The office block was a long wide building running the length of the wharf. The individual businesses that took over once the shipping offices closed had altered and extended them, depending on their needs. Some had extra depth. Some had an extra floorspace. Two of them at the far end were single-story buildings. Three had skylights similar to South Shore Hardcore’s. All were closed and boarded up.
McNulty moved low and fast. He scampered around the other side of the skylight to obscure the gunman’s view then dashed along the rooftop to the next office building. It was up one floor. He launched himself at the wall, scrambled over and rolled back onto his feet. He was running to the second building before the gunman had even cleared the fire escape, because the gunman had lost time by checking the skylight for signs of forced entry before giving chase. McNulty was already two buildings ahead of him, dropping down onto the single-story roof.
This wasn’t good. McNulty was going the wrong way. He was racing toward the end of the wharf with no way out followed by a man who wanted to shoot him. The river was dark and foreboding. He doubted he’d be able to swim twenty feet before the gunman reached the edge. There was nowhere else to go.
McNulty dropped to the ground behind the last building and looked to his right. There was nothing but darkness and deeper black. He could maybe hide in the shadows but if the man had a flashlight he’d be found. The dull thump of the music sounded around the corner. The only other option. The big square building and the disco lights at the edge of the water. Mingle with the crowd.
Music from the Hook Worm & Bait Club drifted along the quayside. They weren’t selling fishing tackle. The only tackle on offer belonged to the men visiting the nightclub. McNulty realized that as soon as he rounded the corner. What he didn’t understand was why all the men were doing short sprints back and forth across the access road, then joining the queue into the club. Thirty-plus men clogging the street. The same number again milling around the entrance. Not a woman in sight.
McNulty joined in the last sprint then drifted behind a knot of people away from the disco lights. He watched the far end of the office buildings but the gunman hadn’t follow him. Not right then, anyway. The lights blinked on and off. They threw sporadic bursts of light into the shadows. The gunman stood in the dark and watched the crowd. The crowd ignored him. McNulty did not. It was the tall man with stoop shoulders he’d seen locking up at South Shore Hardcore. His face was alternately touched by colored light or hidden in darkness, but there was no mistaking him.
McNulty was so intent on keeping his pursuer in sight that he didn’t realize he’d separated from the group and was standing alone near the stage door. A neon sign above the door said, Performers Only. The gunman scanned the patrons. McNulty watched the gunman. Then a big man came up behind McNulty and slapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re late. Here’s your kit.”
He handed McNulty a leather bondage mask and some kind of corset with handcuffs behind the back. McNulty held them at arm’s length then looked up at the big man. He could have been an NFL football player, tall wide and muscular. His expression softened when he saw McNulty looking at the costume.
“This your first time on stage?”
McNulty glanced over his shoulder. The gunman wasn’t standing at the corner anymore; he was walking toward the crowd. The big man saw the look of concern on McNulty’s face and misread it.
“You taken it up the ass before?”
That got McNulty’s attention.
“No.”
The big man nodded his understanding.
“Don’t worry.”
He braced his shoulders to extend their width.
“I’m not as big as up here.”
McNulty looked at the broad shoulders and solid neck.
“That’s not helping.”
The gunman was at the edge of the crowd now, checking faces and body shapes to match the figure on the rooftop. The gun hand was still in his pocket. The crowd was thinning as they started to go inside. The show was due to start, and McNulty was the second half of the butt-fuck and leather twins. The big man indicated the bondage mask.
“Nobody’ll recognize you.”
McNulty glanced at the gunman.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
The big man misread that as well.
“I know. First time can be a bit uncomfortable. Here.”
He took a plastic squeeze bottle out of his pocket.
“Lube up. I’ll be gentle.”
McNulty looked at the tube of KY Gel then up at the big man.
“You reckon?”
“It’s a promise.”
The gunman was sifting through the crowd and dismissing the gay club patrons one by one. The gun was halfway out of the pocket now. Ready in case one of them tried to jump him. That might not be as painful as the big fella planning to jump McNulty with a leather mask and a smile. McNulty’s smile wasn’t convincing. The big man gave him his final offer. A small round tablet with a funny symbol on the capsule.
“Pop this. It’ll take the edge off.”
McNulty held the tablet in the palm of his hand.
“How much of an edge?”
The big man smiled.
“You’ll be floppy as a boned fish.”
McNulty smiled back.
“Maybe I should give it to you then.”
The big man laughed.
“Come on. It’s time to suit up.”
McNulty held the capsule up between finger and thumb.
“Hang on a minute. How quick does this work?”
The man snapped his fingers. That quick. McNulty nodded. The gunman drew closer. The big man indicated the stage door. McNulty closed his fist around the tablet.
“I’ll be right with you.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
The music was getting louder and applause sounded inside. The warmup act must have been drawing to a close. The sprinters had stopped doing their laps. The bouncer was checking tickets at the front door. The gunman worked his way to the far side of the crowd at the edge of the building. A tugboat sounded its horn somewhere across the bay and traffic was lighter on the Washington Street Bridge. Anybody traveling to North Weymouth would have no problem getting there.
The river lapped against the quay. Mooring bollards stood out along the edge of the wharf. The disco lights didn’t reach around the corner. McNulty kept three men between himself and the gunman and circled to come up on his blind side. The gun was almost completely out of the pocket now as he checked the last few customers paying to see the big fella fuck a man in a mask.
The gunman was checking a man about McNulty’s height.
McNulty came in from the other side.
The gun hand came out.
McNulty launched himself in a rugby tackle and shoulder-charged the gunman around the corner. The gunman came up sharp against the mooring bollard and went down hard. McNulty elbowed him in the face, then stamped on his gun hand. The fingers opened and McNulty kicked the gun over the side. Before the man could speak McNulty shoved the tablet into the man’s mouth and forced him to swallow. The capsule didn’t work in a finger-snap, but the gunman was a boned fish by the time McNulty pulled the mask over his head. He strapped the corset on and handcuffed him behind his back.
Bondage. Punishment. Torture porn. McNulty thought about that as he forced the gunmen to his feet and half walked and half dragged him to the stage door. The crowd had thinned. The music became more introductory. McNulty put the tube of KY Gel in the gunman’s pocket and patted it smooth.
“Lube up. You’re gonna be a star.”
He frog-marched the man through the door and found the big fella at the side of the stage. The crowd began to chant. The slow hand-clapping of expectation became louder. McNulty shoved the gunman forward and shouted above the noise.
“Late replacement.”
The big fella grabbed hi
m around the waist. The gunman could stand up, but his balance was shot. The mask was tight around his face, a black rubber ball gagging his mouth. The stage lights came on and the chanting became a pulsing roar. McNulty nodded.
“He’s done this stuff before.”
He slapped the gunman on the backside.
“Difficult brown instead of the easy pink.”
The big fella didn’t understand the snooker joke. He helped the gunman up the steps as McNulty went out of the stage door. The chanting stopped. McNulty went to the water’s edge and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking. The air tasted salty. He looked up at the stars then walked along the access road past South Shore Hardcore. He was halfway there when he heard a roar from the crowd and a round of applause.
TWENTY-FOUR
The first chance McNulty got to speak with Helen alone was at the Kozy Korner the following morning. The quayside café was only fifty feet from the Dockmaster Tower where Titanic Productions would be filming most of the day. They had to schedule around the dock master’s commitments, otherwise they’d have done all the Marina Bay shooting on consecutive days. Helen bought the drinks this time. McNulty chose the table farthest from the café and settled the dog beneath the bench seat. The parasol was still white and yellow. The sun was still at an angle where the parasol offered little shade.
“I visited South Shore Hardcore last night.”
Helen slid McNulty’s drink across the table.
“And it didn’t burn down?”
McNulty didn’t smile at Helen’s attempt at humor.
“It deserves to burn down.”
Helen got serious.
“What happened?”
He kept it brief and to the point. What he saw through the skylight and what he’d done to the man with the gun. Helen listened, then a shiver ran through her body. She left her iced tea on the table.
“Blood on the floor. I didn’t know they’d got that violent.”
McNulty let out a sigh.
“Girls sign up for that?”
Helen looked at her hands, keeping her eyes down.
“Even back then. Before I left. Some girls were desperate. They’d agree to pretty much anything to get into the business.”
McNulty looked at her, but she didn’t raise her eyes.
“Did you?”
She shook her head then raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
“I told you. That’s why I left.”
McNulty clenched his fist until the knuckles turned white then flexed his fingers to get the circulation back. He wondered how many girls had shed blood in the name of art. The dark art of pornographic moviemaking. As usual any thoughts about vulnerable girls brought him back to the slap and the office, and the first girl he’d tried to protect. His hands began to shake. He took a drink to cover his unease and his hands settled down.
“I saw the size of the camera position. The wear mark on the floor.”
He held his hands apart then opened the gap.
“Definitely thirty-five millimeter. Solid tripod.”
Helen reached under the table and stroked the dog. It helped relax her.
“That’s something else they’ve moved on with since my day.”
The dog rolled on its back for her to stroke its belly.
“It was all handheld and portable back then. Not easy with Panavision cameras unless you’re spending a lot of money. You don’t dolly-track a porn shoot.”
McNulty looked up at the Dockmaster Tower. Arc lights and filters lit the set.
“Not easy unless you’ve got a movie company filming on your doorstep.”
McNulty caught F.K. Parenteau on the stairs during a break in filming. Helen was looking after the dog. F.K. came out onto the viewing gallery while the grips changed the lights and camera positions for the reverse angle. McNulty shut the door and directed the cinematographer to the end of the balcony. It felt like being on the flying bridge of a naval vessel.
“I know what they’re filming. And I know they’re using thirty-five millimeter.”
F.K. gave McNulty an admiring look.
“Well done. You see? You really are still a detective.”
McNulty ignored the compliment.
“They’re filming bondage porn and they’re using a big camera.”
F.K. winced and pulled a face.
“That is very distasteful.”
“And very painful. For the girls.”
“Yes. Of course. Did you see the camera?”
“No. Just the tripod. So that’s not one of yours.”
F.K. shook his head.
“The camera isn’t ours either.”
“How can you be sure?”
F.K. shrugged.
“I just am.”
McNulty tilted his head at a questioning angle.
“They just happen to be using a thirty-five-millimeter camera? When a movie company just happens to be filming nearby using thirty-five millimeter?”
F.K. tried to defend his stance.
“Titanic Productions isn’t the only Boston movie company using thirty-five millimeter.”
McNulty leaned against the railing.
“It’s the only one filming in Quincy.”
F.K. shook his head.
“No. No. I don’t believe it is ours.”
McNulty raised his eyebrows.
“Prove it. Keep an eye on the cameras in storage overnight. Make sure they don’t leave.”
The door opened and Brad Semenoff went down the stairs carrying two used film cartridges. He glanced at the DOP and the technical adviser then quickly looked away. McNulty concentrated on Parenteau.
“There’s blood in the water. And I’m gonna feed somebody to the sharks.”
The door opened again and a runner signaled to F.K. that the next setup was ready. The DOP went inside and McNulty turned to watch the harbor. Seagulls sounded overhead. A staple gun hammered along the dock as the crew replaced the flyers they’d taken down earlier. He couldn’t tell if they were for dogs or for girls. A shiver ran down his spine. Then Larry Unger, looking agitated, waved for him to come down to the parking lot.
“Okay, Vince, I know what you’re going to say.”
The producer was standing behind The Chantey restaurant next to a boat that was up on blocks, ready for painting. The smell of paint and thinners outweighed the seafood smell from the restaurant. McNulty was surprised they hadn’t complained to the dock master. Nobody wants to have semi-gloss emulsion with their oysters. A boat chugged away as it maneuvered out of a slip on “G” Dock. McNulty waited for Larry to continue before saying what the producer knew he was going to say.
“But the local media are going ape shit for interviews.”
McNulty held his hands out, palms up.
“With me?”
Larry nodded.
“The great dog-rescuer.”
McNulty changed the hands to palms forward. Stop.
“You’re right. You know what I’m going to say.”
Larry moved away from the boat. The smell was overpowering, and it was difficult to breathe. The parking lot was heating up as the sun rose in a hard, blue sky. McNulty walked with him toward the production vehicles and let the producer make his case.
“Think about it for a minute. Remember what I said? Publicity has all sorts of benefits.”
McNulty stopped.
“I saved one lousy dog.”
Larry had to backtrack to where McNulty stood.
“Don’t call it a lousy dog in an interview.”
“I’m not doing any interviews.”
Larry held his hands out in a pleading gesture.
“Lots of people are going to see this.”
McNulty stepped close and lowered his voice.
“My sister isn’t going to come out of the woodwork because of a shaggy dog story in the local press.”
Larry lowered his voice, too.
<
br /> “People love a shaggy-dog story. That’s why the dog always survives the apocalypse in all those disaster movies.”
“It was a two-bit fire in a low-rent film lab. Not Armageddon.”
Larry tried another angle.
“It’s getting traction with the police. Maybe they can help you.”
McNulty let out a sigh and shook his head.
“I was in the police. I didn’t find her. The private investigator is an ex-cop. He didn’t find her, either.”
Larry frowned.
“Better to have them with you than against you.”
McNulty looked at the producer. “Why would they be against me?”
Larry shrugged. “If they ever found out you broke into the lab.”
McNulty linked fingers and flexed them until his knuckles cracked.
“The publicity might not be so good if they found out your stolen film was being used to film girls getting beaten up in glorious Technicolor.”
Larry backed off and held his hands up. “Whoa. Who’s getting beat up?”
The producer looked genuinely shocked. McNulty considered him for a moment and wondered how much Larry really did know. If he knew anything at all. The water was muddy. The only thing McNulty was certain of was that he knew more than he was letting on.
“Girls the police are supposed to protect.”
Larry saw his chance to wriggle out of this.
“You were with the police. Back at Northern X.” He softened his tone. “You know better than most that you can’t save all the girls.”
McNulty braced his shoulders.
“I can try.”
Larry nodded. The smile he gave held a hint of sadness.
“Now that right there. That’s why I employ you. You think you’re still a cop.”
He jerked a thumb back toward the Dockmaster Tower.
“And it’s rubbing off on Alfonse. Even I’m starting to believe him.”
McNulty stood firm. “Then get him to do the interviews.”
Larry’s shoulders sagged. He was staring defeat in the face.
“Come on, Vince. The production office has been inundated with calls.”
Final Cut Page 11