by Gerry Boyle
Would Drague pull that one if I found him? How brazen was he? Would he tell me anything? Why should he? I supposed I could just play to his sense of civic duty, tell him he could be an important source in the investigation of possible corruption in the Fiore administration. Or had someone else already figured that out?
I had to hurry. But I had to sleep. Just rest up for a little while, then leave before dawn. A nap, then get my stuff. Maybe I wouldn’t come back here, call Roxanne from wherever I ended up. A hotel. Someplace small. Wear the hat and the glasses to check in and—
The ringing again. Christina’s voice, talking to me in a dream. Saying she couldn’t come to the phone until she got the writing off her. They would grind it off with big machines.
A beep. I woke up. It was very dark. I was in the chair. I lurched upright, staggered to the living room, heard a familiar hiss. Then a man’s voice.
“Jackie,” Butch said.
I felt a chill, like I’d heard a ghost.
“Sorry to bug you again. But listen, buddy. I left you the stuff at the hotel. But if you didn’t get it or something, I left another one. And I found some more stuff. I was gonna tell you before, but then I thought I’d wait to see how secure this manner of communication is, you know? Girl’s taking a hell of a chance, but she believes I’m innocent. Nobody else does, so I guess I’ll live dangerously and try again. What do I have to lose, right?
“So Jack, there’s another package for you. I put it in the mail to this old guy in my building, used to work for the post office. In case something happened to me in connection with this investigation. Well, it did, but not quite what I had in mind. Hey, life sucks and then you die, right? Anyway, his name’s McLaughlin. It’s an envelope. You say to him, County Slago. That’s the password. Guy reads Tom Clancy, what can I say? ’Course, he may be a little jumpy now, with all that’s happened. But he’s a good shit. I told him it was for a friend of mine, which is what you are, Jackie. A friend like no other, to do this for me. Hey, thanks, buddy. Thank God for you, ’cause it’s friggin’ hell in here, Jackie. It’s hell on earth. I wouldn’t kid you.”
The tape clattered. The phone clicked. The machine beeped. I played the messages back, hearing Christina’s friends, reporters, a Frenchman who called Christina “darling.” Christophe? And Butch, like the voice of the dead.
And then the room was still again. I looked at my watch. It was 1:20. I’d leave by five, hit this McLaughlin guy before he turned the whole thing over to the cops, if he hadn’t already. I’d call Roxanne before she left. Or maybe she’d call. Maybe she’d driven back from way up north, placing a kid. But I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t answer because if it wasn’t her, then they’d know where I was. I’d wait by the phone. When it rang, I’d hear her voice and answer.
Ten minutes later, it did.
I sat in the dark with my hand on the receiver. Listened. Counted off Christina’s message, word by word. Got ready to pick up. And froze as the young voice came out of the dark.
“McMorrow. Heard you had some problems. New York can be a rough place. But so can South Portland, Maine. I heard of a lot worse. People getting hurt and killed. Sometimes they never find ’em at all, ever. Wouldn’t that be a bitch? For the rest of your life, not ever knowing what happened to somebody? Are they alive? Are they dead? How’d they die? Was it quick? Was it slow? Did they call out your name at the end? There’s no safe place for a woman alone anymore. It’s a sad commentation on the state of our society, isn’t it, J. M.?”
The machine clicked. I swallowed. I sat on the couch and waited for the night to pass.
I didn’t sleep. I didn’t doze. I held the knife. Watched the hands on my watch slowly circle. At quarter to three, I got up and went to Philippe’s room and got my duffel bag, put the papers in it, and then went to the bed and pulled back the sheet.
I put the knives in my bag, too. And then I went to the window, where the black sky would soon begin its slide toward gray dawn. I looked out. Watched. Waited. At a minute to three, I picked up my bag and gave the window a last look and listen.
From across the way, I heard someone’s watch beep the hour. If they were watching the front, would they be watching the back?
A third route: the factory window, like my friend.
I backed out of the room and went to the door. I listened. Slipped the bolt out and eased the door open.
The hallway was dark. The building ticked once and was silent. I took a step out and stopped. Listened. Held the knife in front of me. I took another step and another, all the way to the elevator. It was down. I went to the top of the stairs and stopped.
Somewhere below me, someone sniffed.
I backed away. Felt the wall with my hand until I came to the door. I went in and closed it with a single, barely perceptible click. The bolt slid across. I crossed the loft and slipped out Christina’s window and down the fire escape, carrying my bag and my shoes.
It was 5:45, the sun still below the brick horizon. I’d parked on Broome Street, where a woman had just unlocked the doors of a cafe. I got out of the car and went in. From behind the counter, the woman looked at me like she had her hand on the holdup alarm. I asked for tea to go and went to the pay phone.
I dialed. Charged the call. Waited for Roxanne to answer. Her phone rang four times and there was a click and a hiss and I sagged. Roxanne said hello on tape, and then there was a clatter and she sleepily said, “Jack?”
“Baby,” I said. “You okay?”
“Mmmm.”
“Where were you?”
“Bucksport. A foster home. I got home at two-thirty. But are you okay? I’ve been trying to call. I’ve been so worried. I thought something happened.”
“No, nothing . . . well, something happened.”
“What?”
Her voice was sharp now.
“Something happened to Christina. She was attacked.”
“Oh, my God. Is she—”
“She’s okay. She’s hurt, but she’s all right. They broke her fingers.”
“God, Jack.”
“Yeah, they stopped her car and roughed her up and shut her fingers in the door.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah.”
I hesitated. The woman put my tea on the counter. I turned away from her and covered the phone.
“It wasn’t good. They—”
“Did they catch them?”
“No.”
“What did they—”
“It was a warning. They want me to leave New York. They want me to stop looking into this Butch thing.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s something going on. Butch was on to something. He called it ‘corruption in high places.’”
“Did you tell the police?”
“I tried, but they didn’t really believe me. I think they’re starting to now.”
“Well, can’t they catch them? They must have cops all over the place.”
“You’d think so. But that’s part of the problem. It’s hard to tell who’s who.”
“God, Jack, just get out of there. Come home.”
“I’d like to, but—listen, where are you going to be today?”
“I’ve got to work. This mother wants her kids back and she’s trying to get a hearing and the lawyers are going back and forth and this foster home is just temporary.”
“You’re going back up to Bucksport?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t somebody else do it?”
“Well, no. It’s my case. So unless I’m deathly ill . . .”
I winced.
“Roxanne, they threatened to come after you.”
“What?”
“They told Christina you’d be next.”
“They’d come to Maine?”
“I doubt it. I think they’re just saying that. But I want you to go to Clair’s. Stay there for a couple of days. Not at our house. At Clair’s.”
“I can’t, Jack. I have things I have to do.
I can’t just not show up.”
“What if you were sick?”
“But I’m not.”
“Rox, this is serious.”
“I thought you said they were just bluffing.”
“They probably are.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. A voice on the phone.”
“Will they hurt you?”
“They haven’t been able to find me. It’s a big city.”
“Why don’t you just come home?”
I hesitated. The woman put my tea in a bag and then placed the bag on the counter. She tapped at the register keys and looked over at me.
“I don’t know if that’s the answer.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’d be so conspicuous there. The reporters will be swarming. I mean, where do I hide in Prosperity? Or in Portland?”
“You could go somewhere else,” Roxanne said.
“And stay there all by myself? In hiding? I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—”
I paused, considered the words.
“—because there’s something here. I’m getting closer to it.”
“A story?”
“It could be an unbelievable story.”
“You would write it?”
“No. I couldn’t. I’m in it.”
“Story about what?”
“I’m not sure. About criminal cases. There’s a string of them where something’s not right.”
“And Butch’s wife is in the string?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“God, Jack.”
“I know. That’s why I want you to go stay with Clair and Mary. I’ve talked to Clair. I told him some of it. You’ll be safe there.”
“Jack, I can’t. I’ve got a three-year-old in temporary care, an eleven-year-old in a shelter for teenagers. I’m responsible for these kids. I can’t just disappear.”
I winced again. “Please, Roxanne,” I said.
“Jack, I can’t.”
“Then how ’bout if Clair stays with you? He can drive you around to your appointments.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“Yeah.”
Roxanne didn’t say anything.
“So I’ll call him,” I said.
“I don’t know. I’m really not supposed to—”
“Come on, Rox.”
“Let me think about it. I’ll call you.”
“You can’t.”
“You’re not at Christina’s?”
“No. It wasn’t safe.”
“My God. So where are you now?”
“A pay phone in SoHo.”
“Where are you going?”
“The Village. I need to talk to some people. Will you call Clair?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Roxanne, come on.”
“You’re the one who needs a bodyguard, Jack.”
“I’m okay,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Well, Jesus, Rox. We only have one, right? And he’s in Maine.”
“Where you should be.”
“I will be.”
“When?”
“Very soon.”
“I’m worried, Jack.”
“I want you to be,” I said. “That’s what I’m telling you.”
“I’m worried about you.”
I almost told her there was no reason to worry about me. Almost.
38
Butch’s place in the Village was a plain four-story brick building where the press had been camped but had finally moved on. There was a tree out front to which the remnants of a mountain bike were chained, and in front of the tree, a parking space. I wedged the Camaro in, ignoring the hydrant, and put on my Yankees hat and sunglasses. A woman walked by the car and looked at me like I’d just put on a ski mask.
I got out anyway. Went to the doorway, where there were more buzzers than names. One of them was McLaughlin. Apartment 215.
I pushed the button.
“Yeah,” a tinny voice said from the metal box. “What do you want?”
“I’m here for that package,” I said, leaning close to the speaker. “Butch sent me.”
“Who’s this?”
“Jack. Butch’s friend. Here for the package. You know, County Slago?”
He didn’t answer.
I waited and then scowled and turned around. A jogger thudded by. A kid with a dog was standing by the curb, plastic bag in hand. I walked up the street to the main drag, turned, and walked until I found trash cans, with garbage strewn around them. They’d been pawed through, but I found a cardboard box, folded it shut, and walked back to Butch’s door, where I buzzed the next name on the wall.
A girl answered, saying “Yeah.”
“UPS,” I said. “I’ve got a package.”
“For Feinstein?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I looked at the name on the wall.
“R. Feinstein.”
“That’s my mom.”
“For R. Feinstein. It’s from Victoria’s Secret.”
“It is?”
The door buzzed and I popped it open. I left the empty box in the foyer and passed the girl as she hurried off the elevator. I got in and went to the second floor, where the doors were plain and the air was stale. Under number 215 was a small shamrock.
I knocked on it. Heard steps. Felt someone peering through the peephole.
“Yeah?”
“I’m Butch’s friend,” I said softly. “We were cut off.”
“What?” the old man said.
“County Slago,” I said.
The door swung open.
McLaughlin was tiny, unshaven, wearing plaid shorts and slippers with black socks. His undershirt was gray and his flesh hung like cobwebs from his bones. The apartment was dark on a sunny summer morning and smelled like a nursing home, that faint odor of antiseptic and waste.
I smiled and apologized for coming so early.
“It’s okay,” he said, his face taut. “I’m up.”
“Butch said you have something for me.”
He looked at me.
“That was before,” he said.
“Before . . . ?”
“Before Casey put this place on the map. For a couple of days there, I couldn’t even walk down the street without somebody sticking a camera in my face.”
“It’s terrible,” I said.
“Then they went away.”
“Television,” I said. “Short attention span.”
“They were a pain in the arse.”
He looked at me carefully, as though trying to decipher my face.
“Casey really did it this time, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just know what they say he did.”
“I just know what I heard on the news, read in the paper. God, they were swarming all over me there for a while. I just said, ‘What can I tell you about Casey? He was a good neighbor. Didn’t talk too much. Didn’t have anybody over, really. Had a bit of a fondness for the whiskey, if you know what I mean.’”
He paused, savoring the memory of all the attention.
“But a nice man. Always said hello to me. ‘How you doin’, Mr. McLaughlin? How are you today, sir?’ Even when he was in his cups, he was always polite to me.”
“Was he in his cups often?” I said.
“Well,” the old man said, “I don’t like to tell tales out of school, seeing as I had a bit of a fondness for a pint, in my time. Still take one on occasion. Good for the ticker.”
He touched his mottled white skin.
“But Butchie did like his whiskey,” he said, still reliving his moment under the lights. “Not so much lately. He told me two drinks a day was his limit. More than that, he said, you can get into big problems. Liver and all that. He drank down at the corner at the girls’ bar there. You should talk to them.”
“Why?”
“I mean, that’s what I told them.”
“Oh.”
“Not you.”
“I just need the package.”
Reminded to be wary, he closed the door an inch or two.
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Didn’t it get here?”
“Well, yeah. It came yesterday. You know, he mailed it third class. For another fifty cents, you can have first class. I worked in the post office forty-three years. Penny wise, pound foolish, you ask me. Third-class stuff gets third-class treatment, I always said.”
I grinned.
“You still have it?”
“Maybe. You a cop, too?”
He looked at me warily, getting a kick out of having some power.
“An investigator,” I said.
“Got a fancy name for everything now, don’t they?”
“Yeah, they do.”
“You undercover?”
I remembered the hat and glasses.
“Yeah.”
“I suppose you still have to keep working, even after what happened.”
“That’s right.”
“Terrible thing. I liked Fiore. Kicked some of these bums in the ass. About time, too.”
“I suppose.”
An odd reaction from a cop. McLaughlin didn’t seem to notice.
“I know Butch is supposed to have done a terrible thing, but maybe he didn’t, you know? I was watching on the TV the other day, how many people been put in prison for these murders, twenty years later somebody else says they did it. They let the first guy out, if they haven’t stuck him with that needle or he hasn’t been killed by these animals in the jail.”
I nodded.
“So maybe it’s a mistake. I’m going to wait and see before I go condemning the man. I’m going to wait, see if Butch comes back. And when he does, I’m gonna give him his mail.”
He turned slightly and looked to his left.
“It’s for me,” I said. “I was working with Butch.”
McLaughlin shook his head.
“I don’t know. Something funny about it, though. Why didn’t Butch just give you the stuff?”
“He couldn’t. I was working undercover. I had a CI, and if I got blown, they’d have killed him.”
“A CI?”
“Confidential informant.”
“A snitch?”
“Yeah.”