by Chuck Hogan
“You’re not still, you know, for Krista though, are you?”
“Nah,” said Dez.
“’Cause that would be trouble.”
“She’s outta my league, I know that.”
“No, no, no. Not what I’m saying. I’m saying you’re outta hers.”
Dez didn’t understand that; that would not compute. “Know what she calls me? The Pope of the Forgotten Village.”
“And you love it. But she’s like a whirlpool, Desmond. Know anything about whirlpools?”
“Sure.”
“They don’t just drown you. They swallow you. They hold you down there in that swirl, going round and round, days at a time, even weeks—the force of the water sucking away your clothes, your hair, your face.”
“Hey,” said Dez, “Jem would never go for it anyway.”
“He would freak. And your ma.”
“Ho, she’d be racing around the house, hiding the silver, stashing the Hummels.” Dez grinned at that image, enjoying it maybe a little too much. “Krista never came clean about who’s Shyne’s father, did she? After admitting it wasn’t you?”
“She never even admitted that, least not to me.”
Dez remembered her at the Tap the other night, coming up to him after Doug had breezed, touching his shoulder like it was made out of mink, requesting that Cranberries song again—and the dollar bill she had pulled from her jeans, the way she offered it to him clipped between two fingers. My treat, he had told her, then watched the seat of her jeans as she walked back to the bar.
Doug turned in his chair. “What do you say we hit a movie theater?”
“All right,” said Dez. “What’s playing?”
“No, I mean—hit a movie theater. What would you say?”
Dez got it then. “Yeah, whatever. You think?”
“Let’s go see something, take a look around.”
Dez nodded, excited, reaching for his coat. They had a mission.
DOWNSTAIRS, DOUG SAID GOOD-BYE to Ma, who held her cigarette away to receive his kiss on her cheek. “Watch out for my Dezi, now.”
“Always do, Mrs. E.”
And so Dez had to pop in for a kiss too, still tasting the smoke on his lips as he moved to the door. “We’re gonna catch a flick.”
“Meet some girls,” she called after them. “Preferably Catholic ones.”
Dez patted his pockets as they moved through the low gate onto the sidewalk, ritually checking for his wallet. The night was cloudless and cool. He scanned the street on which he had lived his entire life, a car parked a few houses down catching his eye. Dez continued forward a few steps with Doug before tugging his leather jacket sleeve, turning him around.
“Look, this is maybe stupid, but… today I was out in Chestnut Hill, this neighborhood set off the parkway, family area, lotsa money? I’m up on a pole checking a reading, and I could see the whole street from up there—and I notice this red sedan, like a Chevy Cavalier, keeps cruising past. Like it’s circling the block or something, every couple of minutes. As I said, it’s a family area, kids roaming around. So I keep an eye out. I know he can’t see me with the trees up there, my truck’s parked around the corner. Then, just as I’m thinking maybe something needs to be done about this, the Cavalier stops coming around. I finish up, climb down, move on.”
“Beautiful story, Desmond.”
Dez pointed to his own sternum, indicating the street behind them. “Couple of houses down. Red Cavalier parked across the street. Or else I’m just paranoid.”
Doug’s eyes going dead gave Dez a chill.
“We can head up this way,” said Dez, pointing up at Perkins Street. “Loop around, take the shortcut back to—”
Doug was out in the street, striding right out toward the dark Cavalier.
Dez hesitated, surprised, then went after him, but staying on the near sidewalk.
When Doug was more than halfway there, the Cavalier’s engine gunned to life. Headlights came on and it swung out into the one-way road.
Doug stopped where he was in the street and the Cavalier had to brake, stopping just a few inches from Doug’s knees. It was beaten and dull-looking, its sour headlights throwing Doug’s shadow over the street.
As Doug moved around to the driver’s-side window, the car peeled out, Doug thumping the side with his fist before watching it go. Brake lights reddened the intersection with Perkins, the Cavalier veering hard left.
Doug took off the other way, running fast toward Cambridge Street, and Dez followed, adrenaline surging now. They reached the corner just in time to see the Cavalier empty out one street over and rev past them, speeding under the interstate, lifting over the rise before plummeting toward Spice Street, back to the Town.
“The fuck was that?” said Dez, out of breath.
Doug stared after the disappeared car.
“A cop?” said Dez.
“Cop would have gotten out, badged me. Not hid. Not run.”
“Then what?”
“Fuck,” spat Doug, kicking at the sidewalk.
A bus hissed past them, turning into Sully Square, gassing them with a leadcolored cloud of exhaust. “But if it’s the G, how’d they… wait, through me?”
“Maybe we pushed the phone stuff too hard. Motherfuck.”
“You get a good look? I didn’t.”
“Birthmark,” said Doug, waving at the side of his face. “Like a rash.”
“What, one of those, a port-wine stain?”
“Yeah. His hand too.” Doug squeezed his own hand into a fist. “Fuck it, Dez. I gotta pass on the movies.”
“Right,” said Dez. Then: “You sure?”
Doug was looking toward home, the old candy-factory tower, the hilltop steeple of St. Frank’s.
“What do I do?” said Dez. “Am I made? What’s it mean?”
A gleaming black Mercedes wheeled past them into Somerville, pumping bass-heavy rap. “We gotta huddle up,” said Doug. “Let me talk to the others. You just keep your eyes open like you did. Making him—that was good work.”
Doug held out his fist for a smack, then jogged across the street back toward the Town. Dez watched him go, wanting to run after him and help him piece this thing together, but maybe Dez was too hot now.
The G parked there on his mother’s street. Dez jammed his hands deep into his pockets, spooked, watching for red Cavaliers as he walked back home.
PART II
WHEN LOVE COMES TO TOWN
15. The Meet
16. The Girl Who Got Robbed
17. Demo
18. Dating the Vic
19. Sandman
20. Workout
21. Clocking It
22. The Visit
23. Reception
24. The Surv
15
THE MEET
THE FREEDOM TRAIL WAS a tourist thing, an inlaid-brick sidewalk trail retracing the “birth of America.” It started downtown at the Boston Common training field and snaked north through the city, past the site of the Boston Massacre, past Paul Revere’s House in the North End, all the way across the Charlestown Bridge to end at the 221-foot granite obelisk marking the site of the Battle of Bunker Hill.
The second-to-last stop along the trail was the oldest commissioned floating warship in the world, the USS Constitution, also known as Old Ironsides for her thick, cannonball-repelling hull. In the warming of early May, the pavilion at the southern edge of the old navy yard saw a surge in attendance from school field trips: teachers in sun visors and knee-length shorts, parent chaperones gripping huge cups of iced coffee, and fifth-graders with lunch bags and foilwrapped cans of soda, all squinting up at the flags tracing the sail outline along the ship’s three tall masts.
Doug, Jem, and Gloansy wandered around the dry dock between the ship and its museum, mixing with the school groups and the knee-socked foreign tourists, Doug hoping to confound any parabolic microphones that might be aimed their way. Jem worked the brim curve of his lucky blue Red Sox cap, which not coincidentally had
the added effect of flexing his arms. He wore small, smirking, syrup-tinted sunglasses too expensive and European-looking for his bargain-bin American face. Gloansy wore yellow-tinted sport shades that made his toad eyes bulge, his freckled forearms looking like two logs of Hickory Farms cheese.
Jem spit into the ocean and said, “Fucking cunt.”
Doug turned on him fast, too fast. “What?”
“What what? Fucking branch manager, who else?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s fucking gotta be.”
“How? What could she have told them?”
“I dunno. Something.”
“You tell me. What could she have told them?”
Jem flipped his cap back on top of his head, the brim newly horseshoed. “Easy, kid. How would I know?”
Doug should have stopped himself, didn’t. “I don’t want to be throwing stuff around like it doesn’t matter. Because this matters. This is important—fucking critical—and I want to be dealing in certainties. She could tell them what? That there were four of us? What, we drove a van?”
“Okay. Then how?”
Doug looked off across the harbor at the Coast Guard piers jutting off the North End. “Could be any number of things. Anything.”
“We took a lot of precautions on that job. Fucking drove me nuts, but we did them, and it all went smooth, until the bell.”
“I’m saying I don’t have any answers yet, and neither do you.”
“We bleached it up. I did the tool count, there was nothing left behind.”
“Could be an accumulation of things. Could be they put someone on us special. We been pulling a lot recently.”
Gloansy said, a one-hand-in-his-pocket shrug, “How do we even know it’s anything? Could’ve been some guy parked on the street.”
“Yeah,” said Jem, pointing at Gloansy, “Banjo Boy is right. Some Peeping Tom. A Somerville hypo, shooting up. How come you’re so sure of yourself here, Duggy?”
“I don’t know anything,” said Doug. “Except what I know.”
A class shuffled past, boys smiling and pointing out Jem’s Yankees Suck! T-shirt. When they were gone, Jem said, “Sniffing around the Monsignor, that I don’t like.”
“I talked to him,” said Doug. “He knows how to handle it.”
“You know how to handle it. Gloansy here, he knows how to handle it. The Monsignor, I don’t have that kinda faith in.”
“Here’s the thing,” said Doug, facing them. “Boozo’s crew running wild—that was our cover. They took every ounce of heat that was out there because they were so fucking Cagney and greedy all the time. It was a vacation in Tahiti working in their shadow. Couldn’t buy that kind of protection. But now they’re good and gone, and the G still sees jobs being pulled. See, that machinery’s all still in place. I think they’re turning it on us now.”
Gloansy said, “The G?”
Doug looked at him, duh, and went on, “It’s not like they weren’t aware of us before, but not this close. Maybe they’re more focused now, because they can be. What bothers me is—why Dez? The only one of us with no record?”
Jem set one unlaced high-top sneaker on top of a piling, facing the harbor as though he owned it. “So we’re the top dogs now.”
Doug threw him a duh look too. “That’s not a vacancy I’m looking to fill. We don’t want to be out there in front, attracting attention. I like us running second, riding the wake of the high-stepping idiot in first place.”
“Second place?” snarled Jem, as though Doug had insulted him.
“There is no finish line, kid. The trophy is this, right here, us walking around, money in our pockets, free as the breeze. This is breaking news to you?”
“I’m saying, number one is number one.” Big shrug. “Sucks being the best—but there it is.”
A foreign tourist with a crazy accent and his safari-hat-wearing wife approached them with a guidebook, looking for Faneuil Hall, and Jem played his favorite game, kindly directing them to Chelsea Street, up toward the projects.
Gloansy turned to Doug in private. “How bad do you think they have us?”
“Maybe not at all. Maybe they just have Dez right now. Or maybe they have all our houses and our cars, I don’t know. Maybe they’re up on one of these rooftops right now, watching.”
“That means court orders and everything?”
“They don’t need anything to start snooping on their own. No probable cause or subpoenas, they can just start tapping into us first, figuring out who’s who and what’s what, then once they know where to look and what to look for—then they go legal, get their papers in order, come marching into Town.”
Gloansy was lost in thought a moment, a scary thing to see. He leaned closer to Doug. “What about, like, cameras in the bedroom, shit like that?”
Doug was forced to entertain a split-second image of Gloansy and Joanie grinding. “I would say, kid, these guys’ jobs are tough enough.”
Jem came back to them still muttering about Dez. “Fuckin’ nearsighted Pope. Walking around out there with all our fates in his pockets. Makes me fucking nuts.”
“I told you I talked to him,” said Doug. “He’s the one who made this guy in the first place.”
Jem said, “This is why the movie thing is good. Changing our whole MO, if they’re onto that.”
Doug shrugged. “Good, maybe.”
“Whoa,” said Jem, protesting. “Douglas. C’mon, kid. Don’t let these fuckers get you down.”
“I think we gotta pull back a while.”
“Fuckin’—no way.”
“We gotta coast a bit.”
“Why? We’ll work around the Monsignor. Hijacking a can means no blackbox phone shit, no tech. We’ll go in the original Three Musketeers.”
Gloansy said to Duggy, “For how long?”
“Listen,” said Doug, “if you two’ve got nothing tucked away in the back of your sock drawers, I got this much sympathy for you.”
“It ain’t greed,” said Jem. “It’s knowing a good thing when I see one.”
What do you see except what I show you? “Why you always in such a rush?”
A tour guide dressed as Paul Revere nodded to them as he passed.
“Why? Because I been on the losing end of things, and the one thing I promised myself when I was there was to make hay while the sun shines. Sun’s shining bright here, Duggy.”
“Too bright. That’s not sunlight you’re feeling, that’s heat, that’s the G, and I gotta know what we have here first.”
“How you gonna do that? How you ever gonna know?”
“And we gotta keep our distance, starting now. Gotta stay separate, case they haven’t made all of us yet. Even if they do. Avoid any criminal-conspiracy rap.”
Jem shook his head like he was going to have to punch somebody. “It was a fucking guy in a car!”
Gloansy said, “My wedding, Duggy. Joanie will go apeshit.”
Doug said, “Wedding’s fine. Big group thing. So long as we skip the photos, it’s fine. I’m talking about the four of us getting together for some ice cream, going out gallivanting. No.”
“Fucking cunt,” sang Jem under his breath.
Doug turned on him again. “You’re making me fucking crazy with this.”
“Why? What’s it to you?”
Doug didn’t know if what he said next was meant to put them at ease, or just to cover his own ass. “I’m going to do some looking into that.”
“Looking into what? How? Tail her again?”
“Let me worry about it. I’ll do my thing, you two go off and do yours. And quietlike. Be citizens. Assume they got eyes on you whenever you step out the door. Don’t cross against the light and don’t litter. Use the streets, use the neighborhood—they can’t hide there. None of us sees anything more in a week or two, we’ll get back together, think about moving ahead again.”
“A week or two?” said Jem. “Jesus fuck.”
“It’s a vacatio
n, kid. Enjoy it.”
“Vacation? I’m fucking always on vacation.”
“Duggy’s right,” said Gloansy, probably still worried about cameras in his bedroom. “Maybe we should cool it a whi—”
Jem flat-handed Gloansy in the chest. “That’s for thinking, dumb shit. Fuck you, ‘cool it.’ I decide when to cool it.”
“Fine, whatever,” said Gloansy, rubbing his pec. “Jesus.”
“Two fucking weeks, Duggy,” pronounced Jem. “Then we’ll see.”
16
THE GIRL WHO GOT ROBBED
HE SAW HER WAITING for him in the lamplight of the five-street junction, wearing a shimmering black top that was either velvet or silk, a slim turquoise skirt ending in a ruffle at the knee—her legs were as blond as her hair—and low black heels, a black sweater in one hand, a small black handbag dangling on a string in the other. The taxi ahead of him slowed, trawling for an early evening fare, and she smiled and shook her head no, waving it along—and already Doug felt his reserve melting away.
He eased the Corvette’s prow in along the stone curb at her knees. He was wearing Girbaud jeans, the same toe-pinching black shoes, and a white shirt under a black jacket. He stood out of the car—he always felt good rising out of the Vette—and walked around to get her door.
Her eyes broadened at the sight of the emerald green machine. “Wa-how,” she said, her hand going to her chest. At first he thought she had expected a dusty pickup with tools rattling around in back and a pissing-Calvin sticker on the window. But as she sank into the low passenger seat, he recognized the look on her face as one of amusement. He felt a sting of foolishness then, that he wasn’t prepared for. She swung her legs inside and he closed the wide door on a whiff of butterscotch, rounding the flat rear of the car, seeing himself and the city block reflected and elongated in the glassy green finish, not liking his hurtlittle-boy feelings.
“So,” he said, closing his door, trying to stay positive. “What do you think? Too much muscle?”
She turned to look in back. “I can’t believe how clean it is.”
“It’s a collector’s car, but not a fetish with me. Some guys, forget it. Working under the hood, that’s what I like. Taking it apart and putting it back together again. I don’t even drive it that much.” She was exploring the upholstery with a light hand, the instrument panel with curious eyes. His plans for being so tough and crafty and inscrutable—like a magic trick, one glance from her had turned all his face cards blank. “I had it painted custom. Most collectors, stripping down and painting the exterior an off-stock color, that’s ruining a collector’s item like this. Me, I kind of liked making it mine. A one-of-a-kind.” She touched the soft trim, and he couldn’t take her silence any longer. “So, what? Is it ridiculous?”