by Bill Eidson
But he waited.
She said, “You know … a man puts it all together for you like that, turns all that attention on you … it feels like love.”
Her face hardened. “But it ain’t.”
Ben released the shutter.
It was just after six when they left the prison. “Grim stuff,” Ed said. “I think I’ll head to a bar and see if a few beers can help convince me the male side of the human race isn’t as despicable as I just heard. Want to join me?”
“No thanks,” Ben said, stretching carefully. He itched all over. “Home and shower. Change some bandages.”
“I didn’t hear anything that helps us with Peter, did you?”
Ben shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Ben thought about home, the empty studio, the shower. He was exhausted, and the pain had sapped a lot out of him.
He took another pill, and headed the van back toward Boston. Thirty minutes later, he impulsively took a left at the Alewife MBTA station and continued toward the North Shore. Continued on to Jimbo McGuire’s home in Nahant.
On the second day of following McGuire, Ben spotted an excellent vantage point to oversee McGuire’s real estate office on Atlantic Avenue in Boston. It was an air-conditioning unit on the roof of the brownstone across the street. Ben walked into the lobby and quickly found a small plate reading, “Walker Management Corp.” Back in the van, Ben parked around the corner, and made a quick call to information, and then to Walker. When the receptionist answered, he said, “Good morning, I represent SteamKleen rug service, and I wanted to know who I should talk to about our maintenance programs—”
As quickly as possible, she told him to send whatever literature he wanted to Chuck Crenshaw, the head of maintenance services, but that no, he was not available to take a sales call at this time.
Ben put the phone down and knelt over his bag of tricks, an oversized suitcase filled with a jumble of clothes, hats, jewelry, and other assorted junk. He selected a blue work shirt with the name “Rick” sewn over the pocket, put a thick gold-plated chain about his neck, dark sunglasses, and a baseball cap. He quickly filled out a photocopied “Work Order” and signed Crenshaw’s name at the bottom with his left hand.
At the front door, he buzzed his way in by saying to the super that Crenshaw over at Walker had sent him to service the AC. The super came out wearing a bathrobe and a sour expression. He glanced at the work order and let Ben on the roof and told him to lock the door behind him on the way down.
Ben took the cover off the AC unit and spread some tools around, before taking his camera out of the toolbox and laying it on a bean bag to support the long lens.
The next day, the same ruse worked at the building two doors down.
McGuire, however, did absolutely nothing of interest.
CHAPTER 11
ON THE MORNING OF THE FOURTH DAY, BEN WAS BACK IN THE VAN. He figured it was safe to use for at least the next day, and after that, he would need to think of something else. Maybe just get a rental van.
The camera was poised at the window of McGuire’s office as two men arrived in separate cabs in the space of five minutes. Neither of them turned his head so Ben could get a clear shot of his face.
“Damn it,” Ben muttered. He started laying out his gear and was about to make his move when Sarah called him on the phone and asked if she could meet with him. Ben hesitated, and then said yes. He told her to find her way to a pizza restaurant about a half mile away from his stakeout. He got there before her, and went in and ordered a large pepperoni. While it was cooking, he went back to the van to wait for her.
When she arrived, Sarah got in and tucked one stockinged leg under the other. She was wearing a nicely cut dove gray business suit, managing to look both terrific and entirely professional. She took off her sunglasses and wrinkled her nose at the clutter in the van, the accumulated bags of take-out food and coffee cups. “You’re making me feel right at home. I spent weeks in a box on wheels like this for my Teamsters piece.”
Ben smiled. “And look at you now. Love the suit.”
“I just came from the police station. Wanted to make a good first impression. What have you got for me?”
“Not that much.’’ Ben showed Sarah the photos that Huey in the lab had developed and printed the night before. The shots were much the same as the previous days: McGuire getting in his car. McGuire, seen through a restaurant window, having lunch with the big bald guy who had chased Peter off. McGuire going to his office, which overlooked Boston Harbor. Beside the office door there was a discreet little sign reading, “By Appointment Only.”
“What did the cops have to say?” Ben asked.
Sarah pulled out her file. “Brace and Calabro gave me more than I expected.”
Inside the file there was a surveillance photo taken of McGuire during what must have been a black tie occasion. The picture was taken at a low angle and very grainy. Probably a video grab shot from an undercover cop posing as a waiter or another guest.
Sarah said, “This is from the FBI files.”
“No mug shot?”
“I haven’t got one. But he’s been arrested a few times. Assault. He was under suspicion but never arrested on a home invasion, most likely trying to rip off cash stolen from an armored car. I pulled the files on that … but the only thing that stuck was when he was a juvenile, when he beat another kid with a baseball bat. Crippled him. Should’ve been enough to get McGuire at least reform school, but even though he was convicted, his lawyer got him off with probation.”
“Somebody’s got some weight.”
“Calabro said his family packed him off to school after the home invasion thing … and then there was a nasty date-rape story at Stanford, but the girl backed off before it even made the paper.”
“Who’s cleaning up after him?”
“His uncle.” Sarah showed him a picture of a hawk-faced older man.
“Patrick Clooney,” Ben said.
“That’s right. He took over the Irish mob after Whitey Bulger took off and now the cops say he keeps a tight rein on McGuire. They say McGuire talks up the reformed tough guy shtick and they assume he’s still into something, but they haven’t been able to find out what.”
“So why did the cops give you all this?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Combination. Grieving ex-wife and I’m wearing a nice suit.”
“So cynical.”
“Runs in the family,” she said. “But, still. They were more generous with information on the first go-round than I’d expect. What do you think?”
“Did they tell you what McGuire said when they went to him about Peter’s death?”
“They didn’t.”
“Did you ask?”
She simply looked at him, her slate-blue eyes showing a touch of frost.
“Sorry,” he said. “What did they say?”
“Nothing. I mean, they haven’t talked to him yet.”
“Why not?”
“They gave me your basic cop blah-blah. ‘Our investigation hasn’t taken us there yet.’ “
“Huh. I’ve been looking closely for other surveillance for three days now. Three days I’ve been following McGuire. I should’ve stumbled over someone else by now. Seen somebody else following in a van or car. Some cop or FBI agent should’ve come forward and told us to scram by now.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’re it, as far as I can see.”
“Why would that be?”
Ben shrugged. “Every good trap needs bait.”
“Tell me what Peter would’ve done, who he would’ve talked to,” she said.
He caught a flash of Peter, his leg cocked up on the dashboard of the car, rooting through a fat file folder. It was during the article they did on Whitey Bulger. “Paper, paper,” Peter was saying.
Something else around that time …
Ben couldn’t remember, someone that Peter had talked to. The name flickered, a
nd in his mind’s eye, Ben could see a green door opening. A bar? A restaurant?
“What’re you thinking?” Sarah asked.
Ben shook his head. “Trying to remember something.”
“Let me know if it’s something good.” She met his eyes. “I’ll catch up fast, but I need all the introductions I can get.”
“Understood. In the meantime …” He went through the photos he had printed from the day before and pulled out the picture he had taken of the little sign in front of McGuire’s office. Bayside Realty Corporation, Inc. Ben handed the picture to Sarah. “Let’s find out what his company supposedly does. You could talk to Sid over in the Finance section. He could probably get you started.”
“Sounds exciting,” she said. “But probably right. Don’t let that go to your head, shutterbug.”
Ben looked over at the restaurant take-out window and saw the girl behind the counter wave. “My pizza’s up.”
Sarah looked at her watch, amused. “It’s just past eleven. Hungry already?”
“No, actually,” he said, looking at her consideringly. “Have you got a few minutes?”
They parked three blocks away from McGuire’s office while Ben got ready. Ben opened his video case and attached a cable to a tiny camcorder, then attached the cable to what looked like the neck loop on a pair of thick black eyeglasses. Embedded in the middle of the eyeglass frame was a tiny video optic.
He took off his shirt and strapped the camcorder to his back, put the glasses on, and then pulled an ancient Grateful Dead T-shirt back on.
Sarah didn’t look away as he dressed. “You going for some sort of geek hunk look?”
“Wait’ll you see the hair.” Ben rummaged through his suitcase, and took out a scraggly blond wig, tucking the hair behind his ears to help hide the wire. He topped it off with a Red Sox jacket and hat. He checked himself out in the mirror he kept in the back. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and though the eyeglasses held only plate glass, they were thick enough to give him a goggly look.
He slid the pizza into a red vinyl warm-up case and cocked a slightly goofy grin at Sarah. “Your pizza, ma’am.”
She nodded approvingly. “You’ll pass. Just don’t count on a big tip.”
Ben’s legs began shaking as he walked up the sidewalk to McGuire’s office building. He’d played this part before and he told himself that would make it easier.
He pushed the door open and strode right in. Saw a pretty girl at a receptionist desk, looking at him in surprise. “Suzanne” on a nameplate on her desk.
“Got your pizza,” Ben said, cheerfully. “Man, what a day outside, innit?”
“What pizza?” she said.
Ben turned his head from left to right, getting the layout of the place down. Big bay window out the back, throwing in a lot of light. He got his back to that fast so it wouldn’t screw up the exposure and slid the pizza on the surprised girl’s desk. “Your pizza,” he said. “Ten ninety-five. Tip’s extra, if you’re interested.”
He looked past her, saw through a glassed-in conference room that McGuire was sitting with his feet up on the table, his hands behind his head. He was talking to two men in business suits. One of the men was probably about forty, with jet-black hair and a goatee. He wore a beautifully tailored dark pinstripe suit, with a tightly knotted rep tie. Even though his clothing was conservative in style, the effect was of a high gloss, a man with an ego. The other man was slightly older and heavier. Reddish hair, sunburned. Strong and tough looking, with quick eyes. He glanced at Ben through the window and then turned his attention back to McGuire.
Ben smiled vaguely in their direction long enough to be sure he had taped them all, then turned back to the girl. Who was saying for the second time, “We didn’t order any pizza.”
Ben became aware of movement to his left and turned abruptly to find a big man beside him. The bald guy. The one who went after Peter. There was a side door open, must be where he’d come from.
“Hey,” Ben said to the guy. “Maybe you called it in. She doesn’t know nothing about it.”
The guy got close to Ben, and without a word took the pizza box away.
Ben lifted his hands up to the girl as if to say, “See?”
“Did you order it?” she asked the man curiously.
“Shut up,” he said.
With bored and impersonal assurance, he patted Ben’s coat and opened it quickly, presumably looking for a gun. He reached around and patted Ben’s waistband in the back, missing the camcorder by inches.
Ben didn’t have to fake the fear and indignation. “Hey, what the hell?”
“You shut up, too.” The bald guy opened the box, slid the pizza out, and opened it. He looked quickly through the case and then shoved the pizza back in. “Get out of here. We didn’t order this.”
Ben pulled a piece of paper from his front pants pocket. “Forty-six Atlantic Ave, I’ve got it right here!”
“This is sixty-four, you dipshit,” the guy said. “Now get out of here.”
Ben snatched the pizza box away and said as he walked away, “Still. No call for that, man. No call at all.”
“Dyslexic dipshit,” the girl said, laughing. “What a goof.”
Back in the van, Sarah put the cell phone down as he got into the front seat and drove away. “Five minutes you were in there. I almost called the cops.”
“I almost needed you to,” he said, rolling his shoulders to let the tension go.
“You get what you wanted?”
“Uh-huh. But you were right.”
“How’s that?”
“Not even a lousy tip.”
Late the next morning, as Ben was sitting behind the camera across from McGuire’s office, the name came to him unbidden: Sean Deegan.
He was the guy Ben had been trying to think of. Peter had used him as a source when Whitey Bulger had hit the road.
Sean Deegan, an ex-cop who had been out on disability for years.
Ben called Sarah’s cell phone and but she didn’t pick up. He left a message at the office for her to call him, and then he started off toward South Boston. Ben had once tagged along with Peter to buy Deegan lunch, and, as Ben remembered it, Deegan had pretty much drunk his meal. If Ben was going to get anything useful, he knew he’d want to get to the man before too late in the afternoon.
Even though Ben had only a few miles to travel, the road construction from the Greater Harbor project slowed him down. Then, it took him forty-five minutes to find the bar. When he finally saw the dirty windows and faded green door under a flickering Budweiser sign, Ben was sure he’d found the place. “The Waterford Men’s Tavern,” the sign read.
Ben stepped into the gloom of the bar. There was old-world charm to the place: a beautiful wooden bar, high-backed wooden booths, a tile floor. But masking this was a layer of grime, the definite odor of urine, and the smell of old and unwashed men. There were half a dozen of them there already. “Help you?” the bartender said, managing to make it sound like a threat.
“I’m looking for Sean Deegan.”
“Why?”
Ben smiled. “Because I owe him some money.”
The bartender grinned, showing yellow teeth. “A comedian.” He looked at the clock. “Buy yourself a beer while you wait. He’ll sniff the stuff out within ten minutes, I guarantee it.”
And, a little before one, he did arrive. He was a formerly big man, his chest now shrunken and his stomach a hard medicine ball thrust in front of him. Ben thought of the cop, Calabro. Deegan walked by Ben, glancing at him with no apparent recognition, and then said to the bartender, “I’ll get started properly in a minute, Tommy. Just give me something to clear my head?”
Tommy handed a broom over the bar. “Clear the cigarette butts off the floor first, then we’ll talk.”
Deegan’s face flushed, but he took the broom and began sweeping.
Tommy drifted over to Ben and winked. “Don’t interrupt him, ‘til he’s done. He’s damn useless after that first
few drinks, and I’ve got to get some work out of him until his disability check arrives next week. Then he goes back to being a paying customer.”
Ben laid a ten on the bar. “Two beers. Keep the change.”
The bartender grinned, and bellowed down the bar. “Deegan! Put the goddamn broom down, the man wants to talk to you.”
Ben took the beers down as Deegan turned around to look at him. The old man moved in a kind of shuffle, and Ben thought to himself that he had almost certainly just wasted ten dollars when Deegan said, quietly, “Fucking shame what happened to Gallagher.”
Deegan downed his beer quickly, and slid Ben’s in front of himself. “You don’t need this shit, son. It’s bad for you. Now what do you want?”
“Some information.”
“My name can’t be used. Me and Gallagher were real clear on that. And keep your goddamn camera to yourself. I’m like a Boston version of Deep Throat. You got that?”
Ben said that he did.
Deegan leaned forward, his eyes sharp even though his face was filled with broken blood vessels. “You’re smart to get me early. Past two o’clock, I don’t make much sense to myself.”
“What can you tell me about Jimbo McGuire?”
“One, to keep your goddamn voice to a whisper if you’re gonna talk about that son-of-a-bitch. Two, don’t call him Jimbo to his face. He thinks he’s all grown up.”
“You hear anything about him being behind killing Peter?”
“The first piece of advice was my only freebie,” Deegan said. “Let’s see some cash.”
Ben put a twenty on the table, but kept his hand on it. “Tell me something I don’t know and it’s yours.”
The old man began talking, speaking clearly enough, but so that he couldn’t be heard more than a few feet away. He rattled off history: McGuire’s juvenile record, his protection from Clooney, the rape case in Stanford. Ben held on to the money.
“What’s McGuire up to now?” Ben asked.
“I’m just an old fart cop, I don’t know high finance. But that’s what I hear he’s trying to do.”