A Trouble of Fools (Carlotta Carlyle Mysteries Book 1)

by Linda Barnes

  “I want some pictures of a house, and anybody who comes out of it. If we stand right over there, about two feet from that fire hydrant, and gab, and you shield me so they can’t see what I’m doing, I’ll give you fifty.”

  “Seventy-five,” she said. “I get caught, I can’t work this corner no more.”

  “Sixty-five,” I said, because she expected me to bargain.

  “You one tight-ass bitch,” she said, smiling.

  “You doing okay?” I asked.

  “Now and then,” she said. “The kids are growin’ so fast. Where you want me to stand? And how long? Any bad dudes involved, they gonna notice us for sure.”

  That was true enough, considering my outfit and hers. She made me look downright conservative. Her satin boxer shorts were cut up the thighs, leaving very little to the imagination. She wore a lace-up fake gold-lamé vest, with nothing underneath, and the laces spread wide. I tugged my sweater to get more shoulder exposure. We’d get noticed all right. But noticed as part of the scenery, if we were lucky. We were hiding in plain sight, playing statues.

  I decided to give Wispy Beard another hour. My thighs were getting goosebumps, and my self-esteem was suffering, but like I said, I am stubborn.

  Sometimes, very rarely, it pays off.

  Maybe twenty minutes later, it went down. Probably the last thing I expected.

  A cab, a Green & White cab, pulled up in front of the house. The driver didn’t sound the horn, just sat there, waiting. I could read the number on the front right fender: 863. Marla and I had our routine down pretty well by then. We turned together, giggling and chatting like old comrades, and I snapped the camera’s shutter. 863 was Sean Boyle’s cab, the Old Geezer himself. I caught a glimpse of his white hair.

  He waited all of two minutes, then the upstairs lights in the house went out. Fifteen seconds later the front door opened. Three men came out.

  The first man seemed in charge. He wore a conservative suit, a white shirt that gleamed in the darkness, and a fashionably narrow tie. His features were shadowed by a dignified fedora. He looked Irish. I’d never seen him before.

  The other two walked half a step behind him, like bodyguards. The one on the left had a set of impressive muscles. He carried a gym bag. I’d snapped four pictures before I realized the one on the right was Wispy Beard.

  The well-dressed man got into the cab. The gym bag was passed to him. Everybody kept a careful eye on that bag.

  I took pictures until the cab disappeared, and Wispy Beard and his friend went back in the house. I gave Marla her sixty-five, plus a ten-dollar bonus of IRA-gotten gains.

  Wispy Beard and Sean Boyle. Together.

  Faith and begorra.

  Or, as my grandmother used to say: All is not butter that comes from a cow.

  Chapter 26

  As soon as I turned the corner, out of sight of both the hookers and the house on Norfolk Street, I broke into a run and almost killed myself racing to the Toyota in those damn sandals. I kicked them off as soon as I sat down. Then I gunned the motor and took off.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. I’d never catch Sean Boyle. If I’d had my cab, the cab I should have picked up two hours ago, I could have flipped on the radio, called Gloria, and found out where Boyle was heading. I screeched a turn, and told myself to cool it. I didn’t want to get picked up by the cops; not wearing this classy outfit, I didn’t.

  I saw a cab’s roof lights up ahead, and jammed the accelerator to the floor. It was an innocent Red Cab, idling along, no fare in the backseat.

  I braked, hesitated, and decided to head for Green & White. I doubted Gloria would be in a helpful mood, what with my tardiness, but I wasn’t about to give up following any guy with a gym bag who took G&W cabs and hung out with scum like Wispy Beard. At the first traffic light, the guy next to me honked, raced his motor, and yelled something out the window. I yanked tissues out of my purse, and managed to smear most of the lipstick off my face. At the second light, I untied the rope around my waist and pulled my sweater down to its full length. I groped in the backseat for my pants, with no luck.

  Instead of taking the shortcut, I decided to scoot down Harvard Street. It’s not far out of the way, and I wanted to check the Rebellion. John Flaherty had driven his gym bag there like a homing pigeon. Why not Sean Boyle?

  Boyle’s cab was in the parking lot.

  I shot right past, sure my eyes must be deceiving me. Some of the same cabs I’d noted the night before were parked on the street. The bar’s neon sign was dead black tubing. The front door was barred, and a steel-mesh curtain shuttered the windows, but something was going on inside. Just like last night. I glanced in my rearview mirror, hoping Mooney hadn’t sicced more cops on me. I reviewed last night’s thoughts: What next? Wait? Take pictures? Risk entering the bar?

  I parked illegally around the corner from the lot. I made up my mind. I couldn’t find my jeans, so I wriggled into my gym shorts. They didn’t show under the long sweater, but they made me feel better. So did my bra. I found both my sneakers, but only one sock. I tossed it into the backseat, and laced my shoes onto bare feet.

  I have broken into cars before. I have used everything from bent wire coat hangers to your latest high-tech wonder tools, courtesy of a car thief I once arrested, a man eager to prove his superiority to your average car-stealing punk. If he hadn’t been absolutely wasted on dope—and hadn’t thought himself one of the hunky ladykillers of the world—I doubt he’d have shown off his prize collection of boosters with such pride of ownership. He’s doing five at Concord Reformatory, which should curb his desire to impress girls.

  Breaking into Sean Boyle’s cab was not without challenge. The parking lot was brightly lit, and Harvard Street’s a main drag, patrolled by many a police cruiser. Since I hadn’t been able to watch last night’s gathering of the Gaelic Brotherhood, I had no idea how long tonight’s meeting might last. An adrenaline spurt propelled me to the cab faster than my intended casual stroll.

  Sean Boyle hadn’t bothered to lock the cab, in direct disregard of Gloria’s oft-repeated warning. He hadn’t been dumb enough to leave the keys in the ignition, which was too bad because “stealing” the cab and searching it at my leisure seemed like a fine idea. I got inside, and quietly pulled the door shut. No need to advertise by leaving the domelight glowing.

  I reached under the front seat and found a handful of dirty leaves, got awkwardly down on all fours, and peered under the seat. The rough carpeting scratched my cheek. It smelled of stale cigar ashes and dried mud. I stuck my hands into the cushion cracks and got an assortment of small change, which I pocketed. The dash compartment was locked. I never lock my cab’s dash compartment.

  Now I can open most locks. Give me time and decent lighting, and I can do the job. It’s one of those small hand-coordination things I do well, like picking the guitar. Time was the problem. It seemed like I’d been in cab 863 long enough for Boyle to drink his weight in Guinness. My hands were sweating.

  I inhaled deeply, hauled myself up onto the passenger seat, and stuffed my handbag between my legs. I fished out my flashlight on the first plunge, scrounged around for eternity before I located my leather case of metal odds and ends. I jammed the flashlight under my right thigh, aiming its narrow beam as close to the lock as I could manage.

  The adrenaline was really pumping now. Slow and easy, I muttered to myself. You can’t force a lock. You have to tease it, gentle it along until it’s good and ready. Mooney used to make a lot of pointed remarks about my lock-picking skills, but I wish he could have seen me do that lock. If I can’t make it as a private investigator, I can always burgle.

  I jumped when the light inside the dash compartment lit up. It must have been all of five watts, but it seemed like a wailing burglar alarm. My heart quit leaping around when I saw the package.

  It was a four-by-six-by-two box, wrapped in brown mailing paper. No address. Instead of string or tape, it was sealed with ornate green wax seals, initialed GBA. I hefted it. Ligh
t. I shook it. Nothing. I smelled it. Not a clue. I figured a gym bag could hold maybe thirty boxes.

  I couldn’t open the box because of the damn seals, one on each end, two across the main seam of the brown paper. I could steal it, but Boyle would be sure to notice. Not only that, I could see myself explaining to Mooney how I’d come by the damn thing, hear him reciting rules of evidence. Reluctantly, I put it back in the dash compartment, took pictures, hoping the film was fast enough for the available light.

  While taking photos, I noticed another item in the dash compartment, a whitish rectangle half hidden under a map of the city. It was a postcard from Ireland, a landscape of green hills and contented sheep. It was signed “Gene.”

  That puzzled me, so I stole it. I figure people misplace postcards all the time.

  Chapter 27

  You had to hand it to Margaret Devens. One day removed from her hospital bed, and she was the perfect hostess. Margaret’s living room seemed less resilient than the lady herself. Odds and ends of mismatched furniture filled the floor space. Roz and Lemon had hauled an old couch down from the second floor to replace the one the goons had ruined. An armchair wore a temporary splint on one wobbly leg. The rug had been sent to the cleaners. The doors of the curio cabinets were missing, sent to a local repairman. An unbroken vase sat dead center on the mantle, inadequate for such pride of place. It made the absence of other knickknacks more noticeable.

  The “guests” arrived in straggly groups of twos and threes. They had the pasty faces of men who worked nights, slept days.

  They squirmed on the ugly sofa, they teetered on card-table chairs imported for the occasion, the old men of Green & White, the iron core of the Gaelic Brotherhood. Margaret Devens had handpicked the invitees, her brother’s friends, ten in all.

  If Eugene and Flaherty had been present, we’d have had enough for a jury.

  Sean Boyle, looking more sober than usual, was one of the first to arrive. Joe Fergus was grumpy, ready to pick a fight. O’Keefe, O’Callahan, Corcoran followed, Irish every one. All over fifty, some closer to sixty, some older, with glazed, glittery eyes that had seen days when the Irish weren’t welcome in Boston, when they were “Micks” and “Harps” and names less specific and less flattering.

  The old men stared at the living room’s blank walls and unshaded lamps, at the long extension cord looping toward the slide projector. They spoke warily, in low, speculative tones. It reminded me of a wake without a body.

  I’d volunteered to start things off, but Margaret had firmly, politely refused. She would handle it, thank you. Her sweet, fussy disguise was gone, maybe for good. No flowered dress, no feathered hat. She wore plain black, buttoned to a high, stiff collar. Her face was pale, her right eye blotched with pale bruises. One knee was bandaged. She didn’t smile in welcome as the men trooped dutifully through the foyer. She didn’t seem to notice anyone enter the living room.

  She took her stand at the entrance to the living room, underneath the archway, and her presence stilled the men’s voices. She carried a sheet of paper in her hand. It rustled as she raised it to her eyes.

  “No Second Troy,” she announced.

  The men on the couch gave each other that look, the dotty-old-biddy look, the let’s-get-out-of-here look.

  Her voice was shaky, not with weakness, but with suppressed emotion. She sounded infinitely old, infinitely weary. “This poem, gentlemen, was found in my brother’s room. William Butler Yeats wrote it, about a woman he loved with a hopeless passion. She was a heroine of the Irish Rebellion. Maud was her name, Maud Gonne. And for some reason, my brother, who was no lover of poetry, saw fit to copy it in his own hand. If he could take the time to copy it, surely you can have the courtesy to listen. Possibly, some of you know it already. Please excuse me if I speak too softly—or too slowly.”

  She didn’t say that her mouth and jaw still ached from the beating. She didn’t have to.

  The old guys settled down, doomed to a long sermon in an uncomfortable pew.

  “No Second Troy,” Margaret repeated.

  “Why should I blame her that she filled my days

  With misery, or that she would of late

  Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,

  Or hurled the little streets upon the great,

  Had they but courage equal to desire?

  What could have made her peaceful with a mind

  That nobleness made simple as a fire,

  With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

  That is not natural in an age like this,

  Being high and solitary and most stern?

  Why, what could she have done, being what she is?

  Was there another Troy for her to burn?”

  Silence greeted the ending of the verse. A shrug or two, maybe a few pairs of guarded, narrowed eyes.

  Margaret let the paper fall. It drifted into the hallway. She took no notice of it. “‘Taught to ignorant men most violent ways,’” she repeated. “Now—” She stared at the assembled faces in the room, and seemed to lose the thread of her thoughts. I wondered if she was searching for a face not present. I wondered if she was looking for her brother. She shook her head, and blinked her eyes rapidly. Then she went on. “To the point of our meeting. I hired someone to look into Eugene’s disappearance, since none of you gentlemen would tell me where he’d gone. My investigator has some slides to show you. I trust you will find them enlightening.” She gave up the floor, and moved, ramrod-stiff, toward the fireplace. Joe Fergus rose as if to offer his seat. She ignored him and passed by.

  There was a murmur when I stood up.

  “Still a cop,” Sean Boyle muttered. “Worse, a spy.”

  “Shut your trap, Sean Boyle.” Margaret Devens wheeled to face him, and snapped out the words with more spark than I thought she had left. “And don’t any of you speak until Miss Carlyle is through. Then you’ll get plenty of chance for talk, and I hope you’ll take it.”

  I’d set up the slide projector early that morning, done a dry run with Roz—my darkroom wizard—as audience, because I hate it when my visual aids flop. My first slide was a view of Margaret’s living room, post-goon squad.

  “You know Miss Devens is upset about her brother’s disappearance,” I began. “You might think she’s angry about what happened to her house, or maybe about the fact that you collect for the IRA.”

  “IRA” got a couple of guys to sit upright.

  “And if they did,” Margaret interrupted with a quiet intensity, “it’s true they should be ashamed. Big shots, every one of them. They know what IRA money buys. Bombs at holiday resorts to kill hardworking people who’ve finally saved enough for a trip to the seaside. Plastic explosives in department stores the day before Christmas. Machine guns, maybe, to murder mothers and fathers in front of their children—”

  I hadn’t had Margaret aboard during the dry run.

  “The British have no right—” somebody started to say.

  “No right?” Margaret echoed, cutting the protest short. “No right? Who cares who’s got rights? Children with their arms blown off, and their legs left bloody stumps? Shut up, you fool. Don’t talk to me about rights!”

  “Miss Devens,” I said. “Should I go on?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “Let’s go on.”

  Roz, fairly respectable in one of her longer miniskirts, moved a step closer to Margaret, ready to break her fall if she fainted. Roz is good like that.

  I flashed a blowup of a police mug shot on the blank white wall. It was greeted by a general mutter of puzzlement.

  “This is Horace ‘Bud’ Harold,” I explained. “He has a rap sheet that runs to multiple pages.” I hit the button, showed him at the schoolyard, passing something along to a kid. In the blowup, you could see that it wasn’t a packet, wasn’t the glassine envelope I’d expected. It was a small vial, a fact I was certain would interest my Cambridge cop pal, Jay Schultz. “He is a drug pusher. That vial is full of crack. Cocaine. He sell
s it to kids.”

  “So what?” The voice came from the back of the room. I glanced over at Sean Boyle. His red face remained blank. He hadn’t recognized his passenger’s bodyguard.

  “Let me show you a couple more slides,” I said. I did them in sequence. First, the mug shot, then the dealing shot, then a good shot of the well-dressed man, in suit and tie, heading down the front walk accompanied by his strong-arm guard.

  I used a pencil as a pointer. “This guy look familiar?” I asked, indicating Wispy Beard. Boyle craned his neck for a better view.

  “Now watch carefully,” I said, and I showed the slides of the well-dressed man boarding Boyle’s cab, Horace and the gym-bag-toting goon by his side. The goon passed the gym bag to the passenger. I’d gotten a slice of Marla’s thigh in a couple of shots, but they were pretty good photos on the whole.

  “A man’s got the right to call a cab,” Boyle said slowly, “even if he associates with undesirables.” You could tell he was thinking hard. “You sure those two are the same man?”

  I flashed both pictures of Horace Harold on the wall so he could see for himself. “I tailed him to the house. He brought a satchel with him. It’s possible the contents were transferred to a gym bag. I assume your passenger left a gym bag in your cab, as usual, and then you took it over to some bar, maybe the Rebellion, and split up the boxes, and made your deliveries—”

  “Wait a minute,” Joe Fergus said, rising to his full five six. “We shouldn’t say anything. Jackie wouldn’t—”

  “You’re twice-over fools,” Margaret said, the words bursting out of her. She couldn’t keep them bottled up, and her cold intensity drowned out Fergus’s tenor. “Big-deal cab drivers helping out the IRA. Something to brag about at the bars. And all the time, you’re running cocaine, and heroin, and God knows what poison around the city like the pack of hoodlums you are.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Cocaine?”

  “What the hell!”

  “Drugs? None of us would—”

  Shouts, denials, accusations, and general bedlam broke out.