Dark Horse

by Rory Flynn

  Candace pushes her lips toward Harkness’s ear. “The Harbormasters have been around for that long?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “That explains why these people look so fucking old,” she whispers.

  Harkness gives her a silence-inducing stare.

  “Not too long ago, you wouldn’t have seen a woman up here,” Aiello says. “Particularly one with what one of my colleagues once referred to as a vowel obstruction, that pesky o at the end of my name that indicates that I am of Italian extraction instead of descended from one of the families that, like all of yours, arrived on the Mayflower.”

  They laugh, politely.

  “But times change,” Aiello says. “And the Harbormasters have too. Tonight you’ll be hearing more about that from our distinguished guests.” Aiello’s gaze wanders over to Harkness and stops, burning so brightly that he has to look away.

  “But first, let me invite you to come upstairs to the beautiful Tapestry Room, where dinner is served.”

  Upstairs, hundreds of flickering candles illuminate a long rectangular central table and dozens of round tables arrayed alongside. The walls are lined with medieval tapestries showing more deer and bow hunters than the New Hampshire woods in October. Harkness and Candace find their table and introduce themselves to the other people joining them for dinner. There’s an investment manager from Fidelity and his bored wife, wearing a diamond that might be visible from space. Next to them sits Jack Desoto, an entrepreneur who runs Hatchet Stump, a software startup whose purpose is incomprehensible to mere mortals. His wife, Genja, has a horse farm on the North Shore that drains a small pile of Jack’s money. An MIT genetic scientist, a Commonwealth Insurance executive, a beautiful but chilly Saltonstall heiress, and the striving owner of a lesser advertising agency round out their table.

  No one at table 7 is a power broker or Harbormaster. Table 7 is a guest table, which gives Harkness a chance to observe the night’s events without worrying about close scrutiny. There’s a digital tape recorder hidden beneath Harkness’s black cummerbund with a wire that runs down his sleeve and ends at a directional microphone and transmitter disguised as a cufflink. Back at Narco-Intel, Patrick and Esther are listening in. You never know when an unexpected party invitation might turn into a setup.

  Harkness looks across the table at Candace, who gives him a careful smile and raised eyebrow that asks, Can you believe we’re actually here? No, he can’t. Like Candace, he’s having a hard time reconciling the genial people eating dinner in the Tapestry Room with the reputation of the shadowy, brutal Harbormasters.

  They’re on their best behavior—but the night is young.

  After the main course (dry-aged sirloin, grilled free-range chicken, or toasted Israeli couscous with root vegetables), dessert (maple crème brûlée or chocolate fondant cake), and high-test coffee to perk everyone up, Katherine Aiello steps up on a low dais in front of the largest tapestry and asks for their attention.

  “I’d like to welcome our very own Robert Fayerwether IV to the stage,” she says. “To take a look back at the year that’s just ending and look ahead to the one we’re about to begin.”

  Wild applause. Either Fayerwether is very popular or the nonstop burgundy and sauvignon blanc are kicking in.

  “Thank you, thank you.” Fayerwether quiets the crowd with his upraised hand, like he’s a crossing guard for emotions. “Like the Bible, the biggest news of this year starts with a flood.” He gets light applause with that clever phrase. “Followed by an exodus—”

  “To the promised land of Nagog!” someone shouts.

  Fayerwether shushes the jokers. “Now we’re gathered here on the cusp of a new year, celebrating all that’s ahead of us,” he says in a voice as silky and carefully groomed as his white hair. Fayerwether is more coherent than an elder at the end of a long, wine-infused banquet should be—A pro, Harkness thinks with some version of admiration.

  “Our city is about to go through a major transformation.” Fayerwether wipes his forehead with a white cloth napkin for an extended dramatic pause. “We’re taking the Lower South End into a new era. I predict that when we gather here next year, we’ll have broken ground to start making our new dream a reality.”

  They raise their glasses to the urban visionary who is creating new wealth for the already rich.

  “I’m an old man, at the end of my career,” Fayerwether shouts. “But mark my words. Decades from now, the citizens of Boston will thank all of us for transforming a faltering neighborhood into an oasis of order—despite any ill-considered complaints from the quibbling class.”

  Fayerwether’s vision of the Lower South End as a walled city for the wealthy has triggered a backlash from all quarters—the Boston Architectural College, the Harvard Graduate School of Design, and especially the wanderers and their supporters. After all, it leaves no room for them to come home, ever.

  Fayerwether raises his glass high. “To our crowning achievement—the New Lower South End!” He smiles out at the crowd, which breaks into enthusiastic applause, as if he just abolished estate taxes.

  When the applause fades, Aiello retakes the stage. “We’re fortunate to be here tonight,” she says. “It’s warm, beautiful, and there’s plenty of wine. But outside, it’s snowing blue blazes again. So please welcome the man who’ll be leaving soon to shovel the entire city, Mayor Michael O’Mara.”

  Scattered applause echoes through the Tapestry Room. So far, O’Mara has failed to pass the true test of a Boston mayor—getting the snow off the streets before anyone can complain about it.

  O’Mara kisses Aiello on both cheeks and steps up on the low stage.

  “Thank you, Katherine. Very, very glad to be here.” O’Mara lays his hands solidly on the podium, leaning toward the audience like a televangelist.

  “You know, the Harbormasters were a disruptive force right from the start,” O’Mara says. “They took power because it needed to be taken or this young city would have perished. They kept out the threats. Because of the Harbormasters—of today and those gone by—Boston isn’t Cleveland or Providence or Baltimore. It’s the shining city on a hill.”

  Major applause at the JFK reference.

  “The rest of my first term is going to be a time of battles and strong words, of arguments and mud-slinging.” O’Mara pauses. “And I can’t wait!”

  Raucous applause. The Harbormasters love a fighter.

  “We’re re-envisioning the Lower South End because we—the people in this room—know that it needs change. Now, before the drugs and violence can spread throughout the city. If we wait for community activists to get anything done, the city will rot from within and slide into the harbor.”

  More applause. Harkness imagines what Jennet Townsend would have to say about that.

  “Yes, the wanderers have left the city,” he says, hitting his stride. “Now that they’re gone, heroin is no longer on sale at every bodega in the Lower South End, and I say that’s more good news. The vision that Robert Fayerwether and the Urban Redevelopment Council have for the city is brilliant. And I say, if this is change, if this is disruption—then bring it on!”

  Candace leans over to Harkness and shouts into his ear over the thunderous applause. “It’s like he’s running for mayor all over again.”

  “And winning,” Harkness says.

  O’Mara smiles out at the crowd like a comedian who knows he’s killing it. “And for those who say we’re moving too fast, I say this: We don’t care. We won’t wait. Democracy can’t catch up to us.”

  Thunderous applause at the end of the speech, ignoring the casual elitism and the tone-deaf ending, which makes O’Mara sound like a hate-radio talk-show host. He holds his arms in the air to take in all the applause, which goes on and on.

  Harkness escapes the Tapestry Room to go downstairs and get Candace a club soda with lime from the bartender. At the end of the narrow side courtyard waits El Jaleo, the enormous John Singer Sargent painting of swirling dancers and motionle
ss musicians. A Spanish dancer holds a voluminous white skirt in one hand and points off to the side with the other. Harkness has seen the painting many times over the years—on school field trips, weekend dates, and outings with his mother, who even in the murk of dementia seems to recognize it.

  “I’ve often wondered about that guitar player on the far right,” a woman says. He turns and finds Katherine Aiello standing behind him, carrying a glass of red wine in one hand and a small white beaded purse in the other. “Is he sleeping or dead?”

  “With musicians, sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Harkness says.

  Aiello smiles. “Just so you know, Detective Harkness, it was me who invited you, not the esteemed Mr. Fayerwether.”

  “Thanks,” Harkness says. “But I have to ask—why?”

  “We’ve been watching you for several years,” she says. “It seemed like a good time to connect.” Aiello smiles and points to the painting. “But thanks to this overprotected museum, we’re being watched by several security cameras. So we’re going to spend a couple of minutes appearing to explore the finer points of this magnificent painting while we are, in fact, discussing something far less artistic. If you don’t mind, in the interest of brevity, I’ll do most of the talking.”

  “Of course.”

  “Humans are pack animals, Edward. You know this from your work. They like to congregate in gangs.”

  He nods.

  “It’s no different in business or politics,” she says. “The real question about a man isn’t who is he?, because ultimately that’s unknowable. What matters is who he chooses to spend time with—who are his friends, his associates?”

  Harkness looks at the three musicians leaning against the wall in the painting, thinks of his misfit detectives. “What are you getting at?”

  “Sometimes you make a mistake. You misjudge a friend’s character or intentions. Or they change over time and you fail to realize it. You’ll find this to be true as you get older. You wind up with people who barely remind you of who they were years ago. It’s surprising how monstrous friends can get when time twists them in its fist.”

  “And in this case you’re talking about . . . ?”

  Aiello pauses. “My good friend Robert Fayerwether is at the end of his distinguished career and looking to leave a shining legacy. There’s been considerable discussion among the Harbormasters about the plans he and the mayor have for the Lower South End. Despite the applause tonight, upon close scrutiny, we find them ill-considered and avaricious.”

  “I voted for him.” Harkness takes a sip from his glass. “And I hear you and your friends helped elect him.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But we didn’t anticipate the venality of the crew he brought with him.”

  “And that surprised you?”

  “There are levels to everything, Edward. The past year has been shocking to even the most politically jaded among us. We should have backed Reed.”

  “What can I do about it?” Harkness asks. “Sounds like a job for the Harbormasters.”

  “We know what you’re doing to rally the opposition,” she says.

  “I can’t get Reed to commit,” Harkness says. “Says it’s impossible to unseat a mayor.”

  “Things are as difficult or as easy as you make them,” she says. And we’ll do what we can. But always tactfully and invisibly. That’s how we work now. Soft power. And occasionally not so soft.”

  “Such as?”

  “Seated to my right upstairs is a Mr. Bryce Atkins, wonderful scholar, good friend. And of interest to you, he leads the U.S. Attorneys Office. At our urging, he’ll be announcing an investigation challenging the legality of the public-private partnership the mayor has entered into in the Lower South End with only perfunctory competitive bidding.”

  “That’ll be a surprise.”

  “I think the mayor may find the Department of Justice isn’t as easily swayed as the locals.”

  “So what else can we expect to happen, you know, at your urging?”

  Aiello points at the dim corners of the painting. “We can only talk about the larger canvas, Edward, not the details. I’ve found those sort themselves out over time, one way or another.”

  With that elliptical remark, Katherine Aiello starts to drift away from the painting toward the wide stone staircase back to the Tapestry Room, where her tribe awaits her return.

  31

  CANDACE STARES OUT at the bleak cornfields from the passenger seat while May sleeps in the car seat behind them. The sides of Route 2 are heaped high with gray salted snow, and the brutal cold sun shines down like a cruel joke played by nature: Look how sunny it can be and still be freezing. Harkness’s Ray-Bans do little to cut the glare from the ice-glazed fields. They drive in silence, nestled in thick parkas and wool Carhartt caps, stunned by the cold and exhausted by the holidays.

  Harkness’s phone rings and he hits Speaker.

  “Got a late Christmas present for you, Eddy.”

  “What do you have?”

  “According to the rules of order, the mayor’s supposed to inform the city council president every time he leaves the city,” Glenn says.

  “So?”

  “O’Mara’s gone on a dozen trips that he didn’t bother to tell the city council president about,” Glenn says. “The mayors’ conference in Tampa, a meeting in New York, a special—”

  “That’s not good enough,” Harkness says. “We need something with more teeth in it.”

  “Look, I’ve gone through every bylaw that has anything to do with the mayor, Eddy,” Glenn says. “There’s nothing we can use.”

  “There’s always something. The devil’s in the details, right?”

  “That’s all I’ve got, Eddy.”

  “For now.”

  “What do you want, man?”

  “You helped start this whole mess with a regulation no one ever heard of,” Harkness says. “Now you need to find another one that helps end it.”

  “I’m trying, Eddy. I really am.”

  “Maybe what we need to do is hit the library,” Harkness says. “Just you, me, Esther, and all the books in the Boston Public Library. I’ll bring the coffee.”

  Glenn sighs. “You’re a fucking pain in the ass, Eddy.”

  “Clean it up, Glenn. I’ve got my daughter in the car.”

  “Oh, then you’re just impossible. That better?”

  “Much.” Harkness clicks off the phone.

  Candace takes out her earbuds. “Who was that?”

  “A guy who owes me a favor,” Harkness says.

  “Sounds like you got him looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “More like a nail.”

  Harkness takes the familiar exit toward Nagog and they stare at the landscape, transformed by more snow than they’ve ever seen. Wind-scoured swirls top the roof of the Nagog Supermarket like buttercream frosting, a range of gray mountains rises in the parking lot of the train station, and every sidewalk has turned into an icy trench.

  He pulls the car behind the Nagog Town House, where a dozen tables are lined up in a long row, sprayed with water to create a frozen, sloping path. Despite the cold, the parking lot is crowded with dozens of Nagogians. There’s mulled cider courtesy of the Nagog Home Team and a blazing fire in a fifty-gallon drum courtesy of old guys who like to burn things.

  Harkness breaks away from Candace for a second and wanders up to Watt.

  “Here for the Ice Swap, are we, Eddy?”

  “Can’t miss the Swap.” The Ice Swap is Nagog’s end-of-the-holidays event, held the day after New Year’s for as long as anyone can remember. It’s a way to unload unwanted holiday gifts and an excuse to extend the holiday drinking.

  Harkness nods toward the only cop he can see, a young-looking blond guy wearing a Tibetan-looking woven hat with his Nagog Police Department uniform. “You been promoting crossing guards to cops?”

  Watt lets out a long, steaming breath. “We’re doing the best we can, Eddy,” he says. “He’s an int
ern. No one wants to be a small-town cop anymore. These kids think everything’s kind of funny. Nothing’s a big deal. They’re posting photos on Instagram or texting their friends when they’re supposed to be on duty.”

  “You might want to remind them to sharpen up today,” Harkness says.

  “Worried?”

  “Aren’t you?” Fights outside the E-Z Mart, early-morning rallies and counter-rallies on the town green, angry opinion pieces in the Nagog Journal—it’s all leading up to another contentious town meeting.

  “The townies are here, the ALA, the wanderers too.” Watt nods toward the ice table. “I’d like to think we can all stay civilized.”

  “Hope so.”

  A long line of givers wait their turn at the head of the table, where they load whatever they want to swap on a battered wooden Moxie crate and give it a push down the ice-slick course, both sides crowded with potential takers.

  First up is a guy in a puffy brown down jacket who shoves a juicer along its way. It flies by a dozen takers until a woman in a red parka pulls it toward her. “I’ll trade you a pair of skis, never used!” The juicer owner shakes his head. He has skis. The woman sends the juicer back along its path, where other eager hands reach for it, politely. It’s still early.

  After the juicer makes several stops along the ice table, a man snags it. “Pair of used snow tires,” he blurts out. The owner of the juicer nods. Transaction complete.

  The next giver steps up to the front of the line.

  “I always wondered why the Swap was so popular,” Candace says. “But it is kind of fun.”

  “Used to be about Yankee frugalness—not wanting anything to go to waste. Repurposing Christmas presents,” Harkness says. “Now it’s like eBay on Ice.”

  “What’s coming up?” Candace seems to have caught the Ice Swap bug.