I left the place. In the car I unloaded the automatic. Two blocks later I dumped the gun down one storm drain and the bullets down another.
* * *
There were four men working on the surface of the bridge, a couple of orange barrels and a bunch of orange traffic cones keeping the passing cars at least three inches away from arms, hips, and legs. I walked up to the closest man, the only guy who didn't have a tarbrush in his hands.
He was wearing an orange safety vest with yellow X's front and back. Below the vest, patched corduroy pants and sneakers. Above the vest, a green, battered hardhat. He held a filterless cigarette between a thumb and forefinger, the thumb missing its nail.
I said, "John Cuddy. I'd like to talk with one of your men there."
"What's it about?"
"Case I'm working on." I showed him my ID.
"Lemme guess. The Nazi."
"Gifted, isn't he."
"Sonofabitch. Fucking judge don't got the balls to put a guy away so close to Christmas, that I can understand. But putting him on my gang, for chrissakes, don't they even think about that? Judge's got a criminal, what does he do, he sends him out to do my job.
How do you figure that makes me feel?"
"Yary been any trouble?"
"Nothing but. Guy opened his mouth about the Jews and the look, I'm not carrying the torch for anybody, get me? But I had to send this guy, Roosevelt Barnes, off with another crew. My best worker, and I had to send him off. You know why?"
"Yary?"
"Called Rosey a nigger. To his face. I mean, forget Rosey's about three hundred pounds, you don't say that to a black guy, not anymore. Took two a us to hold Rosey back. I'm not about to let a good guy like Rosey, got seventeen fucking years in, get bounced for dropping a piece a Nazi shit off a bridge abutment just because some fucking judge's got his head up his ass. So I send Rosey off for a few days while I get squat outta the Nazi. Go figure."
"I can't. Mind if I talk to him?"
He lowered his voice. "You gonna rough him up any?"
"Not planning to."
He shook his head, disappointed. "Hey. Yary. Yary."
One of the orange vests looked over at us as the other two stopped with their brushes.
My friend motioned him over with two jerks of his cupped hand. To me, he said, "Stay here and talk to him. I wanna spend some time with my guys."
"Right. Thanks."
Yary drew even with the foreman about forty feet from me and tried to ask him a question. The foreman just stayed in stride and walked on by.
Yary continued to me, the hardhat jiggling askew on the shaved head. He slowed before stopping about five feet away and reflexively touched a hand to his ear. "I don't have to talk to you."
"Monday night you sounded like all you wanted to do is talk."
"I would have. Till you and the nigger cops and kike money-changers — "
"Tell you what, Yary. You stop the slurs, and I won't fracture your skull. What do you say?"
He kept his distance. "Go ahead."
"What brought you to the library?"
"A bus. It was real big, see? With seats and windows and everything. "
I shook my head and sighed. "The foreman said he'd look the other way if I needed to get rough with you."
"You can't do that. You'd lose your license or whatever."
I sidled a little closer to Yary. He thought about backing off before deciding he couldn't and keep face.
"Just had a talk with a couple of the boys at the clubhouse."
Yary didn't reply.
"You know, Gun. Rick and Tone? They said to give you their best."
"How do you . . ." Yary squinted, then jammed his hands in his pockets, suddenly looking very young.
"They told me where you were, Gun. After a while."
"Look, I don't want no trouble from you."
"Little late for that."
"You don't understand. None of you understand us, the Trust, the Movement. We're just trying to get back what's ours, that's all. What the race mixers . . . what the government's let the others take away. One thing I learned from that, from Martin Luther King and Jesse Jackson and their kind. You can win in this country if you just keep talking, just keep in people's faces so they can't believe that you're still around, bothering them, making them face what the truth is. About how everything's been taken away from people who earned it by people who didn't. Once I chased this big nig--once I purified the crew here, one of them started listening to me.
Hearing what I was saying."
"Why did you go to the debate?"
"To get some publicity, man. Free publicity. But even the TV and radio don't care about Andrus and her 'friends.' They're shoveling all this shit about the right to die. That's not the point, don't you see it? It ain't the right to die we got to worry about. It's the right to live, to take back what's ours from them that took it from us."
"You don't see Andrus and her crowd as a threat, then."
"Threat? Threat, shit no. Those assholes are just a distraction, get it? They're just being used to get attention for issues that don't mean shit so the real issues, the raping of our people by the others, don't get settled."
Watching Yary talk, become animated and sincere, I decided he scared me more than Rick with his automatic.
Finally, Yary said, "So what do you think?"
"What do I think?"
"Yeah. About the Trust, the Movement."
"I think from your rap sheet that you're not as nonviolent as you make out."
"That was then, man. This is now, you know? I learned my lesson, learned it real good. Now I'm into friendly persuasion."
"I think Rick and the others are thinking about taking the Trust in a different direction."
Yary clouded over. "The fuck you telling me?"
"When I visited the old clubhouse today, I got an armed response."
"Armed? With what?"
"A Colt forty-five."
"I don't believe it. I don't fucking believe it."
"Yes you do. You just don't want to admit it."
"They wouldn't do that. They're not that stupid."
"They're that stupid, Gun. Stupid and impatient. Not everybody's interested in waiting out the revolution."
Yary started to tell me how it wasn't a revolution, but just the people taking back what was theirs. I cut him off by walking over to the foreman, who had started toward us.
The foreman said hopefully, "He giving you any trouble?"
"Sorry. Model prisoner."
"Shit."
"Thanks for letting me take him for a while."
"Take him forever, you want to."
Yary walked by us, eyes straight ahead. As he rejoined the crew, he said something and laughed. One guy paid no attention, but the other laughed too. With Yary, not at him.
The foreman said to me, "Fucking judges, make me feel like shit," and spat over the railing.
=21=
"MERRY CHRISTMAS, JOHN."
Nancy had put on a fuzzy mauve robe before she'd gone into her kitchen. Now she was at the side of the bed, holding a carrying tray in front of her, steam rising from coffee cake and ceramic mugs.
"What's in the mugs?"
"Your leftover cider concoction. Waste not, want not."
I'd mulled the cider, with cinnamon sticks and orange sections, the night before as Nancy made popcorn and strung the product on threads like a rosary, whole cranberries playing the Our Fathers. After lacing the cider with bourbon, we'd looped the strings of popcorn and cranberries over lights and ornaments on the short, full spruce tree we'd spent a cold hour selecting at a Lions' Club lot in Brighton. Shopping for the tree reminded me that I had to act on Bo's advice regarding a Gore-Tex running suit. Late December was feeling more and more like the tundra time of February.
I hadn't seen Bo for a week or so, but I'd been training religiously without him. Following my talk with Gunther Yary, the case for Maisy Andrus had slowed down, as some cases w
ill. After checking to make sure all the people she'd offended were staying home for the holidays, I'd contracted out to another investigator who needed someone to spell his people on an extended surveillance. I did stay in touch with Inés Roja by telephone, me confirming there were no further notes, she advising that the professor and Tucker Hebert sounded happy and relaxed on Sint Maarten the two times she'd heard from them. Andrus wanted to meet with me when they got back, Inés and I agreeing on a breakfast conference for January 18. Around bites, Nancy said, "You realize this is the best Christmas I can remember?"
She snuggled close enough for me to inhale the herbal shampoo still clinging to the roots of her hair. After decorating the tree, we'd agreed to exchange gifts in the morning and slipped into bed, making slow, drowsy love as the lights twinkled five colors in computer-chip sequence.
"Where are my presents?"
Nancy took another gulp of cider. "Under the tree, junior."
"I want my presents."
"And here I thought you were finally showing the patience maturity is supposed to bring."
"I want my presents now."
"Okay, okay. Smallest to largest?"
"The only way."
We traded gifts, one at a time. Silly ones, thoughtful ones, middling-expensive ones. A Garfield the Cat calendar for her, a T-shirt with the legend BODY BY NAUTILUS, BRAIN BY MATTEL for me; a video of Adam's Rib for her, a video of The Maltese Falcon for me; a leather briefcase with shoulder strap for her, a teak desk set for me. And so on.
Finally, Nancy said, "Time for the big ones?"
"Uh-huh."
The boxes were remarkably similar in size. about right for a man's suit.
Nancy opened her present, a geometric sweater in five colors from an exotic store on Newbury Street. She held it up, arms stretching arms, chin pressing down on crew neck. "It's beautiful, John."
"Genuine yak fur from the Himalayas?
"Your turn."
My box came open. It contained a man's suit, all right. Ebony Gore-Tex, drawstrings on the jacket and Velcro cuffs on wrists and ankles.
I looked up at her.
Nancy said, "One of the guys in the office runs. He helped me pick it out. If the size is wrong — "
"It's perfect, Nance. Does this mean you've decided I'm not so stupid about wanting to run the marathon?"
"No. It means I don't want you getting what my friend calls 'penile frostbite.' Do you know what that is?"
We showed each other there was nothing to worry about.
* * *
The week between Christmas and New Year's was miserable weatherwise: temperature in the high thirties with frequent if not constant rain. The Gore-Tex kept me both dry and ventilated, but there was still no sign of Bo, which worried me a little.
Fortunately, December thirty-first turned bright and sunny. Everything dried out toward a crisp, low-forties First Night. First Night has really caught on in Boston. Originally designed as a way to discourage drinking on New Year's Eve by offering performing arts alternatives, the idea has blossomed into an annual festival of ice sculptures, fireworks, and general revelry. Just strict enough to discourage public carousing, just tolerant enough for hip flasks discreetly tupped.
Nancy had bought us each a button, a blue bird on a black background. The button allowed the wearer to attend almost all the holiday entertainment. We cooked an early dinner at my place,
planning over dessert the events we'd visit. Most were repeated on a staggered schedule during the evening.
Out on the streets, the crowds, all ages and sizes, jostled happily. Cloth coats to fur wraps to ski outfits. Mardi Gras costumes, glowworm necklaces, tinsel tiaras. Women with painted faces, guys with long plastic trumpets. Nancy wore her Himalayan yak fur sweater, which pleased me. I didn't wear my rapidly ripening Gore-Tex suit, which pleased her and everyone around us.
We began at the First Baptist Church on Commonwealth. Minimalist decorations hung beneath conservative rosette windows and dark joists and trusses. There were no kneelers in the pews, and only the barest of cushions on the benches. I browsed through a red-bound hymnal on the rack in front of me as we waited in the swish of people seating themselves.
The four performers were the Mystic Consort. Renaissance music from soprano and bass singers, a right-angled lute, and a harpsichord the size of a hippo. Most of the twelve works involved all four, some a single singer with accompanist or an instrumental solo. A perfect, gentle kickoff.
Our second stop was the Old South Church on Boylston Street. We joined a thick line of nine hundred people moving slowly past port-a-potties. At the doorway we were among the last folks ushered politely into the sanctuary to hear the Old South Brass, Timpani & Organ. The sanctuary walls were done in rose and lavender, an opening-flower motif that was repeated in the carpet. Ornate detail work crept over ivory marble facades. Lustrous beams arched upward, like the ribs of a great sailing ship capsized overhead, just below a center cupola and skylight. Curled chandeliers were attached to the ceiling by brass balls and chains. Overall, I had the feeling of being in Constantinople.
The musicians played trumpets, trombones, and tuba in addition to the timpani and organ, the last a 1921 dinosaur of nearly eight thousand pipes. The conductor moved the crowd without manipulating it, starting with a rousing National Anthem and progressing through various pieces I didn't know to one I did. An arrangement for organ of Barber's Adagio for Strings, the signature theme of Oliver Stone's Vietnam movie, Platoon.
The Barber music took me back, back two decades to a New Year's Eve in Saigon, a turn of the calendar a month before the lunar new year, a month before Tet, when most of us still thought we were winning.
"John?"
I looked down into Nancy's eyes, suddenly aware she'd been tugging on my sleeve and whispering to me.
"John, are you all right'?"
"Yes. Why'?"
"I thought you were zoning out on me. You were moving your lips and had this glassy look in your eyes."
I closed my hand around hers. "I'm fine." And I was.
Our third stop was the Arlington Street Church, the one that most reminded me of a Catholic cathedral. All white, elaborate barrel vaults, fluted granite pillars, stained-glass windows with interior shutters. A massive walnut pulpit enclosed in riddled wooden gates dominated the altar. Undecorated pine trees contrasted with garlands and floppy red velvet bows. The pews had café doors and miniature kneelers like shoeshine boxes.
The performing group was the Muir String Quartet. About halfway through the first entry, which sounded a hell of a lot like "Baubles, Bangles, and Beads," I noticed someone familiar on the far side of the church. He was partly in the shadow of a pillar, but I was pretty sure it was Del Wonsley, Alec Bacall's companion, sitting next to a man a little shorter and more stooped than Bacall. Nancy played finger games with my hand through the remainder of the program, a nice mix of the poignant themes a string quartet can evoke. As we were shuffling out, the stream from the other side of the church merged into ours, and I was startled. I recognized Del Wonsley for sure, but that wasn't what startled me.
The stooped, older man next to Wonsley was Alec Bacall. There was a hollowness in the pouches above and below his cheekbones, as though someone had let the air out of his face. It had been only three weeks since I'd driven Bacall to South Boston after the library debate.
Wonsley said, "Oh. John, right?" The brown eyes were soft but a little unsure of what to say next.
I introduced Nancy while Bacall bundled up, a heavy scarf over his throat and mouth like a Berber tribesman.
Bacall said, "Got a bit of a cold, I'm afraid."
I nodded, and Nancy preempted an awkward silence by taking Bacall's arm and leading him into the foyer, leaving me with Wonsley several steps, and intervening people, behind.
I said, "Is Alec all right?"
Wonsley's expression didn't change. "He's having problems with his insulin dosage. It's not working right sometimes. In fact, this i
s the first time since before Christmas we've been out. Alec wanted to . . . we met, sort of, on First Night, last year."
"Has he been to see a doctor?"
"Yes. At the . . . a clinic. He recommended Alec have some tests."
Wons1ey's expression still didn't change, but the eyes got softer. He didn't say what the tests would be for, and I didn't ask.
We said good-bye briskly on the sidewalk. As Wonsley and Bacall moved away, I asked Nancy if she'd mind cutting our celebration a little short.
=22=
IT WAS A MILD MORNING SEVERAL WEEKS INTO THE NEW YEAR, temperature in the mid-fifties, Boston nearly basking in the January thaw. I chanced wearing just a sweatshirt and shorts. I spotted him from the Fairfield footbridge to the river. Sitting on his bench, legs crossed, left arm draped over the backrest, right hand on the bench seat. From a distance he looked the same as before. Up close, the tweed jacket had been mended, the glasses newly taped, and the hair freshly cut.
"John." Neutral tone, a substitute for hello.
"Bo. I missed you."
He glanced away, toward the MIT dome. "Been traveling."
The first time Bo had opened up at all. I didn't want to crowd him. "Whereabouts?"
"D.C. area." His eyes rolled up toward the emblem on his Redskins cap. "I used to teach there, John. And coach. Private school."
I leaned against a tree, keeping my shoes on the macadam and out of the mud. "Get tired of it?"
"No."
Bo moved his left hand over to his right wrist, and I was afraid I'd pushed too far. Then he said, "You ever been married, John?"
"Once."
The voice lowered. "Me too. Even had two little daughters, just toddlers then. But things weren't going so good between Adele and me — Adele was my wife. And the school, it was running low on money and had to let go a lot of people with less seniority than I had. The pressure started to mount because the rest of us were expected to take on extra duties for less pay. John, the pressure, all these expectations, at home and at school, started building inside me. It was like living in a double boiler, and it soured me. I lost interest in my teaching, my family, everything but the coaching. I started to fixate on it, truth be told. Then the school dropped the other shoe. Said they just couldn't see their way clear to keep me on. I'd become 'marginal'."
Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy Page 17