John Finn

by Vincent McCaffrey

  “Matty has never been as mature as her sisters.”

  I said, “That’s what happens when you have three mothers and no father.”

  She did not pause on that either.

  “What brought this bout of fatherly advice on in the first place?”

  I told her, “She said she wanted to move out.”

  “She said that!”

  “In so many words.”

  “And you told her she could?”

  “No. I said it was her decision to make. She’s sixteen now. I told her she could quit school and get a job at the Stop and Shop. I said that her boyfriend—What’s-His-Name—could get a job too. Between the two of them they could probably afford something small in Somerville. She could start having babies. It would be tough, but she could handle it. Millions of people handle worse every day. Maybe when things settled down, she could pick up her high school education at night school. It would take a little longer, but she could probably get her diploma by the time she was twenty. Then she could start night classes over at Bunker Hill Community College. I hear they’re pretty good. Of course, that would depend on What’s-His-Name and whether he would be willing to stay home and babysit. But, if he wanted to go to college too, then maybe she’d have to wait a few years more. By then, her kids would be older and she could take day courses while they were in school and What’s-His-Name was at work—”

  Mary Ellen was having none of it. “Oh, shut up! What did SHE say?”

  “She thought it was all very funny. But she listened. I could tell she heard me. Especially the part when I pointed out that she might have to wait until she was as old as you are now before she could go to Europe like her sister Sarah.”

  Mary Ellen blew a storm of exhaled breath into her phone.

  “You know what she did, don’t you? She had What’s-His-Name over for Thanksgiving dinner. He holds his fork in his right hand and his knife in his left and never puts them down until his plate is empty. He talks with food in his mouth. He’s a Neanderthal!”

  This entire conversation was conducted while Mary Ellen walked to work at the high school and I was trying to fry a couple of eggs for Connie. And that, while Connie pretended to occupy himself with a book I had left on the table. But Connie doesn’t read unless he has to, so I knew he was listening.

  When Mary Ellen abruptly hung up because she had reached the school, and I put my phone down to grab a plate, Connie says, “You have any toast with this? You know, you’ve got more problems than your Matty to worry about. My boy Doug is getting serious about Sarah. I think this whole trip to Europe thing next summer is a ruse. I think it’s going to be a honeymoon.”

  Connie had that right. I had already figured that much, but I hadn’t told Mary Ellen yet. I took my last two pieces of bread out of the bag and put them in the toaster, poured myself another cup of coffee, and sat down.

  I said, “I’m not worried about Sarah. She’ll have the whole thing figured right down to the penny. I’d be worried about your boy Doug. Does he realize what he’s getting himself into?”

  “No. Not a bit of it. He’s blind as a bat.”

  “Just as well.”

  Connie said, “And you’ve got some more problems.”

  I said, “Not yet. Susie’s not getting married until she finds someone who can afford the life style she’d like to become accustomed to.”

  Connie sat back and swallowed, “I mean you. I got a call. You stepped on somebody’s toes.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who. I got a call. The Beacon Hotel wants to drop our account. I told them they had a contract. They said they’d pay it off. You know that outfit. It’s all union. They’re just using that for an excuse, though. Freddie, the business manager there, was out front. He wanted me to know. If I wanted to keep the account for the hotel, I had to drop you from the payroll.”

  Connie buttered his toast and carefully lifted an entire egg onto one piece with his knife.

  I said, “And? You asked why, I assume.”

  I shouldn’t have. Connie also talks with the food still in his mouth. He said, “I know why. Manager told me that right off. Something you did.” He was dragging the matter out. He chewed his egg too carefully. It was punishment. I waited. He swallowed. “You know a Fabian Lugano?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You should know better. You can’t deal with people like that. It’s their way or the highway—actually, in his case, because he works for ‘Charlestown’ Charlie Norris, it could be under the highway.”

  Now, at this point I thought several things. First, that I was going to need to make myself more valuable alive than dead. Second, I was going to have to make Mr. Lugano miserable and wish he never bothered with me. And third, that there was something more involved between Fabian Lugano and Desiree than I had imagined, and that was a failure of imagination on my own part that I was going to have to deal with sooner than later.

  I ignored the small stuff and asked, “Do you have anything on Charlie Norris?”

  Connie shrugged. “Everybody does. He’s a bully with cunning and no brains. He’s an animal. He survives because he has something on everybody else and he has no inhibitions.”

  I say, “Do YOU know anybody?”

  Connie says, “Sure. But you know that’s the hard way. You get involved that way. You don’t want to get involved unless you have to. It’s like moving a pile of dog shit with an ice cream stick.”

  That's stops me cold, with my fork in the air. “Like what? You’re eating! How can you even imagine something like that when you’re eating?”

  Connie looked surprised, eyes wide. “Imagine? I didn’t imagine it. My neighbor’s dog took a dump in my yard just this morning. His kid had thrown the stick in my yard before. So, had to carry it over piece by piece and drop it on the guy’s stoop. You ever carry a potato on a stick? Sure. We learned to do that at camp when we were kids. Remember?”

  I think I sighed. Connie makes me sigh sometimes.

  “So what’s the easy way? What do you think I should do?”

  Connie swallowed his last piece of egg and toast and washed it down with more coffee.

  “There is no easy way. You’ve already stepped in it. Everything you do’ll be wrong, somehow. You make your decision and follow through. That’s all. It either works or it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, you have to have plan ‘B.’ Just remember plan ‘B’ is the one where somebody gets killed.”

  “I want plan ‘A.’”

  “Okay.” He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth as he considered the situation. Then he says, “You ever listen to the radio?”

  “A little.”

  “You listen to Denny Doyle?”

  “The second basemen?”

  “No, dunce! The radio guy.”

  “No. I write in the mornings. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing now. You know. So I don’t have to work for you for the rest of my pitiful life.”

  Connie shrugged. “Doyle has something on everyone. That’s his business. His talk show is number one in the morning because his newspaper column is number one reading matter on Beacon Hill. He makes a living out of making them squirm. Mostly politicians. And Charlie Norris gets what he wants because he’s connected on Beacon Hill. I’ve heard Doyle talk about it. See? Now. You’re situation is worth nothing. It means nothing to nobody but you, right now. And Norris doesn’t want a lot of dog shit on his stoop just because one of his dogs wandered over into somebody else’s yard. Right?”

  I didn’t see it yet, but I figured I would.

  “What does Doyle have to do with it?”

  “He likes me.”

  Everybody likes Connie. Almost.

  I said, “Why?”

  “I saved his ass. Somebody tried to bomb his car a couple of years ago.”

  That I knew about.

  “Over the Dougherty thing?”

  “Yeah. That thing. I’m the one who actually spotted it. Luck of the draw. I was the only one
who wasn’t already working somewhere else that night. So, I ended up doing the overnight watch at the radio station on Morrissey Boulevard because Rickie Symms called in sick at the last minute. This was just after we got that contract. I didn’t know the building that well then. And the surveillance cameras weren’t working. Like a fuse was blown. Remember that trick? So, I’m looking for trouble anyway. I stepped out for a smoke and see somebody over by the fence in the parking lot. Denny Doyle gets to work before dawn to read the morning papers for his show. I know his car. It was easy to figure. I just went in and called the cops.”

  I had heard about this before, but I had forgotten part of the story.

  “What happened to Rickie?”

  Connie shrugged again. “I fired him. He thought I should give him a prize. Like I wouldn’t have been there if he hadn’t called in sick. But I figured it was him that switched the fuses, even though they couldn’t prove it.”

  “So what can Doyle do?”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  I had another thought. I said, “And something else. Find out what section your cousin with the candy shops sits in when he’s at the Garden.”

  It would not have occurred to Connie to fire me as well. But that was what he should have done and saved himself a whole lot of trouble. That’s what I should have said to cover my own ass if things went wrong. That should be plan ‘B.’

  Connie gets back to me the next morning. And the Bruins are playing at home that night.

  The closest seats I could get were about four rows back from Connie’s lawyer’s cousin, the Candy Man. Burley was smiling ear to ear because these are the best seats I’ve scored in a couple of years. He’s talking about Bergeron. Burley is big on a defensive game. I like Krejci. I like aggression on the ice.

  I can see Fabian Lugano in the row just ahead of the Candy Man. He’s in his seat at the start of the game, and I figure it shouldn’t take more than about five minutes before Lugano catches sight of me. But I talk to Burley like I haven’t got a clue Fabian’s there. I waited until I see the white of Fabian’s face turn up toward our seats and then stop. I turned then and looked directly at him. Then I smiled. He has a crease in his forehead that goes right down between his eyes.

  I say to Burley, “The punk has spotted me. The game is on.”

  Burley corrects me. He is a complete Sherlock Holmes fan. “Afoot, you mean.”

  “Alright, it’s afoot.”

  Lugano looks at Burley. He turns back toward the ice, but I can smell his brain working on the situation. Is it a coincidence that I’m there? If he has half the brain he needs to survive, he doesn’t believe in coincidence. That’s another thing old Sherlock taught us.

  I see him pull out his cell phone and make a call. Then he turns back to look at me again, and smiles. Why are punks so arrogant? They’re bottom feeders and they act like sharks. Both Burley and I wave this time. He doesn’t look in my direction again through the rest of first period.

  At the break he gets up and starts up the aisle in our direction. Either he needs to relieve himself of some of the beer he’s been drinking, or he’s going up to the concourse to have a little privacy with his next call. Our seats are up in the row far enough so that I can’t block him, so I don’t try. He doesn’t bother to even look at us. I wait until he‘s out of sight and then follow him. My guess is he’s going to be near the exit doors. It’s quieter there for making calls. And I’m right. He sees me as I come into the concourse. His face is as blank as he can make it. He folds his phone up and slips it into his pocket. I hold my hands up in the air.

  I say, “I’m not looking for any trouble. I’m just here to see Marchand put a few in the net while Krejci knocks a few of the Flyers on their asses. I don’t want to end up that way myself. What’s your problem?”

  He backs his head up on his neck like a turkey does. “What’dya mean, what’s my problem? Whad'a ya smilin’ at out there? Both’a ya?”

  I shrug, “I told my friend about you coming to my door that day. He thought it was all very funny. Me in the middle of shaving and you making threats. So, what’s your problem?”

  His voice raises. The tone is a threat. “I got no problem.”

  I let my voice settle down. “I put out 180 bucks for those seats. I’m not interested in any problems. I’m here to see a game.”

  He flails his left hand into the air. “So why’d you follow me out here?”

  I shrug again. “What’d ya think, I’m stupid? I saw you make that call when I smiled at you. You didn’t look all that happy to see me. I’m just here to say I’m not looking for any trouble.”

  The crease started at the top of his forehead and made its way down between his eyes again. He was doubting himself. This is a guy who should not be in his line of business. Not anymore. But, of course, I’d already guessed that. He was in love. He was being too careful.

  Fabian says, “Then go watch the fuckin’ game and mind your own business.”

  I shook my head at that and went back to the seats. Fabian didn’t come back until after the second period was underway.

  When the third period is nearly over, the score is tied 2 to 2, Burley doesn’t want to leave, but he has my back, so he’s already out the door when Fabian makes his exit, just like we figured he would.

  Burley’s on his phone with me so we can coordinate. He catches sight of Fabian at the exit to the street and keeps him tagged. I’m right there anyway, about a hundred yards back, but the guy’s moving fast. Burley’s got his parka hood up against the cold and he’s staying to the other side of Causeway Street until Fabian crosses and turns the corner at Portland. I’m across already against the traffic. I have a good idea where Fabian’s car is parked now, so I have to move fast or else he’s going to be in with the door closed. I had figured the street would be fairly empty with the game still on, but there are enough locals looking to score on the tourists so that I’m held up a bit. Thankfully, Burley stays with him all the way to the car door.

  This is not exactly how I wanted it to go down. I figured we’d just sandwich him on the street, but now Burley has to take things on by himself. Lugano has realized he’s not alone and reaches deep into the car as soon as he opens the door.

  Burley is right behind him and says, “Mr. Lugano. What’s your hurry?”

  Burley has a nice stage voice. It’s calm. It’s even clear enough for me to make it out at a distance. But Lugano is moving. His feet are still on the ground and he only hesitates an instant before turning in the open door to bring a gun up in his right hand. He doesn’t see me until I push the door back against him and have both his arms trapped from behind.

  Fabian’s whole body gives away then like he’s going to fall down. It’s a good tactic, but I think I just scared him. I hold Fabian up against it as Burley pushes the car door back open again with his foot.

  Fabian says “Wha!”

  I say, “What the hell are you doing? I want to talk. I’m not trying to get anybody hurt here.” Burley has Fabian’s hand and comes away with the guy’s gun. I keep talking. “You’ve got a kid now. You don’t want to go to prison for shooting anybody now. Calm down.”

  With Burley holding the gun, I let Fabian go.

  He backs up in the wedge of space with no place to move.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  I say, “You know what I want. I told you. I want to know what you know about Desiree.”

  He shakes his head and tries the classic line, “Do you know who I am?”

  For an instant, I tried not to laugh. Actually, now, for whatever reason I don’t remember, I was suddenly angry. That was a good thing, just then.

  I say, “I know who you are. You’re a fuckin’ punk who sells shit to morons just so he can afford the good seats at the Garden. You’re an asshole. You’re stupid enough to buy yourself a $70,000 Cadillac instead of putting it aside for your kid. I’ll break your fuckin’ neck right now and the world will be a better place. Norris will have a
nother mule by morning. Because that’s all you are. A stupid mule in a suit. Do you know who I am? I’m a fuckin’ mad man. And somebody has done something to a woman I care about and I’m not going to whistle Dixie. I going to find out what happened and if it takes putting trash like you in a bag by the way, I’ll do it.”

  Portland Street is quieter than Causeway. There are a couple of people coming up who stop in their tracks when they hear my voice. Burley flashes his security badge at them. It means nothing, but they don’t know that. It looks official. They walk the other way.

  Fabian has backed up against the side of his car now. His mouth is open. He takes a couple of breaths to regain his composure.

  He says, “She came to me. Is that my fault?”

  “Why?”

  “Why does anybody come to me?”

  “When?”

  “Back in the summer. Back in July.”

  “That was it?”

  “That was it.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Just before Halloween.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing. She just wanted her usual.”

  “How’d she get your name in the first place?”

  “You know how.”

  I looked at him just a second longer than I had to. I was thinking about Des. I was thinking about the game being over. Both games. I knew what I needed to know about Des, and the Bruins had to be into overtime or else the street would be filling up.

  I say, “If that’s it, then it’s done. I don’t give a shit about you and don’t need to talk to you again. But if you just lied to me, you better beg Norris for help, because I’m coming after you again. Only, if you do that, you’re screwed anyway because you’re going to cost him more than you’re worth and you’ll never see your kid go to college.”

  He says, “It’s the truth.”

  I knew it was.

  I looked over at Burley and he slid Fabian’s gun beneath the next car over and we walked away. From the corner I could see Fabian with his back on the asphalt trying to squeeze under the car far enough to get a hand on his gun.

  22. Blondes