Charlesgate Confidential

by Scott Von Doviak

  When he ran out of fire escape, he dropped down into the courtyard on the second floor roof. Thirty years earlier it had probably been a hot spot for drinks, but now it was rat-infested and strewn with garbage. The alley below was cobblestone, about a twenty foot drop and nothing to soften his fall. But what was a little more pain at this point? He put on the whale’s jacket, feeling like a twelve-year-old trying on daddy’s suit. He lowered himself over the side, hanging onto the ledge until his legs were dangling. He dropped and rolled as he hit bottom, but it didn’t help much. Pain shot up his calves and his knees began to throb immediately. As was becoming a regular occurrence that night, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air. Jake didn’t hang around to greet them.

  He stuck to the back alleys and darkened side streets, methodically making his way toward the harbor. His hope was to slip out of town as quickly and quietly as possible, find somewhere to lay low and heal up, and come back when the heat died down. He hoped Violet would still have the paintings. He hoped no one, not the cops, not the friends of Dave T, would come after Shane. But that was a lot of hope, a commodity Jake had never invested in too heavily.

  When he reached the docks, he searched for the next ship out of port. He spotted a likely candidate in the Tori Kay. Longshoremen were loading it up with cargo, which meant the crew was likely boozing it up at the Rusty Anchor, an all-night social club for seafarers. Jake made his way over and sized up the patrons as he paced back and forth in front of the window. He couldn’t get served without ID proving he was an active seaman, but he wasn’t thirsty anyway. He just had to find a likely mark, and as the dawn broke over Boston Harbor, he spotted him. The tattoo on his bicep told all.

  He entered the Rusty Anchor and walked straight up to the man with the tattoo, who was downing a shot of whiskey.

  “Got a light, mate?” Jake asked.

  The man looked up. “You don’t have a cigarette.”

  “Well then, you got a cigarette and a light?”

  “Beat it, fella.”

  “I see you were on the Indianapolis. I was in the neighborhood myself.” Jake reached into his collar and pulled out his dogtags. “We both know a little something about floating around in the ocean waiting for sharks to eat our asses.”

  The man from the USS Indianapolis eyed his dogtags. “Is that right, swabbie?”

  “Yeah. I spent seventeen days in the hold of the Arisan Maru. Got blown up by our own boys and watched some of my best mates drown while we waited to get rescued. And I gotta say, Uncle ain’t as grateful as I’d hoped. Having a bit of trouble finding work.”

  “Yeah. Hard times all around, I hear.”

  “You hear right. But I thought maybe, one swabbie to another, maybe I could crew up with you. I mean, you could always use another able seaman, am I right? Especially a brother from the fleet.”

  The tattooed man gave him a long stare. “You in trouble? Being straight with me now.”

  Jake shrugged. “Getting out of town for a while wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

  “That’s what I thought. Well, we always got room for one more guy can tie a half-hitch, especially one from the fleet. If Uncle ain’t gonna look out for us, we gotta look out for each other, right?”

  “I can tie a half-hitch. I might have to tie it one-handed for a while.” Jake pulled the whale’s jacket aside to give his new friend a look at his injured arm. “Might have to visit sick bay once we’re out of port.”

  The man from the Indianapolis nodded. “I think we can arrange that. One thing you can say about the crew of the Tori Kay, we ain’t got much love for Boston’s finest. We’re shoving off within the hour. You better come aboard with me.”

  “I really appreciate this, seaman…”

  “Donnelly. Art Donnelly.”

  They shook hands. Jake glanced to the window. “Red sky at morning…”

  “Ladies take warning.”

  Jake laughed. It felt good.

  OCTOBER 21, 1986

  We were sick of the Fallout Shelter, so Murtaugh, Rodney and I decided to watch Game 3 at the Cask and Flagon, directly across Lansdowne Street from Fenway’s famous green monster. We were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder and the air was thick with sweat and cigarette smoke. You could hear the cheers from the park a few seconds before the TV broadcast caught up, not that there was much to cheer about. The Mets scored four runs in the top of the first, en route to a 7−1 victory. The Sox still led the series two games to one, but it felt like we were already trailing.

  Rodney and I stopped at Nuggets, Kenmore Square’s dank, musty cave of a used record store, on the way back to Charlesgate. I thumbed through the rack of Dylan records, pondering yet again whether I should drop four bucks on a vinyl copy of New Morning. Most of my mind was elsewhere and Rodney took notice.

  “What’s a matter, chief? Pussy on the brain?”

  “What?”

  “Purple Debbie. That big scene she made at the Canteen. Chief, you gotta get on top of that.”

  “On top of what?”

  “That pussy. Look, I know what you’re thinking. You think you’re in college and these are the golden years of ample pussy. Pussy running hot and cold from the faucets. You figure you can be choosy. You can pick and choose the pussy you get.”

  “Could you stop saying pussy? It’s making me uncomfortable.”

  “What would make you more comfortable? Vagina? Should I say vagina instead?”

  “Maybe not talk about female genitalia at all? Maybe let’s not make that a topic?”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Donnelly.”

  “See—”

  “Yeah, I said it again. Pussy pussy pussy pussssssss!”

  “Good talk, Rodney.” I decided to go with Desire instead of New Morning. Over the next few weeks, I would wear out the groove in “Isis.” Rodney followed me to the register.

  “See, I know what your problem is. You’ve got your eye on Jackie St. John. But the key to getting puss…getting with women is to stay in your lane.”

  “I see. So Purple Debbie is in my lane.”

  “Well, truthfully, she’s in the breakdown lane. She’s like an off-ramp to some boring suburb you never planned to visit. She’s—”

  “Yeah, enough with the highway metaphors.”

  “All I’m saying is, you will always regret the road not traveled. It doesn’t have to be your final destination. Just a pit stop along the way. And with that, my highway metaphor is complete.”

  “Well, let me put a bow on it by noting that Purple Debbie is in my rearview mirror. Do you get that one?”

  “I get it.”

  I paid the Samoan dude with the purple mohawk for Desire and headed back toward Charlesgate. The sight of the building filled me with dread. I had to figure out how to get the stable key out of the RD’s office. I was meeting Shane Devlin the next day and he’d expect me to have it. I could have used some advice, and Rodney was actually shady enough that he’d have a pretty good idea how to proceed, but he was a blabbermouth. All my friends were blabbermouths. There was no such thing as a secret in our group if more than one of us knew it, so I had to keep my mouth shut. If I was going to get pulled down by Shane, I wasn’t going to drag my friends down with me.

  Again I considered going to the police, but what exactly would I tell them? What had Shane done wrong that I could prove? Besides, if I was going to be honest with myself, I was just as excited about the prospect of pulling off a caper as I was apprehensive. I was young and to some degree I still felt invincible. If I went through with this, there could be a book in it someday. A real true-crime bestseller.

  So I stayed up late in the sixth-floor lounge, watching the Citgo sign blink on and off, and I came up with a plan. Not a great plan, but I thought it might work.

  The next morning I took a Political Science quiz I’d totally forgotten about and met with Mighty Rob McKim to explain that the next installment of my Charlesgate series would be delayed due to “developing circumstances” about w
hich I declined to elaborate. He wasn’t happy with me, but it seemed like nobody was these days.

  I got back to Charlesgate at quarter to noon, hoping Gerald Torres hadn’t gone to lunch yet. I hung around by the mailboxes pretending to read a letter from home and keeping half an eye on his door. At ten past noon he popped out of his office, closing the door behind him. I’d hoped he wouldn’t bother to lock it during business hours, and that proved to be the case.

  “Heading out to BosDeli,” he told Missy at the front desk. “You want anything?”

  “No thanks. I’m still clogged with grease from breakfast this morning.”

  “All right. Back in a few.” I watched until he was out the door, then waited until Missy was occupied with signing a visitor into the building. Glancing both ways down the hall, I slipped into the RD’s office. The big keyring was right where I’d seen him put it the night before, in the bottom desk drawer. I grabbed it, peered out through a crack in the doorway until the coast was clear, then made my escape.

  BosDeli was one block east on Beacon, maybe a six-to-eightminute round-trip. With the lunchtime rush, I figured it would take Torres at least ten minutes to wait in line, give his order, and wait for the boss to make his sandwich. That meant I would have at least fifteen minutes before he got back. I decided to take no more than twelve, just in case everything went way too smoothly for him. Smart thinking, right? It would have been even smarter had I been wearing a watch.

  I jogged downstairs and checked the laundry room, which was empty. I approached the stable door and started trying the keys, one after another, in the top deadbolt. I kept glancing over my shoulder and listening for footsteps on the stairs. One by one, the keys failed to unlock the door. At about the time it felt like ten minutes had passed, I realized to my horror that I had no way of checking the time. No watch, no clocks in the basement. Fuck it. I kept shoving keys into the top deadbolt.

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  No good.

  On what may have been the twenty-fifth try, I felt the tumblers turn as I twisted the key. I tried the second deadbolt. For a second it didn’t budge and I thought I’d have to start all over again to find a different key, but I gave it another shove and felt the deadbolt give way. The doorknob lock gave easily—all three on the same key, a stroke of luck. I pushed on the door and it squeaked open. I could see nothing but darkness beyond. I pulled it shut and slid the key I needed off the ring. If my luck held out, Torres would have no cause to visit the stables over the next few days. Why should he?

  I pocketed the key and sprinted back to the staircase and up to the lobby. Just as I arrived, I saw Torres coming in the front door carrying a BosDeli bag. I was fucked.

  MAY 6, 2014

  Jackie sat across from Charles White’s replacement in the Emerson alumni records office, Wendy Tucker. Until a few days earlier, Wendy had been White’s administrative assistant. Jackie had interacted with her briefly, coming and going. She seemed nice enough, but the promotion took Jackie by surprise.

  “So are you the interim director or…?”

  “No, it’s official. Honestly, the promotion has been in the works for a while.”

  “Really? Was Charlie planning on leaving?”

  Wendy laughed, then covered her mouth as if realizing that might not be the most appropriate reaction. “It was planned but it wasn’t his plan.”

  “I see.”

  Wendy leaned across her desk. “Well, you dealt with him, right? You know how he was. So imagine me in my position.” Wendy gestured to herself as if to say, “Obviously, I’m hot.” Her confidence was not misplaced.

  “So he was…inappropriate in the workplace?”

  “To say the least. He was a sleazy little scumbag. Not that he deserved to die, but…”

  “So have the cops talked to you?”

  “I got a call from someone in Rhode Island. I didn’t hold back.”

  “You mean…you told them he was harassing you?”

  “Oh yeah. I gave ’em all the gruesome details.”

  “And you aren’t worried…you know, that someone might think you have a motive…?”

  Wendy’s eyes went wide, as if the thought had never occurred to her. “Really? You think I’m a suspect?”

  “I just mean…I mean I’m worried, too. A little. Anytime the police want to ask questions…”

  “I don’t have a gun. I’ve never even shot a gun. Heck, I’ve never even been to Rhode Island.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. They’re just doing their jobs.”

  “Yeah. They said it was just a formality, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anyway, let’s not dwell on that. Your reunion, it’s coming up, right?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday.”

  “Wow. So how’s it coming along? Anything I can do to smooth the waters for you?”

  “Well, we’ve got the ballroom at the Charlesgate nailed down. But we’re responsible for supplying the booze, the bar staff, the DJ, stuff like that. Charlie volunteered to cover all that even though it’s really not his responsibility…but I guess we know why he did that. Anyway, he never got back to me with the final confirmations…obviously.”

  “Right. Well, he wanted the credit for it, but he didn’t really do anything other than pass it on to Special Events. But it looks like you’re covered. Our usual caterers are on board, they’ll supply the booze and bartenders. For the DJ, it looks like Special Events booked Johnny Eighties.”

  “Johnny Eighties. Great.”

  “Yeah, right? I mean, not to knock your generation’s music, it’s great. Just a little overplayed, am I right?”

  “You are so right.”

  “Anyway, Johnny Eighties also has his own karaoke setup, for after the drinks get flowing.”

  “Because who wouldn’t want to hear a 46-year-old development executive crooning ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’ after six or seven Long Island iced teas?”

  Wendy laughed. “Well, it’s your party.”

  “No, that’s cool. I’m sure it will be fun, I’m just…nervous about this whole thing. There’s going to be a lot of people here I haven’t seen in a long time.”

  “I can imagine. Oh, that reminds me! We got that video transfer back from the A/V lab.”

  “Video transfer?”

  “Yeah. A bunch of VHS camcorder stuff Charlie had submitted to be digitized. I’ve got a thumb drive here somewhere…” Wendy rooted around in her desk for a moment before emerging with a flash drive. She handed it to Jackie.

  “Oh, right,” said Jackie. “I didn’t think he would have gotten around to this. Our friend Brooks checked a camera out of the TV depot one weekend and spent the whole time chasing us around the dorm asking us what we were going to do with our lives. Should be some funny stuff on here. And some scary hairstyles.”

  “Aww, I bet you had to beat the boys off with a stick.”

  “No, I had my daddy’s shotgun.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Jackie realized it was probably a dumb thing to say given what had just happened to their mutual acquaintance, but Wendy didn’t seem to notice. “Anyway, about the billing for all this…”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Everything’s taken care of.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, as I’m sure Charlie mentioned, Alumni Relations has a reunion budget that cover the in-house stuff—the catering, the booze, up to five thousand dollars. Stuff like that. An anonymous donation from one of your classmates takes care of the rest, including the ballroom rental and an open bar all night. Of course, everyone’s still responsible for their own travel and lodging, but other than that…”

  “Really? One of my classmates? Who?”

  “Well, it’s anonymous.”

  “Oh, I know but…right. Well, that’s great, I guess. I hope whoever it is lets me know…I dunno. I suppose it doesn’t really matter. But I’m nosy.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know who it is e
ither. It was all arranged before I took over here.”

  “Well. One less thing to worry about, huh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right, well…if you happen to get the urge to sing Blondie songs with Johnny Eighties, feel free to drop by on the 24th.”

  “Maybe! I’ve always wanted to check out that building, the Charlesgate. I heard some freaky stories about that place. Gina Gershon on Celebrity Ghost Stories?”

  “Yeah, I saw that one. Okay, Wendy. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  Jackie pocketed the flash drive and left the office. Her meeting with Wendy Tucker had cleared up little. In fact, it had only raised more questions. She vaguely remembered Charles White saying he’d sent out a general email to her class asking for vintage videos and photos, but had heard no more about it. And an anonymous donor? It was true that her class had spawned a few success stories, including the producer of two of the most popular (and mindless) sitcoms on television. She had heard back from none of them. Could it be Tommy? Maybe he’d decided against attending the reunion and had sent a fat check instead. There was also the matter of Wendy Tucker and how woefully underqualified she seemed to be for her new job. Had there been a settlement of some sort with the administration following a threatened harassment suit? Given White’s history at RISD, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

  As she headed out of the building, she nearly ran smack into a man on his way in. He reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her in place, then quickly removed his hands as if realizing he’d overstepped his bounds.

  “Sorry. Thought you were gonna plow right into me.” He smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. He was heavily muscled and heavily tattooed, with a prominent scar across the bridge of his nose, and his general demeanor suggested he was responding to a casting call for a prison film.

  “No problem,” said Jackie, forcing a cold smile of her own. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

  “Never happens to me. My advice: don’t think. That’s a joke.”