The Lost Constitution

by William Martin

  Grandfather Will wearily raised a hand and waved her away.

  George smiled at Mrs. Murphy. The sound of her accent brought him back to his regiment, and Irish faces flashed past him, the last one being Private O’Rourke, his eyes widening as blood welled from his neck.

  Grandfather Will lifted the tablecloth to look at the foot. “I got shot in the leg once. Soon as I could walk, I went after the men who did it.”

  “The fight in Crawford Notch.”

  “They should call it Pike Notch…. Did I ever tell you about the Constitution?”

  Just then the front door opened and Uncle William came in, sweeping cold air with him. He threw another scoopful of coal into the stove, then hunched into a seat opposite George.

  “You’re late,” said Grandfather Will. “No man should work on the Sabbath.”

  Uncle William ignored his father and squinted over his spectacles at George. “They say you were an officer.”

  “A lieutenant.”

  “You can be a lieutenant on the warping floor, then. If you do well with the second shift, and there’s no whispering—”

  “Whispering?” asked George.

  “Why … the wound. The limp. A man back from war, shot in the foot … people whisper.” Uncle William spoke without malice. For him, business was always business.

  But not for George. He glared across the table and changed the subject. “Grandfather was just telling me about the lost Constitution.”

  “That again?” Uncle William rolled his eyes and mouthed the word, “Senile.”

  “I’m not senile.” Grandfather Will kept his head down, looking at his plate, forking his food to his face, sticking out his tongue to receive it, taking it in, all as slowly as if he were doing it for the first time.

  Mrs. Murphy came in and put a plate in front of Uncle William. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Grandfather, and he directed her to go to his closet and fetch down a box from the top shelf.

  “What is that?” asked Uncle William.

  “Proof,” said the old man. “Proof that I’m not senile.”

  THE NEXT DAY, George Amory climbed to the top of mill tower.

  It had been green August the last time that he stood there. Now it was March in a cold rain. A layer of smoke enhanced the gloom. Many mills now ran on steam. And there were more trains all the time, puffing smoke day and night.

  Down below, the workers heeded the first bell, moving as they always had, like draft animals accepting their fate, patiently, ploddingly, no matter the weather. Like draft animals … or soldiers.

  Then someone was huffing up the little ladder: Cousin Bartlett levered himself through the trapdoor. His whiskers had thickened, though not nearly so much as his waist. “So, you followed the smoke. And it led to the Confederate guns. How’s your foot?”

  “It hurts.”

  “What about your pride?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means ignore the gossips, because none of them had the courage to do what you did. Be proud”—Bartlett took George’s hand in both of his—”and I’ll be proud of you.”

  George’s hot anger melted. He had yearned for the handshake of a friend.

  Bartlett gripped tighter and grinned. “So, what are your plans? Europe after all?”

  “Europe was there before Caesar invaded Gaul. It will be there when this war is over. Grandfather is giving me a chance to prove myself.” George noticed Bartlett’s grip loosen. “I mean to take it.”

  “You have nothing to prove,” said Bartlett. “And after all you’ve seen, Millbridge will be a boring place.”

  “Don’t worry,” said George, “I won’t usurp you. I won’t even quote poetry.”

  And for a time, they were silent in the cupola, watching the day begin. But Bartlett was thinking about something. George could feel the energy of thought coming off of him. Finally he said, “How would you like me to ease the pain in your foot?”

  “Ease it? How?”

  Something devilish came into Bartlett’s expression, something that George had never seen before. “I’ll introduce you to the new Irish girls. Some’ll fuck for pennies, others for a chance to work a loom instead of a warp beam. Others—”

  “Fuck?” George said the word with awe. “Fuck?”

  He had learned a great deal about life. In a world where men met unimaginable violence with superhuman discipline, the standards of polite society were sometimes lowered. He had seen prostitutes in the camps. He had heard men complain of “the itch” after the prostitutes had gone. He had listened to their stories of fanny-fucks and suck-offs. But he was still a minister’s son, raised to believe that sex before marriage was a sin.

  “Fuck,” Bartlett repeated. “Once you do it, it’s all you can think of.”

  In truth, it was all that most young men could think of, even minister’s sons, even if they hadn’t done it. So George was not lying when he said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “But it’ll cost you,” said Bartlett. “Uncle William told me Grandfather gave you his old letters last night.”

  “A few from Rufus King. One that he wrote to Rufus King but didn’t send. A letter that Henry Knox wrote to Rufus King about him—”

  “Henry Knox?” Bartlett’s eyes widened.

  George shrugged, as if he didn’t get the significance.

  “I knew there were King letters, but… Henry Knox?” said Bartlett. “A giant. And Grandfather gave you a Knox letter? Why you?”

  “He said I sacrificed my foot to defend the Constitution.”

  Above them, the bell began to move. The timekeeper downstairs was getting ready to ring it. Second bell, last chance to get to work. Bartlett reached out and grabbed the rope, stopping the movement.

  Then he pointed down into the yard. “The Murphy sisters.”

  Two young women, hands to their heads to hold their hats, woolen capes aflutter, were rushing toward the entrance. One was a little taller, a little younger, with redder hair.

  George said, “Have you … ?”

  “Not yet,” said Bartlett. “Try the tall one, Sheila. Stay away from the sister. Spoken for. One of the smash piecers. A big Mick named McGillis.”

  Just then, the building began to vibrate. The wheel had been engaged. The drive shaft was turning.

  “Remember,” said Bartlett, “there’s no finer feeling than a good fuck. I’ll see that you get a few if you get me those letters.”

  George gave the girls one more look; then he and Bartlett descended, before the bell made them deaf.

  FOURTEEN

  “DEAD? BINDLE? WHO KILLED him, boss?” asked Bernice.

  “Don’t know. Do you have your Beretta?”

  “It’s one of those, hunh?” Nothing rattled Bernice too much.

  Peter said, “Tell Antoine to be careful. Orson will know enough.”

  “Antoine is out,” said Bernice, “but he left something for you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s from an old newspaper, the Blackstone Weekly. Date is August 3, 1862. ‘William Pike, the founder of the mill from which so many in this valley derive their income, yesterday expressed pride that his grandson, George Amory, has joined the Twentieth Maine Regiment of Infantry.’ He wants to know if he should read more about George Amory.”

  “That’s the drill,” said Peter. “Time he learned. When we’re tracking something, we look at major figures in every generation. It’s how we establish the chain of ownership.”

  “So, what should I tell him?”

  “Tell him to get the Regimental History of the Twentieth Maine and read about Amory.”

  “Right,” said Bernice. “Where are you?”

  “On the move. We’re going to stay on the move, too. You have the cell. We’ll find wireless Internet when you have something for us to read.”

  “Be careful,” said Bernice.

  “We will.”

  Evangeline was staring straight ahead, as if the weight of
what she had been through that afternoon had been too much. She finally spoke: “We will what?”

  “Be careful. But keep going.”

  “Do we have another choice?”

  “We can quit.” He didn’t say it like a challenge.

  But she took it as one. “No. This is too important.”

  So he kept driving. Half an hour later, he pulled into the parking lot at MCI Cedar Junction.

  “I’ll do this alone,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She flipped down the driver’s-side visor and pulled out her compact and comb. “I will be in a bit. Seeing Bindle like that—”

  “I guess he wasn’t the biggest operator in the bunch after all.”

  “But was he innocent?” she asked. “Or ignorant?”

  “Maybe Bingo Keegan knows. He knows everything.”

  PETER WENT INTO the gray prison, signed in, passed through the metal detectors. When Bingo was brought down, Peter was waiting in a cubicle on the other side of the glass.

  Bingo sat and picked up the receiver. “Crimson turtleneck, tweed sportcoat, jeans, black loafers. A walkin’ Harvard cliché.”

  “Cliché. A big word,” said Peter.

  “I looked it up after they used it on me in the Globe: ‘The Irish thug dealing drugs and enforcement in

  South Boston, relying on the neighborhood code of silence for protection, has become a walking cliché.’ “

  “So … did you send the author an angry letter?”

  “I thought about whackin’ him. Instead I had one of the boys slash his tires.” Bingo opened a stick of gum. “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Are you still a good American?”

  “Got everyone in here pledgin’ allegiance to the flag.”

  “That’s good.” Peter was proceeding carefully but not too slowly. He still hated being here. “Any of them talk about anything interesting?”

  Bingo popped the gum in his mouth and dropped the wrapping on the floor. “What are you after?”

  “Information. Three deaths. All suspicious.”

  “No. What are you after? What’s the treasure?”

  “If I told you, you might go after it yourself. Even from in here.”

  “Who says I’m not after it anyway? I got plenty of contacts.”

  Cat and mouse. Peter had played with this cat before, when he had claws. “It wouldn’t surprise me, no matter what you were into.”

  “So why would I tell you anything?”

  Peter shrugged. “Because you’ll want a friendly face at a parole hearing some day, because you’d like the personal satisfaction that comes with doing the right thing …”

  “Personal satisfaction. Like a fuckin’ drug once you get a taste.” Bingo looked around. “Of course, in here a nickel bag will get you further.”

  “If I find what I’m after, I can call myself a good American, too.”

  “So, this is for patriotism, not money?”

  “Like last time.”

  Bingo worked on the gum. “We did help to stop a terrorist attack. And we sent a whole country into a fuckin’ uproar over guns. Personal satisfaction.”

  “So … three deaths. Two in the town of Mill-bridge. One up in Queechee Gorge.”

  “That Dartmouth professor?”

  “You know about him?” Peter should not have been surprised.

  “I read his book,” said Bingo. “Now you want to know why somebody killed him? Maybe somebody didn’t like what he had to say about the Second Amendment.”

  Maybe Bingo knew something already. But maybe not, because he had to ask who the other two were.

  “A retired manager at the Pike-Perkins Mill,” said Peter, “and the president of a historical society.”

  Bingo brought his face close to the plate glass. “What are you after?”

  Peter looked into Bingo’s eyes, as gray and lifeless as two bullets. “I’m after knowledge. Once I know who murdered these guys, I’ll know what’s next.”

  “You think someone’s whackin’ these people on contract?”

  “The old mill manager died with his oxygen tank empty. The professor was—”

  “—hit by a rock slide. Yeah. I heard.”

  “They tried to make it look like the last guy hanged himself, but we spoiled that.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not you. The one doin’ the whackin’. The boys in here like to talk about good work and guys who do it.” Bingo leaned back again. “I’ll listen a bit more.”

  Peter pushed away from the table. “If you find anything, call my cell.”

  “Which block?”

  “Cell phone.” Peter stood, “I just have one more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can’t see my feet. How do you know I’m wearing black loafers?”

  “Because that’s what a walkin’ cliché would wear.”

  PETER HAD NEW golf shoes and old sneakers in the trunk. He put on the sneakers.

  “Did our friend tell you anything?” Evangeline seemed better. She had combed out her hair and put on a touch of lipstick.

  “He has nothing to do in there but keep his ear to the ground. Knowing who’s whackin’ who—”

  “Whom.”

  “—and why—for him that’s like knowing who’s pitching for the Red Sox.” The cell phone rang.

  It was Bernice: “Hey, boss. You got mail here. From Charles Bishop.”

  “Charles Bishop?” Peter looked at Evangeline.

  Another voice came on the phone—intimate, modulated, perfectly accented with the Boston Brahmin long a. Orson Lunt, Peter’s mentor and partner, retired but still a fixture at Fallon Antiquaria. Peter could almost hear Orson’s bow tie and clipped gray mustache: “What’s all this about Bernice keeping her Beretta in her handbag? I thought we were trying to get guns off the street.”

  “We’re trying to figure out the truth,” said Peter. “Let the politicians worry about the rest. If you don’t want to hang around the office, get out of town.”

  “Out of the line of fire, you mean?” said Orson.

  “Don’t go down any dark alleys. Keep your doors locked. The usual.”

  “Maybe I’ll go down to the hood and hang with Antoine and his homebodies.”

  “That’s homeboys,” said Peter. “Tell me more about Charles Bishop.”

  “Bishop Media. American News Network, the liberal answer to Fox News. Runs his media operation out of New York, spends most of his time in Litchfield County.”

  “Litchfield? That’s where the Henry Knox buyer came from. Don Cottle. What does the letter say?”

  “It’s not what it says. It’s what’s in the envelope: two tickets to the Bishop Media box at Fenway for the first game of the World Series on Sunday night.”

  “So the Sox beat the Yankees this afternoon?”

  “Three to two. Now for the Dodgers and Mets to decide their business—”

  “Did Bishop say why he sent me the tickets?”

  Orson Lunt read: “ ‘We have been doing business through a proxy. It is time to do it in person. I am convening interested parties at Fenway on Sunday night, assuming of course that the Red Sox beat the Yankees. There is no better place in New England to bring together people of differing opinions. Come, enjoy the game, and if you have uncovered a certain document by then, bring it. Maybe we’ll put it on television.’ “

  Peter looked at Evangeline. “Put a certain document on television?”

  “A man who thinks big,” said Evangeline.

  IT WAS LATE afternoon when they turned off Route 6 and headed west across Litchfield County. The orange sugar maples reflected the fading light. The old houses and white-steepled towns looked as if they had been dabbed into place by an itinerant artist paid by the gallon to spread his paint.

  Evangeline was reading something she’d downloaded from a Web site called Quickbio.com:

  “ ‘Charles Bishop, b. Hartford, Connecticut, May 8, 1930.
Married twice, once widowed, once divorced. Education: Phillips Exeter, 1948. Yale, 1952, Harvard Business School, 1958. He married Julia Elida Morgan, 1962, with whom he had two children, Kate Bishop (b. 1964) and Charles David Bishop (b. 1966). Two generations of Bishops before him built a fortune, first in newspapers, then in radio. Charles Bishop took the next logical step. In 1967, he bought a UHF television station in western Connecticut. Soon he had built a New England empire of small market stations. Out of that grew Bishop Media. Its flagship: American News Network, surrounded by entertainment and sports channels … and …’ Blah, blah, blah….”

  She skipped to the bottom. “In a Wall Street Journal story about him, one of his competitors said, ‘He’s the definition of an iron fist in a velvet glove.’ “

  “Now we know what to expect,” said Peter.

  “Iron fist … are we’re safe, going to see him?”

  “I don’t think we have anything to worry about.”

  “Famous last words.”

  In a countryside of long driveways, Bishop’s stretched half a mile, from a mechanized gate with intercom past surveillance cameras tucked in tree branches all the way to a big white Colonial with a fieldstone front. It looked like something from a 1940s movie starring Cary Grant and Myrna Loy. Mr. Bishop Builds His Horse Farm, maybe. There was a barn behind the house, a neat paddock beside it, long runs of white fence dividing the landscape. And a man on a horse was riding across the top of a hill, in the last rays of sunshine.

  Peter and Evangeline watched him come down across the darkening fields, past the paddock. He wore brown tweed, brown turtleneck, lighter brown jodhpurs, brown leather boots. The horse was brown, too.

  “Mr. Fallon?” He dismounted and offered his hand. “I’m Charles Bishop.”

  Peter shook his hand and felt a chill presence behind him, like a cold breeze blowing up the legs of his jeans.

  Bishop looked past them and said, “Ah … Cottle.”

  Peter and Evangeline turned and there were the square shoulders shaping the tweed sportcoat, the square crew cut shaping the head.

  “He’s in charge of corporate security,” said Bishop.

  Peter said, “I guess I’m not surprised.”