Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “Yeah, that’s not really my process…”

  “That’s my whole point, man. This isn’t about the same old process. You left that behind when you walked through those curtains, man. Here in the workshop, we are outside of time and space. I need to know you’re with me, man.”

  “Yeah, but I…all right. Fine.” I took a token drag off the joint and immediately launched into a coughing fit. When I finally got myself together, I could see that the Rev was enjoying this all too much. I passed him the joint. “So can we get started here?”

  “Sure,” said Sprague. “I assume you read what I wrote about the Charlesgate in Haunted Hub.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I read a few of those books, but yours was the best of the bunch. You actually bothered to check your facts, rather than just regurgitate all the same urban legends. For instance, some of the other books said Eugene O’Neill died in the Charlesgate, but that’s not the case.”

  “Right. That happened in a different building. Easy to debunk. That’s my business, you know? You get caught passing off some old bullshit as the truth, your reputation is shot. And reputation is all I have. The thing is, I try to visit all the places I write about personally, but the Charlesgate is one nut I never could crack. Your college already owned it by the time I was researching Haunted Hub, and they wanted nothing to do with me. I tried to sneak in, I tried to get some students to sneak me in, but no dice. I think I creeped ’em out.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “But you guys, you must have had some experiences there. Rev, don’t tell me nothing freaky ever happened to you in the Charlesgate.”

  “Well…yeah, there was something. Really freaky. One night freshman year I woke up at about 4 A.M. I sensed this…presence in our room. There was a sound like some kind of, I dunno, gateway opening up. And a smell that hit me like a freight train. I was afraid to get out of bed, but…then I heard this noise. Like a chainsaw starting up. I was scared shitless, but I figured this is a matter of life and death, I gotta move.”

  The Rev paused as the joint reached him again on its third pass around the room. After a long drag, he continued. “So I gather all the courage I can muster and I jump out of my bed and turn on the light. And there, in the corner by the door, is my roommate Mark Fuller. He’s snoring like a chainsaw, he’s got his pants around his ankles, and he’s taken this huge, steaming dump right there in the corner. Now, you may say this was not a supernatural event. But I would disagree.”

  The three of us laughed so hard, I wouldn’t have been surprised if we all crapped our pants simultaneously. By the time I got myself under control, we were no longer in Sprague’s inner sanctum. We were on the roof deck. I had no memory of getting there. The Hancock tower loomed like an interplanetary spacecraft coming in for a landing.

  “We should be there now,” Sprague was saying. “In the Charlesgate. All the answers are there. You’re part of the cycle. You’ve been there before, you will be there again. All that ever happened. All that ever will happen. Separated by a thin membrane we call time. It’s meaningless. It doesn’t exist.”

  “You have always been the caretaker,” I said. The Rev choked on a lungful of Turkish hash smoke.

  “What is that?” said Sprague. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Shining? Oh, never mind. Hey, what about Houdini? You know he debunked a séance there, right?”

  “He had to do that. See, Houdini was a real magician. I mean the authentic black magick. All the tricks he did for audiences, they were all bullshit, of course. But that was his cover. You can bet he knew the truth about the Charlesgate, and he tapped into that hidden world. The idea of phonies in there, pretending to summon spirits, it really pissed him off.”

  “Wait, let me write this…oh, shit.”

  Sprague’s head elongated and split into two identical faces, one good and one evil. Out of the corner of my eye, the Rev had turned into a skeleton.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, concentrating on the cool evening breeze, pretending the roof deck wasn’t spinning around me. “Anyway, so I was wondering if maybe there was something you found out while researching the Charlesgate that didn’t make it into your book. Like, something non-supernatural but still pretty freaky, you know?”

  I fumbled my notepad and pen out of my pocket. Both of Sprague’s faces mocked me. They knew. They knew what had happened between me and Purple Debbie, and I still didn’t know. I wanted to ask him, but…didn’t I just ask him a question? Why wasn’t he answering?

  A thousand years later, he did. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I found out something that was too hot to print, man. My publisher wouldn’t touch it. The Boston Mob would have burned their office to the ground.”

  And he told me. He told me the story and I took careful notes. It was great. It would make my whole Charlesgate series. Mighty Rob McKim would lose his mind. I’d take over as the editor of the Berkeley Beacon next semester. I’d have a bright career in journalism stretching out ahead of me.

  It had something to do with the Boston Mob back in the 1940s. A heist gone awry. A gangland execution in the alley behind Charlesgate. Murdered prostitutes. Bodies stashed inside the walls. Hidden treasure in secret rooms. I wrote it down. I got it all.

  I was walking down Newbury Street. The Rev was beside me humming “Sugar Magnolia.”

  “Hey.” My tongue was thick and heavy in my mouth.

  “Hey hey,” said the Rev.

  “Did we leave?”

  The Rev laughed. “No, man, we’re still there.”

  “Good. I have some follow-up questions.”

  Newbury Street melted into the sixth floor of Charlesgate. I sensed the presence of Purple Debbie. I sprinted to our room. Slammed the door behind me.

  “There you are! I been lookin’ for you!”

  “Chief,” said Murtaugh. “Is this your girlfriend?”

  I managed to focus. It wasn’t Purple Debbie. It was Mrs. Coolidge, the mystery tenant from the third floor.

  “This isn’t a good time,” I said.

  “I checked with my contacts, like I said. They never heard of you.”

  “Okay.”

  “That means one of two things. Either you’re deep cover, a Soviet sleeper agent they don’t have on their radar.”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “Or you are who you say you are.”

  “Let’s go with that.”

  “All right, then. You want to hear my story? Because I have a story that will make all the little hairs on your dick stand on end.”

  “This…this might not be the best time for that.”

  Mrs. Coolidge shrugged. “That’s your business, but I might be busy later. I don’t operate on your schedule.”

  “I understand, but…it’s really important that I lie down right now.”

  She leaned in close, squinting. “Somebody drug you, boy?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. Somebody drugged me.”

  She pointed at Murtaugh. “You. Get him some oranges. And two quarts of purified water, not the stuff out of the taps here. You may have to induce vomiting.”

  “Yeah, I…I’m not going to be doing that.”

  “Don’t sass your elders, young man. I know people. He can tell you that. If he ever recovers. Oranges. Not tangerines. Those come from China and you don’t know what they’re putting in them.”

  If Murtaugh and Mrs. Coolidge continued their conversation after that, I didn’t hear it. I retreated to the Love Room, locked the door behind me, and collapsed onto the futon. The room spun around me for a few seconds, but I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths and everything settled back into place. Sprague’s Turkish hash packed a wallop, but it probably wasn’t laced with angel dust as I’d first suspected. Normality was, if not restored, at least in sight.

  I pulled my notepad out of my pocket. I feared my notes would be at least partly illegible, given my state of mind earlier, so it was important that I transcribe them right away. In the morn
ing, I might not remember anything at all.

  I flipped open to the first page, the only one with any writing on it. Not so much writing, actually, as drawing. Where I thought I’d been taking notes on Sprague’s story, I’d actually drawn a sketch of the Rev as a skeleton. It wasn’t bad: a skull with dreads smoking a blunt. If I gave it to the Rev, he might get it tattooed on his shoulder. But it was no help to me at all. The night was a complete loss.

  Then I noticed that I’d signed my artwork. But I hadn’t signed it with my own name. There was only one word written on my notepad.

  That word was “Vermeer.”

  APRIL 26−29, 2014

  9:47 P.M.

  JackieO@hill-robenalt.com

  To: tdonnelly@qmail.com

  Hey, Tommy—

  It’s been a while and I have no idea if you’ll get this. This is the only email address I have for you, so I’m giving it a shot. I know it’s a long shot, but our 25th class reunion is coming up next month, and I know everyone would love to see you there. I sent you an invitation c/o your agent, so who knows if you ever received it. You’re the biggest success story of our graduating class, unless you count Chest Guy for the year he spent as an MTV VJ, which I do not. I know you’re a LITTLE far away (lol), but I suspect you can spring for a plane ticket if you want to! Maybe even first class. :) And the Sox will be in town that weekend and I KNOW you’d love to catch a game at Fenway.

  Your name came up yesterday, actually. A BPD detective came by asking about you. Not that you’re in any trouble! But there was a murder here in the building last week, and I guess you’re still the expert on all things Weird Charlesgate. (Or should I say Cheesegate? God, I almost forgot we used to call it that.) I was out of town when it happened, but whoever did it might have broken into my condo. My personal laptop was stolen (I’m using my work one right now) and a few other personal items as well, including a photo album from our Emerson days. I’m kind of weirded out, but the detective was cool…actually kind of hot in an Idris Elba kind of way. (Stringer Bell 4-eva!)

  Anyway, thought that might pique your interest. God, I don’t even know if I ever told you I was living in C-Gate again. There’s a story there, as you can imagine. Get back to me if you receive this. And again, we’d love to see you at the reunion. I’ve attached the Evite.

  Best,

  Jackie

  ****

  Conversation started Monday

  Jackie St. John Osborne, David Murtaugh and 3 others

  Jackie St. John Osborne

  Hey all! Just checking in to make sure you’re all set for Reunion Weekend. (Woot!) Hopefully you’ve all got your flights and accommodations arranged, but if you need help with anything, let me know. In case you’re wondering, C-Gate is as f**ked up as ever! I’ll tell you all about in person. Oh! And if ANYONE has heard from Tommy D, PLEASE let me know. Would love to drag him back here for this festive occasion. I tried emailing him, but I got a “mailbox full” reply. If anyone has a current email address for him, shoot it my way.

  Deborah Tocci has left the conversation

  Jackie St. John Osborne

  Whoa! I guess Purple Debbie’s still a little bitter! LOL!

  Michael the Rev Wellman

  Hey, Jackie! Good news: I’ll definitely be there, and I’m bringing the beer with me. Just like Smokey and the Bandit, I’ll be driving halfway across the country with a truck full of suds, but it won’t be that Coors pisswater like in the movie. I’ve got one keg of each of my specialty brews: Waterloo Pale, Armadillo Amber, Bombshell Blonde, and of course, Charlesgate IPA. I’ll be hitting the road in my refrigerated truck on the 16th. It’s been about three years since my last vacation, so I’ll be taking my sweet time. I’m finally going to see Graceland, dammit! Anyway, can’t wait to see you all and really curious to see what they’ve done with Cheesegate. Oh, and I wish I could tell you I’ve heard from Tommy, but no such luck. He sent me his last book, autographed and everything, but that was almost two years ago. Hard to believe he’d show up for this, but it would be cool, right?

  David Murtaugh

  Hey, guys. Sorry I didn’t see this earlier, but I don’t check Facebook that often. I’m keeping pretty busy—12-hour shifts at NFL Films and squeezing in as much time for my kids as I can. I know: Murtaugh the Family Man. Who would have guessed? I haven’t heard from Tommy either—bastard didn’t send me an autographed book, but then, we didn’t part on the greatest of terms. (I seem to recall someone pouring a beer on someone’s head, but time plays tricks with my memory.) At this point, it’s no more than a 50/50 chance I’ll be able to make the reunion, but knowing you’re all going to be there makes it hard to resist. I’ll do my best.

  PS: Sorry to see Purple Debbie’s still holding a grudge. Did I ever tell you she gave me a blowjob in the Fallout Shelter men’s room about a year after we graduated? Now THAT I remember.

  Jackie St. John Osborne

  OMG. TMI. And other acronyms.

  Michael the Rev Wellman

  High five, Murtaugh!

  Brooks Cohen

  Proust’s madeleine, Murtaugh’s blowjob, same difference. Greetings, dear old gang of mine. It’s been too long. Sorry none of you have heard from me in over 20 years, but I’m a douchebag L.A. entertainment lawyer now and I have a reputation to protect. And Murtaugh, you were right: I was a homo all along. My husband Greg and I will be at the reunion. Murtaugh, if you don’t show up and say something hideously inappropriate to him, I’m going to be sorely disappointed.

  Brooks Cohen is now friends with David Murtaugh and Michael the Rev Wellman

  David Murtaugh

  Brooksy! Still saving the planet?

  Brooks Cohen

  Didn’t I mention I’m a douchebag entertainment lawyer now? No, I had an epiphany. George Carlin said it best: the planet will be fine. We’re all fucked, of course. I donate to environmental groups, but I think we’re past the point of no return. We’ve got maybe 25 years before we’re living in the world of Mad Max, so we might as well enjoy it while we can.

  David Murtaugh

  So glad I asked! What do you hear from Rodney these days?

  Brooks Cohen

  As far as I know, he’s still up in his Unabomber cabin in New Hampshire, wearing his tinfoil helmet and shooting squirrels for his supper. No chance he’ll ever join Facebook. The NSA is watching!

  Michael the Rev Wellman

  Don’t tell me he’s a 9/11 truther.

  Brooks Cohen

  Oh, that’s only the beginning. He stopped talking to me when he figured out I was part of the Bilderberg conspiracy.

  David Murtaugh

  He seemed like such a harmless kook in college. I guess we shouldn’t expect to see him.

  Brooks Cohen

  Not if he sees us first. Oh, Jackie—try this email for Tommy: TD1@thomasdonnelly.com. That was good as of 2010 or so— a client of mine was trying to secure the movie rights to DEADSVILLE, but it never got off the ground. AMC eventually made a terrible miniseries out of it and I seriously hope to get the chance to give him shit about it someday.

  ****

  11:13 P.M.

  JackieO@hill-robenalt.com

  To: TD1@thomasdonnelly.com

  Hello again. I thought I’d give this one more try (although you probably never saw my last email and there’s no guarantee this will get to you either). The latest reunion update: The Rev is in! I don’t know if you know this, but he’s the brewmaster at some hip, famous award-winning brewpub down in Austin (because of course he is). He’s driving up here with samples of his wares. He is exactly the same as you remember him, except now his dreads have gray streaks and dip down below his waist. Murtaugh is a maybe. Brooks will be there with his husband(!). Rodney is probably a no-show—he’s some kind of black helicopter nutjob now apparently. Purple Debbie is probably a no-show, too (and you WOULD NOT BELIEVE something Murtaugh told me about her—you better show up just to hear that).

  That detective stopped by again tod
ay. I started to worry I was somehow a suspect, but it turns out he was off-duty. He just wanted to ask me out to dinner. Well, like I told you, he’s my type, so I agreed. But I’m a little jealous—he seems almost more interested in YOU than in me. I guess he thinks this murder ties in with the stuff you were researching about Charlesgate back in the day. Anyway, I’ll try to pump a little more info out of him tomorrow night. (And that’s not all I’ll try to pump—lol.)

  Let me just tell you, I feel like I’m sending these emails into outer space. I know we were never really all that close, but we shared an experience I’ll never forget that night back in October of ’86—the night the Red Sox blew the World Series. (Yeah, I was a Mets fan back then, but I’ve lived here long enough that I’ve come around. Those three world championships don’t hurt. This will make you jealous: I was at Game 6 last year in our company seats on the Monster. How’s that for symmetry? I came THIS CLOSE to catching Shane Victorino’s homerun ball.) It may not have been “the Curse of the Bambino,” but supernatural forces were definitely at work that night. Every time I see that stupid Bill Buckner clip, I can’t help but think about it. Anyway, Red Sox fans eventually forgave Buckner—not that there was really anything to forgive. He was a scapegoat that night, and so were you. Yeah, I was mad for a while— furious is more like it—and you can’t blame me for that. But all is forgiven. Come back if you can.

  Evite attachment:

  ****

  4:03 A.M.

  Thomas Donnelly

  To: JackieO@hill-robenalt.com

  Hi, Jackie! Great to hear from you. You’re right, I never got your earlier emails (so I have no idea who “that detective” is— intriguing). In fact, it’s a miracle I got this one. I’ve been on assignment…well, you wouldn’t believe where I’ve been. The ends of the earth, let’s put it that way. And there’s no internet there. I’m at the airport in Sydney right now. Home for about 24 hours and then I’m heading out again for the next couple weeks.