Tightening the dog’s lead, I do not at first pay attention to the sounds coming from lower Washington. The drum rhythms and the jing-jing of tambourines can be heard from two blocks off. A street fair? No, these rhythms are insistent, driving, martial. I move closer to see about twenty people gathered at a corner, blacks and browns and a few whites.
Crowd control is managed by a squad of dark-faced men who seem to be in charge. They wear tight black pants and jackets with silver conchas, like a mariachi band, yet severe, military. They corral the crowd but keep the sidewalk passage clear. Two Boston cops across the street watch the scene, arms folded, eyeing the corner while talking.
I join the crowd and stand beside a woman in a head scarf. She peers intently toward a mounted poster of a winged bomb and a black steel barrel lettered “OIL” with a red slash. The drums get louder, tambourines quicken, and a portable sound system crackles with static. The crowd swells to maybe forty, young and old. Some clap with the drums and tambourines. Finally, in sync, the whole black-clad squad chants, then whoops, and a speaker mounts a plywood podium. He has a mike and a portable amp. Yes, he’s a big dark-skinned man in a red robe.
His voice booms through the crackling static. “Merchants of death! Plutonium in the Canyons! Cancers from uranium 238!”
Picking up my wet dog and soaking my shirt, I crane to see. “Cluster bombs! Civilians dead! Liquid gas in Boston Harbor!” His dreadlocks look like roofing, and his red robe is dark crimson. Didn’t Suitcase Mary say that Big Doc preached about poisons?
“Seizures! Starvation of our people!”
Individuals in the crowd begin to call out. “Hiroshima! Vieques!” cries a man in a football jersey.
“Firestorm!” bellows Doc. “Arms race! Stockpiles of death!” The woman beside me cries, “Chemicals!”
Doc calls back, “Mustard gas! Monsanto and MIT! Rocket gas, parts per billion! Charles River of death!” Saliva crusts at his mouth. The man is literally foaming. I hear no Rastafarian words, no Lion of Judah or JAH. An oregano odor mixes with colognes, perfumes, and truck exhaust. Marijuana? I’m not sure. “Raytheon and the devil!”
“Exxon!”
“Halliburton!”
“Bomb the rice fields! Bomb the little children of Baghdad! Ruptured lungs and blindness! Land mines!”
“Say on, Doc!” The mariachi guardians face the crowd and glower. Their silver conchas, I see, are actually bottle caps.
I am close enough to see Big Doc’s face, which is broad with muscular features. His shoulders thrust forward and pull back, as if he struggles to take flight.
“Cheyenne Mountain! Nuclear winter! Niger Delta poison oil!”
“Tell it!”
“Stealth bombs! Harvard! Tunnels of waste! Subways of Boston! Sewers in the City on a Hill!”
The crowd wails in rhythm, including the woman beside me. Doc’s arm now rises, palm upward, each finger circled with thick silver and copper rings. On his sleeve, on his front—grease spots. His arm is raised as if to take an oath. The preacher’s robe, I see, is an academic graduation gown.
“Pox and plagues! Gas! Fuel rods!”
I see my chance. The global and the local mix in his mind, this man so far gone into apocalypse, his opaque eyes on the horizon of the mystic lunatic. My best chance is this: “Eldridge Street!” I call at the top of my lungs. “Eldridge Street!”
He doesn’t lose a beat. “Fire! Fire of night! Poison flush, tanks of death in the pipes!” His arm drops, then thrusts high in a fist and glares at the sky. “Suffer the children!” he cries. He punches the sky.
“Henry Faiser!”
“In the flock of innocence.”
“Peter Wald!”
“The blue-eyed boy. Suffer the children. Suffer the rock!” What rock? What blue-eyed boy? Pipes? Tanks? Does he look my way, or do I only imagine it? Are his words focused or mere reflex? Am I shoulder-to-shoulder with gibberish? Or have I heard a real message delivered according to the Gospel of Big Doc?
Chapter Eleven
Devaney comes by to say the partially decomposed body of caterer Alan Tegier was found this same Friday afternoon in Chelsea. I’m still trying to sort out Big Doc’s toxic shock terms, but Devaney barges in with his story about the body found by two workers. Off-loading forty-gallon drums of animal fat at a rendering plant, they slipped, literally lost their footing. Three plastic-lined drums of beef, pork, and lamb trimmings collected from Boston butchers tumbled off the loading dock and burst. On the concrete were slices and chunks of fat and one clothed body, identified as Alan Tegier.
“You’ll see it on TV, Reggie. I wanted to tell you first.” We’re in my kitchen. Two untouched glasses of Diet Coke fizz on the table between us.
“So the body was… stuffed in a barrel? Packed in fat?” Frank nods. “Rendered animal fat is used in making munitions. The trimmings pay by the pound.”
“Then Tegier was to be…rendered?”
“Try not to think about the particulars, Reggie. It’s about disposal of the body. Chances are, Tegier was already dead. We’re waiting for the autopsy report. I just want to ask you a couple questions for the detectives handling it.” Frank opens a small spiral notebook. Dealing with this man is, as usual, a push-pull affair. He loosens his necktie, a solar system of planets and moons with a grease spot on Saturn’s rings. “The night Tegier disappeared, Reggie, you were in the Back Bay and heard a scuffle?”
“In the fog. It was more like a yelp, then grunting, then gargling. Then something heavy dragged away. Heavy enough to be a person.”
“This was where exactly? Commonwealth?”
“Dartmouth Street. I was on my way to a nine o’clock appointment on Marlborough. A couple of nights ago I walked down the same block and saw no signs of what I’d heard in the dark.”
“What kind of signs?”
“Like on the pavement, there were no dark rubber streaks from dragged heels.”
“And that’s it? The whole thing?”
“I dreamt about it, about oozing black sacks.”
“Like trash barrel liners?” I nod. So does he. The notion of psychic dreams is unstated. He sips his Coke, rubs a thumb over the spot on his tie. Hesitant, I offer spot remover.
He accepts, and in a wifish moment, Saturn’s rings are degreased. He thanks me. “Okay, Frank, then answer this question: what color were Peter Wald’s eyes?”
“Wald’s eyes?”
“Jordan Wald’s murdered son. Were his eyes blue? Was he a blue-eyed boy?”
He wets his lips. “Ask me the date of his death—March twenty-second. Declared dead at Boston City Hospital at 2:13 p.m.”
“How about his eyes?”
“Ask me what he was wearing—a Red Sox jacket, brown corduroy pants, and basketball shoes.”
“The eyes?”
“Two squad cars arrived on the scene to find Peter Wald facedown on the street bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to the upper chest.”
“His eyes, Frank. Were they blue?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t remember.” He exhales slowly. “You got a psychic message on this?”
“No. A Rastafarian preacher yelled something about blue eyes. He headed a group house on Eldridge at the time Peter Wald was killed. When I called Henry Faiser’s name, his comeback was something like ‘a flock of innocents.’ ”
Devaney drinks his Coke. “What you’re saying, Reggie, is you’re going out on your own. Unauthorized. I thought we talked about that.”
“We did. I went to a rally on lower Washington. I also took a couple of walks and struck up conversations.”
He straightens the tie. “Conversations? So you just happened to walk up Angus Street and chat with Kia Fayzer?”
My neck gets hot. “What is this?”
“Because I talked to her too, just like you did. Got her address from her sister. I understand you talked to the sister too.”
“No, I did not.”
“Woman with two little kids, LaB
ron and a girl.”
“She’s Kia’s sister?”
He winks at me. “Knocking on doors on Roland Street? Helping out with the grocery bags?”
My palms are clammy. “It was a coincidence, Frank. That woman—I think she’d just come from a food pantry.”
“Likely so. Lots of people need food help. You’d be surprised who turns up at donation centers these days.”
I have a sudden realization. “So that woman is also Henry Faiser’s sister.” I could have asked her about him. When LaBron talked about Kia and the hot dog, I didn’t think it through.
He grunts. “Tell me, what else did you learn in your mission impossible?”
Ignore the jibe, Reggie. “I learned Henry Faiser is a hustler. Kia swears he never had or used guns. I also got a lecture on drug laws and race and prisons. And profit. Is all that true?”
Devaney’s eyes look suddenly weary. “True enough. Whatever she told you, the numbers aren’t pretty. The race thing makes it tough. Seven years after the first drug laws, blacks made up more than eighty-eight percent of all people convicted in federal court of trafficking in crack cocaine. The odds of a black man serving prison time are one in four.” So Kia had said to me. He repeats it in a flat voice. “One in four is dismal.”
“Kia ranted about prison profits.”
“Ranted?” He rubs his eyes. “You could rant if you saw the business side of it.”
“Of drug dealing?”
“Of prison dealing. In a couple weeks, Reggie, I’ll go to a convention in Orlando, take my wife.”
I nod. If Frank Devaney wants to tell me his vacation plans, okay.
“It’s the American Correctional Association. It’s a good chance for my wife to sit by the pool. Me, I go to seminars and walk through miles of exhibits—the bulletproof vests and prefab cells and restraint devices and firearms, what you expect.”
“And don’t expect?”
“Procter & Gamble’s there because they sell inmates shampoo and deodorant. AT&T’s there because they rake in a billion a year from prisoners’ long-distance calls.”
“So Kia’s right?”
His laugh is bitter. “The prison industry is worth an annual thirty-eight billion. It’s a corporate America wonderland, Reggie. I’m in the wrong business. I should’ve been a warden. Today those guys are millionaires.” He stands. “Well, so what? I work my cases, keep my head up. I’m thinking about life after retirement too. Thinking about chef school. I watch Iron Chef on TV. I might take a night course.”
“Cooking?”
“Why not? There’s heat, there’s action. That’s the big draw of this job.”
“You cook now?”
“I make a mean jelly omelet. Made one for your aunt now and then.” He points. “With that pan right there.”
We regard a skillet on a wall hook over the stove. I haven’t used it once. “Maybe sometime you’ll give me a demonstration.”
“Sounds good. Meantime, Reggie, you get the notion to play cop, call me first, okay?”
“Frank, my next project is helping with a fashion show. And going out to dinner with a friend. Tame enough?”
“Call me first. I mean it.”
We’re at the door. “One thing, Frank. If you’d go back over the records, I’d still like to know the color of Peter Wald’s eyes.”
The answer is yes, they were blue. Devaney calls with remarks about genes and chromosomes and Sinatra and the fact of Peter Wald’s blue eyes. I wish him a good weekend and grab Biscuit’s leash. “Here, girl. We’re going to Tsakis Brothers. We have questions to ask about Eldridge.” It’s almost six on this mild evening when I reach the grocery.
“Mees Reggie, welcome!” Shelving soft drinks, Ari laughs as the dog licks his fingers. From the hot food case, George puts down tongs and reaches into his apron pocket for the dog cookies. Biscuit woofs twice, leaps for the snack, repeats her trick, and heads for the onion sack.
I am not here to shop or socialize, yet must do both to set a mood. “Something smells wonderful. Roasted chicken?”
“Is kotopoulo kyniyo yemisto.” Ari points to the hot case, where small golden baked birds are aligned in regimental rows. “Like Christmas, the song of birds in a tree.”
“Partridge?”
Ari nods. “Very old Greek custom. Sophocles say, ‘Came one who bore the name of perdiko on the glorious hills of Athens.’ This food from Artemis, sister of Apollo, goddess of hunt. Has delicious stuffing, garlic and wine, a feast. You try.”
“Sounds good.” So much for the tofu-veggie regimen. “Take two, invite a friend?”
“Not tonight.”
“So one today, one tomorrow.” George slips two birds in a foil bag. The mix of sales and hospitality are wasted on me this evening. I have Eldridge on my mind. The salad greens and pint of strawberries are a pretext to linger as customers come and go.
“Cream for berries?”
“Thanks, no.”
“Oranges? End of the season, Mees Reggie, so you take oranges free today. Our gift.” Ari puts several oranges in a bag. Two customers are leaving, and I pause until they’ve paid and scratched their lottery cards and closed the door. My order is ready. It’s just me and the Tsakises.
“I want to ask you something.”
Ari steps close, his scalp shining. “Mees Reggie, we not forget about the car and the B&B Auto fire. We try to ask around, peoples we know.”
George shakes his head. “In America, everybody is moving all the time. Every year, like sand Arabs.”
“Like nomads?” They nod. “But, Ari, George, you can help me. When you bought the car on Eldridge Street, there was a house next to the auto shop. A group lived there, some children too, and a young man.”
“This house, they make loud music.”
“Yes. The leader was a preacher, a black man. He wore a red robe. Do you remember him? His name is Doc. He preached on the porch. His hair—” I twist a strand of my own and say, “Dreadlocks. He preached about poisons. He still does. When you bought your car at B&B Auto, did you see him?”
George rubs his hands on his apron. “A crazy guy. He is yelling at the sky. Nobody to listen. Why you want to know about him?”
“Because of a young man named Henry Faiser. He also lived in that house. He sold things, like expensive watches. Do you remember Henry?”
Ari stands tall. “We not buying the jewelry. We go only to the B&B for a car. We not buying the leather shoes.”
“So Henry tried to sell you? You went into Big Doc’s house?”
“Never.” George folds his arms. “We are seeing the car at B&B, and the Negro comes to sell.”
“The B&B guys let him in? The guy you mentioned—Carlo?”
“This boy with shoes and jewels, he comes and goes quick, like a Gypsy.”
“That house was known for drugs. Did you see drug deals? Crack cocaine, rocks? Perhaps on the porch?” Ari shakes his head. “Did you ever see a young white man around there? He had blue eyes, college age.”
Both say no. “Is a long time ago,” says George. “Life is different.”
“Different for you and me—and Henry Faiser too. He’s in prison. The blue-eyed white man was shot and killed just before the Eldridge fire, and Henry was convicted. Maybe he’s innocent. The preacher might have information. What do you remember about Doc?”
The grocers glance at one another. Ari asks, “This is your psukhé?”
“Sort of.”
George unties his apron, folds it, lays it on the counter. Biscuit naps. “The red-robe guy is wild. Crazy.”
“He’s religious,” I say, “like a priest, maybe a prophet. Did he preach about fire? Three houses burned down, and B&B Auto too. Bodies were found. The police say the cause of the fire was never determined. Big Doc remembers ‘fire of night.’ Did he preach about fire?”
“We not listen. We go there for the car. Someone is crazy, stay away.”
George says, “We not see him all these years, Mees Regg
ie. But last Thursday, maybe I hear something.”
Ari frowns. “Maybe, maybe not.” The brothers exchange looks. Whatever this is has been discussed.
I ask George, “What did you hear?”
“I make delivery at Eldridge Place, the back. Everything is delivered: whiskeys, laundries, furnitures. Everybody is around. Guys in blue coats.”
“Navy-blue blazers? The staff?”
He nods. “And I have four orders, four different floors. Like always, I go in back elevator, for freight. We are three in elevator, two blue coats and me. I am careful of eggs and tomatoes. I not look around, but one guy in the blue coat, he is Carlo from B&B Auto.”
Ari frowns. “I tell my brother, maybe just looks like Carlo. Or is a different guy. Maybe a mixing up. I say, wait till next week. Look again. Make sure.”
“No.” George frowns, insistent. “This is Carlo. No mixing up.” I say, “He works at Eldridge Place?” George nods. “Did he recognize you?”
“He not see my face.”
“But he’d remember the whole Eldridge story.”
George jabs a finger. “Maybe not. Maybe he likes to forget. In America, peoples like to forget. Maybe you should forget too, Mees Reggie. Leave Carlo with his new trouble.”
“What trouble?”
“In the elevator, he is upset. A guy named Perk makes big problems. He says, ‘Blame Perk. Perk kill us.’ He say kill.”
I ask, “Who is Perk?” They shrug. “Maybe it was slang, a way of speaking?”
Ari nods. “Like I say to my brother, maybe jokes.”
“No jokes.”
“You see, Mees Reggie, we discuss this.”
“What does Carlo look like?”
George lifts his hand. “Six feets, big shoulders. Hair short like this.”
“A flattop?”
George nods and fixes his bright onyx-eyed gaze on mine. “I not know English good, Mees Reggie. I know a joke. I know a fear. This Perk, he makes Carlo afraid. A tough guy, he is afraid.”
Now You See Her Page 10