Pulse

by Michael Harvey

  Tiant had finished warming up and the ball was tossed around the diamond. Mickey Rivers strode to the plate, Sherm Feller taking a good thirty seconds to announce Mick the Quick’s arrival as the crowd rose to its feet. Petrocelli kicked the third-base bag and looked directly at Daniel, touching the brim of his cap and pointing a finger before grabbing a handful of dirt and turning back toward home. Daniel’s heart jumped three sizes in his chest. He turned to Grace to ask if she’d seen Rico see him. No Grace. Tiant cut loose. Strike one. In the lee of the crowd’s roar came the boom of an usher’s voice. He was pointing at Grace, who’d wandered away and was leaning over a small gate that opened onto the field. Even worse, the hood had slipped off her head. Dapper looked back at Daniel as if he were responsible. Daniel had visions of them all being tossed into the deepest, darkest Fenway Park dungeon the Yawkey family could find. Then Grace smiled, a nuclear weapon for sure, and the old usher just melted, right there in the field box section. He waved her back and mimed for her to put the hood back on and tie it tight. She did, tucking beside Daniel and squeezing his hand, thrilling him, thrilling her, probably thrilling the heck out of the usher.

  Later, after the Sox had won one-zip on a Tiant three-hitter, after they’d thanked Dapper a dozen times and said good-bye, they walked across Lansdowne to a warehouse that sometimes left a side door open when the janitors were cleaning at night. It was ajar and Daniel and Grace slipped in, running quiet as a couple of Fenway mice up seven flights to the roof and crawling into their usual spot between two huge AC units. Fenway’s lights were mostly off, but the moon hung rich and buttery over the park, bathing them in a healing light that gave texture and movement to their postmortem. They went over every moment, laughing at Grace with the usher, talking four or five times about Rico and his nod to Daniel (Grace said she’d seen it—how could she miss it!), sitting quietly and sharing without ever having to say a word. They were two aliens in this world—Grace, a refugee from Vietnam, arriving on a boat five years ago, the only English speaker in her family and a picture-perfect one at that, warm, open, brilliant, and kept at arm’s length by the blinding whiteness of the world around her; Daniel, a refugee of another kind, no parents, foster homes, and huge chunks of his life already gone AWOL. His brother had football, Harry’s fluency with the game easing his passage. Daniel had no such passport. What he did have was his mind in all its strangeness. And Grace. They had each other and wasn’t that a hell of a thing. He studied her in the moonlight that drenched the rooftop and suddenly saw what Dapper from Somerville had seen, why he’d given them the cook’s tour of Fenway. Daniel’s friend was more than a friend. She was on the cusp of becoming a beautiful young woman. And so the world shifted on its axis and, from that night on, things got a little more complicated, a little more sudden.

  “You gonna tell me why you skipped out?” Grace said, snapping him from his reverie as she pulled out another Stevie Wonder album, took a look, and replaced it just as quickly.

  “No reason. Just had to take care of something.”

  She raised her hands and wiggled her fingers on either side of her face. “Oooh, big mystery.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “Just kidding. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool.”

  Daniel’s secret pushed him a little closer. “If I tell you, will you promise to keep quiet?”

  “Really? You have to ask?”

  Why was he hesitating? Of course he was gonna tell her. It was Grace.

  “I just rented a room above the Rat.”

  “Across the street?”

  “Second floor. Looks right out over the square.”

  “Wow. Does your brother know?”

  “Gonna meet him after my run. He won’t like it, but we’ve got no choice. If school finds out I’m living in Cambridge . . .”

  “They won’t find out.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Hey, I think it’s great.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. The guy who lives there is a prof from Harvard. Giving me the room for fifty bucks a month.”

  Grace whistled.

  “I know. Dirt cheap, right? And the place is actually not half bad.”

  “When can I come over?”

  “Tomorrow, maybe. Once I get settled and stuff.”

  Grace sighed. “My life is soooo boring.”

  “What are you gonna do this afternoon?”

  “I don’t know. Go home and work on Ovid, I guess. Call me tonight if you can. We’ll go over what you missed in class.”

  “I’m probably gonna be moving in.”

  “So jealous.”

  “Yeah, right.” He reached for another album. Station to Station by David Bowie. Grace reached at the same time and their fingertips touched. He felt a tingle up his arm while a single star shot across the yawning chasm of his consciousness. He knew it was her. Not him thinking of her, not him pretending to be her, but her, Grace Nguyen, living inside his head. Entangled. She rubbed the edge of her finger against his and the star shivered before exploding into countless particles of spinning light that fell in lovely streams all around him.

  “Daniel?”

  “What?”

  He dared a look into her eyes and saw a thousand different doors that opened to a thousand different rooms and he wanted to explore each in turn. Then she leaned in just the perfect amount, at the perfect angle, in the perfect moment, and kissed him. Perfectly. Right there in the aisle of Music City.

  “Why did you do that?” His voice was hoarse and choked with he had no idea what. Grace giggled.

  “I don’t know. Felt like it, I guess. Why? Was it that bad?”

  Daniel shook his head and she touched his arm, her fingers so much finer than his. “Has anyone ever kissed you, Daniel?”

  A middle-aged woman saved him, shooting them a murderous look and a “Shhh” from the CLASSICAL aisle. Grace waved at the lady, who sniffed and went back to perusing Bach.

  “Probably a cat lover,” Daniel said, and they both laughed hysterically for no reason at all.

  “I gotta go,” Grace said, pulling back but not before pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re very sweet, Daniel.”

  “Just what a guy wants to hear.”

  “Shut up and tell your brother about the apartment.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. And call me if you can.” She walked toward the front of the store, stopping behind the Bach lady to swipe at her back and give her a mock meow. Daniel laughed as the woman turned to see what was going on. Grace booted it down the aisle and out the door.

  He watched as she wound her way through the afternoon crowd, stopping once to look back and see if he was still there. Daniel waved. She waved back and disappeared into the subway. Daniel pulled the sheet music for “Brown Sugar” from the front window, then put it back and went over to a case where they kept stacks of sheet music and lyrics. He found Stevie Wonder’s “Higher Ground” and took it to the register. Daniel had a quarter for the bus and another seventy-five cents for something to eat. The lyrics cost two dollars, but the kid who worked there knew Daniel and gave him a deal. He took his purchase into the men’s room and locked the door. Carefully, he folded up the sheet and placed it at the bottom of his gym bag. Then he changed into a pair of running pants and a long-sleeved Bruins shirt made of lightweight mesh. He pulled on a hat and stuffed an extra pair of socks into his pocket. He’d use them as gloves while he ran. The clerk kept the gym bag with his clothes and the lyrics behind the counter. He’d done it before and had a face Daniel trusted.

  Outside he shook his legs and arms loose. A clock on an insurance building across the street read 3:46. He began to run west toward BU’s campus and the river. In the first half-dozen strides, all the awkwardness of adolescence disappeared, and the man Daniel would become emerged. Inside his head, however, he was still a teenager and for the first mile all he thought about was Grace Nguyen, his first “real” kiss, and whether or not he’d stacked the deck
to get it.

  5

  THE DEAD man lying on the pier looked nothing like Tommy Dillon. Thank fucking God.

  The corpse was long, young, and well muscled. Hispanic, clad in white sweatpants and a long-sleeved BU sweatshirt. The fishermen who’d found him said he’d gotten hung up on a line from one of their lobster pots. They were huddled at the far end of the dock, a clump of yellow and orange slickers giving their statements to a couple of uniforms. Three forensics guys were working on the body. Barkley told them to take a break, leaving the scene to the two detectives. They circled like the jackals they’d become for longer than they’d known.

  “How much time in the water?” Barkley said.

  “Tech says not more than a couple of hours.” Tommy squatted by the head and stared into the corpse’s ear for some godforsaken Tommy reason. “Hispanic, for sure. Maybe twenty-five.”

  “No pockets,” Barkley said. “No ID.”

  Tommy grumbled and stood up, one knee popping with the effort.

  “What’s that?” Barkley pointed to a rip in the sweatshirt.

  “Pulled him in with a gaff.” Tommy rolled the body onto one side with the toe of his boot. The corpse grinned, a trickle of seawater coming from the side of his mouth and a horseshoe crab crawling out from inside his shirt.

  “Two in the head,” Tommy said.

  Barkley walked around and took a look. Two small-caliber holes drilled into the curve of the skull just above the spine. “Twenty-two?”

  “Be my guess.” Tommy let the body flop back onto the deck. The sun had sunk down into the harbor and light was going fast.

  “What do you think?” Barkley said.

  “I think he’s a drug dealer, probably an illegal. We’ll spend the better part of two weeks beating the bushes and get nowhere. Then we’ll shove it into the cold pile with the rest of ’em.”

  “Love your job, don’t you, Tommy?”

  They’d been working crime scenes for eight years running. Barkley was the alpha. Did most of the interviews, handled the press, took the heat from the brass if there was any coming down. As for Tommy, he was good at two things. First, he knew the streets better than any cop in the city. His home turf, Dorchester, Mattapan, Charlestown, North End, South End, Allston-Brighton. Tommy had contacts everywhere. And he always came up with a name. Barkley never asked what Tommy promised, or to whom. Looking back, maybe he should have, but he never did. The other thing Tommy was good at was records. Turn him loose in a room full of files and he was a happy fucking camper. Worked fast and, again, did what he did best—sniffed out names, addresses, leads.

  “I’ll get going on an ID tomorrow. You want to talk to the guys from the boat?”

  “Why not?”

  Tommy started over to the uniforms. Barkley stopped him.

  “About earlier. When I fell.”

  “I didn’t see no woman, B. You just tripped is all.”

  “When I was out, I had a vision or a dream or some fucking thing.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Tommy seemed a little anxious and a little amused. But that’s how Tommy seemed with most things.

  “I thought I was down here, on the docks. A body came up out of the water. Tied up in chains and shit.”

  “Fuck me. Look anything like our Juan Doe?”

  Not really, Barkley thought. As a matter of fact, it looked like you, Tommy, your scarier-than-shit face floating in a burp of seawater. How’s that, partner? Pretty fucking funny, huh?

  “Bark, you hear me?”

  “I didn’t see the face, Tommy, but, no, I don’t think it was our guy.”

  “I told you, B. It’s the job. Every time I close my eyes at night, the creeping Jesus motherfuckers crawl all over me, up my ass, tickle the balls, right down my fucking throat.”

  “And you say you got no demons.”

  “Let’s go the No Name. Get a bowl of chowder.”

  “We gotta talk to the fishermen.”

  “Chowder, B. Then the rest.”

  Barkley nodded for his partner to take the lead and watched him walk down the pier, stopping once to joke with one of the forensics guys. Barkley followed quietly in his wake.

  6

  HARRY FITZSIMMONS put his fist in the mud and leaned forward, weight perfectly balanced in a three-point stance. His lungs were on fire and his legs felt like lead. Push through. One more. Now. Harry shot forward, keeping low for the first few strides then letting his body rise as he accelerated. The wind pushed at his back, sweeping off the river, lifting as he went. He flew past ten yards, then twenty, floating now, breath and body one, moving in perfect sync. It wasn’t until the last twenty that he started to tie up, thighs cramping a touch, lungs spent. The final ten yards were all about form. Lift the legs, pump the arms, lean through the finish. As he crossed the goal line, he popped the stopwatch wrapped in his fist.

  “What are you doing them in?” Pat Costello was sitting a few rows up in the end zone seats at Harvard Stadium. Not that Harry had a problem hearing him. Costello coached Harvard’s defensive backs. Like most football coaches, his normal tone of voice started at bellow and only deepened from there. Harry raised a hand and bent at the waist, sucking in air as Costello made his way down to the field. He took the watch from Harry and gave it a look.

  “Not bad. How many did you do?”

  “Two sets of ten at sixty. Before that, forty-yarders.” Harry’s words came in fits and starts, his breath steaming in the November chill.

  “You lift?”

  “Couple hours.”

  “Damn.” Costello handed back the watch as Harry straightened, breathing nearly back to normal. He didn’t know Costello all that well but had heard good things. The two men took their time, walking across the broken turf toward the players’ tunnel. At six two with his buzz cut, brushed wire on top shaved down to bone on the sides, Harry towered over the former Syracuse corner.

  “You know the season’s over, Fitzsimmons. I mean, you got the memo.”

  The Crimson had played their final game last weekend, a win over Yale and a second-place finish in the Ivy League. Harry was a shoo-in for All-Ivy. There was even talk of honorable mention All-American.

  “Just don’t want to lose the edge, Coach, especially with the cardio. Once you lose it, it’s a bitch to get back.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s good to unwind as well. You ready for exams?”

  “I should be good.” Harry was carrying a 3.8 average and everyone in the program knew it.

  “All right, then. Why don’t you call it a day? Grab a shower and go home.”

  “Actually, I told someone I’d meet them here.”

  Costello grinned. “Girl?”

  “My brother, Daniel.”

  “Didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “He’s a sophomore at Latin. After my mom died, we stayed together.”

  Costello slackened his pace. “Must have been rough.”

  “We got through it okay.”

  “Where you living now?”

  “I got a place off-campus with Prescott.”

  “Prescott?” The coach shook his head. Neil Prescott was a backup running back and full-time tool.

  “He had a spare bedroom and didn’t mind Daniel so it all worked out.”

  They came to the mouth of the tunnel and stopped. Costello leaned back with his shoulders and jiggled a set of keys in his pocket. “What do the Fitzsimmons brothers got going for Thanksgiving?”

  Harry shrugged. The truth was they had no plans. Prescott was supposed to be heading home, so the apartment would be empty. They’d probably get a pizza and watch football.

  “Why don’t you come out to the house? We do a big thing. Fifty, sixty people. Lots of food and beer. Tag football game. More of it on the tube. I got five kids, one of whom has your jersey, by the way, and would love to get it signed.”

  “Thanks, Coach, but we’ll probably just bachelor it at the apartment. I don’t get to see Danny much with practice and school and everything.” />
  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, but thanks. Bring that jersey in and I’ll sign it for your son.”

  “I will. And let me know if you change your mind.”

  “Will do, Coach.”

  Harry watched Costello disappear up the tunnel, then took a seat in the stands, tipping his head back and soaking in the emptiness of the stadium. There wasn’t anything about football Harry didn’t love. Sweat in the summer. Snow and ice in the winter. Cut grass and mud. The snap of the chinstrap and taste of the mouthpiece. Feel of the pads when they got worked in just right. The thrill of hitting and being hit. But mostly Harry loved the locker room. He wasn’t a big talker, preferring to lead by example. And he did lead, always first to accept the challenge, first to hold himself accountable whether he deserved it or not. For Harry it was about the team, something bigger than him, bigger than all of them. He’d never found anything else quite like it and knew he probably never would.

  He got up from his seat and walked back across the field, pausing for a final look before heading up the tunnel and out of the stadium. Traffic from Soldiers Field Road swept by in a line to his left. Beyond that was the Charles River, slate gray with crests creaming white. Harry worked his way across a patchwork of practice fields. His limbs hung loose in their sockets and there was the pleasant tingling of fatigue settling in his bones. He found a spot in the grass and stretched his legs out in front of him, wind freezing the sweat in his hair and prickling his scalp. He bent forward slowly at the waist, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. All the while he kept an eye focused on a bend in the river.