Dark Horse

by Rory Flynn

  The idea of a street battle against the citizens of Freedom City quiets everyone.

  “I want to make one thing clear, people,” Lattimore says. “I am not going to be the Bull Connor of Freedom City.”

  Harkness’s phone brips. “It’s Reed.” He reads the slap-typed message, misspelled and in all caps. “Malnati didn’t show up for the vote. They can’t do anything until he gets there—if he does.”

  “Shit,” Lattimore says. “Thought you had him in your pocket.”

  “So did I.” Harkness points at Patrick and Esther. “Follow me.” He turns and starts sprinting to where the Narco-Intel vehicles are parked on Tremont. Patrick and Esther trail after him.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Lattimore shouts.

  “Stall,” Harkness shouts. “Don’t let anyone leave.”

  As they run across the enormous snowy plaza, they hear Lattimore’s voice booming from the People’s Pulpit megaphone. “Attention, please.” The megaphone gives out a wail of feedback. “I’m Boston Police Commissioner James Lattimore.”

  The crowd gathered below turns to listen. The bonfire at the center of the plaza crackles and sends sparks into the dove-gray sky.

  “Mayor Michael O’Mara has asked me to tell you that the City Hall Plaza is now closed to visitors due to a major snowstorm approaching the city. He’s asked me to shut down this illegally occupied city property, which is in violation of the fire code and other city ordinances.”

  Major boos from across the plaza—low at first, then louder as the crowd senses a threat.

  Lattimore just stares out into the crowd as the noise rises to a roar. Then he puts the megaphone back to his lips and steps forward. “But I’m not going to do that,” he shouts.

  The crowd goes insane—shouting, whistling, throwing snow in the air.

  “You have every right to be here. I will personally ensure that you are safe, warm, and protected. We’ll ride this storm out together, right here.”

  The cheering rises even more.

  As they climb in the brown Chevy, Harkness, Esther, and Patrick take one last look at Lattimore, arms stretched up to the sky, taking in the applause, shouts, adoration.

  After all, how many chances does a police commissioner have to be loved by so many people?

  They drive down Hanover Street toward Nicco Malnati’s apartment, the Chevy sliding down the snow-covered road. Ahead, the street’s clogged by a crowd parading a dollar-covered statue of a saint.

  Harkness slows the Chevy.

  “Cool.” Esther leans forward in the passenger seat to get a closer look, maybe a photo for her blog.

  “A saint day? Right before a nor’easter?” Patrick’s in the back seat, laptop balanced on his knees. “Cut down this alley and we can avoid Saint Annoying As Fuck.”

  Harkness swerves down the alley and guns it, sending trashcans flying.

  “Left,” Patrick shouts after a few blocks.

  Harkness cuts the wheel and skids back onto the street.

  “Should be coming up on the right in about a block.”

  As Harkness drives closer, he sees four black-vested security guards standing at the entrance of Malnati’s apartment building.

  “Shit, Eddy.”

  “Get down, both of you.” Esther and Patrick duck down. Harkness reaches over and pulls on the green knit cap that makes him look like a guy scalping Celts tickets on Canal Street.

  They drive by the building and the guards don’t even look at them.

  “What’re we going to do?” Patrick pulls himself back up.

  “Check for someplace else Malnati might be,” Harkness says.

  “He’s back in his apartment, Harky.”

  Harkness shakes his head. “He’s not there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do,” Harkness says. “The guards out front look like a setup. They just wanted us to waste time trying to get in that building when Malnati’s somewhere else.”

  Patrick pounds away. “Magazine profile mentions a girlfriend, Alicia DeVarco. I got her living over on Parmenter Street.”

  “What’s the cross street?”

  “Salem.”

  “Got it.”

  Patrick looks up from his laptop. “Malnati’s got a pile of parking tickets on that block, including one from this morning.”

  “Hold on.” Harkness cuts down another alley and races across the North End’s narrow ice-clogged streets, sending Patrick and Esther ducking again. They’re one patch of black ice away from the ER.

  A gritty collage of takeout menus covers the black-and-white-tiled floor of the apartment building on Parmenter Street. It looks more like a home for students and restaurant line cooks, but DeVarco’s name is listed on one of the mailboxes inside the front door. Harkness buzzes the apartment but no one answers.

  “You sure this is it?” Esther asks Patrick. “Looks too grubby for a politician’s girlfriend.”

  “Really?” Patrick’s eyebrows drift up. “Would you want to date a city councilor?”

  “No,” Esther says. “Hey, maybe he’s not even here. We should try his office.”

  “No politician around here works the weekends,” Patrick says.

  “He’s here.” Harkness points out at the street. There’s a black Audi parked illegally. Vanity plate says Dist1POL.

  “That’s the one that’s been getting all the tickets,” Patrick says.

  Esther looks concerned. “Are we really going to kick down the door or something?”

  “We’ll just have to huff and puff.” Patrick holds up a rectangular metal device the size of a cell phone. “And barge our way in.” He presses a glowing green button, then twists a knob slowly until the door buzzes. Harkness pushes it open.

  “You guys get all the cool toys,” Esther says.

  Patrick slips the device back in his pocket and they climb the narrow stairs up to the third floor.

  Harkness knocks on the door. “Mr. Malnati,” he says politely. “Detective Edward Harkness, Boston Police Department. We need to speak with you.” Harkness glances at his watch. The other councilors have been waiting for almost an hour now, if they’re even still there.

  Nothing happens. They back away and huddle in the hallway.

  “I know he’s in there,” Harkness says softly.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.” Harkness gives Patrick a look that dispels any doubts. “You two walk the stairs. Make plenty of noise. Go out through both the doors and wait for me on the sidewalk.”

  Harkness steps quietly back to Malnati’s girlfriend’s door. There’s no peephole or security camera. He presses against the wall next to the hinge side of the door.

  Patrick and Esther clomp down the stairs and slam through the entryway doors. Harkness waits for a minute, then another. After what seems like an hour, he hears a click, and the door opens a sliver, then wider, as someone takes a look around. The door’s about to close again when Harkness swivels and forces the door open.

  A man in a dark blue suit and white shirt stares at Harkness like he’s a Visigoth come to plunder the apartment. He’s terrified, his thin lips coming together then moving apart, but he’s not saying anything. Inside, the dim living room is all pink marble and watery green walls. It looks like an apartment where a salmon might live.

  “Nicco Malnati?” Harkness says.

  “How the fuck did you find me?”

  Harkness steps inside. “You’re supposed to be at a meeting.”

  “Yeah, Joey Ink explained that to me,” he says, walking deeper into the apartment. “But I’m just not feeling that well today, Detective. You know how that goes. You guys call it blue flu when you skip out on work, right?”

  “No one calls it that,” Harkness says. “That’s from some eighties cop show or something. What we call it is being a dirtbag. How much is O’Mara paying you to skip the vote?”

  Malnati picks up a pistachio from a bowl on the dining-room table, cracks it open
and eats it, drops the shells in his suit-coat pocket. “Promised me fifty grand.”

  “I’ll double it,” Harkness says without a millisecond of thought.

  “Oh yeah? Where’s a cop going to get that kind of money?”

  “I have generous friends.”

  “I bet you do. But what’ll you give me as collateral?”

  Harkness reaches over, unclips his badge, and tosses it on the dining-room table with a dead metallic click.

  “Shit, man,” Malnati says. “You must want this vote bad.”

  “Bad doesn’t begin to describe it,” Harkness says.

  Malnati watches Harkness’s glimmering badge spinning on the table. “You really going to come up with a hundred thousand bucks? In cash, mind you?”

  Harkness fixes him with his blue eyes. “Yes. And I’ll make sure you never get another parking ticket ever again.”

  “What!” Malnati’s mouth opens wide and his eyes bug out. “Are you shitting me?”

  “No.”

  “Deal.” He tosses Harkness’s badge back to him. Harkness catches it and clips it back on. “You’ll rue the day you made this deal, friend. Because I’m like the fucking Koch brothers of parking tickets.”

  Harkness smiles, wonders if Malnati’s next phone call will be to O’Mara’s team, trying to cut a better deal.

  “You know, Joey told me you were crazy like a fox,” Malnati says. “But I already had an inkling.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I knew your father,” Malnati says.

  “Of course you did.”

  When they get to the Old North Church, Reed’s pacing on the snow-lined sidewalk next to Salem Street.

  Harkness rolls down the window as Patrick and Esther escort Nicco Malnati to the side door of the church. “Special delivery,” he says. “One very influential, expensive politician.”

  “How’d you get him?”

  “How do you think? Money.”

  “How much?”

  “More than I have. We’ll have a bake sale, Sam. After you get the votes.”

  Reed shakes his head slowly. “Ever see Twelve Angry Men?”

  “Sure. All about one righteous man making a stand.”

  “Well, I’ve got fourteen angry city councilors stalking around a basement getting jacked up on church coffee and doughnuts. And not a Henry Fonda among them. Wish me luck.”

  “I’m not going to do that,” Harkness says. Snow falls steadily between them. “This vote isn’t about luck.”

  40

  THE AFTERNOON DARKENS and the snow turns heavy as Rage Weekend enters its final hours. The citizens gathered in Freedom City huddle in their high-tech lean-tos or stand close to the communal bonfire, which sizzles as clumps of snow fall on the embers. In front of City Hall, Harkness and Lattimore watch as a row of cabs slide up Cambridge Street. The doors open and men and women spill out of the cabs, their faces inscrutable, worried. The city council, all fourteen of them.

  A worried glance pings between Patrick, Esther, and Harkness. Lattimore crosses himself, getting most of it right.

  A thin man in a long black overcoat walks toward them. As he comes closer, Harkness recognizes Reed, face neutral, eyes on the snowy ground in front of him. He climbs to the People’s Pulpit, picks up the red megaphone, and dusts off the snow.

  “I’m city council president Sam Reed.” His voice booms out over the crowd. People shuffle together for warmth. They stare up at Reed, who stands awkwardly on the platform. He turns, searches the people gathered behind him, and waves Harkness and Lattimore closer.

  They climb the steps and stand by him, one on either side. One of the Stooges holds an enormous crimson umbrella over them.

  “To the city of Boston, I bring news of an important decision,” Reed says into the megaphone. “I just returned from a meeting of the Boston city council in Old North Church, where patriots once sent warnings about threats facing our great city. We face a new, more insidious danger today. Having insinuated himself into politics and bartered his way to the highest office in the city, Mayor Michael O’Mara has pursued a radical and corrupt agenda that has displaced thousands of citizens while benefiting his business interests.”

  Huge cheers rise from Freedom City, including more than a few shouts of “We Hate MOM!”

  Reed exudes a new confidence. His voice sounds stronger and more powerful. Megaphone in hand, he’s a leader. Harkness feels a certain pride as he watches the new Reed take action.

  “Due to these violations of the public trust and many more, the fourteen members of the city council have voted unanimously to file a bill of address and invoke section seventeen D of the original Boston city charter, which gives us the legal authority to oust a sitting mayor if we feel that individual does not act in the best interests of the city. This is our right as elected officials representing all of Boston’s neighborhoods.”

  The crowd turns silent at the news. On the fifth floor of City Hall, O’Mara and his cronies are probably even more stunned.

  “After watching Mayor Michael O’Mara in power for a year, we feel confident that the next three would just bring more damage to this city. We ask the people of Boston to support our decision and show the world that democracy can and will catch any corrupt politician, no matter how clever or powerful.”

  The truth dawns on the crowd—O’Mara is out. Wild cheers and shouts rise from the plaza, louder than a Red Sox victory parade, more frenzied than a packed Tremont Street nightclub on molly.

  “By the authority vested in me by the Boston city charter, I will take over as interim mayor until a free mayoral election next fall.” Reed pauses. “I look forward to serving you—and the city we all love.”

  As thousands of people in the plaza cheer, Reed turns to Harkness. “I knew you’d get me here,” he says. “I just didn’t think it would take so long.” He gives a tilted grin.

  The crowd keeps cheering.

  Harkness leans forward. “What?”

  “I was sure you’d come through for me, Eddy,” Reed says. “I always knew there was a smart guy in there somewhere under all that chump.” Reed gives a broad smile, then turns to wave at the crowd.

  As snow slides in clumps from his leather jacket, Harkness watches the political animal he’s helped create and hopes that this one is more evolved and enlightened than ex-mayor Michael O’Mara.

  But only time reveals a politician’s true intentions.

  After the Thaw

  HARKNESS AND CANDACE walk toward Albrecht Square, crowded with locals and tourists, all glad to be outside on the first weekend of spring, the smell of ocean salt hovering in the slowly warming air. He’s wearing his full BPD dress uniform, a giggling May slung on his shoulder as they walk closer to the grandstand. He considered skipping the event—­Harkness likes ceremonies about as much as he does reunion concerts. But Lattimore said it was mandatory.

  As they edge through the crowd, Harkness spots Katherine Aiello walking toward him, almost unrecognizable in tan pants and a green fleece vest over a cream-colored shirt. She looks more like a sensible urban gardener than one of the most powerful people in the city.

  Harkness passes May to Candace. “Give me a minute.”

  “Don’t get in trouble,” Candace says.

  Harkness holds up both hands, as if the very idea of trouble is unknown to him.

  She laughs, takes May to see what the sidewalk vendors are selling.

  “Despite today’s event, I don’t think you’ve been sufficiently recognized for your role in this momentous change.” Like a true New Englander, Aiello skips any perfunctory greeting.

  “Well, that’s not the reason I did it,” Harkness says. In different ways, O’Mara, Burch, and Fayerwether all posed threats to the city. They had to be stopped, just like any other bad actors.

  “But that’s the kind of behind-the-scenes work that we appreciate.”

  “Do we?” Harkness raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Harknes
s leans toward Aiello. “I have to ask you, what did you say in that letter to Sam Reed?”

  “What letter?”

  “The one you had me deliver before the city council vote,” he says. “Whatever you said, it really got Reed moving.”

  Aiello shakes her head. “We didn’t say anything.”

  “Then what was in the envelope?”

  “A check for a life-changing sum of money and instructions for keeping it a secret,” Aiello says. “Plus a promise of more if he could manage to get with the program.”

  Harkness stares so long that Aiello finally waves a hand in front of his face. “Honestly, I hope you’re not as naive as you seem.”

  “Maybe I’m just easily surprised.”

  “Well, prepare yourself.” Aiello reaches into her pocket and presses a silver coin into his hand.

  Harkness turns it over, sees the date 1630 embossed on one side, the familiar X on the other.

  “You are hereby nominated to become a member of the ancient and secret order of the Harbormasters,” Aiello says in the measured voice of someone serving a summons.

  Harkness turns speechless.

  “I said you were nominated,” Aiello says, “not elected.”

  “Got it,” Harkness says.

  “But I have to say, we need new blood. And people under sixty.”

  “I’m flattered, and by the way, I’m both.”

  Aiello smiles and reaches up and puts her hand on his cheek. “A sense of humor too. A triple threat.”

  She disappears into the crowd and Harkness slips the coin into his pocket, then catches up with Candace and May.

  Candace gives him an almost suspicious look. “Who was that?”

  “My fairy godmother,” Harkness says.

  “Careful,” she says. “They always get you in trouble. Poison mushrooms and so on.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Harkness says, leading them toward the Reserved section.

  A BPD cop recognizes Harkness and waves them past the rope. They pick up their programs and take their seats.

  On a low stage set up at the far end of Albrecht Square, the first speaker is finishing up a brief history of the Lower South End. Behind him hang a row of enlarged photos of the Lower South End during its turn-of-the-century heyday—paperboys in short pants hawking the Herald-American in the square, men in gray suits and hats looking up at the square’s famous clock.