I decided to change the odds. I dropped the Corvette down one gear and just continued at the same speed to where Revere Beach Parkway bends left at the fork. At the last second, I whipped the wheel to the left and floored it.
The Corvette, true to its breeding, leaped an additional thirty miles an hour. The Impala barely made the turn and came barreling after me. I eased off on the speed just enough to let him keep me in sight.
I made a three-quarter turn around Eliot Circle on two wheels and floored it again on Revere Beach Boulevard. The Impala labored to close the gap, but I stayed far enough ahead of him to prevent an accurate gunshot.
When I was within a hundred yards of the Castle-Mar Motel, I cut back on the speed and let him catch up. In a few seconds, he was back on my rear bumper, screaming demands into the cell phone in colorfully blistering language, but so far he hadn’t fired a shot.
My fits and starts were not quite as random as he must have thought they were. I had a clear recollection of two expensive chats with Revere’s finest on that stretch of road just past the Castle-Mar. I prayed that they were creatures of habit.
Fifty feet from the Castle-Mar, I hit the gas pedal, but this time only fast enough to exceed the speed limit and still keep him on my tail.
We blew past the Castle-Mar at sixty with only twenty feet between us. For the first time in my life, I thanked God for the Revere Police Department when I saw the red and blue flashing lights fall in line behind the Impala. I knew the police couldn’t stop both of us with one squad car, and they were more likely to go for the car closest.
The screaming siren sounded to me like Beethoven’s Third Symphony. I could see the driver of the Impala scrambling to get the gun far under the driver’s seat before pulling over to the curb. His face was bright red, and it turned two shades deeper when I succumbed to the urge to wave out the window.
There was one last thing to do. I turned a sharp left, and then another left onto Ocean Avenue. I cruised past the backside of the Castle-Mar and took two more lefts. That put me back on Revere Beach Boulevard. I dropped the speed to within the speed limit and drove past the spot where a nearly seven-foot traffic officer seemed to be taking serious exception to the language coming from inside the Impala.
I resisted the urge to honk the horn and wave on my way by, since my primary purpose was only to catch the license number of the Impala. That done, I got on the phone to Tom Burns.
“I need some of that Tom Burns magic.”
“Ready and waiting. You sound out of breath.”
“Just playing a little cartag with one of the boys.”
“You need help, Mikey? I have people ready to go.”
“No, Tom. I’m good. At least for the moment. I need you to run a license number for a name and address. Can you do that?”
“What’s the number?”
“Mass. tag, 49560. My guess is Revere or East Boston.”
I based the guess on location on the fact that Manny Gomez must have phoned his gang contact as soon as I left the stall. His contact put the Chevy driver on my tail and gave him my cell phone number. That meant the Chevy driver lived close enough to Suffolk Downs to get there in the five or ten minutes I was talking to Rick.
The thought crept into my consciousness that the Lord might have dropped a possibility into my lap that should not be ignored. Before I could act on it, I needed three things—a name and address from Tom Burns, a plan that could result in my surviving, and enough solid sustenance to get me through what I had in mind. A stop in the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts had possibilities for all three.
Ten minutes and two chocolate-covereds later, Tom called.
“Got a pen, Mikey?”
“You’re golden, Tom. Shoot.”
“Kevin Murphy. You’re on the money about the Revere address. Forty-two Walden St. It’s a little street off Beach Street. You got it?”
“No sweat. I know Beach Street.”
“Then you know that neighborhood. You need backup?”
“I want to try a soft approach first. Another face could throw it off. If it doesn’t work, I’ll thank you to send in the marines—or the coroner.”
I needed one more piece. I called my diminutive gossipmonger in South Boston, Binney O’Toole. From the sound of his voice at that hour, I caught him in mid-hangover.
“Binney, a moment of your valuable time. I need to tap your expertise.”
“And it couldn’t wait till a decent hour, I suppose.”
“Right again, Binney. I need information on one Kevin Murphy. Lives in Revere.”
“Oh, for the love of the saints, Mikey. Do you get a man out of a sound sleep to ask about the likes of Kevin Murphy?”
“I do, Binney. And it sounds as if you have a bit of information to share.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I remember the last little chat we had. Gave me the trots for three days, it was that distressing.”
“It also gave you a handsome jug of the Tullamore Dew. That could happen again if I think it’s worth it.”
There was a slight pause and a distinct change of tone.
“And what can I tell you about our Mr. Murphy?”
“Everything you know.”
“Little there is worth tellin’. The truth of it is he’s a bagman for Doyle’s outfit. Has been for the past thirty years I’ve known him.”
“Meaning what?”
“Sure what do they teach ya in law school, Mikey? Your education’s been neglected.”
“Then educate me. Do it well and I’ll call your favorite bartender and see that there’s a green jug waiting for you.”
I could hear him lick his lips.
“Ah, then. Bagman 101. He’s just that. He carries the bags of cash from Boyle’s bookies, loan sharks, extortionists, and the rest of it back to Boyle’s office.”
“And gives it to whom?”
“I’ll deny that I said it. He gives it to that blackheart, Vince Scully. That’s the half of it. He also carries bags of cash the other way to Boyle’s politicians, police, judges. He’s an errand boy, but he’s one they can trust with the bags of cash.”
“Is that it? Because that’s not worth half a jug. What else?”
There was a second’s pause. “Well, there might be somethin’. What bartender did ya say?”
“I didn’t. Give, Binney.”
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
“I shared a drop or two a couple of weeks ago with your friend, Murphy. He was well into his cups. He spilled a little word between us. It seems that every couple of weeks, they send him to the North Station. There’s a locker key left for him in an envelope at the newsie’s shop. Always the same locker. Five twelve. I remember ’cause it’s me birthday.”
“And—”
“He said he opens the locker and takes out a leather valise. Always the same.”
“What’s in it?”
“Ah, that’s why he mentioned it. In a whisper, mind you. It has him puzzled too. He assumes it’s cash, but he never opens it. Wouldn’t dare. The orders are to take it direct to Mr. Boyle himself. No one else.”
“What else, Binney?”
“On me mother’s grave, that’s all I know. Now can we discuss this other business?”
We picked a bar in the bowels of South Boston. I called and left word with the bartender that I’d be in before the day ended to pay for a jug of the Tullamore Dew. He agreed to hold it until Binney got there. We hardly finished the conversation, when I heard Binney’s out-of-breath voice in the background, looking to collect his Dew.
By the time my Chevy driver parted ways with the speed cop on Revere Beach Boulevard and parked in front of forty-two Walden Street, it was a little after eight a.m. He looked about fifty, five foot five or six, and the kind of pudgy that makes everything he wears look as if it were mail ordered. His balding pate was like a mood ring—the color indicated the state of his emotions, which at that moment, were still in the red zone.
He lumbered up th
e flight of stairs to the porch that ran across the front of the house. He was out of breath, and his hand quivered enough to require three stabs at the door lock with a key. I was sitting on one of the lounging beach chairs that adorned the porch facing the door.
“Good morning, Kevin.”
I gave it my cheeriest tone. He leaped just high enough to take the porch light off its mooring. The key flew out of his hand and somehow landed at my feet. I picked it up while he tried to catch his breath. I expected to see him pull the handgun out of his belt, but he had apparently left it in the car.
A crotchety, elderly sounding female voice with an Irish accent came from upstairs.
“What did ya break now, Kevin?”
“Nuthin’, Ma. Go back to sleep.”
“I heard—”
“It ain’t nuthin’, Ma. I’ll fix it.”
“Why can’t you get in at a decent hour like your brother? I can’t—”
“Go back to sleep, Ma.”
The upstairs mother was another gift from God. Kevin was unlikely to get raucous with me on the front porch as long as his mother’s hearing held out.
I got up and walked over to Kevin with a take-out cup of steaming Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in each hand. He had probably been rousted out of a sound sleep by whatever gang member took Manny Gomez’s call, and absolutely nothing had gone right since. He just stared at me with an expression that said he was almost too worn down to be pissed off.
I handed him one of the coffees, and said, “Kevin, why don’t we sit down and talk things over? Better yet, you just drink the coffee. Let me talk. Let’s see if I can make sense of this thing.”
Kevin looked as if he were too confused by the morning’s events to make a clear decision to sit or stand. He probably got the early call to corral me because he was the only one who lived closer to Suffolk Downs than the boys in South Boston.
He finally sat down across from me and began slurping the coffee without a word.
“This work with a gun. It’s not your line of work, is it, Kevin?”
He looked up at me over the rim of the coffee cup.
“The hell do you know about it?”
“Well, Kevin. May I call you ‘Kevin’? You don’t seem too good at it.”
No response. Back to slurping. My tone went from bright and cheery to sharp and threatening.
“I want you to listen to me. You’ve had a bad day so far. In your most frightening dreams you can’t imagine how much worse it’s going to get in the next few hours. You listening, Kevin? You don’t know it, but after this morning’s little farce, you’re in it up to your little red ears. You don’t begin to know what trouble is. Shall I lay it out for you?”
The slurping stopped, but his mouth hung open and his eyes were riveted on mine.
“Here’s the deal. Mr. Boyle says you’re a bagman for his organization. He says you’re a good-faithful employee. He feels he can put a lot of confidence in you. What do you think of that? I bet you didn’t know how Mr. Boyle felt about you.”
I couldn’t hope for anything affirmative yet, but I got a very valuable negative. No denial. In fact, the slight relaxation of the folds that were creasing his forehead said he was pleased to hear it. From the look of Kevin, and the tone of his mother upstairs, it was probably the first compliment Kevin had heard since he was toilet trained.
“Do you ever get to talk to Mr. Boyle personally?”
Silence. Another slurp of coffee.
“This is a conversation, Kevin. I have a reason for asking. Do you ever see Mr. Boyle face-to-face?”
Another slurp. “Sometimes.”
“You see, this is why he values you, Kevin. He values loyalty more than anything else on earth. He’s told me that a dozen times. Did he give you that impression?”
The chances were good that the only words Boyle ever spoke to him were curses or orders. Nonetheless.
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I agree with you, Kevin. Now I’m going to tell you something that’s not for publication. Did you ever meet Vince Scully?”
The mere name put the wrinkles back in his forehead. I didn’t need an answer.
“See, Vince Scully took up with another gang behind Mr. Boyle’s back. Mr. Boyle heard about it. I was with Vince Scully last night. They slit his throat wide open from ear to ear.”
I added the appropriate gesture.
Vestiges of shock and fear grew in Kevin’s beady little eyes. He’d probably thought of Vince Scully as invincible.
“Now, here’s the deal. When you threatened me with a gun this morning and tried to force me to go to Belle Isle Park, you were acting on the orders of a man who’s also turned traitor to Mr. Boyle. That makes you part of the conspiracy.”
I figured whoever took Scully’s place as Manny Gomez’s contact had to be linked to the mob that controlled Black Diamond and kidnapped Erin. And those were definitely not Boyle’s troops.
“I’m thinking of the gaping slit in Vince Scully’s throat. I can’t help wondering how Mr. Boyle will react to your working for his enemies.”
“The hell I am! I’m just doin’ what I’m told!”
He was on his feet. His telltale pate was passing through magenta. His voice was up two octaves. That triggered a raspy voice from upstairs.
“Kevin, will you for the love of—?”
“Yeah, yeah, Ma. Go to sleep.”
He pulled his chair over and leaned about six inches from my face. He was down to a hissing whisper.
“What the hell am I supposed to do? I get a call before the damn sun is up. He says he’s callin’ for Mr. Boyle. I do what I’m told.”
“Just sit down, Kevin. Cool down. Have some coffee. There’s a way out of this. Just relax.”
The last thing I wanted at that particular moment was for Kevin to go into cardiac arrest.
“I’m the only one in Boyle’s outfit who knows about this. It’s distinctly in your interest to have me keep my mouth shut. Are we in full agreement?”
He saw the possibility and nodded.
“Then tell me one thing, and my lips are sealed. When is the next time you go to the North Station?”
His eyes bulged. I think the thought of disclosing information about his most secret mission frightened him almost as much as the specter of Scully with his throat slit. Thank God, the operative word was “almost.”
He leaned closer. “If this gets out—”
“It won’t. When? Say it.”
He wiped away brow sweat with his sleeve.
“Tonight. Five o’clock.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you. That’ll be our little secret.”
I started down the porch steps, when a thought struck home. I caught Kevin as he was opening the front door.
“Oh, one last thing. Who called you this morning?”
He looked to both sides and hustled over to me in three quick steps. He was spitting the words out between locked teeth.
“What the hell more you want from me? I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“Sure you do. I’m the one you tried to kidnap this morning at gunpoint on orders from a traitor to Mr. Boyle. I’m the one who’s keeping you alive, remember?”
He just froze.
“Who was it, Kevin?”
Another look both ways. It came out in a hiss. “Sean Flannery.”
“And what exactly did he have waiting for me at Belle Isle Park?”
“I don’t know. I swear it. I was just supposed to get ya there.”
“Uh-huh. But chances are it wasn’t an invitation to a tea dance. Right?”
“I gotta get in.”
He was back across the porch and through the door before I could get another syllable out of him, but that was enough. I remembered Sean Flannery as the stakeout who relieved Vince Scully in front of Colleen Ryan’s house after the kidnapping. I couldn’t help wondering, “Mr. Boyle, how many traitors do you have in that rat pack of yours?”
CHAPTE
R TWENTY-ONE
Like it or not, it was time to move into the big league. We’d been dismissing Billy Coyne’s major sweat over something bigger than Hector Vasquez as Billy’s problem, not ours. It finally dawned on me that that kind of thinking could be dangerous. If we kept limiting our concern to an isolated piece of the puzzle, we’d go on blundering like mice in a maze that only see as far as the manipulator lets them see.
I went into Mr. D.’s office to make my pitch that afternoon. He dropped what he was working on, stretched back in his oversized desk chair, folded his arms over his suspenders, and gave me the go-ahead nod.
“Point one, Mr. Devlin. Someone in Ireland went to great lengths to conceal Black Diamond’s natural speed. Why? No-brainer. So they could ship him to the United States and make a killing on his first race. Suffolk Downs is a good choice. It’s a small-time track. Mostly mediocre, unpredictable horses. If a long shot comes in out of nowhere, it’s not like it doesn’t happen every day. They pick Mass-Cap day when all the attention is on the big race. Nobody much cares what happens in the early races. It’s a perfect setup all around. Black Diamond has long odds, twenty to one, and that’s no surprise given his reported workout times and poor breeding. They can bet the farm. How’m I doing, Mr. Devlin?”
“No disagreement yet.”
“Then let’s play another line. That same race happens to be fixed by Boyle and the Boston mob for Hector Vasquez’s horse, another long shot, to win the race. There’s no indication that the Irish gang behind Black Diamond let Boyle in on their scam. On the other hand, since Vince Scully appears to have been secretly working for both mobs, he undoubtedly informed the Irish mob behind Black Diamond that Boyle had the fix in for Vasquez’s horse. In fact, that may be why the Irish mob picked that particular race for Black Diamond. Boyle didn’t put the fix on Danny because Black Diamond didn’t seem to be a threat, based on his workout record. So if the other jockeys pull their horses to give Vasquez’s horse the win, it’s a genuine lock for Black Diamond. The Irish mob knows Black Diamond can beat Vasquez’s horse on natural speed like he’s standing in cement.”
Black Diamond Page 15