Cliff Walk

by Bruce DeSilva

  “My grandfather carried it when he was on the force,” I said.

  “Providence PD?”

  “Yeah. I keep it there to remind me of him.”

  “Is it in working order?”

  “I don’t really know. I don’t think so. It’s pretty old.”

  “Good,” Black Shirt said. “Listen, Miss Maniella said to give you this.”

  He reached into his hip pocket, pulled out a thin piece of plastic the size of a credit card, and handed it to me. On the front, a glossy picture of Marical in her birthday suit and the words “Compliments of Tongue and Groove.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Good for one trip around the world with the whore of your choice,” Gray Shirt said. “Compliments of the house.”

  “Gee, thanks! And I thought you guys didn’t like me.”

  “We don’t,” Black Shirt said.

  “How about another one for Shakehouse?”

  “Don’t think so,” Gray Shirt said. “The girls there are out of your league.”

  “Hey,” I said, “a boy can dream.”

  “Who’s playing the violin?” Black Shirt asked.

  “Neighbor’s daughter,” I said.

  “She’s good,” he said. And with that, they took their leave.

  When they were gone, I turned the dead bolt and took the shadow box down from the wall. I pried the pistol from the frame, fetched the gun oil and the cartridges from the cabinet over the refrigerator, and spread an oilcloth on my scuffed, fake-brick linoleum kitchen floor. I’d gotten a permit to carry last year, after the trouble in Mount Hope. I’d never made use of it, but if I broke my promise to Black Shirt and Gray Shirt, it might come in handy.

  I sat on the floor, broke down the weapon, cleaned it, and reassembled it. Then I got up, assumed the combat shooter’s stance I’d learned at the Providence Revolver Club—left leg forward, knees bent, both hands on the grip—and dry-fired at the refrigerator. It didn’t fall down or shoot back. I sat back down on the floor and loaded the magazine with standard military-load cartridges.

  15

  Lomax stood over my desk, a printout of the obituary I’d just filed clutched in his hand. He smiled wanly and began to read aloud:

  Margaret O’Hoolihan, 62, of 22 Hendrick Street, Providence, died yesterday at Rhode Island Hospital after a short illness. Her reputation as a whimsical flibbertigibbet was belied by her lifelong love of Proust.

  “Precisely so,” I said.

  “Unusual lead for an obituary, though, don’t you think?”

  “I thought I’d try to liven things up.”

  “Maybe not the best approach for the obit page.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Flibbertigibbet?”

  “It means flighty chatterbox.”

  “I know what it means, Mulligan.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Because I looked it up.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me, Mulligan. How many of our subscribers do you suppose are in the habit of reading the paper with a Webster’s in their laps?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I do.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “None of them.”

  “Ah.”

  “Rewrite this piece of shit so I can put it in the paper.”

  “Right away, boss.”

  “Something else I need to ask you about,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Planning to gun somebody down today?”

  “Not just now. Maybe later.”

  That morning, the big Colt dug into the small of my back as I smuggled it into the newsroom under my leather bomber jacket. At my desk, I slipped it out and locked it in my file drawer. I thought I was discreet about it, but Lomax must have caught a glimpse.

  “Some reason you feel the need to be armed?”

  “There is.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Last night a couple of Schwarzeneggers who work for Vanessa Maniella paid me a visit.”

  “Oh, shit. You okay?”

  “Fine and dandy.”

  “What did they want?”

  “For me to mind my own business.”

  “But you’re not going to, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Sounds like she has something to hide.”

  “It does.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Maybe we should call the police,” he said.

  “Won’t do any good.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “So I figure on being ready when the Arnolds come back.”

  “Got a permit to carry?”

  “I do.”

  “There’s a rule against firearms in the newsroom, Mulligan.”

  “I suppose there would be.”

  “You’re breaking it.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “People start bringing guns in here and this might as well be Dodge City.”

  “Only if we lay in a case of rotgut whiskey and hire some dance hall girls.”

  “You could get canned for this, Mulligan. The bean counters are itching to trim a few more bodies.”

  “Then maybe we could keep this between us.”

  “Just keep it locked up and out of sight, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t shoot any copy editors no matter how much they deserve it.”

  16

  Late that afternoon, I nursed a Killian’s at Hopes and pondered my next move. Mason strolled into the place, claimed the stool next to mine, and slapped his Dunhill briefcase on the bar.

  “Ready for another?”

  “No thanks, Thanks-Dad. I was just heading out.”

  “Going home for the evening?”

  “Not just yet. I thought I’d make a courtesy call on one of our local hooligans.”

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “You sure you want to? Where I’m going, you won’t exactly blend in.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “Just consider it part of my continuing education at the Mulligan School of Journalism.”

  “Fine,” I said, “but when we find my guy, it would be best for all of us if you keep your mouth shut.”

  “I can do that.”

  “See that you do.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Secretariat cruised slowly down Broad Street past KFC, where fat mamas and their fat toddlers trudged ankle-deep through crushed fried chicken buckets and flattened paper cups. The roadway was rotten with commuters. Most of them were heading to their homes in the Elmwood section of Providence and the neighboring city of Cranston, but a few were hunting for the stroll that migrated up and down the main drag through South Providence. We crawled by Miss Fannie’s Soul Food Kitchen, Jovan’s Lounge, Empire Loan, the Bell Funeral Home, and the Rhode Island Free Clinic. Just past Calvary Baptist Church, at the corner of Broad Street and Potters Avenue, we found what we were looking for. I rolled through the intersection, pulled to the curb, and parked.

  We were still sitting there five minutes later when two hookers, both shivering in halter tops and hot pants, separated from the pack, dashed across Potters, and startled Mason by rapping on his window. One of them was a tall, ample black woman pushing forty. The other was a short, skinny Asian who looked young enough to cartwheel for the Nathanael Greene Middle School cheerleaders. I powered down the window on Mason’s side of the car.

  “Ready for your booty call, baby?” the tall one asked. “Girlfriend and I are bop!”

  Mason turned to me and said, “Bop?”

  “They are proficient at oral sex,” I said.

  “You got that right,” the short one said.

  “I appreciate the offer, ladies, but no, thank you,” Mason said.

  “Come on, baby,” the tall one said. “You got the green.” She smacked herself on the ass and added, “You know you want to hit dat donk.”

  Mason looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
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  “Baby got back,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Her ass.”

  With that, the hookers turned their backsides to us and dropped their drawers.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said, “but we are not in the market for your services.”

  The short one stuck her head in the window, scowled, and looked at me.

  “Yo’ friend is buggin’,” she said.

  “Buggin’?” Mason said.

  “Acting weird.”

  “Fo’ shiggidy, my weeble,” the tall one said.

  Mason glanced at me again. “Sorry,” I said. “No idea. I think she’s just playing with us now.”

  The hookers spun on their heels and trudged back across the street. I slid Mason’s window up, started the engine, and cranked the heater.

  “Getting anywhere with the campaign contribution lists?” I asked.

  “I’m still working on it,” Mason said.

  “Want to tell me what you’ve got so far?”

  “Not until I have something solid.”

  I took a Partagás from my shirt pocket, set fire to it, and cracked my window to let the fumes escape. On the corner behind us, commuters pulled their cars to the curb to check out the stroll. Now and then, one of them opened a car door so a girl could climb in. Others, displeased with the price or the merchandise, pulled out alone. A squad car crawled by, but the girls didn’t scatter the way they did in the old days. Instead, they gave the cops a wave. Under Rhode Island’s weird prostitution statute the stroll was against the law, but few cops paid it any mind. Why bust streetwalkers when indoor prostitution was legal? It wasn’t worth the hassle of paperwork and court appearances.

  “What are we waiting for?” Mason said.

  “That,” I said, pointing to a skinny black girl in a gold lamé miniskirt who was climbing out of a red Toyota pickup. “The guy we’re after sets up every night at a different abandoned house. Best way to find him is to follow one of his girls when she comes back from a job with cash in her bra.”

  “I don’t think she’s wearing one,” Mason said.

  I reached across him, popped the glove compartment, took out the Colt, and stuck it into the hand pouch on the front of my New England Patriots sweatshirt. I expected Mason to ask why, but he didn’t. Probably figured the neighborhood was answer enough. We got out of the car, crossed Broad Street, and followed the miniskirt east on Potters Avenue. She loped down the sidewalk, her high heels clacking on the cracked concrete. She passed several two-story houses with peeling paint and drooping shutters, turned left up a short macadam walk, and tromped up the splintered porch stairs of a fire-scarred house with plywood across the windows. We followed her up.

  She heard us coming, spun, and whipped a straight razor out of her halter top. Mason let out a little shriek and backpedaled down the steps.

  The porch was furnished with a single yellow-and-white lounge chair made of aluminum tubes and plastic webbing. Beside it was an open Igloo cooler containing a revolver and a dozen longnecks. In this weather, there was no need for ice. Next to the cooler stood a huge bottle of Vicodin that must have been stolen from a pharmacy. No doctor would prescribe that much. A tall black man was stretched out on the lounge. He was dressed in red Converse low-tops, a matching red fedora with a black feather in the band, and a full-length mink coat. He was smoking the biggest joint north of Jamaica.

  “Why you trippin’, bitch?” he said. “Be easy. Mulligan my man. We been down since we wuz shorties.”

  The hooker shrugged, flipped the razor shut, stuffed it back in her top, and came back out with a small roll of bills. King Felix smiled benignly and took it from her. He counted it out with his long slim fingers, peeled off two twenties, and handed them back to her. Then he slid his hand inside the mink, pulled out a small aluminum foil packet, and dropped it in her hand.

  She turned to me then, placed her palm on my zipper, and said, “Jonesing fo’ some dark meat tonight, white boy?”

  “Mulligan don’t want none a yo’ crusty ass,” Felix said. “Get yo’ butt back out on the fuckin’ street and bring back some mo’ cheddar.”

  He watched her clomp down the stairs. Then he turned to me and said, “So how you been?”

  “I’m fine. You?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “No? Then why the Vicodin?”

  “Ran into a little trouble a while back, and my ribs are still sore.”

  “A little trouble named Joseph DeLucca?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The bouncer you tangled with at the Tongue and Groove.”

  “Oh. You heard about that, huh?”

  “I did.”

  “I wasn’t looking for any trouble. Just wanted to talk to a couple of girls that used to work for me, see if I could talk them into coming back. The asshole blindsided me.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t tell anybody, okay? It’ll damage my street cred.”

  “No worries.”

  Felix handed me the joint. I took a hit and then offered it to Mason, who was cautiously coming back up the stairs. He shook his head.

  “When in Rome,” I said, and offered it to him again. Again he shook his head, so I passed it back to Felix.

  “Who’s the newbie?” he said, and tipped his head toward Mason.

  “Pay him no mind,” I said. “I’m just showing him the ropes.”

  Felix pulled two longnecks from the cooler, popped the tops with a church key, and handed one to me and one to Mason. Then he opened one for himself and took a swallow.

  “Careful,” I said. “Vicodin, marijuana, and alcohol don’t mix.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. “But the combination works real good, and it hasn’t killed me yet.”

  He passed the joint. I took another drag and handed it back to him.

  “Still playing ball?” he asked.

  “Not since you schooled me in that pickup game last September.”

  “Yeah. My wind isn’t what it used to be, but I still got my jump shot.”

  Felix and I had been teammates at Hope High School back in the day. He was better than me, but he tanked his SATs; so I moved on to play at Providence College, and he moved on to this.

  “That a gun in your sweatshirt?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “Not planning to shoot me, are you?”

  Two skinny black teenagers unfolded themselves from a dark corner of the porch and jerked little silver revolvers from their pants pockets. Until they moved, I hadn’t noticed they were there. They looked to be about fifteen years old. The one on the left was nervous, his left eye twitching. The one on the right was as cool as a Texas executioner. He took a step and looked through me with flat, dead eyes.

  “Chill,” Felix said. They put their guns away, glided back to their dark corner, and flopped back down on the porch floor.

  Beside me, Mason had been holding his breath. He blew it out now and took a step back, signaling he thought it was a good time to go.

  “Sorry about that,” Felix said. “Marcus and Jamal can be a tad overprotective.”

  “Hope you’re not planning on sending them after DeLucca.”

  “Not unless word about the beating gets around,” Felix said. “If it does, I might have to do something to restore my reputation.”

  “What about the family that owns the club?”

  “What about them?”

  “Not gunning for them, are you?”

  “No way.”

  “Your baby hit squad been down to Newport lately?”

  “You’d have to ask them.”

  “Should I?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  I was about to ask another question, but a long-legged white hooker with a gash over her left eye and a red skirt that barely covered her privates was coming up the stairs now. My old teammate Felix evaporated and King Felix returned.

  “Dog,” he said. “I ain’t seen you in a minute. Where the fuck yo
u been at?”

  “Makin’ scrappy for my man,” she said, and handed him some bills.

  He counted them slowly. “Two fuckin’ hours an’ dat’s all you brung me?”

  She looked at her feet and didn’t say anything. He handed her the joint. She plucked it from his fingers, took a hit, and held it. Then she blew it out through her nose and took another.

  “Don’t bogart dat shit, Sheila,” he said. He grabbed it back, peeled off two twenties, tucked them into the valley between her breasts, and gave her a hard look. “Get yo’ pale ass back out on the fuckin’ street and bring back some serious green.”

  17

  The Capital Grille is located in Providence’s old Union Station, a lovingly restored, yellow-brick structure erected by the New Haven Railroad in 1898. It’s a fashionable luncheon spot, but one that lacks my favorite diner’s affordable prices and greasy charms.

  In honor of the occasion, I’d shed my usual sweatshirt, jeans, and Reeboks in favor of Dockers, a white dress shirt, a Jerry Garcia tie, and buffed brogans. I’d topped off the ensemble with a double-breasted navy blue Sears blazer that went out of style when Roebuck was still around. It was the only suit jacket I owned since I left my new one behind on an Amtrak train last year. I hadn’t worn the blazer in a long time, but it still fit, more or less. It wasn’t loose enough to conceal a large handgun, however, so I’d reluctantly left the Colt locked in my file drawer.

  Yolanda Mosley-Jones had declined to see me in her office, explaining that nosy reporters were banned from the firm’s inner sanctum. After some whining on my part, she’d agreed to meet for lunch. When I slipped into the place, she was already there, sitting at the bar sipping a pale yellow something from a martini glass and fiddling with her BlackBerry. She didn’t see me come in, so I stood there and watched her for a moment, admiring the legs she came in on.

  Yolanda was more alluring fully clothed than the babes at Shakehouse were naked. I stood there a little longer, trying to come up with a good opening line, but the sight of her had me flustered. She spotted me in the mirror over the bar, tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, and spun toward me, giving me a better look at those perfect legs entwined around the luckiest barstool in town.

  I never understood how some women can dress so simply yet ooze elegance. Yolanda was encased in a black silk suit that must have been made for her. Beneath the jacket, buttoned just low enough to jump-start my imagination, no blouse was evident. Instead, a cascade of thin gold chains sparked against skin so black it was nearly blue, and fell there.