“And I’m still not convinced the Patriots deliberately deflated footballs in the AFC championship game,” McCracken said. “But if they did, so what?”
“Well, it was cheating,” Conner Bowditch said.
“It was just gamesmanship,” McCracken said. “The kind of thing that’s always been a part of every sport. In baseball, stealing signs isn’t even against the rules. Doctoring baseballs is, but it’s considered cool if you can get away with it. It got Gaylord Perry into the Hall of Fame.”
“Maybe so,” Conner said, “but I still think it’s wrong.”
“I don’t see any of it as a big deal,” I said. “But manipulating the draft by planting false news stories is a serious matter. That one is on me.”
* * *
On day 2 of the NFL draft, the Patriots made good on their promise. When their turn came in the third round, they chose Chuck Crawford, the openly gay safety from Oregon State.
Ten minutes later, my sister, Meg, and her wife called from their farmhouse in New Hampshire.
“I’ve always loved the Patriots,” Meg said. “But I’m so proud of Bill Belichick and Robert Kraft today.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”
55
It was nearly nine by the time Dunst climbed out of a taxi, sprinted through the rain, and ducked into the Milk Street office building. We gave him ten minutes to get settled and then headed up.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Dunst isn’t in,” his secretary, Doris Platt, said. “I’m not expecting him at all today.”
McCracken glared at her and held it until she averted her eyes. Then he turned to the inner door, tried the latch, and discovered that it was locked. He shrugged, pulled out his wallet, removed a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it on Doris’s desk.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“To cover the damage,” McCracken said. Then he raised his foot and kicked in the door.
Inside, we found Dunst sitting behind his Klingon-inspired desk. Under the circumstances, he looked remarkably unruffled. As we tried to make ourselves comfortable on the weird office furniture, Doris materialized in the splintered door frame.
“Shall I phone the police, Mr. Dunst?”
“No, Doris. You know who to call.”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
“So, Morris,” McCracken said. “Disappointed to see us again?”
“Not at all,” the lawyer said. “It’s always a pleasure to meet with representatives of the New England Patriots.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” McCracken asked. “Next time you sic a hit team on us, try to remember that it takes more than four thugs with shotguns to get the job done.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Enough with the pleasantries,” I said. “You know why we’re here.”
“I do, but I’m afraid I am unable to accommodate you.”
I pulled my jacket aside and gave him a look at what I was carrying in my shoulder holster. “Hand over the contracts, and we’ll give you a kiss and be on our way.”
We were still jawing fifteen minutes later when the Vacca brothers, their trigger fingers healed now, burst in with revolvers in their hands. Dunst’s lips curled into a smile as the two thugs spread out on either side of the door and slouched against the walls.
“I’d be happy to make the introductions,” Dunst said, “but I believe you’ve already met.”
“We have,” McCracken said. “As I recall, these two jerkoffs didn’t enjoy it much the last time.”
“Be that as it may,” Dunst said, “your business here is concluded.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I assure you that it is,” Dunst said. “I advise you to leave immediately and never return. If you resist, I shall ask these two gentlemen to remove you. Should that prove to be necessary, I can’t be responsible for where they take you or what they do to you when they get there. Considering their reputations, I cannot imagine that it will be pleasant for you.”
He grinned again, enjoying this. I grinned right back at him, slipped a finger into my jeans, slid out a burner phone, and hit speed dial.
“I’m with Dunst now,” I said. “He’s being uncooperative, so it’s time you two talked.” I put the phone on speaker and placed it on the desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Dunst,” said that voice, the one like water seeping through a clogged sewer pipe.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Giuseppe Arena.”
And just like that, Dunst’s grin vanished.
“Does my name mean something to you?”
“Yes, sir.… I, uh.… I am well aware of your reputation.”
“Excellent. That ought to simplify things. Mulligan is a friend of mine. I would consider it a great favor to me if you would accommodate his request.”
“Then I shall give it serious consideration.”
A wheeze and a cough. And then, “Listen, Dunst. If you do as he asks, I might throw a little legal work your way. But if you refuse…” He fell silent then, leaving the consequences to the lawyer’s imagination.
From somewhere deep inside, Dunst summoned up a modicum of courage. “I don’t like being threatened, Mr. Arena.”
“Of course not. No one does. Besides, action is more effective than threats, don’t you think? People who fuck with my friends never see the bullet coming.” And then he coughed again and hung up.
I snatched the phone from the desk and returned it to my pocket. “Enough talk,” I said. “Give me the damned contracts.”
“Screw you, Mulligan. How do I know that was really Arena?”
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Boys, get these assholes out of my office,” Dunst said. “I don’t give a crap what you do with them as long as I never see them again.”
Dante and Romeo Vacca exchanged glances, shrugged, and kept slouching against the wall.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Dunst said.
“I don’t think so,” Dante said.
“What?”
The brothers looked at each other and shrugged again.
“Do as I tell you,” Dunst said. “You work for me.”
“We work for the highest bidder,” Romeo said. “Arena pays better.”
A bead of sweat popped from Dunst’s brow and trickled down his cheek. “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”
“No can do,” Dante said.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if they cross Arena,” I said, “he won’t have any qualms about wiping them from the face of the earth.”
I let that hang in the air for a moment, then said, “I’ll take those contracts now.”
Dunst’s shoulders slumped. For several long seconds, he didn’t move. Then he rose on wobbly legs, went to his framed photo of Bowditch, and removed it from the wall. Behind it was a small Paragon-brand safe. He punched some numbers into the keypad, cracked the door, removed a sheath of legal papers, and shoved them at me.
“The originals?” McCracken asked.
“Looks like,” I said, “but I bet he’s got copies squirreled away somewhere.”
Dunst, back behind his desk now, tried to keep a poker face, but the corners of his mouth twitched in a suppressed smile. I didn’t suppress mine. I just reached into my jacket, pulled out the documents Mark Gardner had prepared for me, and tossed them on the desk.
“Slap your autograph on these,” I said.
“What are they?”
“Letters releasing Bowditch, Gabriel, and the other two players you signed from any obligations they might have with you.”
“And if I refuse?”
“The Vaccas will persuade you. Considering their reputations,” I added, echoing Dunst’s words, “I cannot imagine that it will be pleasant for you.”
He swallowed hard, picked up a pen, and started signing.
“You’re out of the agent business, Dunst,” McCracken said as I gathered the documents from the desk. �
��If you sign any more players, we’ll be back. You can count on it.”
* * *
“That was more fun than a lap dance,” McCracken said on the drive back to Providence.
“Except for one thing,” I said.
“Having the Vacca brothers on our side?”
“Yeah. Just being on the same planet with them creeps me out.”
“If you tell Arena about their sexual proclivities, he might put a hit out on them,” McCracken said. “Old goombahs like him have a hard-on for perverts.”
“He might,” I said, “but I don’t need any more blood on my hands.”
“Huh? What the hell are you talking about?”
56
As it happened, the NFL wasn’t the only organization with concerns about what came to be known as Connergate. The NCAA, Boston College, ESPN, Sports Illustrated, The Boston Globe, The New York Times, the Associated Press, and the Rhode Island State Police also conducted investigations.
By early August, Conner Bowditch had been cleared of the football gambling accusations. As for suspicions that the Patriots and the Jets had manipulated the draft, the investigations led nowhere.
Roger Goodell’s last hope was that Richard Harding Davis, the only newsman who had gotten the Bowditch story right, might be able to shed some light on the situation. But the reporter was nowhere to be found. Edward Anthony Mason III, owner and editor of The Ocean State Rag, reported that Davis had abruptly resigned, leaving no forwarding address. NFL investigators and reporters for a half-dozen news organizations made a valiant effort to track him down but were unable to find any trace of him.
It was almost as if he had never existed.
As for Logan Bedford, Channel 10 suspended him without pay. But by midsummer, after Conner Bowditch assured the station that he had no intention of filing a libel suit, the jerk was back to spouting nonsense and half-truths on the air.
* * *
The day the Patriots’ training camp opened, Yolanda packed a picnic basket, and we took the dogs for a cruise on the bay. We were halfway to Prudence Island when a stiff wind came up, making the Sundowner bounce like a carnival ride in the chop. Brady stuck his nose in the air and seemed to enjoy the rough ride. Rondo retched and deposited his breakfast on the deck.
“The poor baby’s seasick,” Yolanda said, so I pointed the boat for home.
There, we spread a blanket on the grass, ate seafood sandwiches garnished with tomatoes from my garden, and watched the sailboats tack in the breeze. When we finished our drinks, Russian River for Yolanda and Killian’s Irish Red for me, we wandered inside, stripped off our bathing suits, and made love.
An hour later I collapsed on top of the sweaty sheets, feeling blissful but spent. Yolanda raised her head from my chest and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“Still want to move in together?” she asked.
“Sure do.”
“I’m thinking we should keep both places,” she said. “We can summer here and stay at my condo in the city when the roads turn bad.”
I managed not to scream “yippee!” and said, “Sounds like a plan.”
“I could use a cool drink,” she said. “Can I get you anything?”
“A whiskey on the rocks would be great.”
“Okay, baby. I’ll be right back.”
She sprang naked from the bed, and, despite my exhaustion, I felt something stirring. She padded out of the bedroom, and a moment later I heard her shriek.
I thought about getting up to see what was wrong, but it was just a little shriek—the sound a startled woman might make if a field mouse dashed across the kitchen floor.
Suddenly she was standing in the doorway, a Ziploc bag pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
“Mulligan?”
“Um?”
“Why do you have a human ear in your freezer?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am indebted to John Austin Murphy, a Jamestown, Rhode Island, attorney, for regaling me with Conanicut Island lore, including the story of the Russian factory ship—although as far as I know, none of the sailors really got any locals pregnant. Thanks also to my good friend and former Providence Journal and Associated Press colleague, Randall Richard, for taking me on a tour of the island from its north shore to Beavertail lighthouse in the south. And a tip of the hat to Tammy Walter, executive director of the Animal Rescue League of Southern Rhode Island, for providing details about her facility—and for the good works she and her staff perform every day. During the summer of 2014, when I was struggling with the plot, fellow crime novelist Timothy Hallinan offered a suggestion that became a crucial element in this story. My wife, Patricia Smith, the finest poet working in English, edited every line of this novel, adding musical notes to my sometimes toneless prose. My agent, Susanna Einstein, is the best story doctor I know, and Claire Eddy, my editor at Forge, is both a supportive ear and a gentle but demanding taskmaster. Every writer should have such friends. The idea for this book was conceived at the Atlantic Center for the Arts in New Smyrna Beach, Florida. Portions of it were written at the 2014 Sprachsalz International Literary Festival in Hall, Austria, and during the Sierra Nevada College MFA program’s 2014 summer residency in Doolin, Ireland, where Patricia and I taught a fiction class together. My gentle Bernese mountain dog, Brady, and my big goofy mutt, Rondo, served as models for two of the novel’s characters and kept me company during the long slog of writing this novel. As Mulligan and I both know, nothing keeps your head straight like the love of a great dog.
Forge Books by Bruce DeSilva
Rogue Island
Cliff Walk
Providence Rag
A Scourge of Vipers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bruce DeSilva grew up in a tiny Massachusetts mill town where the mill closed when he was ten. He had an austere childhood bereft of iPods, Xboxes, and all the other cool stuff that hadn’t been invented yet. In this parochial little town, metaphors, assonance, and irony were also in short supply. Nevertheless, his crime fiction has won the Edgar and Macavity Awards; has been listed as a finalist for the Shamus, Anthony, and Barry Awards; and has been published in ten languages.
DeSilva’s short stories have appeared in Akashic Books’ award-winning noir anthologies. He’s reviewed crime novels for The New York Times Book Review and Publishers Weekly, and his book reviews for the Associated Press appear in hundreds of newspapers and websites. During his long career in journalism, including a final stint as worldwide writing coach for the Associated Press, DeSilva edited stories that won every major journalism prize, including the Pulitzer. He and his wife, the acclaimed poet Patricia Smith, live in New Jersey with two enormous dogs named Brady and Rondo. Find him online at www.brucedesilva.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter
27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Acknowledgments
Forge Books by Bruce DeSilva
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DREAD LINE
Copyright © 2016 by Bruce DeSilva
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Michael Graziolo
Cover art © 2016 Shutterstock
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
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New York, NY 10010
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Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-7433-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4144-4 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466841444
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The Dread Line Page 25