A Drink Before the War

by Dennis Lehane

  Richie had said Socia sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place him. I assessed what I knew. Curtis Moore was a member of the Raven Saints. He had killed Jenna, most likely at someone else’s behest, that someone probably being Socia. Socia was Jenna’s husband, or had been. Socia was friendly enough with Senator Brian Paulson to have had snapshots taken with him. Paulson had slapped the table in front of me at our first meeting. “This is no joke,” he’d said. No joke. Jenna was dead. Well over a hundred urban warriors who weren’t afraid to die had a bone to pick with me. No joke. I was scheduled to meet Mulkern and crew for lunch tomorrow. I was drunk. Maybe it was me, but Letterman seemed to be getting stale. Jenna was dead. Curtis Moore was missing a foot. I was drunk. A ghost in a fireman’s uniform was looming up in the shadows behind the TV. The TV was getting harder to focus on. Probably the vertical hold. The bottle was empty.

  The Hero swung his fire ax into my head and I sat bolt upright in the chair. The TV screen was snowing. I trained a blurry eye on my watch: 4:15 A.M. Molten fire surged under my sternum. All the nerves in my skull were freshly exposed by the ax, and I stood up and just made the bathroom before I yakked up the Glenlivet. I flushed the toilet and lay on the cool tile, the room smelling of scotch and fear and death. This was the second time in three nights I’d thrown up. Maybe I was getting bulimia.

  I made it to my feet again and brushed my teeth for half an hour or so. I stepped into the shower, turned it on. I stepped back out, removed my clothes, and got back in. By the time I finished, it was almost dawn. Three Tylenol, and I fell on top of my bed, hoping that whatever I had upchucked contained all those things that made me afraid to sleep.

  I dozed on and off for the next three hours, and, thankfully, no one came to visit. Not Jenna, not the Hero, not Curtis Moore’s foot.

  Sometimes, you get a break.

  “I hate this,” Angie said. “I…hate…it.”

  “You look like shit too,” I offered.

  She gave me that look and went back to fiddling violently with the hem of her skirt in the back of the taxi.

  Angie wears skirts about as often as she cooks, but I’m never disappointed. And for all her bitching, I don’t think it’s as painful for her as she pretends. Too much thought had gone into what she was wearing for the result to be anything less than “Wow.” She wore a dark cranberry silk-crepe wraparound blouse and a black suede skirt. Her long hair was brushed back off her forehead, pinned back over her left ear, but tumbling loosely along the right side of her face, cowling in slightly around her eye. When she raised her eyes from under her long lashes and looked at me, it hurt. The skirt was damn near painted on and she kept tugging at the hem to get comfortable, squirming in the backseat of the cab. The sight, all in all, wasn’t hard to take.

  I was wearing a gray herringbone double-breasted with a subtle black crisscross pattern. The jacket was tight where it hugged my hips for that cosmopolitan look, but fashion designers are usually kinder to men, and all I had to do was unbutton it.

  I said, “You look fine.”

  “I know I look fine,” she said, scowling. “I’d like to find whoever designed this skirt, because I know it was a man, and shove him into it. Turn his ass soprano real quick.”

  The cab dropped us on the corner, across from Trinity Church.

  The doorman opened the door with a “Welcome to the Copley Plaza Hotel,” and we went in. The Copley is somewhat similar to the Ritz: they were both standing long before I was born; they’ll still be here long after I’m gone. And if the employees at the Copley don’t seem as plucky as those at the Ritz, it’s probably because they have less to be plucky about. The Copley’s still trying to bounce back from its status as the city’s most forgotten hotel. Its latest multimillion-dollar refurbishment will have to go a long way to erase its once dark corridors and staid-to-the-point-of-death atmosphere from people’s minds. They started with the bar, though, and they’ve done a good job. Instead of George Reeves and Bogey, I always expect to see Burt Lancaster as J. J. Hunsecker holding court at a table, a preening Tony Curtis at his foot. I mentioned this to Angie as we entered.

  She said, “Burt Lancaster as who?”

  I said, “Sweet Smell of Success.”

  She said, “What?”

  I said, “Heathen.”

  Jim Vurnan didn’t rise to meet me this time. He and Sterling Mulkern sat together in oaken shadows, their view protected from the trivialities of the outside world by dark brown slats. Pieces of the Westin Hotel peeked in through the window slats, but unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t notice. Which is just as well I suppose—the only hotel uglier than the Westin in this city is the Lafayette and the only hotel uglier than the Lafayette hasn’t been built yet. They noticed us about the time we reached their booth. Jim started to get up, but I held up my hand and he slid over to make room for me. If only they made dogs and spouses as accommodating and loyal as they made state reps.

  I said, “Jim, you know Angie. Senator Mulkern, this is my partner, Angela Gennaro.”

  Angie held out a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Senator.”

  Mulkern took the hand, kissed the knuckles, and slid along his seat, leading the hand with him. “The pleasure is completely mine, Ms. Gennaro.” That smoothie. Angie sat down beside him, and he let go of her hand. He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Partner?” He chuckled.

  Jim chuckled too.

  I thought it rated a slight smile. I sat beside Jim. “Where’s Senator Paulson?” I asked.

  Mulkern was smiling at Angie. He said, “Couldn’t get him away from his desk this afternoon, I’m afraid.”

  I said, “On Saturday?”

  Mulkern took a sip of his drink. “So, tell me,” he said to Angie, “where is it that Pat’s been hiding you?”

  Angie gave him a brilliant smile, all teeth. “In a drawer.”

  “Is that a fact?” Mulkern said. He drank some more. “Oh, I like her, Pat. I do.”

  “People usually do, Senator.”

  Our waiter came, took our drink orders, crept away silently on the deep carpet. Mulkern had said lunch, but all I saw on the table were glasses. Maybe they’d discovered a way to liquefy the menu.

  Jim touched my shoulder. “You had quite a day yesterday.”

  Sterling Mulkern held up the morning Trib. “A hero like your father now, lad.” He tapped the paper. “You’ve seen it?”

  “I only read ‘Calvin and Hobbes,’” I said.

  He said, “Yes, well…wonderful press, really. Great for business.”

  “But not for Jenna Angeline.”

  Mulkern shrugged. “Those who live by the sword…”

  “She was a cleaning woman,” I said. “Closest she ever came to a sword was a letter opener, Senator.”

  He gave me the same shrug and I saw that his mind wasn’t for the changing. People like Mulkern are used to creating the facts on their own, then letting the rest of us in.

  “Patrick and I were wondering,” Angie said, “if the death of Ms. Angeline means our work for you is done.”

  “Hardly, my dear,” he said. “Hardly. I hired Pat, and you as well, to find certain documents. Unless you’ve brought those to the table with you, you’re still working for me.”

  Angie smiled. “Patrick and I work for ourselves, Senator.”

  Jim looked at me, then down at his drink. Mulkern’s face stopped moving for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows, amused. He said, “Well, exactly why did I sign that check made out to your agency?”

  Angie never missed a beat. “Service charges for the loan of our expertise, Senator.” She looked up as the waiter approached. “Ah, the drinks. Thank you.”

  I could have kissed her.

  Mulkern said, “Is that the way you see it, Pat?”

  “Pretty much,” I said and sipped my beer.

  “And, Pat,” Mulkern said, leaning back, gearing up for something, “does she usually do all the talking when you’re together? And all other duties
, I’m assuming?”

  Angie said, “She doesn’t appreciate being spoken of in the third person when she’s in the room, Senator.”

  I said, “How many drinks you had, Senator?”

  Jim said, “Please,” and held up his hand.

  If this had been a saloon in the Old West, the place would have cleared about now, the loud rustling of fifty chairs pushing back from tables, wood scraping against wood. But it was a posh bar in Boston in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, and Mulkern didn’t look like he’d wear a six-gun real well. Too much belly. But then, in Boston, a gun never was much of a match for a signature in the proper place, or a well-chosen slur dropped at precisely the right moment.

  Mulkern’s black eyes were staring at me from under heavy lids, the look of a snake whose lair has been invaded, the look of a violent drunk itching for a fight. He said, “Patrick Kenzie,” and leaned across the table toward me. The bourbon on his breath could have ignited a gas station. “Patrick Kenzie,” he repeated, “now you listen to me. There is absolutely no way I will be spoken to in this manner by the son of one of my lackeys. Your father, dear boy, was a dog who jumped when I told him to. And you have no other hope in this town but to carry on in his footsteps. Because”—he leaned in farther and suddenly grasped my wrist on the table, hard—“if you show disrespect to me, boyo, your business will be lonelier than an AA meeting on St. Patrick’s Day. One word from me, and you’ll be ruined. And as for your girlfriend here, well, she’ll have a lot more to worry about than a few pops in the eye from her deadbeat husband.”

  Angie looked fit to decapitate him, but I put my free hand on her knee.

  I took it back and reached into my breast pocket to remove the Xerox I’d made of the photograph. I held it in my hand, away from either Mulkern or Vurnan, and smiled slightly, coldly, I imagine, my eyes never leaving Mulkern’s. I leaned back a little, away from his toxic halitosis, and said, “Senator, my father was one of your lackeys. No argument. But, dead or alive, he can piss up a rope as far as I’m concerned. I hated the bastard, so don’t waste your distilled breath on appeals to my sentimentality. Angie is family. Not him. Not you.” I flicked my wrist and my hand came free of his. Before he could pull his back, I closed mine around it and yanked. “And Senator,” I said, “if you ever threaten my livelihood again”—I flipped the photocopy on the table in front of him—“I’ll blow a fucking hole in your life.”

  If he noticed the photocopy, he didn’t show it. His eyes never left mine, just grew smaller, pinpoints of focused hatred.

  I looked at Angie and let go of Mulkern’s hand. “I’m done,” I said and stood up. I patted Jim’s shoulder. “Always a pleasure, Jim.”

  Angie said, “Bye, Jim.”

  We walked away from the table.

  If we made it to the door, I’d be on welfare come autumn. If we made it to the door, the picture meant nothing more than guilt by association and they had nothing to hide. I’d have to move to Montana or Kansas or Iowa or one of those places where I imagine it’s so boring no one would want to wield political influence. If we made it to the door, we were done in this city.

  “Pat, lad.”

  We were eight or nine feet from the door; my faith in human nature was restored.

  Angie squeezed my hand and we turned around like we had better things to do.

  Jim said, “Please, come back and sit down.”

  We approached the table.

  Mulkern held out his hand. “I’m a tad peckish this early in the day. People seem to misunderstand my sense of humor.”

  I took the hand. “Ain’t that always the way.”

  He held it out to Angie. “Ms. Gennaro, please accept the apologies of an ornery old man.”

  “It’s already forgotten, Senator.”

  “Please,” he said, “call me Sterling.” He smiled warmly and patted her hand. Everything about him screamed sincerity.

  If I hadn’t upchucked the night before, I think we all would have been in danger.

  Jim tapped the photocopy and looked at me. “Where did you get this?”

  “Jenna Angeline.”

  “It’s a copy,” he said.

  “Yes, it is, Jim.”

  “The original?” Mulkern said.

  “I have it.”

  “Pat,” Mulkern said, his smile keeping his voice in check, “we hired you for the purpose of retrieving documents, not their photocopies.”

  “I keep the original of this one until I find the rest of them.”

  “Why?” Jim asked.

  I pointed at the front page of the newspaper. “Things have gotten messy. I don’t like messy. Ange, do you like messy?”

  Angie said, “I don’t like messy.”

  I looked at Vurnan and Mulkern. “We don’t like messy. Keeping the original is our way of stepping around the mess until we’re sure what it is.”

  “Can we help you, Pat, lad?”

  “Sure. Tell me about Paulson and Socia.”

  “A foolish indiscretion on Brian’s part,” Mulkern said.

  “How foolish?” Angie asked.

  “For the average man,” Mulkern said, “not very. But for one in the public eye, extremely foolish.” He nodded at Jim.

  Jim folded his hands together on the table. “Senator Paulson engaged in a night of…illicit pleasure with one of Mr. Socia’s prostitutes six years ago. I can hardly make light of it under the circumstances, but in the grand scheme of things, it amounts to little more than an evening of wine and women.”

  “None of these women being Mrs. Paulson,” Angie said.

  Mulkern shook his head. “That’s irrelevant. She’s a politician’s wife; she understands what’s expected of her at a time like this. No, the problem would arise if any documentation of this affair ever surfaced in the public eye. Brian is presently a very strong, silent voice advocating the street terrorism bill. Any association with people of…Mr. Socia’s type could be very damaging.”

  I wanted to ask how anyone could be a “strong, silent voice,” but I figured it might reveal my lack of political savvy. I said, “What’s Socia’s first name?”

  Jim said, “Marion,” and Mulkern glanced at him.

  “Marion,” I repeated. “And how did Jenna come into play in this? How did she get ahold of these pictures?”

  Jim looked at Mulkern before answering. The telepathic pols. He said, “The best we can figure it, Socia sent the photographs as an extortion attempt of some sort. Brian got very drunk that night, as you might imagine. He passed out in his chair with the photos on his desk. Then Jenna came to clean, and we assume…”

  Angie said, “Wait a sec’. You’re saying Jenna got so morally repulsed by photographs of Paulson with a hooker that she took them? Knowing her life wouldn’t be worth a dollar if she did?” She sounded like she believed it less than I did.

  Jim shrugged.

  Mulkern said, “Who can tell with these people?”

  I said, “So, why would Socia have her killed? Doesn’t seem to me that he had all that much to lose by pictures of Paulson and some hooker going public.”

  Before he spoke, I knew Mulkern’s answer, and I wondered why I even bothered asking in the first place.

  “Who can tell with these people?” he said again.

  16

  The rest of the day was a wash.

  We returned to the office and I flirted with Angie and she told me to get a life and the phone didn’t ring and nobody just happened by our belfry. We ordered a pizza and drank a few beers and I kept thinking about how she’d looked in the back of the taxi, squirming in that skirt. She looked at me a couple of times, guessed what I was thinking, and called me a perv. One of those times I was actually having a purely innocent thought about my long-distance phone service, but there’ve been so many other times it sort of made up for it.

  Angie’s always had this thing about the window behind her desk. She spends half her time staring out it, chewing on her lower lip or tapping a pencil against her
teeth, off in her own world. But today it was as if there was a movie out there only she could see. A lot of her responses to my comments began with a “Huh?” and I got the feeling she wasn’t even in the same hemisphere. I figured it had to do with the Asshole, so I let her be.

  My gun was still down at police headquarters, and I had no intention of going about town holding only my dick and an optimistic attitude with the Raven Saints looking for me. I needed one that was completely virgin, because the Commonwealth has very definite laws about unregistered handguns. Angie would need one too in case we got into something together, so I tracked down Bubba Rogowski and ordered two traceless pieces from him. He said no problem, I’d have them by five. Just like ordering the pizza.

  I called Devin Amronklin next. Devin’s assigned to the mayor’s new Anti-Gang Task Force. He’s short and powerful and people who try to cause him harm only make him angry. He has scars long enough to qualify as mile markers, but he’s a pretty swell guy to have around if you’re not at a cocktail party in Beacon Hill.

  He said, “Love to talk, but I got shit to do. Meet me at the funeral tomorrow. You earned some points for Curtis the Gimp, no matter what that asshole Ferry told you.”

  I hung up and felt a slight swell of warmth in my chest, like hard liquor on a cold night before the bitter kicks in. With Bubba and Devin around, I felt safer than a condom at a eunuchs’ convention. But then I realized, as I always do, that when someone wants to kill you, really kill you, nothing but caprice will save you. Not God, not an army, certainly not yourself. I had to hope my enemies were stupid, untimely, or had extremely short attention spans when it came to vengeance. Those would be the only things keeping me from the grave.

  I looked over at Angie. “What’s up, gorgeous?”

  She said, “Huh?”

  “I said, ‘What’s up, gorgeous.’”

  The pencil went tap-tap-tap. She crossed her ankles on the windowsill, swiveled the chair partway in my direction. She said, “Hey.”

  I said, “What?”

  “Don’t do that anymore. OK?”