."
"Okay. If you think your brothers are big on self-control,
you just go ahead and tell them. But if they move before I'm
ready, they'll screw the entire plan. And I don't think the
guards allow any junk-food care packages at Framingham
State."
As I walked out the door, she unwrapped a fresh Mars
Bar, and gobbled it in two huge bites, as though it might be
her last.

CHAPTER
29

Among the calls I made from pay phones was one to
my lawyer, just in case. Whenever I left the house, I dialed
home religiously, every half hour. Roz was staying at Margaret's
most of the time. She had strict instructions not to answer
my phone when she dropped by for a change of clothes
or a meal of peanut butter. I used my remote beeper to check
calls received. I heard from a manufacturer of vinyl siding,
and a woman doing a toothpaste survey.
From my home phone, I made no calls, with the exception
of one preplanned session with Roz, stationed at a pay
phone in a Jamaica Plain diner. We chatted about how
pleased I was that Tom was finally coming home.
I didn't let the Devens case totally rule my life. I ate. I
slept. I played volleyball. I told myself it would all be over
by Friday. Nothing would interfere with Paolina's Saturday
band concert. I had plenty of time. Instead of picking her up
for our regular noon rendezvous, I was expected in the
school auditorium at 7 p.m. sharp. I look forward to band
concerts with mixed emotions. My ears wince, my heart
smiles.
I called Mooney from Dunkin' Donuts, after a strenuous
morning at the Y. I'd intended to visit him, but I changed my
mind after dueling a tough squad from the East Boston Y.
Near the end of the game, I blocked a spiked ball with the
heel of my palm so hard the return practically shot to the
ceiling. My team made the point, but we lost. I hoped it
wasn't an omen. My hand ached.
That really doesn't explain why I was not in a mood to
confront Mooney. Let's just say that he always had a way of
punching holes in my cases when I was a cop. Besides, I like
his voice on the phone. It's low and gruff and nimbly. He'd
have made a good blues singer.
I asked if the door to his office was closed.
"Nope."
"Could you close it?"
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"People will think I'm getting a personal phone call."
I could picture the wide grin on his face. "You are," I
said. "Personal and business-related and important."
I heard the receiver thump against his wooden desktop,
the slam of his office door.
"What's all this?" he asked.
"Mooney," I said. "Would you say you still owed me a favor,
or what?"
He considered it for a while. "I'd say we're pretty even."
"Then how's my credit?"
"Depends."
"Mooney, how'd you like to help your career, and give the
FBI a gorgeous black eye at the same time? Would you be
remotely interested?"
"I could be," he said cautiously.
"Look, I don't need any credit for this. I'm not saying I'd
mind seeing my name in the papers. It might be good for
business. But I'll leave that up to you. What I want is cooperation."
"What
kind of cooperation, Carlotta? I can't break the
law."
"Don't tell me what cops can do, Moon. I know what you
can do. You can make plans based on the word of a reliable
informant. You can make judgment calls."
"Go on."
"Mooney, I've never been more certain of anything in my
life. This will all go down by Friday, or else I'll turn it over
to you. Completely. The whole thing. You've got my word."
Silence.
"I can do it without you, Mooney. I just thought you
might like to be there for the finale, make the FBI look
dumb."
"What's my end of the deal? What do I have to guarantee?"
"First,
that you won't jump the gun. Even if you decide to
pass on it, you'll give me until Friday, free and clear."
"This Friday?"
"Make it Saturday morning. Eight a.m."
"IsitaboutT.C?"
"Sort of."
"Would it require a lot of work?"
"I'd leave that up to you, Mooney. I trust you. You've got
to trust me. No more Twenty Questions."
I could hear him breathing. "Deal," he said.
We talked.
Mooney, being Mooney and Irish to the core, could see
my point. He felt a sneaking sympathy for the Old Geezers.
He didn't want to arrest a whole bunch of cops' elderly uncles
and fathers-in-law. Nor did he wish to arrest a fat black
woman in a wheelchair, especially one with three hulking
brothers. I admit I played fast and loose with Gloria. She
would have despised my romantic version of her plight. I
didn't let that stop me. I was convincing as hell. Once I even
had to lower my voice because the Dunkin' Donuts waitress
was taking an interest in my performance.
There were parts of it Mooney didn't like. I'd expected
that. He said I was relying too heavily on cops taking informants
seriously. I agreed with him completely, a technique
that leaves him speechless. I told him he could make it work
by letting me know which officers would be likely to move
fast on drug arrests, which cops were busting ass for promotion.
"This
is going to be a lot of work," he grumbled.
He agreed to get the warrants ready. He agreed to stand
by. He wanted to tap my telephone.
I had to remind him that it was already bugged.
"I'll call you," I said. "Don't call me."
I've always wanted to say that.
He was still blitzing questions when I bade him a firm
good-bye, and hung up.
Rude, I know. But Mooney's never satisfied.


CHAPTER
30

I was so busy juggling half a dozen mental balls that,
when the doorbell buzzed, it never occurred to me that Sam
Gianelli would be on the stoop. If it had, I wouldn't have answered
the door.
Wearing a cotton plaid shirt--beige with a navy stripe-- and khaki slacks, he looked cool, relaxed, and casual. He
carried flowers. Purple iris.
I must have opened the door, because somehow he was in
the foyer. I guess I spoke to him, uttered polite, inane sentences,
thanked him for the flowers, but my mind had gone
profoundly blank.
I am no Mata Hari. There is no way I could play a bedroom
scene with a man I intended to screw in an entirely different
sense of the word. I mean, I hadn't thought much
about Sam the past few days, what with all the frenzied planning.
I'd just hoped he'd stay the hell out of town.
And here he was, with flowers in his hand, and a warm
smile on his face, inquiring whether I'd missed him while he
was gone.
T.C. rubbed against my leg, immediately and instinctively
jealous. I knelt down and fussed over him. My uncharacteristic
behavior must have shocked the cat, but it gave me
something to do while I pulled myself together.
It was early Wednesday afternoon. Three days had passed
since the meeting at Margaret Devens's house. Things were
heating up. All the arrangements, the signals, the codes, had
been set. We were waiting for one particular phone call-- from "Maud."
I'd rather do anything than wait. My personal hell will be
a dentist's lobby, filled with ancient, thumbed copies of Glamour. To avoid reverting to chain-smoking or nail-biting,
I was cooking--for me a rare occupation. Paolina's class
was having a bake sale, and she'd asked me to contribute
these weird confections my mom used to make. They went
over big with the Girl Scouts, and now I'm doomed to bake
them for all eternity. Not that I mind, for Paolina.
I was wearing white painter's pants, streaked with egg
yolk, and an electric blue T-shirt, similarly stained. I don't
own an apron, and I'm not overly neat with an eggbeater.
I'm sure I had dabs of batter on my face. Neither my outer
nor inner self was prepared for Sam's company.
"I'm, uh, cooking," I said, less than brilliantly.
"You?"
"Yeah. I'm making these chocolate chip meringue things.
Paolina wants them colored, green and pink. Class colors.
The food coloring doesn't make them taste any different, but
they look kind of gross."
I led him into the kitchen. I had the FM radio tuned to a
local blues station. I turned the volume down. I found a vase,
and snipped the ends of the iris stems at an angle. I arranged
the flowers. I felt like a robot.
"How was the trip?" I asked.
"So-so."
Score any cocaine? I wondered.
He asked for a glass of water, admitted orange juice
would be better, agreed that a little vodka wouldn't hurt the
taste. I poured a large swig of Smirnoff's into mine. The
kitchen timer gave a ding that sounded like the starting bell
for Round One of the Middleweight Boxing Championship,
and I yanked a tray of meringues out of the oven, burning
myself as usual. For me, they ought to make pot holder mitts
that reach clear to the shoulder.
"Smells good," Sam said, staring dubiously at the neat
rows of pink blobs.
"Help yourself. I couldn't remember if I doubled the
recipe last time or tripled it, so this time I tripled it. I may
have made enough of these suckers to go into business for
myself."
"Then you can stop driving a hack. You enjoying it?"
"No sweat," I lied.
"Bring the extras over to Gloria. She can eat maybe three
dozen," Sam said. "Look, were you expecting anybody?"
"No."
"Do you mind my coming by? I should have called, I
guess."
I took another pull on my vodka-laced orange juice.
"This is nice," Sam said, gazing around the kitchen.
"What?" My kitchen is never going to be featured in Better
Homes and Gardens. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink.
I missed Roz.
"Domestic interior," he said, smiling wickedly. "Woman
baking, man appreciatively sampling the goods. I should
have married you years ago, when you didn't know any better.
You'd have straightened me out."
I stole a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Yeah.
More likely, we'd have warped together.
"These things aren't bad." He spoke through a mouthful
of chips and meringue.
"You get one. The rest are for Paolina."
"She sounds like quite a kid," he said. "I'll have to meet
her."
Never, I thought.
"You really think of her as your sister?"
"She's all the family I've got."
He grimaced and said, "Sometimes I wish I didn't have
any family."
I whisked together egg whites and sugar, and added two
drops of green food coloring for the final batch. The drops
produced a pale grayish tint. I decided another drop couldn't
hurt, tilted the bottle again. I must have shaken it pretty
hard. Eight, maybe nine drops of the stuff hit the meringue.
I wondered if anyone would eat loden green chocolate chip
meringues.
The silence was stretching uncomfortably long, so I
asked Sam how he was getting on with the rest of the Gianellis.
It was social chat. I didn't really want to know. I
wanted him to leave.
"Hell, I don't even see them, except for my sister."
"I didn't know you had a sister."
"Older than me, the second oldest. She married an outsider."
"An
outsider?"
"Not an Italian--not, you know--" He waved his arms
around and did a Godfather imitation. "Not a Gianelli Sicilian
Italian." He winked, dropped the act, and smiled. His
teeth were white and even.
I added chocolate chips to the batter, studied it, tossed in
a few more. "Your family didn't like that?"

"Are you kidding? It was like a mortal sin. The guy's
Irish, for Christ's sake. Working class. And my sister chose
him herself, which made it worse. My father hit the ceiling.
He's from the old school. I guess he thought he'd give his
only daughter as a reward to one of his faithful retainers. On
a silver platter."
I scooped weird greenish batter, mixed with lumps of
dark chocolate, into small mounds on a baking sheet. I
couldn't remember if I'd buttered the tray or not. I'd scoured
the damn thing for half an hour after locating it down in
Roz's darkroom filled with murky fluid. I devoutly hoped I
was not about to poison the entire fifth grade.
"God, are these sweet," Sam said.
"You're not eating another one, are you?"
"You know," he went on, "the day Gina married Martin,
my mom dressed in black. She didn't go to the wedding, but
she put on this black dress, and she walked around the North
End, so everybody would know she was in mourning. Didn't
speak to Gina for years, until the grandchildren started coming.
She sees them occasionally, but she almost never speaks
to Flaherty. If he answers when she phones, she hangs up.
So sometimes I think you're lucky, choosing your family
like that."
My spoon hung in the air, drooling meringue.
"Flaherty," I repeated. "Not--"
"Look, don't mention this at the garage, okay?" Sam
said, coming up behind me. He wrapped his arms around my
rib cage. I could feel his breath on my neck, his smoothly
shaven cheek against mine. "That driver you mentioned-- Flaherty--he's Gina's kid."
Oh, God. No wonder he couldn't use an alias at the cab
company.
"John's been nothing but trouble for her," Sam went on,
"so she asked me to give him a job, see if he straightens out.
What he really wanted was to go into the--you know, my
dad's business. And that would kill Gina. She steered clear
of that bunch, made a pretty decent life for herself. But I
don't know. I don't think John likes hacking much. I don't
think he likes me."
He nuzzled my neck, and turned me around. My face felt
like it was frozen.
"Hey." Sam tilted my chin up with his index finger,
forced my eyes to meet his. "John hasn't been coming on to
you, has he?"
I kissed him, to stop his words. The kiss lingered. He
twined his fingers in my hair, and pushed me back against
the countertop. I got chocolate chip mush on my white
pants. I was breathing too heavily to care.
I know what I said about Mata Hari. But what followed
wasn't cool or calculated. Part of it was relief. Part of it was
pure longing.
"Your clothes are dirty," Sam said after a while. "Let's
take them off."
"Not in the kitchen. I have a tenant."
"We can't do it on the kitchen table?"
We steamed up the shower instead, playing with the soap,
and with each other, almost losing our balance on the slippery
tile. We washed each other's hair with huge handfuls of
lather. Sam scrunched his eyes shut to avoid any wayward
soap. Rinsed, we toweled off and got into my bed. I hit the
button on the tape deck, and Bonnie Raitt sang "That Song
About the Midway." Her aching, soaring voice sounded
lonely and lost:

"Well, I met you on a midway at a fair last year,
And you stood out like a ruby in a black man's ear.
You were playing on horses, playing on guitar
strings,
You were playing like a devil wearing wings."

We moved to the music like familiar lovers, timing our
thrusts for mutual pleasure, but our thoughts couldn't have
been more separate. Our lovemaking was gentle and slow.
Intense. The afternoon light slanted in through the blinds.
Tangles of his dark hair tickled my face.
I don't know what Sam was thinking. How do you ever
know what another soul is thinking? Me, I guess I was saying
good-bye.
Maybe if I had warned him then, it would have turned out
differently. But the wheels were in motion. It was too late.

T.C. does not like to travel except when he likes to travel.
I hadn't had him in the Toyota since the last time he threw up
on the dashboard.
Mooney had insisted.
I grabbed the cat and wrestled a leash attachment onto his
collar. He glared at me with wide-eyed disbelief, and exercised
his claws. I kept a grip on him, and pretty soon he
calmed down.
I took my gun out of my shoulder bag. I thought about
leaving it home. I thought about Wispy Beard. I thought
about the two thugs who'd roughed up Margaret. I jammed it
into the waistband of my jeans, at the small of my back. It
was uncomfortable.
Just as well. When a gun starts feeling comfortable, I'll
know it's time to quit.

CHAPTER
32

I know my way around the old Greyhound Terminal in
Park Square. It used to be a highlight of my beat, a dimly lit
trough stinking of urine and rancid grease, a magnet for
pimps. There they'd lurk, night after night, meeting those
buses from Peoria, greeting those lost, young, hungry-eyed
runaways. The Greyhound pimps were something else-- bizarre, perverted Welcome Wagon hosts with a set line of
patter, a memorized, routine rap: "Hey, girl, you lookin'
good. You look like you could use a meal. You got a place to
stay? You want a little reefer? A little coke?"
Park Square got urban-renewed with a vengeance. They
tore down practically every building in sight, but left the
Greyhound Terminal, a monument to sleaze. I don't understand
why, since they promptly built a shiny new bus depot
near South Station. The Trailways Terminal.
I zipped up Storrow Drive to the Southeast Expressway,
my eyes peeled for traffic cops, although getting nailed for
speeding is no real threat in Boston. I hit seventy. That's
when my Toyota starts to shimmy. I slowed to sixty-eight.
Two dark cars followed me, so I politely used my blinkers to
signal lane changes and turns. My shadows moved with me,
no signals. I took the High Street exit, a left on Congress, a
right on Atlantic Ave. I hung an illegal U into the Trailways
parking lot, and sandwiched the Toyota between an old VW
bus and a tiny Escort. I glanced at my watch. Gloria's call
should have gone out two minutes ago. From here on in, the
timing depended on Flaherty.
T.C. and I stared at each other in the dark. After yowling
along with the radio for a few ear-shattering moments, he'd
settled into one of his silent, accusing modes. Hell, I agreed
with him. I should have left him home. I cracked my window
open an inch. He could stay in the car and sulk.
There was a cab stand smack in front of the futuristic
glass-and-steel structure. Flaherty wouldn't even have to
hunt for a parking space. Green & White number 442 was
nowhere in sight. Yet.
I was relieved not to see any other G&W cabs nearby. I'd
had trouble keeping the Old Geezers under wraps the past
few days, especially Boyle and Fergus. They wanted Flaherty
for breakfast. They tossed around words like "tar" and
"feathers." Hanging was too good for the bastard.
The bastard. Sam's nephew. His only sister's only son.

I swallowed, gulped salty air, and stomped on the rubber
mat that opened the sliding door. I focused straight ahead, so
I wouldn't seem to notice the men behind me. I could feel
their eyes on the back of my neck.
The station was like an airplane hangar, with steel overhead
beams, soaring escalators, and narrow catwalks over an
enormous central lobby. I buttoned my jacket against the air
conditioned chill. The air smelled wrong--canned and 
recycled to a metallic breeze. All that glass, and not a single window
that opened.
I shook my head as I looked around. Spiffy new building,
same pimps, same winos, same runaways. On one bench an
exhausted young woman in a denim jumper held a baby on
her lap, and scolded a toddler to stay close. I didn't recognize
anyone right off, but I wasn't trying to recognize anyone.
I just wanted to know who was where, check the pieces
on the board. A quick scan of the waiting room showed only
pawns--pawns, and the well-dressed, elaborately casual
men I wasn't supposed to notice.
I checked the schedule board posted over the Trailways
counter, did the same at Peter Pan, then at Continental.
Buses had come in from New York on two of the three bus
lines within the hour. I didn't have to know which bus interested
Flaherty. He would show me. I hoped.
I hadn't glanced at my watch more than, say, forty times,
when he strode through the sliding glass doors twenty-two
minutes later. He'd brought two goons along. My heart almost
dropped out the bottom of my sneakers when I saw
they weren't carrying anything.
They didn't notice me. I was wearing baggy faded jeans,
a blah T-shirt, a shapeless jacket. I'd tucked every strand of
red hair out of sight under a beige scarf. I wore glasses so
lightly tinted they were useless in the sun. None of the pimps
or the winos or the ticket-counter people had given me a second
glance. I was flattered by their lack of regard. I felt close
to invisible.
Engrossed in a flyer selling Trailways' cross-country tours,
I pretended not to notice Flaherty and his colleagues. They
walked by, eyeing the winos and the pimps and the late-night,
weary travelers. I dropped a quarter into a slot and bought a
news-box copy of the Globe. Then I followed them, hanging
back, keeping out of sight. They made their way down a staircase.
I took the escalator, which was broken or stopped for the
night. My sneakers were silent on the metal treads.
Lockers lined one wall. Some were large enough to stow
a steamer trunk, others too small for my shoulder bag. Red
tagged keys flagged the unused lockers. Maybe Eugene had
stolen--I'm sure he would have said "reclaimed"--the loot
in T.C.'s cat box from one of these lockers, once he'd figured
the scam. Any fool could jimmy a bus station locker.

I made tracks for a nearby ladies' room, because the two
guards were doing their stuff, watching all the traffic while
Flaherty worked the lock. I held the door open an inch, and saw Flaherty remove a briefcase, leaving the key in the lock.
A good trick, never using the same locker twice. Flaherty
was almost smart.
He'd just underestimated Eugene Devens. And his sister.
Flaherty and the goons filed back upstairs, crossing the
vast lobby. I trailed them in fits and starts. I was aware of
men following me.
I love a parade.
Damn. I hoped the deal wouldn't go down in the men's
room. I hadn't thought of that. Christ, you can't think of
everything.
The terminal was laid out like a spider. The lobby was the
body. Long, angled walkway legs led to the loading docks.
Flaherty and his companions marched down one of the corridors.
A red sign overhead said Continental. Gates 3-7.
They were alert now, poised for trouble. You could see it in
the set of their shoulders.
They walked for what seemed forever, Flaherty front and
center, the others half a step behind, darting glances right
and left.
Three figures, almost a mirror image of Flaherty and
company, came out of the shadows to meet them. One carried
a gym bag. The other two flanked him. One was a
woman, not much more than a teenager. They'd need a
woman's voice for "Maudie." And traveling with a female
was less suspicious. You could always cuddle up and pretend
to be newlyweds anticipating the honeymoon. This gal
didn't look cuddly. She wasn't tall, not more than five five,
but she was broad through the shoulders. A scar cut her forehead,
and she didn't comb any of her lank hair forward to
hide it.
The walkway was deserted. The Continental bus had arrived
at eleven forty-five. "Maudie" must have waited until
the passengers dispersed before calling G&W.
Now I waited--hardly breathing, a beige nobody
hunched against a cinderblock wall--while the swap took
place. I wanted my targets relaxed. I wanted it clear that
everything was business as usual. I watched shoulders, arms,
hands. Four of the six held themselves like they were carrying.
I
felt my own .38 pressing against the small of my back.
A bead of sweat trickled down my neck.
The briefcase was swapped for the gym bag.
Time.
I breathed.
I stepped away from the wall. Not too far out, because I
didn't intend to place myself in any firing line. I spoke as
loudly as I could, directly to Jackie Flaherty. I hoped "Mr.
Andrews" of Cedar Wash Condominiums could tell which
man I'd targeted, but it really didn't make much difference.
"Tommy," I yelled. My voice sounded hollow, rusty. I'd
stored up too much tension in my throat, and my vocal cords
almost refused to cooperate. I willed enthusiasm and
strength into them. "Tommy, darling, it's so good to see you
again."
Maybe one of the guys was actually named Tommy, because
Flaherty's right-hand bodyguard turned toward me
with a questioning look on his face. The others shrugged.
The girl glanced behind her, to see if this dame's Tommy
was racing up the hall.
"Drop the suitcases." The voice belonged to "Mr. Andrews"
of Cedar Wash, but it was amplified and distorted. It
seemed to come from everywhere at once, swelling out of
the floorboards, bouncing off the walls. "Get your hands up.
You are under arrest."
The six swiveled in various directions, confused by the
nondirectional, godlike quality of the voice. Two made halfhearted
moves toward less than immediately accessible
firearms, then froze when they saw what they were up
185

against. They were sloppy. They'd played this game too often
without a hitch. In sharp contrast, the FBI men were anything
but lax. There must have been eight of them, with
artillery in plain sight.
There was a moment of silent standoff. I tried to join the
wall, pushed myself flat against it. I was impressed. I mean,
for a downtown drug bust, you'd be lucky to get two halfway
interested cops these days. They've lost their enthusiasm,
and in some ways I can see their point. It wears you down,
arresting the same creeps over and over.
The FBI looked sharp. I mean, they had us surrounded.
They must have flashed those badges and gotten instant access.
Impressed as I was, I hoped no nervous junior G-man
would pull the trigger by mistake.
None of the drug dealers drew a weapon. Twelve hands
eased themselves over six sullen heads. Mine had shot up
the minute the FBI requested it. I was pleased. It seemed nobody
wanted to bleed on the shiny linoleum.
I breathed1 again.
See, I thought the bad part was over.

CHAPTER
33

It wasn't Mooney's fault.
There were too many cops and too many crooks.
I first caught sight of him on a catwalk overhead, and I
wondered how long he'd been in position, whether he'd appreciated
the FBI's nearness, or whether he was still too
pissed at them to let admiration temper his anger. He rocked
back and forth on his heels, ready to pounce. He waited
patiently while the FBI disarmed and handcuffed the six.
I'd been right. Four carried pieces. The FBI leader-- "Andrews," or "George Robinson," or my old school chum,
"Roger Smith"--ordered me to step aside and stay put, and
warned me that I'd be charged as an accessory. Nobody
searched me or the scar-faced woman, probably because
they hadn't brought a female officer, and didn't want to risk
a lawsuit. That was legit, but nobody cuffed us either, which
was totally dumb. What do they think, men are the only jerks
with guns?
I didn't see how Mooney got down from his perch. All I
know is that he was downstairs and approaching fast, with a
sea of blue uniforms around him. They halted ten feet away,
and he stepped forward, grinning broadly. He'd brought
more than blues. He'd enlisted a Deputy Superintendent,
probably to handle the press. He'd shanghaied a bruiser I remembered
from the Narcotics Division.
He said, "Thank you. 'Mr. Robinson,' isn't it? Or is it
'Andrews'?" He flashed his tin and continued, "Boston Police.
Possibly you've heard of us. We'll take over now." He
nodded to the narcotics officer. "Hey, Joe, you wanna read
these jerks their rights?"
"Andrews" hardly looked at him. "Lose yourself," he
said. "These people are in federal custody. I have a warrant
for the arrest of Thomas C. Carlyle. We've just cracked the
New Survivalist League wide open."
The flash of relief on Flaherty's face was instantaneous.
"But I'm not--we're not. Look, somebody's made a big mistake
here."
"Yeah," Mooney agreed, "and you're it." He turned back
to "Andrews." "And you can use that warrant for toilet paper,
because none of these bastards is any Thomas C. Carlyle.
You've just assisted on a local drug bust. We appreciate it.
We thank you for all your help. We know how big you are on
cooperating with your local police force, but now you can
waltz on out the door. I've got warrants, too, with the right
names."
"Look here, mister--"
"Don't 'mister' me. Lieutenant Mooney. Of the Boston
Police, an outfit you're supposed to cooperate with. Remember?"
Mooney spotted me standing against the wall. "Carlotta?"

I whipped off the turban and glasses, and he looked relieved.
I guess he thought I'd shaved my head. "Hey, Carlotta,
you bring T.C. along like I asked?"
"Andrews" 's jaw dropped.
"I left him in the car. He's in no mood to be bothered."
Gloria and Roz were right. "Andrews" was definitely
cute, especially when he was angry. Mooney said, "You'll
find the real Thomas C. Carlyle in a red Toyota in the parking
lot. The same car you followed over here. Don't worry.
He's unarmed."
"But not declawed," I offered.
"He is a cat," Mooney said. "You went after a cat. Send
one of your men out to read him his rights, somebody who
doesn't mind getting scratched."
One of the FBI team moved off at a curt nod from his superior.
I was glad I'd left my car doors locked. I didn't think
the FBI would break into my car, but I had Mooney send
along a uniform to make sure.
"Andrews" stepped closer to Mooney. So did I. I didn't
want to miss anything.
"You mean you knew about this whole--this whole charade?"
he said quietly. There was so much anger in his voice
that he had to speak softly to keep it from cracking.
"Charade?" Mooney said loudly, loving every minute.
"You mean like a phony contest?"
I didn't like the way Flaherty was staring at me. His face
was white and pinched, his small, mean features drawn together.
Sweat was pouring down his forehead, but his eyes
measured distances, and his arms strained against the cuffs.
His eyes looked like holes cut in a cardboard mask. The others
seemed more relaxed. One guy was bobbing his head,
and I wondered if he was high.
Heated words were exchanged about which agency was
going to take charge of the evidence. The Deputy Superin
tendent stood to one side and let Mooney do the talking, but
you could see he was delighted. The press was mentioned. It
seemed a local columnist was right outside, a guy who loved
to skewer public agencies. A few of the FBI men lowered
their guns and murmured among themselves.
I sneaked another glance at Flaherty. He had Sam's build,
Sam's shoulders. I wanted him in a cop car, out of here, behind
bars.
"Look," Mooney's voice drowned out "Andrews." "Forget
it. You did the bust, but we've got the paper. We've got a
tie-in to a likely homicide."
The FBI commando who'd been dispatched to my car returned.
He said, "It's a goddamned cat all right."
"Arrest it, why don't you?" Mooney said. "You've got a
warrant for that cat."
Common sense tells you the bad guys give up when
they're disarmed and outnumbered and cuffed. Common
sense has nothing to do with it.
Flaherty started it. He broke away, twisting and turning
and hollering, and the whole group flew apart. Shouts rang
out, but no fire. There were too damn many cops--uniforms,
brass, suited FBI. Nobody wants to risk shooting another
cop. Nobody wants to shoot a cuffed suspect either, not even
the FBI, and worse, the prisoners were heading for the
lobby, for the shelter of the pimps, travelers, and runaways.
I started after Flaherty. It was a gut reaction. I stopped. I
thought about Sam. I chased another guy instead, the goon
who'd grabbed the gym bag. None of that stuff was going to
make it to Paolina's housing project.
He could run, I'll give him that. But in that bright open
lobby, there was no place to hide. He leaped over counters,
but he couldn't use his hands to break a fall. He dropped the
gym bag. We danced around a bench. I could have ended it
with my gun, but the woman with the two children was
clutching them both on her lap, praying at top volume, and
ignoring all my pleas to hit the floor. I could hear other people
screaming, shouting.
I brought the bastard down with a flying volleyball lunge
that stung my knees. His head smacked a bench with a satisfactory
thud. I jumped to my feet, out of his reach. He lay
there, winded. I checked to make sure he was breathing, then
I pulled my gun, and let him know that prone was the preferred
position.
The woman with the two kids was well into her seventeenth
Hail Mary. She hadn't moved. Her eyes were closed
tight.
Flaherty was directly in front of me. An empty handcuff
loop dangled like a huge earring from his left wrist. Maybe
some FBI jerk hadn't cuffed him properly. Maybe he'd
socked a cop, gotten the key, given it to the woman. Maybe
she'd unlocked his cuffs. I don't know. It didn't matter. His
jacket pocket was torn. His forehead was smeared with
grime or blood or both. He had a gun pointed at my head.
I raised my arms until I had a gun pointed at his.
He said, "You're my ticket out."
I don't know how long we stared each other down. My
hands were damp. My finger felt like it was glued to the trigger.
Eleven pounds of pressure to pull that trigger. The universe
condensed to that necessary tug. I studied Jackie
Flaherty's face. I didn't think he'd fire. I think he wanted me
to kill him.
I almost did. I almost squeezed the trigger. I would have
squeezed it. I would have. Sam or no Sam. This had nothing
to do with Sam. This was him or me, and that's one thing I
learned when I was a cop. If it's him or me--it's me, every
time.
"Down, Carlotta!" I know Mooney's voice like I know
my own, and I dove for the floor like it was an Olympic pool.
One elbow hit hard. A pinwheel of light blinded me, and
then I was deafened by the crack of revolver fire. There were
two quick shots, then silence. I wondered if I'd been hit.
I lifted my face. Over Flaherty's body, maybe thirty feet
away, I saw the outline of his killer, high boots first, then
muscled thighs in camouflage fatigues. Because I was flat on
the ground, the man seemed larger than life. My eyes traveled
up--belt, shirt--and I clamped my mouth shut to force
back a scream. Flaherty's killer had no face, only a black
hood with slitholes for eyes.
I never found out which of the Old Geezers contacted the
real IRA. And I'm not saying the police were in on it.
But somehow, in the confusion, in spite of all the cops,
Jackie Flaherty's executioner melted into the crowd and got
away.


CHAPTER
34

Hours ticked by. I told the same edited story to an
endless parade of increasingly high-ranking cops, then to
two Assistant District Attorneys, then to a full-fledged DA
who looked about twelve years old, and finally to a comfortably
graying Deputy Superintendent. I drank vile coffee. I
ate two mysterious sandwiches that could have been tuna
fish or chicken salad, but were mainly mayonnaise. After my
chat with the Deputy Super, I expected release, but two more
cops came in and started the whole show over again. Then
two more. My mouth felt numb. Everything I said started to
sound wrong. I sat and stared at cracked walls and peeling
paint, concentrating on them with grim single-mindedness
because the ugliness of the interrogation room beat the pictures
in my imagination.
Over and over and over. The core of my story was that I'd
uncovered a drug ring while observing and tailing Wispy
Beard. I had no client. The drug dealer's location had posed
a threat to my little sister. Check it out with Officer Jay
Schultz of the Cambridge force if you don't believe me.
Since I was an ex-Boston cop, I'd brought my discovery of
an upcoming deal to the attention of my former superior.
He'd made the bust, but things had gone wrong due to the
wholly unexpected interference of the FBI. What were those
guys doing there anyway? Who was this Thomas C. Carlyle?
I didn't think "Andrews" would be eager to discuss the
tap on my phone.
As to who killed the drug dealer--Flaherty, was that his
name? I didn't know. I really didn't. Sometimes I sound
more convincing when I'm lying than when I'm telling the
truth.
Not a word about the cab company.
It was such a simple story you'd think they'd have gotten
it straight the first time, but no, I had to recite the bilge for
anyone who had a spare half hour. It was a good thing I'd
been on the other side of police interrogations, or I'd have
gotten nervous, what with all the comings and goings, and
pointless, repeated questions.
Mooney was with me the first time--taking mental notes,
I hoped--so he could make his version jibe with mine. Flaherty
was dead. What would it hurt to keep the Old Geezers
out of it? Not that they deserved protection, the damned
fools. But Gloria did. And Sam.
I wondered who'd tell John Flaherty's mother that her
son was dead. Who'd tell Sam?
I got increasingly nervous as the hours wore on, not because
I really thought they'd hold me, but because I didn't
want to disappoint Paolina. Word started filtering in about a
number of other drug busts. Wasn't it odd, cop after cop
asked, that informants had been so considerate on this night
of all nights? Yes, I enthused, wasn't the Mayor's Drop a
Dime/Stop a Crime program wonderful? I stared at my
watch. I listened to my stomach rumble.
At five past five, I cornered Mooney and told him I absolutely
had to leave.
At half past six, he breezed into Interrogation and interrupted
two new-minted detectives with the news that he was
to escort Miss Carlyle over to Area B. I didn't say anything
until we were safely out of the building. Then I remembered
the cat.
"Don't worry. Your tenant came and rescued him."
"You see her?"
He nodded. "Pink hair, purple streak. You can pick 'em."
"Do I have to go over to B?"
"Nah. Those guys were just questioning you for practice.
I'm taking you home."
"My car--"
"Impounded. You can probably get it back tomorrow. I'll
see what I can do."
"Thanks." My mouth was so dry I could hardly get words
out.
Mooney's car was parked about two feet from the curb in
a No Parking zone. He's got an old, dented, gas-guzzling
Buick whose passenger door opens only from the inside. I
slid in from the driver's side.
"How are you?" Mooney said, once we were settled. In
all the hours since Flaherty's death, nobody had asked that
one.
I swallowed and grimaced. "Okay. You?"
"Okay." He lit a cigarette, and shook his head the way he
always does when he realizes he hasn't given up smoking
yet. "You lie pretty well."
"I guess you do, too, or we'd be sharing a cell."
"I might have to name the cab company. If we can't
squeeze Devens's murder out of one of the punks."
"Okay," I said. I didn't care anymore. That's how the
cops get most of their confessions. You just don't care about
anything after fifteen hours of looking at the same brown
walls and hearing the same questions and breathing the same
stale air.
"What's so important tonight? Heavy date?"
I explained about Paolina.
"You want to go straight to the concert?"
I glanced down at my sloppy jeans and worn jacket. "I
have to change--"
"I'll wait for you."
"I can call a cab."
"I'd like to wait."
Mooney has infinite patience, which is one of the things
that makes him such a good cop. I zipped upstairs, yanked
on a green dress, brushed my hair, and was back in eight
minutes flat. The bed called to me, but I knew if I lay down
for a second I wouldn't get up for nine hours. And Paolina
expected me.
Bypassing Harvard Square, we dodged the Broadway
potholes into East Cambridge. We didn't talk or listen to the
radio, but the silence was warm and easy. Battered cars
crowded the small parking lot near Paolina's school.
"Thanks, Mooney." I said, getting ready to open the car
door.
"Hang on. I'll find a space."
"I can get out here."
"Look," he said. "Do you mind if I tag along?"
"Mooney, it's a kid's band concert. Do your ears a favor."
"I like band concerts," he said stubbornly. "I'd like to see
Paolina."
Paolina has met Mooney three times. The first time, he
was wearing his full-dress uniform, and he awed her into
scared silence. The second time, he spent about an hour
blowing soap bubbles with her on the front steps of the station
house. The third time, they were old friends. His presence
would more than make up for my lateness.
"Okay," I said.
He parked illegally, and left his Officer-On-Duty card
displayed prominently on the windshield. We went inside.
All grammar schools are exactly the same, the way all
hospitals and all airports are. Rows of lockers, long tiled
hallways, a smell that comes from the union of chalk and
blackboards. For me, that particular aroma always evokes
shrill cries of "Single file in the hallways, line up according
to height, please." Which used to mean that all the little girls
lined up first, and then all the little boys, and then yours truly
at the back of the pack.
We didn't need directions to the auditorium. The noise-- I hesitate to say music--guided us toward double doors on
the left. We crept in like the shamefaced latecomers we
were, and fumbled for seats in the dark. I saw two on the
aisle way back on the right, and tugged at Mooney's hand
until he saw them too.
The stage was a raised wooden platform, so high that the
folks in the front row got a good view of forty little pairs of
feet. They do that deliberately in schools, to give speakers
more authority. It does nothing for acoustics. The lighting
was a matter of on or off, and the front of the stage remained
in twilight, which didn't bother me because Paolina was
near the back.
The imitation-leather seats might have been roomy for
ten-year-olds. I felt as if my knees were kissing my chin, and
I regarded Mooney's struggle to find a halfway comfortable
position with sympathy.
Normally I can turn my mind off with music, quiet the incessant
murmur of my brain. Marching-band tones performed
by an elementary school ensemble do not do the trick.
I have perfect pitch. Usually I consider it a blessing. I'm
not sure if my perfect pitch is absolute or relative. I carry
around a middle C in my head, and I do the rest of the scale
based on that one note. Tonight the gift was not a blessing.
One of the flute players should have been muffled. A couple
of violins weren't even close. The entire brass section
should have been locked in a room way down the hall,
preferably soundproofed.
Mooney patted his knee in time to the music.
People hear music differently. For me, it's a thumping
bass line that I love, and voices twining in close harmony.
Paolina doesn't sing very well. Paolina hears the beat.
She plays percussion, and I think she's terrific, but then I
would. In a white blouse and a dark pleated skirt exactly like
the blouses and skirts worn by all the other girls in the band,
she stood out as if a spotlight were focused on her. She
sported two bright red plastic clips in her hair, one over each
ear. She spent most of the time waiting for her cues. She
seemed to vibrate with the music, her face taut with the excitement
of the count, the unbearable tension of the moment
before the cymbals or the snare drum or the triangle was
sounded. She told me once that she hears music as a series
of counts, like footsteps. That's why she was so delighted
with the ballet. She never hesitates about whether something
is three-quarter or four-quarter time, much less more complicated
rhythms. It's her gift, one of many.
I wondered if Jackie Flaherty had played an instrument in
his grammar school band. I felt the first tear slide down my
cheek.
Of forty-seven people arrested on drug possession
charges in Boston and Cambridge that night, one was my pal
"Bud" Harold, aka Wispy Beard. With his record, another
arrest might mean Walpole, the state penitentiary they call
something else these days--Woodsy Glen or Meadow
Marsh or some such name--to distinguish it from the fair
town of Walpole. No more lazy drug-pushing days on
Paolina's stoop for him. I watched my little sister, poised for
a cymbal strike, cheeks glowing, eyes intense, hearing the
beat so clearly that it pulsed inside her--and I knew there
would always be another drug dealer.
I mumbled an excuse to Mooney and left the auditorium.

I couldn't find the ladies' room. All I could find were
doors marked Boys and Girls, and I finally entered the girls'
room closest to the auditorium. The place was impossibly
small. It had four skinny stalls with graffiti-covered wooden
doors that topped off at four feet. The mirror reflected my
breasts on down, and the sink was so low I'd have to get on
my knees to wash my face. I felt like Alice after she'd eaten
the mushroom, and that made me cry harder.
When I'm hot I sweat, and when I'm sad I cry. Neither is
socially acceptable, and you might just as well tell me to
stop sweating as to stop crying. When I say sweat, I mean sweat, not "mist" or "dew" or any attractively feminine version
of sweat. And I don't weep into any dainty handkerchief
either. I wail. I howl. I gulp and hiccup and blow my
nose.
I knelt on the cement floor, and turned the cold tap on
full. A discouragingly thin stream trickled into the yellowed
basin.
I heard somebody rap on the door.
"Carlotta?"
"Go away."
"Are you all right?" Mooney asked.
"Yeah."
He pushed the door open. The room halved in size. His
shoulders almost hit the door frame.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Mooney. Do you mind?"
"Can I help?"
"Go away."
He just stood there.
I never cried when I was a cop. It was a point of honor. If
the "boys" took it as weakness, I wouldn't be weak. I'd show
them. And after a while I lost the knack, and things just
welled up inside, and hardened into a constant nagging ache.
As a private operative, I'd made peace with my tears.
"Look, Mooney, I'm fine. I just feel bad when I see somebody
die. That's all."
He didn't say anything.
"Mooney, you saw me at the bus station. Was I good?"
"Yeah."
"Was I a good cop?"
"Yeah."
"Then what I do afterwards, if I scream or faint or froth at
the mouth or throw things, that's my own business, okay?"
I cupped my hands in the sink, and submerged my face in
the water. Mooney had a stack of rough paper towels waiting.
While my eyes were covered, he put his hands on my
shoulders.
"Mooney," I said. "I appreciate it, but I don't need a man
to lean on. I don't burst into tears in the hope one will come
along."
His face got red, and he yanked his hands off my shoulders
as if they were on fire. "For Christ's sweet sake, 
Carlotta, will you stop treating me like some goddamned representative
male! It's because I'm a cop, right? Just because
I'm a cop doesn't mean I'm some kind of fascist macho asshole.
I see rooms full of women in tears every week, and I
don't want to comfort them. I want to comfort you. You, Carlotta.
I don't mean it as an insult, dammit. I saw the bastard
die too, goddammit, and it would comfort me to hold you."
He stopped dead. His voice echoed off the walls. I could
hear a distant trombone, wailing off-key.
"Jesus Christ," he said quietly, "I guess I yell when I see
somebody die. Sorry."
"It's okay," I said, standing.
There was hardly room for both of us. The walls pushed
us together, and we stood in the little girls' John, hugging.
Friends--and maybe more. He kissed my hair, my forehead,
my cheek. I think he would have gotten around to my mouth.
The door squeaked. A small child in a flowered pinafore
entered, dragging her black-garbed grandmother by the
hand. The little girl paused openmouthed, made a noise like
the door squeak, and retreated fast. Mooney's back was to
the door, so he didn't see the mask of scandalized outrage
freeze across the woman's bony face. She raised her furled
umbrella high. She looked just like my third grade teacher,
and I felt trapped in a manic flashback--ten years old, hiding
in the girls' room, caught without my math homework.
"I don't know what you think you're up to, young man,"
she screeched.
It must have been a while since anyone had called
Mooney "young man" in that tone of voice. I could feel him
jump. He glanced around. His face flamed as he became
fully aware of his surroundings.
He pivoted to face his accuser. "It's okay, lady," he said
quickly. "I'm a cop."
I was laughing so hard I had to sit down on the floor.


CHAPTER
35

I made it home before midnight, and spent some time
sitting cross-legged on my unmade bed, chewing my fingernails.
Then I got resolutely to my feet, and walked across the
room to the telephone. The journey seemed like a long one. I
didn't think I'd wake Sam. He's a night owl; used to be, anyway.
The phone rang and rang; ten, twelve, fourteen times.
The answering machine never answered. I thought I might
have dialed the wrong number, so I tried again, and kept on
trying until 2 a.m.--playing guitar, dialing, wondering where
he was, dialing. Pretty soon I knew his number by heart.
The next morning, when the receiver clicked and I heard
his voice, I started talking before I realized it was a recording.
He must have come home, flipped on the machine, and
left again, unless he was using the damn thing to monitor
calls. The phone beeped in my ear. I panicked and hung up,
unprepared for my allotted thirty seconds. What the hell
could I say in thirty seconds? I dialed again, left my name,
asked him to return my call. I sounded cool and impersonal,
even to myself. He didn't call back.
I read about the funeral in the Globe. Not a detailed obituary,
just one of those small alphabetized notices, listing the
funeral home--a place I'd never heard of in the North
End--and visiting hours: Wednesday 2-4. In other notices,
husbands, wives, children were named as chief mourners.
This one began: "Grandson of Anthony Gianelli." Then it
listed his mother's name, then his father's. It said: "Relatives
only." No funeral mass. No place to send donations in lieu of
flowers.
I bought flowers at a shop on Huron Avenue, purple iris
that wilted in the unseasonable heat. My gray wool skirt
clung to my thighs. It was too hot for wool, but I didn't own
any summer mourning. By the time I got to Park Street Station,
I was sweating and sorry I'd chosen the airless Red
Line train instead of my Toyota. I once made a vow never to
drive into the North End. The streets are so narrow, and
parking is impossible.
The North End is no place for an Irish funeral. It's Italian,
densely populated, sliced off from the rest of Boston by the
Central Artery. The streets are edged with strips of uneven
sidewalk that directly abut the narrow three-story row
houses. No lawns, no trees. But the buildings are surprisingly
well maintained, clean and freshly painted. Pots of
geraniums brighten window boxes and iron fire escapes. Old
men sit on the front stoops reading the papers, passing the
time. Espresso shops and bakeries scent the air. Sheets of
cream-filled canolli sit in the bakery windows.
The funeral home was unusual, set back from the street, a
squat brick house with three steps up to a pillared portico,
separated from its neighbors by foot-wide walkways. A
hearse was parked at the curb, followed by three black limos.
They turned the two-way street into a one-lane battle zone.
Six Boston cops added to the confusion.
A steady stream of people flowed up the front walk, the
women subdued, the men in dark suits, white shirts, dark
ties. Most were elderly. As they entered, the door swung
wide, and I could see a dim foyer where two men in black
suits flanked an inner double doorway.
Cars honked. Adding to the traffic jam was a gas company
van, parked across the street, two wheels up on the
sidewalk, yellow lights flashing. It had tinted-glass side windows.
The FBI likes to film Cosa Nostra funerals. I wondered
why they hadn't just planted the camera in plain sight.
I gulped a deep breath, and started up the front walk. I'd
walked over a mile already, from Park Street Station. My
shoes pinched. My skirt felt heavy. My stockings chafed. I
should have worn a hat. My hair looks out of place at funerals.
Most of the old ladies had their heads covered with
black lace mantillas.
The air in the foyer was pleasantly cool. I felt the slightest
pressure tugging my right elbow. Then my left elbow was
gently pushed and I was shunted neatly aside, one large
goon at each side.
Tweedledee said, "Family only, miss."
Tweedledum said, "We'll express your condolences."
I tried to shake them off. They held on. I said, "Yeah.
What name'fl you give?"
The grip on my arms tightened. I dropped my bouquet. I
hoped one of them would reach for it, but they were professionals.
They left it lying on the tile, one droopy iris bent
double.
The inner doors were half glass. Through them I could
see a narrow reception hall with deep red flocked wallpaper,
oak wainscoting, a crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror over a
fireplace reflected marble statues and groups of softly chatting
mourners. An ornate sideboard held a cut-glass vase of
lilies. I thought I could see the back of Sam's head. He'd
gotten a haicut. The back of his neck was pale.
"Tell Sam Gianelli--" I began.
"Family only, miss," Tweedledee said firmly. "You don't

want to make a scene."
"Big family," I muttered.
The tall man turned his head. It was Sam, his face as fixed
as the marble bust on the mantelpiece. Through the glass
door, he looked as if he existed in a different world, a sad,
formal place where no one smiled. A portly man patted his
shoulder, shook his hand. Sam stared at me over the fat
man's head. He couldn't have missed me. His lips parted
slightly, then pressed themselves together in a thin line. He
swallowed. He didn't look away. He didn't look down. He
looked right through me.
I closed my eyes, just for an instant. When I opened them
he was gone.
I turned to the goon on my right. "Will you give Mrs. Flaherty
the flowers?" I asked. My voice was shaky, but I think
he heard me.
A third man elbowed his way out of the reception hall,
grabbed the bouquet, and shoved it in my arms. They turned
me around, and gave me a dignified version of the bum's
rush out the door.
I stood blinking on the portico, one hand touching a cool
pillar, more for reassurance than support. I was aware of a
low rumble of voices, raised eyebrows.
I left the damn flowers on the hearse.


CHAPTER
36

The hurly-burly died down after a while, in spite of Herald headlines the likes of black mask killer on the
loose. About a week after Flaherty's funeral, somebody got
a hot tip, and came around to question Gloria. She says her
largest brother answered the doorbell chewing on a hunk of
raw meat. I don't believe a word of it, but whatever happened,
nothing ever got into print concerning the Old
Geezers' conspiracy.
I talked to reporters at first, on the grounds that publicity
couldn't hurt business. I got tired of the game before the
press did. After a while, I started letting the parakeet answer
the phone.
First, I took the bug out of the receiver. I gave it to
Mooney as a keepsake of his encounter with the FBI.
Mooney didn't do too badly in the papers either, and the
Deputy Superintendent declared himself indebted for the entertainment
value of the early part of the evening. And while
the unexpected killing may have given Mooney a couple of
sleepless nights, it didn't bother the department as a whole. I
mean, what's one more drug pusher? Flaherty's death was
back-page news, except for the spectacular manner of his
going. Nobody mourns a dead drug pusher long--except his
family.
Six days after the bus station fiasco, the earthly remains
of Eugene Devens were pulled from the harbor, near the spot
where they'd found his cab abandoned, not far from the bus
terminal. One of the local goons talked.
All the Old Geezers came to his funeral. And a lot of unknown
men paid their respects as well. At the wake, I kept
wondering: Which one killed Jackie Flaherty? Which of the
faces crowded into O'Brien's Funeral Home had I last seen
masked by a black hood?
About the money ... Margaret Devens was not only serious
about not wanting it back, she was even more determined
that the Old Geezers and the IRA should never know
it existed. She didn't want to donate it to the church. There
was no charity she wished to endow in Eugene's memory.
She wanted to forget about it.
T.C. waltzed off with the loot after all.
I made Margaret take the difference between the insurance
settlement and the damage to her house, and enough to
cover Eugene's burial. She couldn't have been left too hard
up because she bought one of Roz's tamer paintings for two
hundred bucks.
To celebrate, Roz dyed her hair fright-wig white.
After figuring my time and expenses, I deposited my fee,
plus a bonus, in my checking account. I made a donation to
the Animal Rescue League in T.C.'s name. I treated myself
to two sets of GHS guitar strings, a new Chris Smither album,
and an old Lightnin' Hopkins one. I gave a goodly sum
to the YWCA, anonymously. Otherwise, they hound you for
life.
I consider the rest Paolina's college fund.
I hope "Mr. Andrews" is still out there somewhere,
searching for Thomas C. Carlyle.

The End.