by Rory Flynn
“Good try. But given the drugs and the gun they found in the trunk of your BMW tonight, plus all your priors, you’re not going to get bail. Not to mention the fact that the sad story of the dead Harvard kids is everywhere. You’re probably looking at ten years in Walpole.”
“That is just completely fucked, man.” Anthony’s mouth hangs open at the injustice of the system. He shakes his head at the nightmare he’s wandered into. A couple of hours ago he was feeling bulletproof, driving into Dudley Square on his way to EDM night at Interstella, a quart Ziploc of molly tucked under the spare tire of his black BMW.
Harkness shuts up and lets the pissed-off perp mull his bleak future for a few moments. He pretends to be reading the blank paper on the clipboard while Anthony contemplates the fact that what seemed like another routine trip to the police station now looks like the end of life as he knows it.
“But there is another way out.”
“What?” Anthony perks up like Pavlov’s dog at the sound of a bell.
“Your uncle, Joey Ink.”
“What about him?”
“I know him from Mr. Mach’s, you know, the Zero Room.”
“You’re shittin’ me.” Anthony gives a mistrustful smile. “That place is a fucking dump. He only drank in Chinatown because all the yuppies drove him off of Hanover Street.”
“Is your uncle friends with Nicco Malnati?” Harkness knows the answer, waits to see if Anthony lies or not.
“Big guy. Politician? City something. Alderman. Councilor?”
“Right.”
“Why the hell do you care?”
“Just answer, Anthony.” Harkness looks at his watch. “In a couple of minutes I have to report to the DA.”
“Yeah, he knows Malnati. They go way back. Same parish growing up. St. Stephen’s.”
Harkness stands, pushes his chair in. He slides a card toward Anthony. “Have your uncle give me a call tomorrow. Maybe we can figure something out.”
“No,” Anthony says.
“Why not? I’m trying to help you. Do you see anyone else in here talking to you?”
“He can’t call you. Had throat cancer last winter. Talks through one of those buzzy things. You’d never be able to fucking understand him on the phone.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“But he’s generally at the bar most nights.”
“Which one?”
“Same one as always. The one you said. The Zero Room. In Chinatown.”
34
“REMIND ME WHY we decided to go outside?” Candace drags the empty stroller behind her down the slushy sidewalk while Harkness carries a wriggling May over his shoulder. Snow falls slowly from the slate-gray sky, and the afternoon light is already fading.
“Been indoors too long,” Harkness says. “Good to get some air.”
“The air is super-cold,” Candace says. “May’s nose is going to freeze and fall off.”
“Think of it as a family adventure.” Harkness spins May around to check the condition of her nose. She giggles.
“Let’s buy a coffee, at least.” Candace points to the steaming teapot over the Government Center Starbucks. “And a hot chocolate for the squirmer.”
They aren’t the only ones who want a hot coffee. The line stretches for more than a block.
“We’re going to wait in line for Starbucks? That’s a first.”
“That’s how we do it here in the gulag,” Harkness says.
The winter has turned from London gray to Oslo grim, with snowstorm after snowstorm and no melting in between. Snow isn’t getting plowed because there’s no place to put it. Trash is piling up along with the snowdrifts. The schools have canceled more days than they’ve been in session since the new year began.
As they trudge silently toward the coffee shop, Harkness looks over at City Hall, snow piled around its base. Its gray cement walls and black windows look even more stark than usual—an otherworldly void in the middle of the city. In the plaza below, protesters have cleared away enough snow to huddle around fires burning in fifty-gallon drums.
Harkness sizes up the crowd, puts it at a couple of hundred. Most of the shouters and marchers are neck-bearded young activists, but there are some families too, probably from the former Lower South End. He reads their signs—HEY! HEY! DON’T TAKE OUR NEIGHBORHOOD AWAY!, JUST SAY NO TO THUGS, and NO MORE DIRTY DEALS!
BPD officers watch the crowd with minimal interest. But there’s also a huddle of black-jacketed security guards taking photos and talking into their phones—Burch’s crew. Harkness wonders how big the protests have to get before the mayor cracks down and clears them out.
“What’s that all about?” Candace nods toward the crowd.
“Protesting O’Mara. There were only a few people there last week.”
“Is that why we walked all the way here? Doing a little surveillance on your day off?”
“Kind of.” Harkness smiles.
“They must be freezing,” Candace says.
“And angry enough to come out on a day like today.” All over the city, people are hibernating instead of venturing outside, drinking too much and drifting into depression, turning pasty and getting weird. Domestic violence, overdoses, fires from space heaters—they’re all spiking.
As they reach the front of the line, a man walks out of the coffee shop and stops abruptly next to them.
“Edward Harkness?” He’s a Central Casting Boston lawyer—thinning silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, gray fedora, dark overcoat, L.L. Bean boots, battered brown briefcase.
“Yes?”
The lawyer reaches into his briefcase and takes out a cream-colored envelope. “I have a letter for you to deliver to Sam Reed,” he says. “Can you do that?”
“Sure.” Harkness takes the letter. The man moves on before he can ask any questions.
“Who was that?”
Harkness holds the envelope toward Candace to reveal the familiar silver X.
“Them again,” she says. “Are they stalking you?”
“I’d like to think they’re helping me.”
“Open the letter,” Candace says.
“It’s not for me,” he says.
“What kind of detective are you?”
“Good question.”
“We need to talk, Sam,” Harkness says. “It’s important.” The last pay phone in Beacon Hill is tilted and ice-crusted, stranded in an alley next to Charles Street Liquors.
“Really?”
“Just meet me at the Fill-A-Buster in half an hour.”
“Not sure I can get away.”
“You have to,” Harkness says. “You’ve got a city-employee cell phone, right?”
“Sure.”
“Leave it in your office so they can’t follow you.”
“Wow, you’re so paranoid, Eddy.”
“Not really.” The announcement of the U.S. Attorneys Office investigation, the outraged editorials and blog posts, the escalating protests in Government Center—it’s all pushing the mayor’s office to new extremes.
Harkness hangs up the receiver and listens to the machinery inside the pay phone swallowing his quarters.
The snow falls faster and thicker. Candace and May are in a cab, heading back to their warm apartment. Harkness imagines being with them instead of walking around in the snow, then puts aside the thought. The cream-colored envelope in his jacket pocket calls out for its recipient. He watches a pack of kids slip down Mt. Vernon Street on pieces of cardboard, sliding into the middle of Charles Street, once a major road, now a one-lane, snow-packed bobsled run.
Harkness walks down Charles to Beacon and cuts left, the ice-glazed Boston Common on his right. Beneath the bare branches, Little Dorothy lies on the frozen ground, sweeping her stick arms and legs to make an angel. She stands, her shredded white dress flocked with snow, face a gray annealed void, and points at Harkness as he walks by. He keeps his eyes on the top of the hill—not looking back, not letting the past distract him—leaving Little Dorothy in his wake.
He passes the State House on the left, then turns on Bowdoin Street toward the warm glow of the Fill-A-Buster, which, like almost every restaurant in Boston, is nearly empty as darkness descends at four in the afternoon.
“So how many city councilors do you think you can get to sign the letter of address?” Harkness stirs his coffee. The waitress has brought their orders. They’ve exchanged pleasantries and complaints about the weather. Now it’s time to get to work.
“Are you talking about that old law you sent me?” Reed says. “From the city charter of something?”
Finding the nail is one thing, getting someone to use it is another. Harkness stares at Reed’s uncomprehending, winter-pale face, splotched from all the wool he’s wearing. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Do you know what the city council is, Eddy?” Reed answers himself. “It’s like thirteen loose cannons, all pointed at each other. Or, worse, at me. Almost impossible to get a unanimous vote on anything. Someone’s always trying to stick his thumb in someone else’s eye. It’s all I can do to keep them from punching each other or stealing the chairs.”
“I’m working on getting you Nicco Malnati from District A-One,” Harkness says.
“How?”
“Let’s just say I have some leverage. And we may have help getting the other loose cannons lined up.”
“Look, maybe we should just let justice run its course, Eddy. The U.S. Attorneys Office is on O’Mara’s tail already.”
“His lawyers can tie up any case for years, Sam. We need something quick and decisive. You’ve got people waiting to come home.”
“I know,” he says. “Believe me, I know.”
“I think if you read this, you might be inspired to start lining up your votes.” Harkness slips the cream-colored envelope across the table.
“How old-fashioned,” Reed says, smiling. “From you?”
“From Katherine Aiello,” Harkness says.
“Who?”
“Director of the Harbormasters.”
“Shit, Eddy.” Reed’s smile drops. “What’ve you gotten us into?”
“She can help you.”
“Last I knew, they were calling in all their favors to get O’Mara elected.”
“They didn’t know how much damage O’Mara was going to do.”
“Now they want to help me?” Reed looks like someone just told him tomorrow was going to be sunny and in the low eighties. It sounds good, but impossible.
“Yeah. They’re as sick of O’Mara as everyone else.”
“Did you wonder what they might want in return, Eddy? You’re a cop, not a politician. Every favor comes with a bill at the end. And eventually you have to pay up.”
A bripping sound comes from underneath their table. Reed takes his cell phone from his pants pocket and checks his texts. “Sorry.”
“I told you to leave your cell phone at the office, Sam.”
“You’re paranoid, Eddy. No one’s going to track us down.”
Five minutes later, Neil Burch lurches through the front door of the Fill-A-Buster, his bald head covered by a black fur cap, his camo parka unzipped and flying behind him. He sways across the restaurant like a drunken Cossack ready to pillage.
Reed looks at Harkness, shocked. Harkness just shrugs. As the dark winter grinds on, bad habits are turning worse. Even Burch has a void to fill. Everyone does.
But still, it’s not even five o’clock.
Burch sits heavily in a chair across the table, his bloodshot eyes going in and out of focus as he begins a rambling, slurry TED talk about how people are either with the mayor or against him—no middle ground. His lab in City Hall has a reputation for frat-boy behavior, long beery lunches, hallway hockey, and serious after-hours drinking. But this afternoon Burch is in champion territory.
The fry cooks watch Burch, wondering if they’ll have to throw him out, or worse, clean up after he pukes on their spotless tile floor.
Harkness holds his hand up and asks something he’s been wondering about since Burch showed up. “Where were you drinking, Neil?”
“Who cares? I can drink wherever I want. And as much as I want. I’m walking home, not driving. Walked all the way from the Parker House when I found out you traitors were hanging out here.”
Harkness nods, senses Thalia’s tainting hand behind the bar again.
Reed and Harkness exchange glances—a windfall has just landed at their table and they have to figure out what to do with it. Most politicians would take advantage of the opportunity, the same way that O’Mara’s crew capitalized on the hurricane.
“Listen, Neil,” Harkness says. “You’re really drunk. I think it would be a good idea for you to stand up and walk out of here before you say or do anything you might regret.”
“You do, do you?”
“Yeah, I do.” Harkness looks Burch in his bloodshot eyes, giving him a way out—but just one.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Burch says, eyes almost closing. “I’ve told you what I’m up to and it’s all good news for the city of Boston. Why don’t you two devious bastards start telling me what the fuck you’re up to?”
They say nothing. Reed sends a quick text under the table.
“I’m a narcotics detective, Neil. I’m just doing my job every day—trying to keep drugs from killing people, and drug dealers from killing each other. That’s pretty much it.”
Burch shakes his head vigorously and it vibrates like an egg on high boil. “I don’t think so. You been nosing around, looking for dirt. Cooking up lies that make us look bad. Don’t think we don’t know!”
Harkness stays quiet and lets Burch heat up.
“So just cut it out, Harkness,” Burch slurs. “Quit fucking with the mayor. We’re in power and we’re staying in power. Lattimore and all your pals are going to be out. And you know what? I’m taking back my offer. You’re going to get fired too, Harkness. How about that?”
“Whatever, Neil.” Harkness picks up his fork and starts eating his hash browns. There’s nothing that a drunken narcissist hates more than being ignored.
“Quit fucking eating when I’m talking to you,” Burch yells.
“My food’s getting cold,” Harkness says. “And since I’m about to get fired, I guess that means I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”
Burch reaches over and swipes his arm across the table, sending plates, glasses, and silverware smashing to the floor. The fry cooks roll their eyes. Reed looks like a bomb just went off.
Harkness stares at the mess on the floor, tangible evidence of the exact moment when Burch, platinum-level control freak, officially lost control. “Call me a thrifty Yankee, but I really hate wasting food.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Burch’s face turns red and sweaty now. “Start telling me what you’re really up to.”
Harkness tilts his head. “I’m confused, Neil. Do you want me to shut the fuck up or start talking? Because I can’t do both at the same time.”
Reed leans in, concerned. “Eddy, I think you should—”
“You stay out of this, little man,” Burch shouts at Reed. “I’m probably scaring you, aren’t I? How about this, does this scare you?”
Burch reaches out and shoves his flat palm into Reed’s face, sending blood spraying from his nose onto the table. Reed slumps down with a moan, hands clasped to his face.
Harkness has his arm back, ready to swing at Burch, who reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his SIG Sauer with sudden, practiced grace.
The fry cooks retreat into the kitchen, cell phones to their ears.
“Neil, put down the gun,” Harkness says calmly, giving Burch another chance to stop his own train wreck.
“Do not tell me what to do.” Burch points his gun at Harkness. “Just start talking.”
“Or what, you’ll shoot me?”
Burch fires a shot into the ceiling that sends the stragglers scrambling out the door. He brings the barrel to his lips and blows on it. “How ’bout that, cowb
oy?”
Harkness just stares at Burch’s face, broiling with rage.
Burch’s next shot whistles by Harkness’s right ear and slams into the wall. Harkness ducks down, head on the table, but inches his hand forward.
The next shot shatters a frame on the wall and sends glass flying.
Burch is smiling, gleeful even, glorying in the chaos like a child smashing up his toy box. In the brief lull, Harkness clenches his hand around a plastic bottle of cheap mustard, points it, and squeezes hard—sending a yellow geyser into Burch’s eyes.
“Shit!” He raises his hands up, dropping his gun. Harkness grabs one wrist and then the other, twists Burch down to the floor. He keeps a boot squarely in the middle of Burch’s back and cuffs him. Burch flails like a fish that’s just been landed. Harkness pats down his pockets, then picks up Burch’s gun from the broken plates and glass and smeared food.
The blue lights of a BPD cruiser flash in the window, followed by TV news trucks. Harkness keeps his boot pressed on Burch, squirming in the mess he made.
“Ready for your close-up, Neil?”
An hour later, the floor’s been swept clean and the cops are gone. The Globe photographers and TV crews have taken enough photos to disgrace Burch for several careers. Lattimore personally escorted Burch to District A-1 for processing. He’ll be facing serious charges in the morning when he’s arraigned, another great photo opportunity. Burch’s optics, as the Stooges say, aren’t looking very good.
Reed’s not looking very good either. The EMTs cleaned up and bandaged his nose (bashed but not broken), but his white shirt is still blood-spattered. He’s got his head in his hands and his tidy hair is a mess. He seems to be drifting into a postviolence fugue state.
Two shots of ouzo, provided by the Fill-A-Buster, sit between them, untouched. On the wall behind them, Martha Coakley took a bullet to the shoulder and Reagan narrowly avoided another attempted assassination.
“Never seen anything like that,” Reed says quietly.
“Chaos happens.”
“Especially around you.” Reed pulls on his suit jacket and reaches for his sweater and coat. “Fun as this meeting was, Eddy, I have to head home.”