“No, I don’t work.”
Marc was starting to look uncomfortable again. “He’s independently wealthy.”
LaValle’s eyes lit up. Money excites politicians like big-haired interns do former Arkansas governors.
“I made some wise investments, and I’m just waiting for the right opportunity to come along,” I said.
Diane produced a business card and held it out for me, her other hand touching my arm and her jade eyes making contact with mine.
“Give me a call sometime,” she said. “We can talk about what type of opportunities you’re interested in. We have a lot of connections.”
I took the card from her and slipped it into my pocket without looking at it. The girl was certainly forward. I kind of liked it.
“Nice to see you again, Dan,” Marc said. “Good luck in the election. You can count on my vote.”
“I hope I can count on your vote too, Ronan,” LaValle said.
Before I could tell him I’d rather poke out my eyes and pour Tabasco sauce in the bloody sockets, Marc pushed me toward the door. Diane waved goodbye and mouthed, “Call me.”
We gathered Timmy and made our way out into the cold night air
“Why’d you have to do that?” Marc asked.
“Do what?”
“Embarrass me with the smartass answers. He’s going to win this coming election and be our new senator.”
“So?”
“So? You don’t get it. That means he’s got a lot of clout that could help me out in the future, and if he wins, so do I.”
“I thought you liked where you were.”
“I don’t want to be chief in Westford forever.”
The truth came out. Little brother actually had big career ambitions.
“Lowell? State?”
“No, federal. That’s where the action is and I’m still plenty young enough to go work for the Justice Department.”
“Well, better you than me.”
“You can’t fool me. You still miss the thrill of the chase.”
“To a point I do.”
“So what do you think of Diane?”
“She’s a hottie.”
“A hottie with a Harvard Law degree. She really took to you.”
“It’s my new cologne. Eau de’ Desperate.”
“Somehow, bro, I doubt you’ll ever be desperate.”
I left Mark and Timmy at the garage and had just gotten to the Jeep when my cell phone rang. It was Max. At first I thought he wanted to hire the band for another shitty Thursday night gig. As luck would have it, he didn’t. He had something for me that was about to break things wide open.
SEVEN
I met Max over at Jack Kerouac Park located off of Bridge Street, not far from the arena and his bar. Dedicated in 1988, the park commemorated the life of one of Lowell’s most famous citizens. Once reviled by the city fathers, Kerouac had become one of Lowell’s strengths. The city even held an annual festival in the summer celebrating his life and works that drew thousands of visitors. I wondered how long it would be before Bette Davis or Ed McMahon, two other prominent local products, got festivals of their own?
Best known as the father of the beat generation, Kerouac’s works included On the Road and The Town and The City. I once tried to read On the Road, but couldn’t get through it. I was never much for classic literature as my comic book collection attested to.
Located along the river, the park’s main path contained four large granite pillars with excerpts from his writings as well as Catholic and Buddhist symbols that referenced his spiritual beliefs. They should have also had statues of beatniks playing bongos and drinking cheap wine, but the park designers decided to overlook that part of Kerouac’s life. I was probably just stereotyping people I didn’t understand, as I was prone to do; yet another character flaw.
I entered the park and Max appeared, trying to remain unseen behind one of the pillars. I might have been able to pull it off but his girth made it nearly impossible, even in the dark.
“Max?”
He emerged, waving his hands. “Shhhhhh. Keep your voice down.”
Those were words I’d never heard out of his mouth before.
“Why all the secrecy?”
He looked around; like he was afraid someone would see us together.
“Knock it off, Max. What do you have for me?”
“I heard some things about Karen that I thought maybe you should know.”
We sat on one of the granite benches that surrounded the pillars. Granite has a way of absorbing the cold and I could feel it through my pants numbing my legs and butt. I’d suffer through to hear what he had to say.
“This isn’t going to be easy for you to hear,” Max said.
“Come on, just spill. It’s frigging cold out here.”
“It’s really bad,” he explained.
“Max, it’s not like we were married,” I said. “We were only dating for about six weeks.”
He nodded his head and took a deep breath.
“I heard from someone that Karen was turning tricks. She worked for an agency that specialized in college age escorts.”
I didn’t want to believe it, but I’d seen enough circumstantial evidence in her apartment to corroborate it including the business card and bank statement.
“Do you have a name of the agency?”
“I think it’s called AAA Diamond Escorts.”
I smirked.
“Hey, I didn’t make up the fucking name.”
“What, do you get a blow job with every flat tire?” As much as this hurt to hear, I had to laugh about the name.
“The escort companies do that so their name is first in the phone book.”
“I know, but escort agencies aren’t in the book anymore. Besides, who in the hell even uses the phone book anymore?”
“Old people I guess.”
“Wonderful bit of trivia, Maxie. So who told you this?”
“I promised not to say.”
I expected that. Max knew a lot of people in town, a regular fountain of information. I suspected he’d even worked for the Lowell PD in the past as a snitch when some of his employees were dealing coke out of his place. If there was anything he didn’t tolerate, it was drug dealing in his bar.
“Was it someone who works for you?”
He turned away and looked at one of the pillars.
“No.”
“You’re a terrible liar. It was Cassie, wasn’t it?”
I just threw her name out hoping he’d crumble. It was effective because he immediately gave her up.
“Yeah, she came into work tonight and we talked. She’s scared and doesn’t want you to know who told me.”
“Does she work for them?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood and leaned against one of the pillars. The cold from it radiated deep into my hand.
“It doesn’t make sense. Why would she work for me if she were doing that? I know she wasn’t meeting people there. That crowd doesn’t need to pay for sex and certainly don’t have the dough.”
“Probably used your job as a cover story to account for how she paid her bills. No one but a waitress is ever really sure how much they’re making.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“I appreciate this.”
“Really? Does that mean you’ll get your band to come back and work for free some night?”
“Uh, no.”
He shrugged in disappointment. “I think this is going to open up a huge new can of worms for you.”
“I used to eat worms when I was a kid.”
“So that’s what happened. Are you going to talk to Cassie?”
“I will eventually. First though, I think I’ll pay a visit to AAA Diamond and see what they know.”
I left Max and went home and popped open one of my last few bottles of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat. It was out of season and I’d have to wait until the spring to get some more. I never thought I’d like a cherry flavored beer but Sam
had come through with flying colors. I fired up my computer and searched the Internet for AAA Diamond. If they had a website, I was determined to find it even if it took all night. Uncle Sal was my next option. If someone were running a racket in this area, he’d know who and where to find them.
It didn’t take long with the help of Google to find their web page. I clicked on the “available girls” link and there, with her face obscured, was Karen. It was one of the nude photos I’d seen in her apartment. I now had definite confirmation and it felt like someone had just kicked me in the balls. I almost would have preferred that over this find.
I scanned down the page and there was Cassie, her face also obscured and in the nude. I could tell it was her from the short red hair and tight little body. The tattoo I had wondered about the night Karen died was a butterfly and yes, what little carpet she had did match the drapes.
The website didn’t list an address, only a toll free number which looked like the one I’d seen on the card. I bookmarked the site and copied the phone number down. I took a shower, drank another Sam Adams and went to bed. That night I dreamt of curtains and drapes in the shade of red.
Uncle Sal operated from a little hardware store on Hanover Street in Boston’s North End. Long the mecca of all things Italian in the Hub, it was renowned for its wide array of mom and pop restaurants, espresso cafes and bakeries. It’s also where the great Molasses flood of 1919 occurred, when a large molasses tank burst sending a wave of the sticky substance down the street killing twenty-one people. I’ve heard you can still see the stains on some of the remaining cobblestone streets but I’ve never looked for myself.
The narrow streets are a reminder of the days before cars and are always a traffic nightmare, especially at festival time and the winter when the snow started to pile up. Of course, Boston is always a traffic nightmare regardless of the billions the government sank into the Big Dig.
Paul Revere began his famous midnight ride in the North End and his house is still there, preserved as a national historical site. The Old North Church is there too, where the lanterns were hung that signaled Revere, William Dawes, and the other riders that the British were going to Lexington and Concord by sea.
A statue of Revere on his horse sits in a plaza just outside the restored church and is a prime tourist spot along the Freedom Trail. Boston has a lot of statues of famous citizens scattered throughout the city that the pigeons just love. Everyone from former Mayor Curley to Celtics legend Red Auerbach can be found forged in bronze. The thought of a statue of Uncle Sal sitting somewhere in a park with pigeons crapping all over it made me laugh out loud. He’d most assuredly employ some hawks to have the flying rats neutralized.
The North End is also famous for its summer festivals. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a traditional Italian feast. I remember the first time I saw the Virgin Mother statue being paraded through the streets. Grown men who the night before may have been stuffing dollar bills into a stripper’s garter at a local gentlemen’s club were doing roughly the same to the Mother of God’s likeness; an ironic sight you might only find in Boston.
I parked at the Coast Guard station and walked across the street. I’d kept my military parking sticker on the Jeep when I got out and since Uncle Sugar had kept me on inactive reserve status, I had a military identification card as well. I wasn’t sure if I’d find Uncle Sal in the store on a late Sunday morning but if he wasn’t, he was always somewhere in the general vicinity.
I entered the dusty old hardware store and was greeted by an elderly Italian man, his pants pulled up to his chest and held by a belt at least two sizes too big. The end of the belt hung almost back to his knees. He spoke broken English and wore a plaid scali cap.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Ronan Marino, here to see my Uncle Sal.”
He looked me over and made an odd face. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your uncle talks about you all the time. I pictured you being much bigger.” He laughed.
Ronan Marino, larger than life. Yeah, that was me; all five foot nine and a buck eighty soaking wet.
“Wait here,” he said and exited into the backroom.
The store looked exactly like it did when I was a kid; most of the merchandise on the shelves could have been there since before I was born. Most boxes were old and faded, baking in the sun with not a UPC label in site. Few things had price tags on them and I didn’t see any plumbing supplies other than an old plunger with dried cracked rubber sitting in the corner. The word “front” immediately came to mind.
The old man returned. “He’ll be right with you. He’s in an important meeting.”
He went back to whatever important matter he was tending to before I came in and ignored me. I waited patiently and within a few minutes the back door swung open and Uncle Sal emerged with a tall skinny man with red thinning hair. I recognized him from the news as Duffy Fitzpatrick, reputed head of the local Irish mob. He wore a long wool jacket over a Celtics sweatshirt. My life seemed chock full of stereotypes and Duffy had just been added to the list.
Two hulking men followed their bosses. One was my cousin Tony, the other I didn’t know but my years of training told me he wasn’t Italian. I’m not sure if it was the freckles or the alabaster skin.
Tony “Pussy Machine” DiTocco is Uncle Sal’s right hand man, leg breaker and all-purpose goon. The son of my father’s deceased older sister Margarita, he and I grew up together. If the term tall, dark and handsome hadn’t been invented for him it should have. Tony stood about six foot five and weighed in at around two-fifty. He was a mass of solid muscle and smart as a tack, though he liked to play stupid claiming it was good for business and his image.
His best quality might have been his undying loyalty to friends and family. When we were kids, I’d saved his life during an ill-advised attempt to cross a trestle in front of an oncoming train. Since that day whenever I needed any help he was always there, ham bone sized fists at the ready. I wasn’t always the charming and tough guy I am today and a protector like Tony was good to have around.
The nickname “pussy machine” fit him perfectly. A lady’s man of the first order, I’d seen him charm the pants off just about any woman he wanted. It really depended on the type of woman though and he knew how to pick his spots. If the girl was blue collar from Medford or Revere, I’d say his chances were close to one hundred percent. Put Tony at a Harvard mixer or a MENSA convention and his chances would drop dramatically though probably still far better than most guys.
Duffy and Uncle Sal seemed to be finishing up some type of business.
“You just make sure you keep it that way,” Duffy said.
“Don’t make threats, Duffy. You have my word as always,” replied Uncle Sal. “That should be more than enough.”
Duffy nodded his understanding and they shook hands. They were probably talking about a friendly game of Bridge. Right, and I regularly make donations to the Democratic National Committee.
Uncle Sal saw me and gave me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. I groaned.
“Ribs,” I said.
“Oh yeah, sorry kid, he said. “Duffy, this is my nephew Ronan.”
He and his albino goon sized me up. Neither seemed too impressed.
“Nice Italian name,” chuckled Duffy. “Sounds like he’s a member of the wrong crew.”
Uncle Sal smiled and Duffy shook my hand. His grip was firm and strong, as I would have expected.
“He don’t work for me. He just got out of the service,” Uncle Sal said.
“What did you do?” Duffy asked.
“A little of this, a little of that,” I said.
“Uh huh,” Duffy said. “You go over to that mess in the Middle East?”
“A few times.”
“Iraq or Afghanistan?” Duffy inquired.
“Unfortunately both.”
“Impressive. Well, thanks for your service to our country.”
Duffy smirked. “Not a cop like your brother, huh?”
“No, I tried but I refused to eat the mandatory quota of donuts.”
“Funny guy. So what do you do?”
“I’m currently happily unemployed.”
Duffy looked at Uncle Sal and I got the distinct impression that he didn’t believe me.
“Okay, well nice to meet you, Ronan,” he said emphasizing my name. “I’ll call you, Sal.”
He exited followed by the albino who stared at me the entire way out.
“Quality people,” I muttered.
“Why you always have to be a smart ass?” Uncle Sal asked.
“It’s a highly under-appreciated art,” I responded.
“It’s going to get your head bashed in one day.”
“You’ve been telling me that since I was a kid.”
“Yeah, and you would have taken a lot more beatings if it wasn’t for me,” Tony said.
“That is true, paisan.”
We shook hands and he tried to hug me but I put my arm up to stop him.
“Oh yeah, I heard about an ass kicking you did take,” he said. “You should have called me.”
“It was an unscheduled beating.”
“Fucking hate those,” he said.
“What brings you down here?” Uncle Sal asked.
“I need some information.”
He threw his hands up. “And here I hoped maybe you were coming down to have lunch with your uncle.”
“We could do that too.”
I was hungry and after all, who can go to the North End and not eat?
We walked down to a little place on Prince Street called Sarducci’s. Although it was just around the corner, it took us close to thirty minutes to get there because Uncle Sal had to stop every few feet and shake someone’s hand. A couple of times, he and the other person conversed in Italian. Something about a dead fish, concrete and someone’s mother. I probably misunderstood though since my Italian was a bit rusty.
The streets were full of tourists following the Freedom Trail and families carrying their goods from nearby Haymarket. Giant bags of grapes, fishes wrapped in yesterday’s Globe and bananas seemed to be the products of choice this autumn afternoon.
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