The Red Coat

by Dolley Carlson

  Rita smiled and shook her head. “Hello, Red.”

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Donnelly.” He lightly kissed her on the cheek. “Sure and any prettiness these neighborin’ wealthy socialites may possess pales next to your Celtic beauty and that magnificent coat. If anythin’ ever happens to himself—”

  Bob gave Red a firm, friendly nudge. “Watch it, pal.”

  “Just kidding, Detective.”

  Red Driscoll was well aware of Bob’s unfaithful escapades and never understood why. If I had a doll face like Rita waiting for me, I wouldn’t be able to get home fast enough.

  Old North Church

  BOSTON, MASS.

  Other officers, coming and going, briefly engaged the couple in congratulatory, off-the-cuff conversations about Bob’s promotion and wished them well, with Sergeant Mulvaney, who was instrumental in furthering Bob’s career, saying the final goodbye. “Give my regards to headquarters. I’ve already told ’em they’re getting one of our best.”

  Rita and Bob left Station 3 in good spirits, hailed a taxi, and ventured into the North End, where they toured the Old North Church, even though it was Protestant, and Paul Revere’s House.

  The Irish duo tried to buy Italian cannoli at Michelangelo’s Pastry, but the owner would have no part of it. Officer Donnelly had walked the North End beat many times and, in the course of his duties, looked after the bakery’s best interests. He accompanied the owner when he had a bank deposit to deliver and made sure everything was secure after hours, trying doors front and back. “Consider these a promotion gift.”

  They grabbed another taxi, white bakery box in tow, and returned to Filene’s men’s department, where Bob’s new clothing was ready to go.

  When they stepped outside again, Rita instinctively looked up at Filene’s famous clock.

  “Oh my God, Bob, look what time it is! I told your mother we’d be back no later than five.” She made a mad dash for the subway, concerned about how long they’d left their three active children in Mrs. Mac’s care.

  Bob ran after her. “Honey, slow down. She’ll understand.”

  Rita’s panicked pace came to a quick stop. “Are you sure?”

  Filene’s

  BOSTON, MASS.

  “I’m sure.” He whisked a couple of the Filene’s bags from her grasp. “Here, let me carry those.” Bob added them to his own collection.

  Rita rushed ahead. “Come on, slow poke.”

  They arrived at the platform out of breath and giddy, and Bob turned to his wife and said, “Red Driscoll was right; you are a beauty,” and kissed her. On the train ride home, they held hands under the parcels on their laps, and Rita whispered to her husband, gloved hand cupped around her mouth to his ear, “I’m very proud of you, honey.”

  Detective Donnelly was thrilled with his new assignment: crime photographer and investigator. He reveled being in plain clothes and took up where he left off at Station 3 with the valued camaraderie of his law enforcement peers.

  Bob wasn’t on the new job more than a few months when he reached for the brass ring again. “Lots of the fellas at headquarters live in houses out in the suburbs. What would you think of that, Rita?”

  “Living in a house? I’d love to, but the suburbs are out. Boston, Southie, Dorchester, Hyde Park, Savin Hill, Mattapan, Jamaica Plain—anywhere but the suburbs. I’m a city girl, and I’ll always be a city girl.” God in heaven, why can’t he just let things be? Rita hadn’t been waitressing at night for some time now, and she wanted it to stay that way. “And how are we supposed to afford this house, Daddy Warbucks?”

  “Nice Rita, ‘Daddy Warbucks.’ Jesus. We can swing it. Just leave everything to me.”

  Nowhere was the statement “It’s who you know” truer than in the city of Boston. Ethnicity, parish, school, profession, political affiliation, religion, region, even the street you lived on was taken into consideration when meeting someone for the first time. A great majority of Boston’s citizens were the sons, daughters, and grandchildren of immigrant groups who came to America knowing virtually no one. And upon arrival, they urgently sought out their own people in the Italian, Polish, Armenian, German, Irish, Jewish, and Chinese (among many others) regions of the city. There was strength in numbers, and ethnic solidarity, above all, opened doors to jobs, housing, and special favors. With the helpful influence of venerated Irish American politician, John E. Powers, a long-time acquaintance of Bob’s from the old neighborhood, the Donnelly family moved into a new, two-story, three-bedroom, brick rental house in Mattapan, only a stone’s throw away from Southie. This was the first time either Rita or Bob had lived anywhere other than an apartment, and miraculously, the amount of their rent hadn’t changed.

  Bob couldn’t believe their luck, and Rita believed otherwise. Most precious Mother of God, thank you for hearing my prayer.

  The two oldest children, third- and fourth-graders, were transferred from Blessed Sacrament School to Saint Gregory’s in Lower Mills, Dorchester. Baby Catherine, at four years of age, was still at home with her mother. And for all their banter, Bob’s cheating, and Rita getting even one way or another, the couple truly did love each other. He continued to admire her spunk and beauty, and she was proud to have such a handsome, hardworking husband, who went to work every day in a coat and tie. Bob’s affair with the mysterious Beacon Hill “trollop,” as Rita referred to her, was completely over. She was still suspicious about his possible dalliances, but unless she could prove it, Rita didn’t want any more melodramatic scenes. She had her sisters and brothers, the children, the church, close friends, and a home she loved. She’d cope. Things weren’t perfect, but life was good, and Rita Donnelly had steeled herself to count her blessings rather than dwell on things she couldn’t change.

  And then Hollywood came to Boston.

  “Powers, in my opinion, was the last of the politicians who let people come right to his home for favors. He held office prior to the new wave of media candidates.”

  That Old Gang of Mine:

  A History of South Boston

  by Patrick J. Loftus

  CHAPTER 37

  “The Grass is Always Greener (in the Other Fellow’s Yard)”

  WHITING & EGAN

  THEME SONG FROM BIG BROTHER BOB EMERY

  CHILDREN’S PROGRAM - 1950S WBZ−TV BOSTON

  “TONY CURTIS?”

  “Tony Curtis! I’m telling you, Rita, he walked into police headquarters just like a regular guy.” Bob laughed into the telephone. “Yeah, a regular guy with a parade coming right up behind him. Makeup, wardrobe, the director was there too, and a big guy, bodyguard, didn’t say one word, just nodded. I couldn’t tell you who the others were, but they definitely weren’t from Boston with those suntans and California accents. Honest to God, Rita, it was something.”

  “I can’t believe you met a movie star, let alone, Tony Curtis. Is he short or tall?” She covered the receiver and raised her voice. “You children quiet down. I’m on the phone with Daddy.” Rita didn’t dare ask what she really wanted to know. Is Tony Curtis as handsome in person as he is in the movies?

  “Short or tall? I’d say average. But he’s got a hell of a strong build for such a trim guy and enough hair for three men.”

  Her curiosity was satisfied.

  “I’ve got to cut this phone call short, hon, there’s a gang of real hoodlums coming in for processing any minute now.”

  “So will you be home for dinner, Detective Donnelly, or should I go ahead and feed the kids first?”

  “Jesus, Rita, how many times do I have to tell you? Don’t pen me in like that. If I’m not coming home at the usual time, I’ll let you know.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m not making the kids wait. Dinner will be on the table at 5:45, take it or leave it. Bye.” Who does he think he is? ‘I’ll let you know?’

  The abruptness of the dial tone aggravated him no end. Goddammit!

  Though it was early in the day, Ri
ta liked to have as much ready as possible for the evening meal. No matter what meat, fish, or fowl she served, this daughter of Irish immigrants peeled a dozen or so potatoes and put them in a pot of cold water to keep. Tonight she planned on having those hamburger patties Bob liked: ground round, breadcrumbs, minced onion, and eggs kneaded together, fried in butter, and smothered in gravy. Unless he wasn’t coming home, then she’d open a couple of cans of Franco-American spaghetti. The kids love the stuff. Bob hates it. She’d add a jar of applesauce too, boil some frankfurters, put a plate of sliced white bread on the table, and dinner was ready. After hanging up on her husband, she took a can opener out of the drawer and slammed it down on the counter. Rita retrieved the potatoes from the stove and placed them in the refrigerator for the next day. How do you like those apples, Detective Donnelly?

  Bob Donnelly’s unlikely meeting with the famous Hollywood heartthrob had been set into motion by “the crime of the century,” an armed burglary of the Brink’s Building in Boston on January 17, 1950. It was the largest heist in the history of the United States up until then, netting the crooks 2.5 million dollars. And now, four short years later, the great Brinks robbery was going to be immortalized in a movie, Six Bridges to Cross, starring Tony Curtis, George Nader, Julie Adams, and “the Kid,” sixteen-year-old Sal Mineo.

  The Brink’s Job

  “At 7:27 p.m. on January 17, 1950, the Boston Police received a frantic call from an employee at the Boston offices of America’s biggest money mover, Brink’s, Inc. (Armored Cars). Minutes later police squad cars squealed to a halt at 165 Prince Street in the North End. The cops on the scene found out that there had been a robbery. It was a big one … the biggest cash haul in history. It would take six years and the combined investigative efforts of the Boston Police and the FBI, not to mention the help of local police departments across the country, to bring the robbers to heel …”

  Courtesy of The Boston

  Public Library

  Filming on location provided authenticity, and the cooperation of the Boston Police Department was essential for getting the facts straight. Lieutenant Luigi “Lew” Cubello assigned Detective Donnelly to be the BPD’s liaison and consultant. “Keep an eye on ’em, Bob, and be damn sure they make the department look good.” Although “the mick from Station 3” was fairly new to police headquarters, Lieutenant Cubello thought Bob would be the best one for the job because he was sharp and had an amiable manner; everyone he knew liked the guy. And Bob Donnelly was a man’s man; the Lieutenant liked that best. He well represented the force as a top marksman in shooting tournaments, hunted, drank the best of them under the table, and was known to get away with an unnamed shenanigan or two. The fact that Lieutenant Cubello was slightly put off by Bob’s suaveness didn’t interfere with what the Lieutenant deemed would work out best with the “Hollywood people.” Hell, he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a movie star around here, good-looking even if he does have a big schnozz and is full of himself. It’s a perfect match.

  Bob rushed down police headquarters’ stairway to receive the movie company and take them up again to get a mock mug shot of Tony Curtis. The tap of his well-polished cordovan oxfords bounced off the granite with each hurried step. When he actually saw the black-haired, ice-blue-eyed movie star, it seemed unreal that one and the same would be standing, big as life, in the lobby of police headquarters.

  “Mr. Curtis, welcome to Boston.”

  “Tony, call me Tony.” He affably waved away formality.

  “Detective Donnelly, Bob.”

  The two men shook hands and introductions took place all around. Bob gestured toward the elevators. “Let’s go get those mug shots taken care of.” He took note of Mr. Curtis’s dark, tie-less sport shirt, silk weave sport coat, and light tan slacks. God Almighty! Are his loafers made from alligator?

  “So you had a good flight out?”

  “Smooth as could be.”

  “I understand you want fingerprints too. We’ll get that taken care of in no time.”

  “You’re not going to throw us in the hoosegow, now are you, Detective?” one of the movie people asked tongue-in-cheek.

  “Not if you behave yourselves.”

  They all chuckled, except the bodyguard.

  “Here we are, gentlemen.” Bob held the elevator door open. “After you.”

  As the movie-making entourage walked through the building, everyone stopped what they were doing to say hello or just stare. One winsome file clerk, an Irish girl if ever there was one, with flaming, kinky, red hair, freckled skin, and muscular dancer’s legs, nimbly stepped forward with pen and paper in hand. “Mr. Curtis, may I please have your autograph, sir?”

  The movie idol politely complied. “How could I say no to such a pretty colleen?” And as they moved along there was more of the same.

  Tony Curtis

  BOSTON POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  154 BERKELEY STREET

  Tony Curtis stood before the mug shot height board and measured in at five foot nine, and despite the case ID frame hanging around his neck and his pensive, in-character sneer, Bob wasn’t convinced. He no more looks like a criminal than the Pope.

  “Ready, Mr. Curtis?”

  The following weeks held location visits, questions about the lay of the city and police procedure, along with a myriad of other necessary consultations. Bob was completely enamored with the entire movie-making process. They actually say “all quiet on the set.” He had high regard for the actors and their jobs too, which, as he told Rita, “looked like a piece of cake.”

  When they were on location, the veteran law enforcement officer knew most of the patrolmen in the area, respectfully introduced them to whatever members of the movie company were closest, and frequently enlisted their help with spectators who seemed to come out of the woodwork. “Can you give me a hand and keep these jokers away from the cast and crew?” His request was always met with cooperation, ended with a handshake, “Thanks, Officer,” and the fraternal understanding: This is what we do, cover each other’s backs.

  At the end of a grueling day of filming around inclement weather, one of the “big shots” asked where he and a few of the actors could go to get “a stiff drink and a good meal.”

  Bob said, “I know just the place,” and highly recommended the Union Oyster House. “The food’s delicious, and you won’t have any complaints about the liquor either.”

  They invited the personable detective to come along. “That is if your Mrs. doesn’t mind.”

  Bob said he’d need to make a phone call and returned ready to go.

  Once everyone settled in at the oyster bar, he acquainted the West Coast people with New England sea fare: steamers, oysters on the half shell, and clam chowder. Later, when they sat down to a meal of whole lobsters, Bob looked around the table and couldn’t believe he was actually having dinner with a Hollywood director, producer, and movie stars, each one wearing a big, white, lobster-print bib, which leveled the ground a bit for him. Their friendly din came to a halt when one of them asked, “All right, Detective, now that you’ve got us looking like imbeciles, how the hell do you eat this thing?” Bob took the familiar cracker, pick, and small, three-pronged fork in hand. “These are your tools, gentlemen, and this is how you separate the succulent lobster from its shell.”

  He cracked open a claw, dug the white, pink-tipped meat out, dipped it in drawn butter, and they were merrily on their way—laughter, lobster, colorful stories, and a few off-color jokes, which led Bob to suggest they might want to “catch a burlesque show at Scollay Square” before they left town. The entire evening was a huge success, and two nights later Bob invited whoever was interested to “get a pop at Doyle’s in Jamaica Plain,” so the Hollywood people could experience a genuine Irish pub.

  The fact that Denis the bartender, also a Southie native, didn’t recognize any of the actors, or if so, didn’t acknowledge their fame, was part and parcel for a place like Doyle’s, where people were friendly but not overly famili
ar, let alone star-struck. Robert Padraig Donnelly wrangled the obviously “you’re not from around here, are you?” group of seven men, up to the bar under the watchful, if not curious, eyes of the other customers. When one crewmember ordered a martini “extra dry, two olives, please” and yet another chimed in, “Same for me, please,” Bob couldn’t believe his ears. Martinis!

  The bartender growled under his breath to the only one of them he recognized. “You gotta be goddam kiddin’ me, Donnelly. Who are these pansies?”

  Bob answered, “Californians,” made an about-face, and jovially saved the day. “This round gentlemen, the drinks are on me, and the drink is Guinness.”

  And so it continued for weeks, with any number of eateries and bars Bob thought would appeal to them. The few times the detective joined their company, he never had to spend a dime (with the exception of Doyle’s), despite his sincere insistence, wallet in hand.

  “Listen, Detective, you’re doing us all a favor, getting us to these places. Consider yourself a guest of Universal Studios.”

  At one point, reasonably comfortable in their company and two beers later, Bob pulled out photos of his three children, and the famous director said, “These kids should be in the movies.”

  Detective Donnelly couldn’t believe his luck. Good move Bob. He’d just taken those pictures of his kids at police headquarters the previous Sunday afternoon. Rita brought along an old, matte gold drapery panel to cover the boldly numbered height-board, and Bob scooted the least scratched, dark, wooden desk chair in front of it.

  With an entreating, “Smile for Daddy,” and a click of headquarters’ “top-notch camera,” he captured forever the joyful, shining images of ten-year-old Ruth Ann, nine-year-old Bobby, four-year-old baby Catherine, and a place in time his eldest daughter, decades from then, would tenderly refer to as “The Diamond Days,” after a contemporary Irish ballad.