“Why is that?”
“Dunno. Maybe he had a bad experience here. He lived in that haunted dorm you’ve been reading about, right?”
“Yeah, but after reading his articles, I get the impression he didn’t exactly believe the place was haunted. So where is he now?”
“As far as I know, he lives in Australia. About as far away as you can get.”
“Australia, huh?”
“Yeah, he went down there to research that book on the Outback Ripper. Deadsville? And I guess he never came back. Why do you want to talk to him anyway?”
“Something he wrote in one of these articles. It’s probably nothing. Definitely far-fetched. Anyway, you can read all about it while you’re making those scans. I’ll be back at my comfy chair, grabbing a few more winks.”
An hour later, Sheila woke Coleman by tossing a stapled twenty-page document into his lap. “I scanned ’em and copied ’em for you. You’ll have to give me your email address to get the PDFs.”
“Oh, I get it. This was all a scam to get my digits.”
“Your ‘digits’? 1992 is calling, detective. It wants your hightop fade back.”
“Were you even born in 1992?”
“Sure wasn’t.”
Coleman winced. “Well, as a matter of fact, I did have a high-top fade in 1992. But in my defense, I was a junior in high school.”
Sheila did some mental calculations. “So you’re old enough to be my perverted uncle.”
“If you’re into that.”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
“Let’s get some pancakes.”
***
After pancakes, and after an animated discussion of Tommy Donnelly’s Charlesgate articles, and after Coleman had determined that Sheila was not, in fact, into the whole perverted uncle thing (but was really into the whole free breakfast thing), and after convincing himself this was just as well, because he still had hopes of saving his marriage, Coleman headed back to BPD headquarters. True to Sheila’s word, the scans of Donnelly’s Charlesgate articles were waiting in his inbox when he got back to his desk. A Google search later, he had confirmed that Donnelly’s agent was one Dana Knowles at Levine Greenberg in New York City.
“So how was the meatloaf?”
The sound of his partner’s voice derailed Coleman’s train of thought.
“Huh? Oh…great. Great as always.”
Carnahan cracked his knuckles. “Really? Because it looks to me like you’re wearing the same clothes you had on when I left here last night.”
“Nah. All my suits look like this.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Coltrane. I am a trained Boston po-lice detective. You ain’t been home. Let me sniff your crotch.”
“Excuse me?”
“What? You afraid I’ll smell the scent of a woman on you? The sweet, sweet smell of puss-ay?”
“No, I just don’t want your nose anywhere near my junk. I ain’t been with no other woman, Carny.”
“That don’t mean you haven’t tried.”
“I ended up spending the night at the Emerson College library, if you must know. I might have an interesting lead on our Charlesgate vic. A long shot, but interesting.”
“Well, put a pin in it. I have a real lead on our vic. We heard back from one of the Charlesgate residents, a Mrs. Osborne. She was out of town for a week. Got home last night, found her front door was unlocked. And she’d been robbed.”
“No shit.”
“No shit. We’re seeing her at noon. Maybe you should take a fuckin’ shower.”
JUNE 12, 1946
The Rosebud Diner in Somerville was a refurbished trolley car that smelled of strong coffee and burnt toast and employed only geriatric women with foul tempers. Jake and Shane Devlin sat in a corner booth, picking at a plate of bacon and eggs. Jake had his Navy-issued duffel bag at his feet. The bag was stuffed with twenties and fifties and hundreds—all the money they’d jacked from Dave T’s card game, minus what they’d spent on their three-day debauch.
“I could really use a drink,” said Shane.
“No way. We need to be stone-cold sober. All our senses sharp. Our lives are on the line here.”
“A condemned man is entitled to a last drink.”
“That’s a last cigarette he’s entitled to. Smoke up. All you want. But no booze. Take this fucking seriously.”
“I am, but—”
“You aren’t. You weren’t over there, living every day with death staring you in the face.”
“Hey, it’s not like I didn’t want to go.”
The pay phone rang and a hunched, grim-faced waitress answered it. A few seconds later, she gestured to Jake.
“This is it,” said Jake, standing. Shane watched him walk to the phone, take the receiver from the waitress, listen without saying much, then hang up and return to the booth.
“So?”
“So there’s a taxi waiting for us outside. Pre-paid. Destination unknown. We get in and it takes us there.”
“Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or we take that satchel full of cash, get a different taxi, take it to the airport, and buy two tickets to…wherever the fuck. Havana, like you said.”
“And then what?”
“And then we live. And then this cocksucker doesn’t get to shoot us in the head. Who cares ‘and then what’?”
“This guy, his connections, you think he can’t find us in Havana?”
“Then fucking Brazil. Australia.”
“You got a passport?”
“No.”
Jake picked up the duffel bag. “So let’s go.”
“Mexico, then. Canada.”
“Shane, look around you. These guys sitting at the counter. The booth by the door. These people are not our friends. I guarantee you, we walk out of here and don’t get in that taxi, we won’t get half a block before one of ’em spatters our brains all over the pavement. Now get the fuck up and let’s go. We’re gonna see this through and we’re gonna wait for our moment and when it comes, we’re not gonna miss it.”
With the eagerness of a death row prisoner rising to walk his last mile, Shane followed Jake out of the Rosebud. The noonday sun was jarring after the dank of the diner, and the air was heavy, the first really humid day of the year. The taxi idled in front of the newsstand across the street. Before climbing into the back seat, Shane caught a glimpse of the Boston Daily Record, its sports page headline trumpeting the Red Sox victory over Cleveland the day before.
“If I die today,” he said to Jake, once he’d settled in his seat, “I’ve lived my whole life without ever seeing the Red Sox win the World Series.”
“Settle down,” said Jake.
“This is the year. Teddy back from the war, knocking the cover off the ball. I really wanted to see it.”
“You’ll see it. Just get a grip.” Jake was trying to concentrate on the taxi’s route, in hopes of gaining whatever slight advantage such knowledge might yield. At Porter Square, the cabbie turned left onto Massachusetts Avenue.
“So where are we going today?” Shane asked, taking the direct approach.
“I don’t talk to you,” the driver responded.
“Well, I hate to tell ya, pal, but you just did.”
The driver had no response to that.
“You Greek?” Shane asked. “I used to work with a Greek guy, looked a lot like you. You got a brother?”
Nothing. Jake continued to track the route, not that there was much to it. The driver stuck to Mass Ave through Harvard and Central Squares.
“You follow baseball at all? The Sox laid a whipping on Cleveland last night. I know it’s only June, but they’re looking pretty good.”
Greek or not, baseball fan or not, the driver had nothing to add. The cab was crossing the bridge over the Charles River from Cambridge to Boston. At Beacon Street, the cabbie turned right. Jake realized they were now a block from the Charlesgate, where he and Shane—and Pat, can’t forg
et Pat, God rest his soul, probably—had robbed Dave T’s card game, only four days earlier. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
“So we’re going to the Charlesgate, huh?” Shane had picked up on it, too. But the driver blew through the intersection of Beacon and Charlesgate East. At Kenmore Square he made a left onto Brookline Ave. He pulled to a stop in front of Lefty’s Tavern at the corner of Brookline and Lansdowne.
“You get out here.”
“Yeah,” said Shane. “I hope they fuckin’ tipped ya, ’cause you ain’t gettin’ jack from us.”
Jake grabbed his duffel and he and Shane stepped out of the cab. In a mirror image of their getaway from the poker game a few nights earlier, the sidewalks were now crowded with pedestrians streaming into Fenway Park. Across the street, the famous left-field wall loomed.
“This is good,” said Jake.
“How do you figure?”
“Public place. Day game. This guy’s connected, but no one’s connected enough to waste us in Lefty’s on game day. Let’s just play it cool.”
Dave T was sitting at the bar with someone Jake didn’t recognize. He looked like George Raft in They Drive by Night. The Casey cousins were nowhere to be seen. On the bar next to Dave T’s drink was a tin canister of some sort, about the size of a coffee can. Jake dropped his duffel at Dave T’s feet and sat on the stool beside him. Shane took the stool to his left.
“How much is in there?” Dave T asked.
“You don’t want to count it?” Jake replied.
“Why should I count it? Are you planning to lie to me?”
“Of course not. No point. There’s $12,736.”
“All right. Well, I happen to know there was fifteen large in the drawer that night. Ten players, $1,500 buy-in. So right off the bat, we know you spent $2,264 on your three-day bender. Impressive.”
“We spent $1,264,” said Jake. “I put a grand in an envelope for Pat’s mother this morning.”
“Least you could do,” said Dave T. “But not my problem. Comes out of your end just the same. So: twenty percent equals three large, plus $2,264 equals $5,264 out of your take of this job. How you split that up, I could give a shit.”
The George Raft lookalike hadn’t moved, not even to give Jake and Shane the once-over or acknowledge their existence in any way.
“Who’s your friend?” Shane asked.
“This is Mr. Cahill. He’s my driver when I need one. If you’re waiting for Mr. Cahill to shake your hand or say howdydoody, you’ll be waiting until doomsday.”
“That’s fine,” said Shane. “What I’d really like is a drink.”
“You don’t need a drink,” said Jake.
“No, that’s fine. We should all have a drink. Dickie! Three cold beers over here and another ice water for Mr. Cahill.”
The bartender, Dickie, popped open three Narragansetts and set them on the bar, then refilled Mr. Cahill’s glass from the fountain.
“Fifteen grand,” said Dave T. “You jamokes risked your lives for fifteen grand, and you didn’t know what to do with it when you got it. If I hadn’t caught up with you, you’da blown it all on whores and booze. And now one of you is…”
“What?” said Shane. “One of us is what? Where’s Pat? What did those animals do to him?”
“You gotta let that go, Porky.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ call me—”
“Shane.” Jake flashed him the devil eyes. “Let it go.”
“Listen to your friend…Shane. We’re on to new business now. And business is good. It’s gonna make that fifteen grand look like a drop in the bucket. I’m talking about millions. The biggest heist this city has ever seen. And it’s gonna be like taking candles from a baby.”
“Candy,” said Shane.
“What?”
“Candy. The saying is ‘like taking candy from a baby.’ What would a baby be doing with candles?”
“What the fuck do I care? Point is, we got no worries at all. Now finish your beers. Mr. Cahill and I have tickets to the game today, and your taxi is waiting for you outside. The trunk is gonna be open. There’s something in there for you. Take it out, get in the back seat, and take a look at it. The driver will take you back to the Rosebud.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll be in touch, next day or two. Oh, one more thing.” Dave T slid the tin canister across the bar to Shane.
“What the hell is this?”
“Take a peek.”
Shane pried the lid loose and popped it off. He peered into the canister.
“It’s your cousin Pat,” said Dave T. “I don’t want there to be no confusion. You don’t need to know the specifics. I sympathize with your loss, but we all know it had to be done. Out of respect, as a gesture of good faith, I’m giving you the remains to dispose of as you see fit. Me, I’d want to be scattered on the warning track across the street. Forever Fenway. Now enjoy the rest of your day. Go Sox.”
Dave T raised his beer. Mr. Cahill sipped his water. Shane closed the lid and tucked the canister under his arm. He and Jake got up and exited the tavern to find their taxi waiting right where they’d left it. The only difference, as promised, was that the trunk was now open. Jake and Shane approached it and looked inside.
“What the fuck? We’re doing his dry cleaning now?”
Sure enough, the only thing in the trunk was a dry cleaning bag. Jake reached in and lifted it out, tossing it over his shoulder. He and Shane got in the back seat of the cab. Shane held up the canister.
“Can you believe this guy? The balls on him.”
Jake shot a glance at the cabbie. “Save it, Shane. Let’s see what we got here.”
As the driver U-turned and retraced his route back through Kenmore Square, Jake unzipped the garment bag. Catching a glimpse of its contents, he furrowed his brow. He unzipped it further and showed it to Shane.
“Fucking cop uniforms?” said Shane. “What the hell is this guy getting us into?”
OCTOBER 6, 1986
Two days later, Operation Avoid Purple Debbie was still in full effect. I’d steered clear of the Canteen, even though my financial situation didn’t exactly lend itself to paying for meals. Fortunately I’d been able to scrounge enough Wild Pizza coupons to keep myself alive on under five dollars a day. After wasting all of Saturday holed up in the Love Room with a pillow over my head, I’d spent Sunday at the public library on Boylston trying to research my Charlesgate series. One small problem: I had no idea what I was doing. I found a book on historic buildings of Boston, but it had been published in 1923, when Charlesgate was hardly historic. Boston was brimming with real history, after all, and my dorm didn’t quite hold the cultural significance of Faneuil Hall or the Old North Church.
I sifted through volumes of Boston Globe indexes, but found only a few scattered references to Charlesgate. Using those references, I was able to retrieve the corresponding rolls of microfilm, but most of the articles made only fleeting references to the hotel, usually in society page columns about the well-to-do types who happened to be staying there on a given weekend.
Finally I admitted defeat and made my way to the research desk. An Ichabod Crane lookalike regarded my approach like that of a flea-bitten stray.
“Um…hi. I’m researching an article on a particular building here in town, and I’m not having much luck.”
“That is a shame.”
“Yeeeah, so that’s why I was wondering if you could help me. It’s the Charlesgate? At 4 Charlesgate East between Beacon and Marlborough?”
“I am familiar with the Charlesgate.”
“Oh, great! So…where should I start?”
“You should not. You should stop.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should not write the article at all.”
I took a step back and surveyed my surroundings. “What is this, a prank? Is there a hidden camera in here?”
“I should hope not.”
“Well, maybe I’m missing something here,
but I thought you were the research librarian. I’m doing research. It’s really not your business why, or whether it’s worth doing.”
“It is not worth doing.”
“Hey, listen—”
“In fact, you should forget all about that building. Pick another. There are many wonderfully historic buildings here in Boston.”
“Look, I don’t know what your problem…oh. Wait. I get it. You…you actually believe the place is haunted, don’t you? Oh, you have got to be kidding me. What, you think if I write this article, demonic spirits will devour my soul?”
“Of course not. Sir, I could easily point you to volumes with titles like Haunted Hub and Real Boston Ghost Stories. You will find many fanciful tales of the Charlesgate within their covers. They are rubbish. The last thing this world needs is another article spewing the same old nonsense.”
“Well, that’s not your problem.”
The research librarian let out a heavy theatrical sigh. “Indeed. You will find the books I mentioned, and others like them, in the Occult section.” He began to write some numbers down on a notepad. “But I must tell you, the history of the Charlesgate is rich enough without having to resort to this spookshow poppycock.”
“So lay it on me, Jeeves. I don’t know why you assume I’m only interested in the occult aspect.”
He peered over his Nathaniel Hawthorne spectacles, as if seeing me for the first time. “Very well. If you can come back in a few days, I should be able to pull some material for you. In the meantime, you may want to check the Architectural Digest indices for articles about J. Pickering Putnam. He is the architect who designed the Charlesgate. I would also suggest any number of Houdini biographies you’ll find on the second floor.”
“Houdini? Did he live in the Charlesgate?”
“No, but he did attend a séance there in 1924. A séance he thoroughly debunked, I might add.”
“Cool. I’ll check it out.”
“And of course…” The librarian handed me the notepaper with the Dewey decimals he’d jotted down.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll check in with you in a few days.”
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