John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  I should be more careful about what I wish for.

  Since that first time, I have also filled in for a week keeping an eye on the marble in a lobby downtown, while one of Connie’s regular guys went home for a funeral. That was when my car broke down and I asked Connie to call me if he needed anyone, so I could cover the cost of the mechanic. I read eight books that week and the marble didn't move.

  Another time I stood at the door to a rock club. All I had to do. Someone else did the bouncing. I was there just to look menacing. That was when I needed the first and last month’s deposit on my current apartment.

  Now, it was fun to see all those books in one place. A lot of waxed leather. A lot of pretty dust jackets. Limited editions. Signed editions. I found a run of C.S. Foresters in a uniform edition I couldn’t afford. I found a copy of Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London, I thought I might be able to afford someday, if I cut back on beer for a year or so. I was looking at a display of Talbot Mundy first printings in their original dust jackets when I get a tap on the shoulder. I know right away that this is not going to be like the last time somebody tapped me on the shoulder. That was the day I met Desiree. I know right off that this is George. He has a heavy hand.

  He starts by saying, “What’re ya doing?”

  I say, “Lookin’ around.”

  He shakes his head, “Connie said to meet by the door.”

  I say, “Yeah. At five. It’s 4:45. I’ll see you at five.”

  He scowls at me and trudges away like he has lead in his shoes. But it’s mostly in his butt.

  This is a good thing, after all. He likes to sit. George likes jobs with chairs in lobbies of buildings that have emptied for the day where the door is already locked, and he doesn’t have to talk to anyone face to face. George is a real people person. I know him because for most of the last year he was the guard at the office building where I work days. I was the one just stupid enough to tell Connie they needed a new guard service. And George isn’t there anymore now because a computer went missing during this guy’s watch.

  I think that’s the way it is in the security business. Pay is low, and they don’t get the best people. Customers don’t want to pay for the security they need until it’s too late. Connie pays ten to twelve bucks an hour plus some benefits if people hang around long enough. He’s paying me twenty bucks to show up here because I’m temporary. Trained temps get more. But no benefits. Even though George is the lead on this job and therefore getting five dollars extra per over his regular salary, I know right off that George knows that I’m getting paid more for this gig than he is. He tells me to put my badge up high on my jacket. He tells me to button my jacket. I notice his is still undone. He tells me to report back every half an hour. He tells me to keep my eyes open. I’m thinking, ‘Are these the ropes that Connie was talking about?’ There are five more of Connie’s guys there as well, but they’ve gone out the front door for a final smoke.

  George is clearly not happy to be there and picks a stool by the entry for his post.

  Everything happened that first night. I suppose that’s to be expected. It’s when people are just getting settled and there’s no routine to reveal the odd thing. Just like any job, once patterns are established, it’s easier to see the anomaly.

  The first night is only three hours. Six to nine. Saturday and Sunday the book fair starts at noon and closes at eight. Nothing happened that I know of on Saturday or Sunday. But Friday, about eight pm, there is an odd sound above the din of voices and then an announcement over the loud speaker requesting security at the door—then sudden silence, and then the louder buzz of sharper conversation in the aisles.

  I report and find George is laid out on his ass on the floor, wobbling his head side to side and moaning. A special duty Boston cop is already down on one knee talking to him. The other five guys from McGuire Security are all gathered there asking him what happened, and George is mumbling. The other guys don’t know me, so I tell three of them to get back on the floor. It’s obvious there is no good in all of us being right there. I tell two of the others to take over the bag check. Then I looked around from where I was standing. At least twenty or thirty book dealers have gathered around to find out what the deal is. I’m a big guy so I’m looking over their heads. Even from there I can see to the back of aisle six. There is no one at the fire exit door and it’s open.

  Anyone going down that way has to come forward on the lower level to exit through the side onto Huntington Avenue. I run to the front exit that's closest.

  On the street, half a block away from me there is someone hustling across to the far curb with something in their hands. A car’s waiting. They jump in. It’s too dark to see the license plates over the glare of car lights coming at me in the traffic on my side of the street.

  I went back upstairs.

  What was missing is a copy of Izaak Walton’s Compleat Angler. The 1668 edition. A showpiece for an English dealer who has about three hundred leather bound antiques in his booth. He looks devastated. He sits there repeating the same short tale to anyone who would listen. But what he says is interesting. He says, “It happened after the announcement. I stepped away to look up the aisle. But there was a fellow already there by the glass case. He was right there. Right there in front. In a suit. Gray tweed. He looked normal. It wasn’t a cheap tweed. I had the case open to show him my Pepys. When the announcement came I wasn’t even four feet away. But I was looking toward the front for maybe half a minute. Then I didn’t even notice the Walton was missing for maybe another minute. I just wasn’t looking. Dammit!”

  A good-looking brunette is patting him on the shoulder. I hope he gets enough sympathy. The book was priced at $10,000. I went back to the front entrance. George was on the stool now, looking groggy. There is an EMT nurse there, but George is trying to tell the guy to leave him alone. I asked the cop what he thinks happened. He doesn’t know. “Somebody shoved him. He fell down and knocked his head on the floor. That’s all there was. Nobody even saw the guy.”

  I called Connie on my cell phone and told him to come over. He was someplace with a TV and other voices. He hardly let me finish before he hung up.

  About fifteen minutes later Connie is there. It’s not even 8:30. I waited for him to talk to George before I spoke up.

  I take him to the side and I tell him what I saw and what I heard. Then I say, “I think you ought to have George arrested. At least questioned.”

  Connie gives me two wide eyes without a word. Then he goes over and talks to the cop. Four other cops have already shown up and two of them ask George to go to the station to tell his story again.

  I sat down on the stool as he left and watched. George looked panic-stricken.

  And I’m wrong. There was one more incident Sunday afternoon. Someone was caught leaving the women’s room with a book that didn’t have a receipt. One of the other guys picked that up.

  It turned out that George didn’t even know the guy who paid him to fall down. He just took the money and the instructions. Short money for his soul. Four hundred dollars. The Walton is long gone.

  On the following Saturday Connie comes by my place. It’s about nine o’clock and I have my work spread out on the table and I have my oldest daughter’s old laptop open and humming.

  Connie says, “What’s doing?” like he just found me on the street. He goes right for the coffee maker. He already knows where the mugs are now.

  He sits right down across from me. His eyes are scanning the room. They stop on a silk scarf that Des left on the hook by the closet door.

  “Writing.” I tell him.

  “I thought you gave that up.”

  “I did.”

  But I’m figuring I should keep working at it. A woman like Des is not going to respect me for long if I keep doing what I was doing before. In fact I’m not sure what Des sees in me now, but it’s a gift and I’m not going to waste it. I don’t say all that to Connie.

  But he nods at me. “D’you eat
breakfast already?”

  I nod back at him, “Two hours ago. Cereal. You want a bowl of cereal?”

  He doesn’t exactly answer that. He starts rocking in his chair. Then he says “You know what it means when they start leaving little bits and pieces around your place?”

  I hit the save button on the computer and close the screen down.

  “How would you know?”

  He married Martha when he was still in diapers. They’re separated right now, but I figure that’s temporary. Connie doesn’t fool around, and Martha will always forgive him for being an ass, just one more time.

  He says, “I pick these things up.” Then he nurses the heat in his coffee mug for a minute and he’s looking at me with a squint.

  I say, “What did I do?”

  He says, “You did okay. You did fine. But I’m tired. I had to work George’s regular shift this week myself. I couldn’t get anyone else to do it. . . D’ya ever notice that if you look at marble long enough you start to see faces?”

  I say, “Yes. That’s why I don’t want to do that ever again. Those faces scare me.” That made him smile. He knows I know he’s up to something. I can guess. I add, “Even for twenty dollars an hour.”

  He shakes his head. “How about a salary?”

  Now, I don’t know what he’s up to at all. “How does that work?” I say.

  He rocks a minute on the chair. I can tell he’s thought this through. He’s been sitting in some lobby downtown every night while filling in George’s slot and thinking about the details. I haven’t thought about it for thirty seconds, so I might as well let him tell me what’s up.

  He squints at me the way he used to look at the water when we were fishing. He says, “Say, fifty-thousand to start—not much. I know. But I’m going to have to change things a bit to make it work. You put some of that college education of yours to work for me and we can jack that up a bit pretty quick. I need a little more input. Not another manager, exactly. Someone who’s lookin’ out for things. It’s not the same business anymore. I can’t keep up with it all myself. My boy is already in over his head. He won’t do more hours. He’s got his mind on other things.” Connie let out a little air. Shakes his head. “I probably lost those booksellers for good. I’ve had that account for twenty years, for Christ sake. That was a fiasco. That’ll hurt my reputation.”

  I say, “I should hope so.” It was a mean thing to say. But he can handle it. I felt bad about it myself, but I don’t want to work for Connie. He’s a pain in the ass. I tell him this. And I tell him the rest of what comes to mind. “I work in an office cause I don’t have any responsibility. It’s just a job. You want me to take responsibility. If you want that, then I’d want a piece of what I’m responsible for.”

  He smiles. He’s already thought beyond that. I could have figured. He’s got his hook on something in the water and it’s moving.

  Then he takes a gun out of his jacket pocket. It’s in a leather holster. Not too big. It’s not new. The leather holster has a nice sheen to it. And he puts it on the table, right on top of the manuscript I’m working on. Right on top of chapter five.

  He says, “You’ve done enough odd jobs for me in the past. You know the routines. What I need now is for you to learn how to use one of these.”

  It’s a black and ugly thing where it peeks out from behind the leather. An old fashioned .38 caliber. I immediately take a liking to the look of it. It even looks dangerous. But I leave it where it is.

  I say, “No. That’s not me. You want someone else for that.”

  He leaves the gun there. “I figure it this way. Either I take you on and make it through the next year, or I get out of the business. I close down. There’s too much pressure. Everything changed after 9-11. Suddenly I had more than thirty guys working for me. Now it’s starting to shake out. I’m down to twenty again. I have to change my ways. Specialize. Like everyone else. And I need someone I can trust.”

  Now, that was a leap. I was surprised he actually said it. Trust is not something you should have to talk about a lot. Not with friends. I suppose George has left a wound.

  I’m looking down at a couple of pages I wrote this morning. It’s not so bad. I’d like to keep doing that too. Even if it doesn’t pay. I know I’ve got to do that too. That part’s just for me now. A little self-respect.

  I say, “Seventy-five and a partnership?”

  He says, “Sixty.”

  I said, “Good. . . For now.”​

  6. Turner and Eakins

  Des woke me up about 9:30. She was at work and called for no particular reason.

  I’d worked a security gig until ten at an art gallery opening on Newbury Street the night before and, by the time I got home, I was full of ideas and started to write. That petered out about three. I was a little groggy from staying up late, so I guess I wasn’t talking much.

  She asked me what I was thinking about. I lied. I said, “You.” I hadn’t thought about her for at least a couple of minutes—not since the dream I was having when the phone rang.

  She says, “What were you thinking about me?”

  I let my imagination go, “I was thinking about taking a shower—with you.” That was half true. I always take a shower when I get up.

  She says, “I could take a break. I can make it up by working my lunch hour. I could be there in about twenty minutes.”

  Now, I’m in a fix.

  Burley Johnson and I haven’t had a chance to do anything together in months. He’d been busy doing a little stage show in Cambridge, and short on cash for anything else. We’d been planning this day for weeks. I'd picked up some street-price balcony tickets for the Bruins afternoon game at one and told Burley I would pick him at his gym at 11:00 and we’d have time for some Speed dogs over at New Market before the game. But priorities are what they are. It wasn’t a hard decision. I called Burley and told him I couldn’t pick him up after all and I’d meet him at the Garden instead. We’d use public transportation, so I didn’t have to worry about the parking.

  Then I brushed my teeth and started to clean my room up a bit.

  ​Connie called as I’m stuffing some dirty cloths in a laundry bag. He had some interesting news. The gallery where I worked last night was robbed. After closing. The alarm never went off—disabled from an outside line in the back ally. Their most expensive piece, a J. M. W. Turner, was missing. Kind of thing that’s worth a good bit. The cops wanted to talk with me. I took down the number for a Lieutenant Detective Peterson. I called him. Peterson was not available. I left my number. My doorbell rang before I closed the phone up.

  ​Peterson didn’t call back until Burley and I were in our seats at the Garden. It’s early in the season, so the place was not completely full, but it was still too noisy to talk so I went up to the concourse. Detective Peterson was impatient at having to wait. I was thankful he hadn’t called earlier, but I said, “If you’re in such a rush, why didn’t you call before?” He didn’t like that. He wanted me to meet him in half an hour at the Gallery. I told him no way. The game would be out by four. I told him four-thirty. The gallery was open until six.

  Now he was pissed. And I’m getting some pleasure out of it. Some cops love to order people around at their own convenience. Their time is more valuable than yours.

  ​After the game—there was only one overtime—Burley tagged along to the Gallery. I’d filled him in on the situation and he was interested in hearing the rest.

  ​Burley is a man of odd interests. He likes model trains. His grandfather worked for the Chesapeake and Ohio railroad as a porter for more than forty years until Amtrak came along. He likes dogs. He has two Rottweilers and runs them out at Victory Park every morning by the water, to stay in shape. And he likes Shakespeare. That he got from a teacher in high school. That’s why he got involved with acting.

  ​I did not actually know how Burley Johnson got his name until his mother told me. I thought it was a nickname and had something to do with muscle. He works out
every other day. But she said that when he was born his skin was already the color of the burley tobacco after it had been cured in the drying barn. She'd worked in a tobacco barn when she was a teenager. It’s where she met his dad. And she loved that color. The family, all twenty-four of them including his grandfather, moved North from Louisville after 1970. After the Army and then school, Burley drove a truck for UPS every day for ten years while working local dinner theatre and that kind of thing at night. Never got a break. Then he quit his day job—despite my example of what a bad idea that is.

  So now, Burley was just another bit actor. His name got him a few roles because it was easy for producers to remember, but never anything at the top of the bill. Whenever they wanted a thug or rapist, they called Burley. Even though the guy is as mild mannered as anyone I ever met. . . . Well. The fact of it is, I met him at a brawl over in a pub on Harvard Street, in Allston. We were the last two guys standing. And he smiled first. That was at least fifteen years ago. No. Almost twenty. He had just turned twenty-one then, and my Sarah was a baby.

  ​When we got to Newbury Street, the gallery was closed. I tapped on the window. The owner peeked out from a corner and frowned at me. I called him on my cell phone. I could see him answer his. I told him what the deal was. He told me I’d have to wait outside until Detective Peterson arrived.

  ​I had met the owner the night before. He’s a small man with busy eyes, and he talks too fast for my ears. Sounds like he’s from New York. His first name is Boris. His last name is all by itself in gold leaf on the window. I used his first name several times over the course of the evening, even though he introduced himself as Mr. Sartoff, because he seemed incapable of remembering either half of my own name and called me ‘Hey,’ several times during the course of the event. I answered, “Yes, Boris,” and watched him flinch.

  ​Newbury Street on an early autumn evening can be something to see. Well. Not so much the street. The people. And the cars. Every car at the curb is worth ten times as much as my old Ford Explorer. Every woman that passes looks like a million bucks.