Beacon Hill

by Colin Campbell

  “Is the IRA still active in Boston?”

  Before Kincaid could answer, the food arrived. Grant was once again surprised at the size of the portions. Kincaid’s burger was big enough on its own, but it came with a serving of fries the size of a small continent. The salad decorating Kincaid’s plate was ridiculous. Even Grant’s sandwich came with a stack of fries that looked like a beaver dam under construction. The sight of it shut him up and blunted the question. Until after the second mouthful.

  “So, Sam. The IRA?”

  Kincaid took a bite of his burger. He chewed. He breathed out through his nose. He looked Grant in the eye. He swallowed, then spoke softly.

  “Active? No. The troubles are over in Ireland.”

  Grant shook his head. “There’s always trouble in Northern Ireland. Splinter groups are the only difference. Smaller targets.”

  Kincaid nodded.

  “Splinter groups, not the IRA. And not in Boston.”

  Grant tapped his glass. “They’ve still got collection jars in all the pubs.”

  “We don’t have pubs.”

  “In all the bars.”

  Kincaid nodded again. “The widows and orphans jars. Some habits die hard. Bartenders don’t want to be seen as ignoring their heritage. First bar to withdraw support would be in big trouble. Even now.”

  “Part of that heritage is the IRA.”

  Kincaid forked a mouthful of fries but paused midway to his mouth.

  “Heritage is to do with the past. Key word there is past. Not today.”

  He waited until he’d finished chewing and swilled them down with a swig of his beer.

  “What made you think about the IRA?”

  Grant explained about the shadowy figures in the corridor. The hushed voices and the Irish accents. Kincaid spluttered a laugh.

  “This is Boston. Half the people here have Irish accents.”

  Grant shrugged. “Something’s not right. IRA’s the first thing came to mind.”

  “Well, don’t say that too loud. You’ve got a reputation around here. Start talking about political bombers and you’ll get people nervous.”

  Grant let out a sigh, then raised his sandwich. “There’s trouble brewing. I can smell it.”

  Kincaid held up a hand. “Biggest trouble you’ve got is Captain Hoyt. He catches you sniffing around Hunt, he’s likely to punch your ticket.”

  Grant lowered the sandwich. “He can’t punch my ticket.”

  “He can make life difficult. If the boss don’t like you. You remember how that works.”

  Grant did. Disagree with those in charge and you could find yourself posted to the back of beyond or have your shifts messed about so much that you couldn’t get anything done. He took a bite of his pastrami on rye and the meat just melted in his mouth. Kincaid hadn’t finished.

  “I’d stay away from Beacon Hill if I were you.”

  Grant smiled as he finished chewing. Food could make you happy. No wonder there was so many big Americans. He took a drink of Pepsi.

  “Investigation’s over. There is no crime. According to DeLuca.”

  Kincaid didn’t look convinced. “When did that ever stop you?”

  Grant held his hands out palms up.

  “Honest. I’ve got a few days off. Maybe I’ll do some sightseeing.”

  Before Kincaid could argue with him, Grant took another bite of the sandwich. When he smiled this time, it wasn’t because of the pastrami.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There were no prizes for guessing where Grant’s sightseeing tour began. It was no surprise where it ended either. Beacon Hill was a tourist destination in its own right. Points of interest for Jim Grant included the Massachusetts State House, Louisburg Square, and the café area of Charles Street at the junction with Mount Vernon Street.

  It was a walking tour. Grant didn’t have the Crown Vic anymore. He took the T, getting off at Park Street station and cutting across Boston Common to the bottom of Joy Street. It was a sunny afternoon. The clear blue sky was a counterpoint to the lush green lawns and verdant trees. Red brick buildings completed the color scheme. A beautiful day in Boston. It made Grant wish he still had the orange windcheater, the battered leather jacket proving too warm with the sun on his back.

  The State House was impressive. Grant wondered briefly if the golden dome was gold leaf or simply expensive paint. Considering what he’d learned about Beacon Hill, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was real gold. Worth a lot more than the lead flashing that used to get stolen from church roofs back in Yorkshire. He went up Joy Street, then walked the length of Mount Vernon. The sun had moved across the sky, so the shade was now on the side opposite Daniel Hunt’s house. Grant stayed in the shadows as he passed the crime scene. Hunt’s car was still parked outside. He must have very flexible office hours.

  Grant followed Mount Vernon all the way to Charles Street, taking in the bottom of Louisburg Square, and wondering which house used to belong to the Kennedys. He couldn’t see many of the houses anyway. The trees that filled the square were tall and thick and heavily leafed. He kept looking over his shoulder to see how far he was from Hunt’s. The car was still visible outside the front door.

  The Charles Street businesses were in keeping with the elegance of the area. Even the 7-Eleven on the corner was the nicest looking 7-Eleven Grant had ever seen. It quartered the junction with the Gary Drug Co. pharmacy, Beacon Hill Wines and Spirits, and a corner café opposite the Charles Street Meeting House. The meeting house clock tower showed it was half past two. A good time for a sit down and a coffee.

  Grant checked up and down the street. Medium traffic. Lots of shoppers. A few customers coming and going at the Bank of America just down the road. Nothing untoward. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to stand out from the crowd, he chose an outside table facing back along Mount Vernon and ordered a cookie and a latte, three sugars.

  He could be here a while.

  Things that Grant learned while he kept the Hunt residence under observation: The 7-Eleven was moderately busy; the pharmacy had little spurts of customers; Beacon Hill Wine and Spirits was hands down the winner of trader of the afternoon award, and all were aided by having a Bank of America ATM three doors away. The other thing he learned was that three lattes in a row was too much for any man. He switched to Pepsi to clean his palette.

  Another thing learned was how long Grant could go without needing the toilet. It was a skill learned from long hours of surveillance work with the West Yorkshire Police. The last thing you wanted was for the mark to get away while you were taking a leak. It was getting close though. He slowed down with the Pepsi and threw another glance along Mount Vernon.

  Daniel Hunt came out of his front door. The solid-looking ex-special forces man came out with him and opened the car. They both got in and Hunt set off towards Charles Street. He obviously preferred driving himself. Grant leaned back in his seat and picked up a menu to obscure his face. The big heavy car paused at the intersection and for a few seconds Hunt was only fifteen feet from Grant.

  Hunt’s eyes scoured the junction.

  The bodyguard scoured the pedestrians.

  Grant looked over the top of the menu, his eyes the only thing visible.

  The clock tower above the meeting house counted down.

  Then there was a gap in the traffic and Hunt turned left towards Boston Common. Grant followed its progress and saw it turn left again towards the city before it disappeared. He lowered the menu and stared at the house in the distance beyond Louisburg Square. The mysterious passenger hadn’t been in the car. That meant he was most likely still at the house.

  Grant watched the front door.

  The house was too far away to be able to see the windows. It was too far to get a really good look at the door. It wasn’t too far to see if anyone came out. Nobody else came out. Grant’s long vision focussed on the house and the sidewalk out front. His peripheral vision caught the general movement o
n the street. Shoppers. Tourists. Coffee shop customers. The armored car delivering money to the bank.

  Minutes ticked by. Still nobody came out of the house. Grant might need to be proactive instead of reactive. Another knock on the door and make up a story to get him inside. It wasn’t illegal, just not very ethical. Ethics weren’t Grant’s strong point.

  He looked around for the waitress so he could pay the bill but she was busy with another customer inside the coffee shop. A man sitting with his back to Grant. The waitress picked up a small plastic tray with the receipt and some cash. She put the cash in the pocket of her apron and reached in for change. The man waved the change away and the waitress gave effusive thanks. The man must have been a big tipper.

  Grant looked back to the house. Still no movement. He took out a fistful of banknotes and peeled off enough to cover his bill with enough for a tip. He didn’t want to appear cheap after Mr. Big Shot inside. He caught the waitress’s eye and she nodded that she’d be right over. The man pushed back his chair and stood up.

  Peripheral vision. It was taking in movement on the street even though Grant was concentrating on the waitress. Something was bothering him. He couldn’t put his finger on it but the short hairs up the back of his neck began to bristle. He felt a tingling sensation.

  The man turned towards the front door. The traffic on Charles Street went into slow motion. Pedestrians walked as if through treacle. The security guard took the cash bag out of the armored car’s delivery hatch. The man threw a quick glance at Grant as he reached the door.

  The shadowy figure from the hallway leapt into focus. Same body shape and height. It was impossible to tell if this was the same man. He hadn’t heard him talk to the waitress. He didn’t know if he had an Irish accent. What he did know was that he recognized him from somewhere. For a cop that usually meant you recognized him from a wanted poster or a crime circulation.

  The mysterious passenger.

  Having a coffee ten feet from the cop who was looking for him.

  Grant didn’t believe in coincidence. The man had been scoping Grant out while Grant had been trying to catch a glimpse of him. Grant had simply been looking in the wrong direction. He put his money on the table and stood up. No time like the present. A quick chat in a public place. Captain Hoyt couldn’t argue about that.

  The man opened the shop door.

  Grant stepped away from the table.

  Then the alarm sounded at the bank and a smoke bomb went off in the street.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Grant sized up the situation immediately. He scanned the street from left to right all the way from the Mount Vernon intersection down past the smoke grenade at the bank. His mind ticked off the positives in a few short seconds. There were cars parked along both sides of Charles Street providing cover if Grant went down that route. The smoke would hide him even more. There were only two robbers visible before the smoke engulfed them. They were outside attacking the money delivery, not inside robbing the bank.

  The negatives came just as quick. There were lots of innocent bystanders scattering across the street. The robbers were armed. And they were wearing gas masks. Damn. That meant the smoke wasn’t smoke; it was tear gas.

  Panic spread along Charles Street like a shockwave. People nearest the bank started first, screaming and shouting and running around like headless chickens. Cars stopped in the middle of the road, forming a bottleneck as the drivers abandoned their vehicles and joined the headless chickens. Customers coming out of the pharmacy turned around and went back in. A woman crossing the road got trampled in the rush. Tourists sitting outside the coffee shop jerked upright, knocking their tables over. The crush of humanity came swarming past the coffee shop as gunshots ripped the air.

  Grant breathed out slowly.

  He nodded at his inner decision.

  Then set off against the flow.

  Heading into the danger, not away from it.

  Another gunshot came from the cloud. Grant hoped it was a warning shot. He couldn’t hear a scream of pain so it didn’t sound like anybody had been hit. He took one last look around him to get his bearings. One-way street. Three-lane blacktop. Cars parked along both sides. That made five rows of stalled cars in narrow lanes. Not like the freeways of Los Angeles. A quiet commercial street with shops and restaurants and street-side cafés with metal tables.

  A helicopter thudded across the sky. Either the police chopper or a WCVB news crew alerted by the explosion and the gunshots. Grant didn’t wait to find out which. He grabbed the nearest overturned table by its pedestal leg and hefted it like a shield. The table was big and round and protected most of him from knees to shoulders. Ignoring the rush of humanity, he charged along the sidewalk. Opposite side to the bank. Hidden by the parked cars and stalled traffic.

  The back doors of the armored car opened. No doubt in response to the threat of shooting the guard with the moneybag. Standard procedure. The money wasn’t theirs. Life was more important. The security firm would claim off insurance. Nobody needed to die. One of the robbers loomed out of the smoke and started unloading canvas sacks with leather handles.

  Grant crossed the road behind a knot of cars. He reached the opposite sidewalk between the Holiday Boutique and the Toscano Restaurant. Next door to the Bank of America and just outside the cloud of tear gas. He took a deep breath and squinted his eyes, then let out a roar.

  Primal scream therapy. It used to work against violent drunks in the cells back home. The look of shock in their eyes was only matched by the disorientation they felt. The two gunmen didn’t know what hit them. The six-foot Yorkshireman with the five-foot table became a charging bull. The table ploughed through the first robber and flattened him against the side of the truck. Surprise and a metal tabletop didn’t give him time to raise his gun. It was knocked out of his hand at the same time he lost three teeth and smashed his nose.

  Grant’s eyes began to sting. Tears streamed down his face. He tried not to breath in, protecting his throat from the worst effects, just like he’d been taught in the army. He scanned the mist around him and saw the second robber a split second too late.

  The gun came up. Primal scream therapy had worn off. The gunshot was loud in Grant’s ears.

  Live TV news feed from the helicopter meant that all of Boston saw the Resurrection Man take the bullet before Grant even knew he’d been shot. High and wide and just below his right shoulder. The part not protected by the table. The pain was excruciating and forced Grant to take a sharp intake of breath. That made things worse. Gas burned his throat. His eyes stinging shut.

  The pain focussed his mind. Anger turned to ice. The trick is to channel the rage. So he did. Ignoring the pain and forcing his eyes wide open, he spun to face the threat. He planted one foot and stepped forward with the other. Knees flexed. Center of gravity low. He used his core strength to push upwards and forward and put all his weight behind the table that had become a shield.

  The gun went off again. The bullet ricocheted off the metal disc and thudded into the side of the truck. The robber didn’t get a third chance. Grant slammed the table into the gun hand and broke the trigger finger. Pushing up from his knees, Grant brought the table from low to high and the impact lifted the robber off his feet.

  A scream came from somewhere in the cloud. A woman shouted a stupid pet name that Grant didn’t catch. What he did catch was a glimpse of something small and furry low to the ground. Just behind the robber’s feet. Weight and momentum forced the robber back. His feet stamped on the furry pet. There was a squeal and another scream, then Grant, the robber, and the table came down like a dead weight. The gun went off for a third time. The broken trigger finger had no control. The table became an impenetrable barrier. The robber shot himself in the leg and the foot with the same shot.

  Thudding rotor blades sounded overhead. The news helicopter hovered above the scene and the downdraft cleared the smoke. A camera pointed straight down but Grant ignored the
distraction. He got to his knees and lifted the table off the wounded gunman. Grant snatched the gun out of the broken hand and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He turned his face to the sky and let the downdraft ease the stinging in his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks. Strings of snot hung from his chin. He didn’t rub his eyes. Worst thing to do with tear gas but most people did it. Grant wasn’t most people.

  He took in great gulps of fresh air and wiped the snot with one sleeve. His head cleared. His eyes were still sore but at least he could see out of them now. A crowd began to gather now the danger was over. Bystanders who had been fleeing in panic now became gawkers and rubberneckers.

  The scream came from behind him. Grant turned and saw it at the same time as the bystanders. There was a collective gasp of shock. TV news broadcasted the reveal to the nation. Blood pooled around the fallen gunman but it wasn’t from the wounded leg. The furry little dog had been squashed flat by the table. Its insides were splashed across the sidewalk in glorious Technicolor. The woman couldn’t bring herself to cuddle her favorite pet. Grant stood and looked down at the gunman.

  “You’re in trouble now. You shot Poochy on live TV.”

  The gunman showed good defence despite the pain.

  “Weren’t me. Was you killed him with the table.”

  The media circus was only exceeded by the scramble of emergency services arriving at the scene. Police cordoned off the street. Forensics turned up to preserve the evidence. Paramedics attended to the injured. Three ambulances and a vet. The vet wasn’t needed. He gave some kind of half assed last rights as if the dog was a Catholic, then left with his tail between his legs when Grant told him to fuck off.

  Grant held a cloth to his side and applied pressure to the wound. He waved the paramedics to treat the gunmen first. One had a broken face and the other a broken hand, broken finger, and gunshot wounds to the leg and foot. They were given initial treatment, then loaded into separate rigs accompanied by an arresting officer each. At least Grant didn’t have to remember the Miranda warning. He sat on the back step of the armored car while a third paramedic examined his shoulder.