Brighton

by Michael Harvey

  “The produce market?” Bridget knew Bobby had clients down there. Still, it didn’t make sense.

  “Someone cut their throats.”

  “And you think that someone’s Bobby?”

  “I don’t think nuthin’. Providence thinks it’s Bobby.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “Luck. I figured I’d cruise Brighton, swing by Bobby’s place maybe. But first, I needed something to eat so I came down here for the cheese. And there you were.”

  She didn’t believe him, but what did it matter? He wanted Bobby. And was willing to make a deal.

  “How much do you know about Providence, Obie?”

  “It’s the mob. Prostitution, loan sharking. These days they launder a lot of cash through legit businesses. Drugs.”

  “Bobby doesn’t deal in girls and he doesn’t push dope. That’s Fidelis.”

  “Around here, sure. But Providence handles all of New England and down the East Coast. Big coin.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Bobby?”

  “I’m just saying, that’s what they do.”

  “What time will they be here?”

  “Who knows? Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe they’re already here.”

  “And you want me to rat him out?”

  “Don’t get so fucking dramatic. Just tell me where he is. Maybe all they want to do is talk.”

  Bridget stared out the window at “The Smiling Mustang,” white metal teeth curled in a goofy grin, paint peeling in a half-dozen spots, and the springs all shot to hell. Bridget bet the thing didn’t even work. “What’s in it for me?”

  “If I handle this right, Providence is gonna give me Bobby’s book. Set me up with some money, really expand.”

  “You live in Chelsea.”

  “That’s where you come in. Day-to-day management of everything in Brighton and Allston. You get a cut up front, make double, triple anything Bobby ever made.” Obie rolled a couple more slices of cheese into a tight torpedo and popped them in his mouth.

  “And if I say no?”

  He shrugged. “I find him anyway. And you’re out of a job.”

  “How about I warn Bobby, he bugs out, and Providence thinks you tipped him.”

  Obie shook his head. “That ain’t you, Bridget. First of all, you’re greedy as fuck. Plus you’re ambitious and smarter than even Bobby. Why do you think I picked you?”

  “So you did follow me here?”

  “Followed you around that fucking supermarket for a half hour.”

  “I bet you’re the one who called Providence. Probably saw Bobby in the market this morning and figured why not.”

  “They called me.”

  “Why the fuck would Providence call you?”

  “Does it really matter? Either you step up or you don’t. That’s how these guys work. So what’s it gonna be?”

  “Get out.”

  “You serious?”

  “You’re right, I won’t say a word to Bobby. If he got himself in deep with those guys, he’ll have to get himself out. But you’re wrong about the rest. Yeah, I like money, but I’m not a fucking rat. You know why? Cuz rats wind up working with scum like you and then one day you’re having a conversation in a car about me and I wind up on the wrong end of a visit from some guido. So get out of my car and take your fucking cheese and shitty-ass fucking breath with you.”

  Obie gave her the finger and climbed out. Bridget rolled down her window the rest of the way.

  “And Obie . . .”

  He stopped and turned.

  “If you think those guineas won’t make a meal out of someone like you, you’re even stupider than I thought. Do yourself a favor. Tell them you couldn’t find Bobby and go home. Lock the door, turn out the lights, and be happy you did something halfway smart for once.”

  Bridget watched Obie make his way to his car, then pulled up Bobby’s number on her cell. Her finger played across the SEND button but didn’t push it. She put the phone away and started to back out of her space. Asshole Obie nearly sideswiped her, laying on the horn and laughing like a maniac as he peeled out of the lot. Bridget hit the brakes, causing one of the shopping bags to topple and the top of her Fribble to pop off. The milkshake spilled all over the floor where it mixed with the unspooled yolks of four or five broken eggs until you couldn’t tell one from the other in a sprawling, sticky mess.

  “Fuck.” Bridget leaned her forehead against the steering wheel and felt trembly, like she was gonna start crying for no reason at all. Fucking Fish House all over again. A young couple who looked like they were from Cambridge or Wellesley or Connecticut or some goddamn place stopped in the parking lot to stare at her.

  “Mind your own fucking business,” Bridget screamed through the open window and watched the young couple stuff themselves into their Subaru and peel out into traffic without even looking. That made her feel a little better. Bridget pulled some paper towels from one of the bags and cleaned up the backseat. Then she ran into Friendly’s and bought another shake. It was 3:15 by the time she got back in her car. Depending on traffic, the drive across town was a half hour. And she was running late.

  24

  AGGIE LIVED on the first floor of an aging brownstone in Jamaica Plain. She was eighty-eight and had suffered at least two major strokes. Maybe more, according to her doctors. They’d wanted her in a rehab facility with hot and cold running nurses, but her great-niece wouldn’t hear of it. And Bridget Pearce was the money. So Bridget made the decisions.

  She’d found Emmanuelle working in Watertown at a produce store called Russo’s. Emmanuelle was an illegal who split her time stocking bananas out front and hosing down pallets of cherry tomatoes in the back. Bridget offered the soft-eyed Guatemalan twice what she made at Russo’s to take care of Aggie—twenty-four seven. Emmanuelle jumped at the chance. That was four years ago.

  Bridget walked up the sagging steps to the apartment and banged on the front door. Emmanuelle was there in a flash, sugar on her lips, inviting her boss inside. Bridget sat on a small, neat couch while Emmanuelle bustled around in the kitchen. Cut flowers scented the room, and the furniture gleamed under a fresh coat of polish. A bamboo fan beat gently overhead and classical music played in the background, the two combining to cover up the hiss and thump of an industrial-strength respirator wheezing away in a bedroom down the hall. Emmanuelle came in with tea and a plate of gingersnaps. Bridget smiled and did the honors, pouring cups for both of them.

  “She’s doing wonderfully,” Emmanuelle said. Bridget nodded at the comfortable lie. In four years, Aggie had made no discernible neurological progress. She ate when fed, moved her bowels when prompted, and three times a week got into a wheelchair so Emmanuelle could push her around the block. She couldn’t speak but seemed to know where she was and followed any visitor around the room with a slack jaw and rinsed-out eyes. Not that Aggie got a lot of visitors. Early on Colleen had wanted to visit, but Bridget poured cold water on the idea until her sister gave up. Now, besides Emmanuelle and the doctors, it was just Bridget, twice a week like clockwork. She broke off a piece of cookie, soaking it in her tea before nibbling off an edge.

  “How are you doing?” she said, gesturing for Emmanuelle to sit closer. The girl slid maybe an inch across the sofa.

  “I’m fine, ma’am. Just fine. You want to see her?”

  “In a minute. Tell me about your family.”

  “It’s all good. My niece, Jacinta, she started middle school.”

  “She’s that old?”

  “Sí, sí. Thirteen.”

  This was their routine. Tea. A couple minutes of small talk. Then Bridget would go in. But first, the money. She pulled out a roll of bills and began to peel off twenties. “Here’s your cash for the week. And a little extra for your niece.”

  Emmanuelle tried to give back the extra, like she always did. And Bridget refused, like she always did. The girl supported an extended family of at least twelve that Bridget knew of, so the cash came in handy
. And it kept her on a short leash. With the money taken care of, Emmanuelle quickly slipped on her coat. Bridget saw her out and watched from the front windows as she walked neatly down the street. She’d be gone for two hours. More than sufficient. Bridget headed back to the bedroom and opened the door.

  The ghost of her grandmother sat at the foot of the bed, unfiltered cigarette in one hand, lips peeled back in a deathless grin. Her great-uncle, Shuks, floated near the ceiling, diving at Bridget as she approached the bed before disappearing in a long, winding sigh. Bridget gave as good as she got, shooting a withered smile back at Gram, then pulling a chair within whispering distance of her patient.

  “They’re not gonna help you.”

  Aggie responded by rubbing together a toothless set of gums. The closer Bridget’s great-aunt got to death, the more she looked like she was just being born. Her body was barely a bump under the covers, shrinking under the assault of chemicals, disease, and the inevitable wasting of old age. She’d lost all but a strand or two of hair, her skull covered with deep wrinkles that looked like ancient runes you might see carved on a cave wall somewhere. Bridget got a sudden urge to run her hands over them and discern what sort of message they held. Instead, she stood up and circled the bed, inspecting the machinery that kept her great-aunt alive—machinery she paid the tab for. Bridget tweaked a tube dripping clear fluids and tugged at some wires that ran along the floor and disappeared under cool sheets. When she returned to the chair, she held up the white Friendly’s bag. It was Aggie’s weekly treat, fed to her through a straw. Emmanuelle had cried and kissed the back of Bridget’s hand the first time she’d asked to feed the shake to Aggie. Since then it had become part of their routine. Bridget pulled out the Fribble and poked a straw through the hole on top. Aggie watched closely, rubbing a furred tongue across lips cracked and blistered with fever. Bridget found some ointment Emmanuelle kept nearby on a tray and rubbed it on the sores. Her great-aunt purred low in her throat like an old tabby and began to shift her legs under the sheets. Bridget made a quieting motion with one hand and picked up the Fribble, fitting the straw to Aggie’s lips. Her eyes grew wide while yellowed cheeks worked overtime drawing up the vanilla goodness. Bridget let her get a good taste, then plucked the straw from her mouth, watching her lips dry suck like a fish out of water. Bridget pulled off the cover and took a sip herself, allowing a mustache of thick cream to form before licking it off.

  “That’s enough for today,” she said and tossed the cup in the trash. Aggie moaned and popped her lips.

  “Now, stop that.” Bridget cleaned her great-aunt’s face and hands with a warm washcloth and plumped her pillows. By the time she kissed her forehead, the old woman was back to looking at Bridget like she was a god. She left the room, closing the bedroom door softly behind her, and headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  A rear door opened to a set of stairs leading down to the building’s basement. Bridget had rented out the lower levels when she took the first-floor apartment, agreeing to pay extra provided she, and she alone, had access. The scumbag landlord had jumped at the cash. Bridget told him she’d change the locks and cut the keys herself. She tugged open a second door in the basement and pulled out a flashlight as she navigated another set of steps. The subbasement smelled of rats, dead and decaying in the walls. Bridget could hear the live ones, urgent nails chattering against the concrete as they scurried in advance of her approach. She hit the bottom of the stairs, her light finding the first storage bin. Bridget checked her watch. If everything went well, she’d be done in an hour. She punched in an alarm code, opened the bin, and grabbed a canvas bag. Sitting on the cold floor, Bridget pulled out bundles of cash and piled them around her. She’d just begun to count when her cell phone buzzed. Bridget looked at the number on caller ID and picked up.

  “What’s up, Finn?”

  Finn McDermott breathed through his nose and didn’t say a word.

  “Finn? You there?”

  “I can hardly hear you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You seen your brother?”

  “Not yet. Why?”

  “I seen him down at Tar Park yesterday. He was asking ’bout Bobby.”

  “So what?”

  “I don’t like him sniffing around.”

  “He’s not sniffing anything.”

  She’d started skimming off Bobby’s book years ago. He had more than he needed and she had squat, so fuck him. Finn didn’t care as much about the cash as he did banging her and he was cheap insurance. If Finn wanted to think they were partners, that was all right, too.

  “I paid our money a visit today,” she said, picking up a stack of twenties and counting silently.

  “Where are you keeping it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “It might be good if I knew.”

  “It might be good if you go fuck yourself. What did we agree on?”

  “Just be careful. Bobby’s not a dummy, you know.”

  “We’re fine. You still wanna meet tonight?”

  “I should be done by eight, eight thirty.”

  “I can’t get there till ten.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. You want to meet or not?”

  “Bridge . . .”

  “I’ll see you at the Cask. If I’m not there by ten thirty, I’m not coming.”

  She hung up and finished counting the stack of twenties. Somewhere above her, there was a groan in the pipes. Bridget pulled out a ledger book filled with her best friends—black columns of figures, etched in small, precise script and marching down the page in picture-perfect order.

  25

  KEVIN GOT out of his car and made the slow walk up Champney Street. Leaves in the trees rubbed together in the breeze, scouting up whispers all around him. He lingered on the sidewalk, staring at windows curtained against the day. There was no grace left in the old homestead, no sense of nostalgia, or even foreboding. Just a lawn mower resting in pieces on the porch, along with a stripped-down bike frame and rusted hunk of chain. A black sedan rolled down the block and knifed to the curb.

  “Kevin Pearce?”

  The voice pulled Kevin from his slow-churning fog. Father Lenihan had been the priest at Saint A’s for three decades. As far as Kevin knew, he was the only one left in a parish with more tumbleweeds than parishioners rolling down the aisle every Sunday.

  “Father, how are you doing?”

  “Doing well, thanks.”

  Kevin moved closer but didn’t offer his hand. The priest leaned across so the late-afternoon sun blanched his face, lighting up the veins in his eyes and cobwebbing in cheeks and nose.

  “You look good, Kevin.”

  “I’m kind of surprised you recognized me.”

  “You’re the spit of your mother. What brings you back?”

  “No reason. Just thought I’d see the old neighborhood.”

  They both turned their gaze down the block. A pair of sneakers was slung over a telephone wire and cars swirled around Oak Square, their shapes cutting fast and dark in the murk. The priest spoke first.

  “It’s not like it was.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but I’m not sure if they mean it’s better or worse.”

  Lenihan nodded as a chunky white kid stepped from the alleyway of a two-family across the street. He stopped next to a statute of Mary on the Half Shell stuck in the front yard. The kid gave Kevin and the idling car a Boston once-over then disappeared back from where he came, leaving the Virgin to fend for herself.

  “I heard you work for the Globe?” the priest said.

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Good for you.”

  Kevin’s newspaper had been the one to expose the cancer feeding on the archdiocese of Boston. Kevin knew the reporters from the Spotlight team working the story. He’d checked early on to see if Lenihan’s name, or any of the other priests from his childhood, had made their lists. Lenihan hadn’t. A couple of others from
Brighton had. Kevin would like to say he’d felt some foreboding of evil, some skin crawl at the back of his neck when he was a kid and they were leaning over him, touching his shoulder, tousling his hair, correcting, disciplining, teaching him right from wrong, but he hadn’t felt a thing. Saint A’s had never been a home for him growing up—not like some kids—but when he was there, he’d always felt safe. Now he just felt sick and wanted to get away from the whole thing as fast as he could. The old priest didn’t have that option.

  “Have you seen anyone yet?”

  “I saw Bobby Scales this morning.”

  “Bobby. You know he comes to church just about every day? Sits in the back when I light the candles for mass. He thinks I don’t know he’s back there, but I do.” Lenihan sparked up an old-school Irish smile that had Kevin leaning against the side of the car.

  “Should I tell him you’re onto him?”

  “Let’s keep it our secret.”

  “No problem.”

  “Lord knows we can’t be driving away the ones that do show up.” The priest peered up at Kevin like a beggar at Christmas looking for the tickle of a coin in his cup.

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “It is what it is, but you probably know that better than most.” He lifted his chin toward 8 Champney. “Does she look any different?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Like everything else?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Welcome home, Kevin. Say hello to everyone for me.”

  “I will, Father.”

  Lenihan offered a half wave that might have been a blessing and eased his car away from the curb. Then Kevin was alone again. Just him and the house. The house he’d grown up in. The house where she’d died. The house he’d run from. He walked across the slabbed sidewalk and felt the soles of his shoes scratch as he climbed the steps. The screen door he’d cycled through a million times as a kid was still on the job, except now it was torn in more spots than not and hung by a single screw screwed into a single hinge. He opened it with two fingers and reached for the key under a piece of fitted wood that made up part of the doorstep.