Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, huh? Well, you’ll be laughing all the way to the bank once we finish up here tonight.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Joey Cahill was behind the wheel. He cut through Chinatown and picked up Boylston Street westbound.

  “So in your mind,” said Jake, “we do this job tonight and then all part as friends. No hard feelings.”

  “Sure, why not? We go our separate ways. If you’re smart, you’ll leave town right away. I’m gonna give you a phone number. Two weeks from now, you call the operator and ask for that number in Florida. When the operator connects you, you ask for Captain Spaulding.”

  “The African explorer.”

  “You got it. He’ll have your cut, he’ll wire it to wherever the fuck you are, Timbuk One or wherever.”

  Cahill cut down to Commonwealth Avenue at Arlington, continuing west.

  “So Shane and me, we shouldn’t have any concerns at all tonight?”

  “Well, it’s a job. There’s always a risk. Otherwise, everyone would do it. Ted Williams would tell old man Yawkey to shove that baseball bat sideways and start making some real jack.”

  “Right, but from you. We have no concerns on that front?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “You got the advantage on us. We don’t know where we’re going, what we’re doing, nothing.”

  “You’ll know soon enough. But as long as we’re playing Truth or Consequences, I got a question for you. That night you boys took down my game. How did you get in the building? I gotta figure you had an inside man. Not that it matters so much now, what with us all about to be rich and blowing town and all. But I’m curious. You guys got one over on me and that doesn’t happen too often.”

  “You got a point there,” said Jake. “It doesn’t matter much now. But what the hell, now we’re partners and all, might as well tell you. It was Dryden, that whoremaster on the sixth floor. Matter of fact, I still owe him three large for the tip.”

  “Dryden, huh? Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “Well, like you said. Doesn’t matter much now, one way or the other.”

  Cahill drove through the intersection of Commonwealth and Charlesgate East into Kenmore Square. He hung a left on Brookline Ave.

  “Holy shit,” said Shane. “Fenway Park? We’re knocking over Fenway fucking Park?”

  Dave T laughed. “I thought of that. But no. That’s small potatoes.”

  “Jesus. This I gotta see.”

  Cahill drove several blocks past the ballpark, then hooked a left on Fenway. A few hundred yards later, he turned left on Palace and killed the engine.

  “There it is,” said Dave T, pointing to a three-story building across the street. The building was designed to resemble a 15th-century Venetian palazzo, not that anyone in the DeSoto would have recognized such a thing.

  Jake leaned forward, squinting. “What the hell is it?”

  “That is the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.”

  “A museum? Are you shitting me? You think a fuckin’ museum has more cash on hand than Fenway fuckin’ Park?”

  “No. But we’re not taking the money. We’re taking the art.”

  “Art? We’re boosting, what, a bunch of pictures?”

  “Don’t know much about fine art, do you?”

  “No, I never finished high school. I was over—”

  “Yeah, I know. You were overseas fighting for our beloved country. Duly noted. Truth is, I don’t know much about it either. But I got a guy, and he’s got connections, and they will pay millions, maybe tens of millions, for the right paintings.”

  “And you know the right paintings?”

  “I got a list.”

  “And what are we up against?”

  “One pimply faced security guard. A fuckin’ fortune in there and that’s how they protect it. The fuckin’ underwear department at Filene’s is better guarded. I guess that’s artsy people for ya.”

  “There’s no way this is going to be that easy.”

  “I already told ya, kid. It’s gonna be like—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like taking candles from a baby.”

  OCTOBER 10, 1986

  Mrs. Coolidge’s story was pretty good. I had no way to verify most of it, but as long as I made it clear this was a “lost legend of the Charlesgate,” that shouldn’t be a problem. Her story might even make for a good screenplay someday.

  I wrote it up as the second part of my Charlesgate series for the Berkeley Beacon. I had a feeling Mighty Rob would really get a kick out of it, but at the same time, it would be hard to follow up. Little did I realize that the best Charlesgate story of all was about to fall right in my lap…or at least, that’s how it seemed at the time.

  The rest of my week was uneventful. The Red Sox had a travel day Thursday, with the ALCS set to resume in Anaheim on Friday, tied at a game apiece. Purple Debbie continued to avoid me, or we continued to avoid each other, depending on how you looked at it. On Friday I had no classes, so after making a token attempt at doing some homework, I decided to call it a weekend and head over to the Fallout Shelter. Enough time had passed since my last fateful stop at the watering hole that I figured no one would remember me. There had probably been three or four stabbings since then.

  I took a seat at the bar. I didn’t recognize the bartender, but then, why would I? He and I had the place to ourselves at 3:30 in the afternoon.

  “What can I getcha?”

  “I’ll have a Knick.”

  “Sure thing. I see some ID?”

  I passed him my fake. He looked at it without really looking at it and passed it back. He popped open a bottle of Knickerbocker and handed it to me. “Dollar twenty-five.”

  I paid him, including a generous twenty-five cent tip.

  “So whaddaya think? Sox gonna bring this thing back to Boston?”

  “Wouldn’t it be pretty to think so?”

  “Seems kinda like the Angels’ year, right? The singin’ cowboy and all that shit.”

  The front door swung open and I winced against the daylight. An older gentleman, maybe in his mid-60s, entered the bar. He took a seat two stools down from me.

  “Getcha, my friend?”

  “Do they still make Narragansett?”

  “Sure, I can getcha a Gansett.”

  “That will be fine.”

  The old-timer paid for his Narragansett and took a long sip. “Ahhh. I haven’t had a cold one in…a really long time.”

  “Been on the wagon?” I asked.

  “Not on purpose. Last drink I had was a nasty cup of toilet wine.”

  “Toilet wine. I’m not familiar with that vintage. Where did you get that?”

  “MCI Walpole. Well, it was Walpole when I went in, back in ’56 after they shut down Charlestown. It was MCI Cedar Junction when I got out, ten o’clock this morning. But it was the same fuckin’ place by any name, believe me.”

  “Wait, you got out of prison this morning?”

  “Ten o’clock this morning. My obligation to the great state of Massachusetts has been discharged, and I think that calls for another beer.” The old man drained his Gansett and set the bottle on the table. The bartender obliged him.

  “You’ve been in prison since 1956?”

  “No. I’ve been in since 1946. Ten years in Charlestown, thirty years in Walpole. Or Cedar Junction, whatever they want to call it.”

  “Forty years. What did you do?”

  “Not a damn thing. Well, look, I was no angel. I did a few things. But what they accused me of? That I didn’t do.”

  The bartender offered a shit-eating grin. “Only innocent men in prison, huh?”

  “No innocent men. I never claimed to be innocent. Not guilty of this particular crime? Yes. I was set up. After that, it’s up to the lawyers, and mine did me no good at all. Lucky I didn’t get the chair. They still had it in this state back then, you know. The death penalty. And that�
�s what they gave me at first. I spent a year on death row, but one thing and another, it got commuted to a life sentence. No chance of parole for forty years. Well, my forty years is up and I guess the parole board decided I’m not much of a menace to society no more. So here I am. How about another Gansett?”

  The bartender opened another bottle. I raised my empty Knick and he opened one for me, too.

  “So are you?” I asked. “A menace to society, I mean?”

  “Do I look like a fuckin’ menace? I’m a menace to myself. An old man with thirty bucks to his name, no living relatives, not a friend in the world. I’ll be dead by Christmas.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Hey, if these fuckin’ Red Sox can win the World Series, I’ll die in peace. I’ve been waiting my whole fuckin’ life. I was on trial in ’46 when they lost to the Cardinals. Pesky held the ball, they said on the radio. In ’67, it was the Cards again. The Impossible Dream, they called it. And impossible it was. In ’75, that’s the first one I saw on TV. Fisk hits the homer in Game 6, waves it fair, place goes nuts. Another Game 7 loser. And then the playoff in ’78 with the Yankees. Bucky fuckin’ Dent. They owe me, these cocksuckers. If they don’t do it this year, I’ll never live to see it.”

  “So what are you going to do? For…work or whatever? Don’t you have a parole officer?”

  “Oh yeah. He’s already set me up with an interview at McDonald’s. I’ve only ever seen it on TV. You deserve a break today, right? Minimum wage to clean the toilets at a burger joint. And that’s if I get the job, which there are no guarantees. But whaddaya gonna do? Too late for me to go to computer school.”

  “Well, what did you do before? Prison, I mean?”

  The old man laughed. “Kid, ain’t you paying attention? I was a criminal! Small-time, sure. Matter of fact, one time my brother and I knocked over a poker game right around the corner here. That’s why I came down this way, I guess. Nostalgia. Thought I could get a look at the ol’ Charlesgate, but they turned me away.”

  I straightened up. “Charlesgate? Right here at the end of the block?”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I live there.”

  Now the old man seemed to take a renewed interest in me. “What’d you say your name is, kid?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Tommy Donnelly.”

  “And you live in the Charlesgate. The crazy building with the towers and the devil faces and all that?”

  “Yeah. It’s an Emerson College dorm now. I’m a journalism student and I’m writing a…sort of a history of the building. If you’ve got some stories…”

  “Oh, I’ve got stories.”

  “Well, maybe we could work something out. I don’t have a lot of money, but I could get you some food out of the Canteen, maybe—”

  “Can you get me in that building?”

  “Uh…well, sure. I guess I could tell them you’re my grandfather or something and sign you in.”

  The old man leaned across the bar and extended his hand to me. “Pleased to meetcha, Tommy Donnelly. My name is Shane Devlin. And I got a story that’ll win you the Wurlitzer Prize.”

  MAY 1, 2014

  Coleman sat at his desk, which was covered with the photocopied blueprints of the Charlesgate from the architectural study he’d downloaded. The floor plans dated back to the 1980s, and everything about the building’s layout was completely crazy. What was now Jackie’s condo had then been three separate dorm rooms and a common bathroom. The place had been gutted after Emerson sold off the building, and there was no telling what it had looked like in the years before the college took it over. Architectural Digest hadn’t sent any photographers over in the ’70s, the Charlesgate’s dark ages.

  “Heads up, Coltrane. We caught a call.”

  Startled, Coleman spilled his coffee all over the blueprints. “Goddammit, Carny!”

  “Jesus, Coltrane. You are one jumpy-ass homicide detective. I might need to request a new partner. I don’t exactly feel secure with your skittish ass backing me up.”

  Coleman mopped up his coffee with the blueprints. At least they were copies, although his notes were now illegible. “What do you want, Carny?”

  “I just told you, we caught a call. Damn, Trane, your mind is not on the job.”

  “The fuck it’s not. I was just working on our Charlesgate whodunit.”

  “By looking at blueprints? Trane, that case is colder than your wife’s…meatloaf.”

  “Don’t ever mention my wife’s meatloaf again.”

  “Sensitive! I think it’s your meat that’s been loafing. You see what I did there?”

  Coleman trashed the coffee-soaked blueprints and got up in Carnahan’s face. “Yeah. I see. Let’s go if we’re going.”

  Carnahan drove. Coleman fiddled with his wedding ring.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Coleman asked.

  “Southie. Excuse me, ‘SoBo.’ That’s what they call it now the yuppies have taken over. Once again, the hard-working Irishman gets the squeeze.”

  “Carny, you’re from fucking Vermont. Don’t make like you’re the last Mick standing in Southie.”

  “It’s in the blood, Coltrane. If you can be an African-American even though you’ve never set foot in Africa, then I can claim solidarity with Southie.”

  “When have you ever heard me call myself an African-American?”

  “Quit changing the subject. We were talking about Donna’s meatloaf.”

  “I told you never to—”

  “Never to mention it again. Which I wouldn’t, except you bailed on me the other night because you were going home for said meatloaf. Which you always say. Which you never do.”

  “Jesus, Carny, I already told you I went to the Emerson library that night.”

  “What about every other night? Donna called the office looking for you yesterday. Apparently you weren’t answering your cell. I’m making small talk with her, say I’m sorry I missed meatloaf night. She doesn’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. Tells me she threw you out on your ass three weeks ago.”

  “So why did she call the office?”

  “Just making sure you hadn’t done anything stupid.”

  “Yeah, like I’d kill myself over that bitch.”

  “Don’t try and come off all hard, Trane. I don’t blame her for wondering.”

  “You don’t know shit. I have moved on already, okay? I am out there…moving on.”

  “Yeah, right. You wouldn’t even come out to the Tap the other night.”

  “Why would I come out to the Tap with a bunch of dudes when I could be out with a fine-ass…forget it.”

  “Forget it my ass. You went on a date? Bullshit.”

  “I said forget it.”

  “Oh, shit,” said Carnahan. “That broad from the Charlesgate.”

  “I’m not saying it again.”

  “No, man. I caught that look on your face when she said she was getting divorced.”

  “What look?”

  “That ‘I want to get in this bitch’s panties’ look.”

  “Come on, man.”

  “You come on. This bitch is a person of interest in a fucking homicide we’re investigating. And what, you fucked her?”

  “We had dinner. We went bowling. I didn’t fuck her.”

  “But you’re planning to fuck her. You didn’t ask her out to brush up on your bowling.”

  “She’s a surprisingly good bowler.”

  “I’m serious, Coltrane. This is not good.”

  “It’s all good if you keep it to your fuckin’ self, like a real partner would.”

  “Don’t put this on me, man. This is all on you.”

  “You said yourself, the case is cold. The trail is a dead-end. Jackie had nothing to do with this.”

  “If the killer broke into her place and stole her laptop, I don’t see how you can say that.”

  “If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.”

  “I have
no idea what that means.”

  “It means we’re here. Rotary Liquors, right? Pull over and let’s get to work.”

  “To be fuckin’ continued, Trane.” Carnahan pulled into the tiny Rotary Liquors parking lot next to the responding officers’ cruiser. He and Coleman ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the liquor store. What appeared to be a teenage boy with half his face missing was sprawled in a pool of blood in front of the counter. One of the officers was questioning a man Carnahan took to be the store’s proprietor. He approached the other officer.

  “What do we have here?”

  “Pretty much what it looks like. This kid comes in, asks for a fifth of Johnny Walker. The owner there asks for his ID. The kid pulls out a Glock Nine. Without breaking a sweat, I’m assuming, the owner pulls his shotgun from under the counter and takes half the kid’s head off before he can even think about pulling the trigger.”

  “The owner doesn’t deny it?”

  “Nah, he’s pretty damn proud of it, tell you the truth. And the eye in the sky should confirm the obvious.” The officer indicated a security camera monitor mounted overhead.

  “Good. It’s nice to have an easy one for a change.”

  Coleman was kneeling beside the body when his cell phone started to buzz. He checked the number. It was headquarters.

  “Coleman,” he answered.

  “Coleman, it’s Gomez. I just caught a call for you.”

  “I’m already on a call.”

  “Yeah, but this guy specifically asked for the detective in charge of the Charlesgate murder.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Name’s Woodward. Nicholas Woodward. Says he’s an art detective.”

  “Art detective? That’s a thing?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Well, what’s he want with me?”

  “He says he might have a pretty good idea who popped your Charlesgate vic. You want his number?”

  “Fuck do you think?”

  JUNE 15, 1946

  Officers Pinkham and McCullough sat in their squad car at the corner of Ipswich and Lansdowne as the clock struck midnight.

  “I can’t do these overnight shifts much longer,” said Pinkham. “I got a very particular metabolism. I can’t eat after midnight.”