“Sensationalism sells papers,” Eddie said.
“Maybe you should talk to the press and calm things down,” Mickey told Eddie.
“And tell them what, the shooter is tall and short?”
“You’ll think of something,” Mickey said. “You’re good at that.”
Eddie shrugged and walked toward the gaggle of newsmen.
“Do you think it was the Village Hill boys?” a veteran reporter asked.
“No, I don’t,” Eddie said. “The Village Hill Gang is at peace with the Mafia now, and Lopresti was popular with the Irish. Besides, a Village Hill hit would have been private, in an isolated location in some out-of-the-way town. This was a public execution. The shooter wanted to be seen. He was sending a message and I think there’s some kind of history behind it.
“Like a vendetta?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Eddie said. “It feels like old-world Mafia stuff with shotguns, disappearing in a puff of smoke, and a death mask.”
“What’s with the smoke and the escape into thin air?” a reporter asked.
“It was a bunch of razzle-dazzle bullshit,” Eddie told them. “The smoke was probably from the kind of pressurized canister used by magicians and special-effects people. They spray a cloud of smoke so people can’t see the truth. The escape into thin air? He actually escaped through the foul air of the sewer. There’s a sewer tunnel in Hanover Court that leads to a Salem Street alley. The shooter used that route.”
The reporters murmured their appreciation of Eddie’s discoveries.
“Why all the theatrics?” another reporter asked.
“Scare tactics,” Eddie said with a nonchalant wave. “A lot of elderly around here have old-world superstitions. Then again, I see the possibility of some new technology in ammunition and guns. There are some inconsistencies we can’t explain. We’ll have to study them.”
“Do you have any idea why someone went after Jimmy Lopresti?” a reporter asked.
“No I don’t, and that’s all I have for now,” Eddie said, and turned to go.
“Did the witnesses give you a description?” a reporter shouted.
Eddie didn’t stop walking. “Yeah,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “They said he was a tall short guy.”
The reporters laughed and Eddie was off the hook.
He rejoined Mickey and Guinn. “Thanks Guinn,” Eddie said, dismissing him.
“You gave them a lot to think about,” Mickey said.
“I want to give the shooter a lot to think about,” Eddie said. “I want him to read the paper and know we saw right through him. This guy is smart but we’re smarter. Right?”
“If you say so. Want a ride home?”
“I can walk there faster,” Eddie said.
“Say hello to your wild Irish Rose for me,” Mickey said. “What she sees in you I’ll never know.”
“It was love at first sight,” Eddie told him.
“How long has she needed glasses?”
“Since at least 1959, as far as I know.”
Chapter 4
When Eddie Met Patty
Wednesday, September 4, 1959
8:00 A.M.
Eddie first saw Patty in front of Brookline High School. They were both fourteen-year-old freshman on this first day of school. Her strawberry blond hair, glimmering in the September sun, got his attention. As he got closer, her emerald green eyes excited him and the sprinkling of red freckles on her cheeks fascinated him. Eddie was a tough kid, an unbeatable street fighter, and an undefeated amateur boxer. He had never been intimidated by anyone in his life … until this Irish girl smiled at him. She was talking to two girlfriends when he approached.
“Hi, I’m Eddie Perlmutter,” he said, looking directly into her emerald eyes.
Her face turned red and her girlfriends giggled. Eddie didn’t care.
“Hi Eddie, I’m Patty McGee,” she said. “Are you a freshman, too?”
“Yeah, I went to Driscoll,” he said, referring to his grammar school, which was located in a middle-class Jewish neighborhood.
“I’m from Brookline Village,” she told him. “I went to Saint Mary’s Catholic School.”
Eddie was about to say hello to her friends when four upperclassmen, wearing varsity football sweaters, approached. The tallest one looked down at Eddie. “Who are you, pip-squeak?” he asked.
Eddie hated bullies. “Eddie Perlmutter,” he told the tall boy, looking him in the eye.
“Perlmutter?” the boy said. “What’s up, McGee? Making friends with the kikes already?”
“Freddie Roach, you are such a jerk,” she said, glaring at the smiling bully.
“Is he a friend of yours?” Eddie asked Patty.
“No, he’s just a big bully from my neighborhood,” she said. “I’m sorry he insulted you.”
“I don’t get insulted by morons,” Eddie said.
“Who you calling a moron, Jew boy?” Roach asked, pushing Eddie’s shoulder.
Red spots danced in front of Eddie’s eyes like they always did when he was angry.
What happened next was the stuff of legend. Eddie hit Roach with a straight right to the nose. Everyone heard the crunch of broken cartilage as Roach’s feet left the ground and he fell on his back, hitting his head on the grass. He didn’t move.
Eddie turned to Roach’s friends. “Who’s next?” he asked. There were no takers. “Tell your friend not to bother my girl again.”
Patty McGee and her friends were stunned, but said nothing as Roach was dragged away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, walking to Patty. “I hate bullies.”
“Why did you tell them I was your girl?” she asked.
“Because I want you to be,” he said. “Can I walk you to class, Patty McGee?”
More giggles. Patty looked at her friends. They nodded to her, still giggling.
“Yes you can, Eddie Perlmutter,” she said with a dazzling smile.
They walked side by side until Patty impulsively linked her arm through Eddie’s and never let go.
They were married in 1968 despite the protests of their parents, family, and friends. According to her Catholic family, Jews were Christ killers. According to Eddie’s family, the Irish were drunken brawlers. Their wedding was reduced to a civil ceremony in a judge’s chambers, attended only by one of Patty’s cousins and a friend of Eddie’s from the North End where he had moved.
A year after the wedding, they learned Patty could not conceive. Her mother said God was punishing her for marrying a Christ killer.
Patty cried for days. Eddie swore he had nothing to do with Christ’s murder.
“The Romans did it,” he said.
She didn’t laugh, but she smiled a little.
Chapter 5
How Was Your Day?
Wednesday, September 11, 1974
6:00 P.M.
Every night they told each other about their day before sitting down for dinner. Patty usually went first, telling him about the action at the day care center where she worked. She loved being with children as much as Eddie loved being a cop, and she was always anxious to give him the latest stories.
“Gordon Nelson is having a tremendous growth spurt,” she began as they sat on the couch.
Eddie wanted to interrupt and tell her about Jimmy Lopresti, but she was so excited that he didn’t.
“He’s grown three inches in one year,” she said.
“Mr. Johnson did that in two years,” Eddie said, referring to his talking penis.
“Men and their penises,” Patty said. “What is it with you guys?”
“He’s been my best friend since I was eleven and we started talking,” Eddie said.
“I know, and every time you listen to him it leads to no good,” she said, fighting a smile.
“You said it was good last night,” he told her. “Mr. Johnson agreed with you.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Enough with Mr. Johnson.”
“Is it my turn?” Eddie a
sked.
“What’s so important?”
“Jimmy Gorgeous was shot on Hanover Street today,” he said.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“We were talking about spurts,” he said. “Gordon Nelson’s and Mr. Johnson’s.”
“You’re disgusting,” she said, slapping his arm again. “Is Jimmy okay?”
“No, he’s dead,” Eddie said.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she said, crossing herself.
“Leave them out of this,” Eddie said. “Jimmy’s bodyguards, Jello and Skinny, were killed too.”
“Those guys were gross,” she said, making a face. “But Jimmy had class.”
“Low class.”
“He was smooth and sophisticated,” she said. “And he was very smart.”
“Jimmy never finished sixth grade,” Eddie said. “You’re making him sound like a hero.”
“You’re my hero,” Patty said.
“Prove it.”
“Not tonight. I have a headache,” she said, smiling. “Who do you think shot Jimmy?”
Eddie explained his old world theory.
“Why would Jimmy be killed for something that happened a long time ago?”
“Sometimes children pay for the sins of their fathers,” Eddie said.
The phone rang. It was O’Toole. “We drew crowd control at South Boston High tomorrow morning,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”
“What about Lopresti’s murder?”
“It will have to wait,” O’Toole said. “They’re expecting hundreds of people at the high school. This is huge. You’re the man with crowds.”
“I’d rather stay focused on this shotgun guy,” Eddie said. “He’s a smart one.”
“How do you know?”
“He knew the city sewer system, he planned a murder in broad daylight, he used a special weapon, and he pulled it off. He’s also as strong as you.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Did you ever try to fire a big shotgun accurately?” Eddie asked. “It takes a very strong arm. I think we’re dealing with someone special. Oh, and there’s another reason I don’t want to go to South Boston. Busing is bullshit.”
Chapter 6
The First Day of Busing
Thursday, September 12, 1974
7:30 A.M.
The next morning, hundreds of white protesters waited outside of South Boston High for the buses bringing black kids to their white neighborhood. It was a clear, brisk morning, perfect for an outdoor protest. Mickey parked his unmarked police car a few blocks away and they walked. They wore casual clothes and kept their badges in their wallets. They waded into the angry crowd and Eddie gazed across the street at the three-story buildings called triple-deckers, looking for snipers. He didn’t expect any. South Boston residents were tough, working-class people ready to defend their lifestyle, but they were not the type to shoot schoolchildren from a hiding place.
“What sense does it make to take kids out of their own neighborhoods and bus them where they’re not wanted?” O’Toole asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s going on everywhere.”
“Only in poor neighborhoods.”
“Either run for office or watch the crowd,” Eddie said.
A woman touched his shoulder. “Eddie Perlmutter?”
He turned and saw a petite blonde wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and an old olive green army jacket. Large, dark sunglasses covered her eyes.
“Do I know you?” Eddie asked.
“I’m Shannon Collins, Patty’s cousin,” she said. “Her maid of honor. We met at your wedding and also during one very unpleasant night at Mama Anna’s Cantina in the North End.”
Eddie nodded. “Of course I remember you, Shannon,” he said. “You were the only one from Patty’s family to stand up for her at the wedding.”
“You were the only one to stand up to my six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-pound loudmouth husband and knock him through the front door of that restaurant,” Shannon said.
“He insulted Patty, as I remember,” Eddie said. “I could never understand why he never came back in after me.”
“I begged him not to,” she told him. “So he hit me instead and dragged me home like a caveman.”
“I had no idea,” Eddie said. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a good excuse for him,” she said. “I don’t think he was anxious to fight you anyway. You were scary. The next day I asked Patty if you ever hurt her.”
Eddie laughed. “What did she say?”
“She said sometimes you hugged her too hard.”
“I do,” Eddie said. “I have to work on that. So what’s the ROAR button on your coat?”
“‘Restore Our Alienated Rights,’” she told him. “It’s a protest group formed by a couple of local politicians who want to keep students in their own neighborhood.”
“I understand,” Eddie said. “This busing must be driving your husband crazy. He’s a world-class bigot.”
“And he has a terrible temper,” she said, removing her sunglasses. Her left eye was swollen and bruised. “I guess I should have married a Jewish guy who hugs too hard.”
Eddie gritted his teeth. “I hate bullies,” he said. “Your husband has a serious problem.”
“He’s not so bad. He’s just very upset about busing,” she said, putting her glasses back on. “He told our son Sean to boycott school today and I disagreed with him. We had a fight. I shouldn’t have provoked him.”
“Don’t make excuses for him,” Eddie said.
Before she could answer, a bus rounded the corner and the huge crowd roared. Eddie handed Shannon his card. “If you ever need help, call me,” he said, and went to work.
Bottles bounced off bus windows and rocks ricocheted in all directions. White people chanted, “Go home niggers.” Some of the black kids looked scared, while others just stared.
Eddie surveyed the crowd. He had a knack for identifying the most likely troublemakers. He saw Shannon’s husband, Bobby Collins, near the first bus. He and his friends were acting like animals, bellowing and hurling things at the bus. Eddie was reminded of a television show about gorillas. The gorillas that beat their chests and roared and threw things were not the most aggressive. The calmer, more observant silverbacks were the ones to fear. Eddie scanned the mob looking for silverbacks.
The door to the first bus opened and the epithets grew louder. Police formed two lines at the bus door, shielding the black children as they filed out, trotted up the school steps, and disappeared into the building. No harm done. A second bus arrived and the police formed another gauntlet for the children. Eddie noticed a small man walking close behind the cops. He wasn’t demonstrative, and was glancing furtively side-to-side. Eddie noticed he was wearing a Red Sox cap that didn’t rest properly on his head. It was slightly higher in the back than the front.
Eddie moved toward the second bus, watching the man closely. He sidestepped and pushed his way aggressively through the angry crowd until he stood next to the man. He noticed a tattoo on the back of the guy’s hand but couldn’t see it clearly.
The bus door opened. The crowd roared. The man with the tattoo remained silent and motionless. When the first black kid came down the stairs, the man moved his hand toward his jacket pocket, giving Eddie a better look at his tattoo.
Helter Skelter.
I know that, Eddie thought. The tumblers in his head began clicking into place.
Helter Skelter. CLICK! Helter Skelter. CLICK! A MADMAN! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
Charles Manson.
The man’s hand came out of his jacket pocket holding a gun. It looked like a .38. He was aiming it at the head of a pretty, neatly dressed black girl. Eddie saw the man’s knuckles turn white. He was pulling the trigger. Eddie lunged. A shot rang out.
Chapter 7
Helter Skelter
Thursday, September 12, 1974
8:30 A.M.
The bullet tore through the flesh on the outside of Eddie’s left thigh. He went down, still holding the shooter’s right wrist. They landed hard, Eddie on top. The shooter’s hat fell off his head and a pile of shoulder-length straggly hair tumbled out. He had a swastika cut into the skin between his eyes. Manson had that. Crazy bastard.
Despite the pain in his thigh Eddie focused on the gun. He tugged the maniac’s hand away from his leg and pointed it toward the ground. The shooter pulled the trigger. A bang was followed by the bing of a ricochet off the pavement. Someone screamed. It was the shooter. Eddie had broken the man’s wrist, wrested the gun from his hand, and tossed it aside. Everyone was screaming.
“You son of a bitch,” Eddie shouted into the shooter’s ear.
“It’s Helter Skelter, man!” the lunatic screamed. “I’m lighting the fuse.”
“Lights out, asshole,” Eddie said, and slammed his elbow into the shooter’s mouth, splitting his lips, cracking his teeth, and knocking him unconscious. Eddie hit him a second time, shattering his nose and fracturing his cheekbones. He hit him a third time, ruining more bone and tissue, and was drawing his arm back for a fourth shot when someone grabbed his arm.
“That’s enough, Eddie,” said Mickey O’Toole, kneeling next to him. “You’re going to kill him. Now hold still.” Eddie felt pressure on his thigh and looked down to see Mickey tightening a belt above his wound.
“Is that your belt?” Eddie asked, sounding groggy.
“Yes,” Mickey said, pulling the tourniquet tight. “What difference does it make?”
“You got a forty-eight-inch waist and I only got a twenty-inch thigh,” Eddie said.
“Maybe I should tie it around your neck.”
Eddie closed his eyes when a paramedic gave him a needle. “To relax you,” the man said.
Eddie became so relaxed he went to sleep.
He was rushed by ambulance to the nearby Massachusetts General Hospital and taken immediately into surgery. The gunshot wound was what cops called a “through and through”; the bullet had entered the fleshy part of Eddie’s outer left thigh, nicking his tensor fascia muscle, and then exited out the other side. He would live and maybe limp a little. After surgery he was transferred to a private room where he slept for hours. When he awoke, Patty was sitting in a chair next to his bed and Mickey O’Toole was slouched in a chair across the room.
Eddie the Kid Page 2