Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  Eileen rolled her eyes and left the room. “Vexing. Vexing, vexing man.”

  Eileen bustled about in the kitchen for a while, then checked back on Jamie as she got her coat and left. Finn MacCool followed her around, hoping in vain that maybe she would take him for a ride. When that didn’t happen, he wandered back to sit by his master.

  Jamie turned on the TV and watched the first show that came onscreen. He sat for a while, scratching behind Finn’s ears and drinking his coffee. His mind raced through his situation, not the TV drama. I’m getting nowhere fast. Eileen’s right—I can’t keep going this way, but I can’t stop either.

  Then, the TV show finally caught his attention. Jamie sat up abruptly, causing Finn to jerk his head away from Jamie’s lap. “That’s it,” Jamie exclaimed. The dog now perked his ears and stood, looking around guardedly. Jamie laughed and patted him. “Don’t worry, Finn. I just thought of a way that I can keep things going without running myself completely into the ground.” The dog chuffed indignantly, and then curled back up beside Jamie. Now I just gotta convince everyone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alvise Aloysius Lombardi, better known as “Louie” to his associates and law enforcement officials, looked out at the cold December day and cursed the weather in his gravelly, perpetually hoarse voice, “Dannato tempo.” Louie was a huge slab of a man—six-feet-four and two hundred fifty pounds. Most of his weight was muscle, but it was slowly turning to fat, especially the twenty or so pounds he’d put on since he’d “retired.” He had huge, scarred hands. Louie had been able to palm a basketball at age ten. He was hobbling around his townhome using an Italian, leather, golf-handle cane. Two years ago, Louie had to have both knees replaced and needed the cane to walk, a slow, limping shuffle that was now his normal pace. The cold weather was hell on all of his joints, especially his knees.

  Although only 48, Louie had “retired” from his career due to the injuries he sustained to his knees. Louie’s career had been as an enforcer in the Boston Mafia. He had been big since he was a child, so Louie’s activities had always tended to be physical. He grew up poor and used family connections in the mob to obtain a low-level place within the family. Unlike some, Louie knew his place and enjoyed his activities. Being extremely religious, Louie had always gone to confession after any acts that the Holy Mother Church frowned upon. Louie had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had been standing on an East Boston street, leaning down at a street side café to explain the facts of life to one of his boss’ “problem clients.” The much smaller man, cowering at the table, had been paying close attention to Louie’s words and emphatic gestures. When his eyes widened, he tumbled out of his chair. Louie spun and tried to dodge, grabbing for the .357 magnum he always carried in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Before he could draw however, automatic gunfire raked across his knees.

  Two knee replacements and an extremely painful year of physical therapy had gotten Louie to the point where he could at least walk under his own power, albeit with a severe limp and use of a cane. It had been the end of Louie’s active career. His boss had been good to him, though—the man himself had come to visit Louie after the knee operations. His boss was a small man, very dapper in his custom tailored suits, and much older, nearly sixty-five, with thinning, salt-and-pepper hair and a trimmed mustache, but still active and powerful. Louie had been assured that he would have a place on the payroll and would only be asked to do light duties when his health permitted.

  Louie’s recovery had been mental as much as physical. An extremely active man all his life, Louie now had to face a life where he could not be active—where activity in fact, caused him pain. He could, and did, work through a great deal of pain, but winters were the worst. Louie often thought about moving to a warmer climate, but his family, both biological and sociological, were all in the Boston area. On those occasions when his job required him to travel to Florida, Texas, Arizona, California, and the like, he appreciated the warm climate, but knew he would never be comfortable living in it.

  So Louie Lombardi still lived in the modest townhouse he purchased before his “accident” as he referred to it. He bought it near his family’s parish, Saint Leonard of Port Maurice Church in the Boston North End neighborhood often called “Little Italy.” Louie attended daily mass at Saint Leonard’s. Even though his activities did not require as much use of the confessional as before his accident, Louie still went to confession once each week. He was preparing to make his painful pilgrimage the few blocks to Saint Leonard’s. He fed his Alexandrine parakeets, Willy and Nilly. The birds gave Louie something to look after and care for. The brightly colored birds also provided Louie with entertainment. They loved to fly about the townhouse, playing with various toys he bought them, and uttering their very loud cries. “Tsh, tsh, poco ragazza.” Louie kept the birds in their cage when he went out, which often led to loud scolding. If the noise got to be too much, he would cover their cage with a cloth to calm them.

  The phone rang as Louie was putting on his heavy winter coat. He limped to the phone by his couch and answered it. “Pronto.”

  “Louie,” came a familiar voice. “How are you doing these days?”

  Louie laughed, a guttural sound like a small rockslide. “Well, if it ain’t the Mick Dick? How you doin’?”

  “Not bad. Not bad. I have a request of you, my friend.”

  “Let me hear it, and I’ll tell you if I can grant it.”

  “I’d like you to come to a meeting tomorrow.”

  Louie frowned, turning his face into an illustration of a child’s book where trolls figured prominently. “A meeting. What kind of meeting?” Louie listened for the next five minutes to the man’s explanation.

  “So will you come?”

  Louie thought for a moment. “It will cost you, you know.”

  “I know—our usual arrangement, but I also have a business proposition for you.”

  “A business proposition? Si. I will attend this meeting.” Louie wrote down the time and place. “Ciao.”

  “Goodbye, Louie.”

  Louie looked down at the paper with the meeting information and shrugged. While the family provided Louie with a small income, he supplemented it from time to time by working as a confidential informant. His only stipulation was that he would not provide information on family activities—other families or rivals, but not his family. Then he turned to his parakeets and said, “The Mick offers me some money to come talk, I would be a fool not to take his money, eh, ragazza?” Willy and Nilly squawked their agreement. Louis Lombardi finished bundling up for the cold weather, slowly made his way to the elevator, and then trudged outside into the frigid day to Saint Leonard’s.

  * * * *

  Daphné Lopes looked at her twin sister, Darcelle, and made a rude noise. “Catchôrr’-fémia. Did you take my purple blouse?”

  Darcelle shook her head and pointed to her outfit—a plain navy blue button-up blouse and blue jeans. “What kind of question is that, minína? Do I look like I’d steal your purple girly blouse? Call me ‘dog’ again and you’ll wish you’d stayed in bed today.”

  The young women stared at each other across the living room of their tiny apartment. They were twenty-five years old, five-feet-ten inches tall, dark skinned, with large brown eyes, short black hair, and exotic looks that grabbed men’s attentions. After a few seconds, they both backed down and looked away. While they talked fiercely to each other, they got along well.

  Daphné and Darcelle were of Cape Verdean descent, living near, but not with, their large family in Uphams Corners, the largest concentration of Cape Verdeans in Boston. While they had been born and raised in the U.S., both women would lapse into Cape Verdean Creole, the language of the islands located about 600 kilometers off the coast of Senegal in western Africa. The Portuguese had colonized the group of ten islands, which is still the official language of the country. Their location had made them an important stop in the Atlantic slave trade, as
well as for pirates, privateers, and even Charles Darwin’s famous expedition. Hard times after the decline of the slave trade had led to a large diaspora resulting in more Cape Verdeans living abroad than in their native country.

  Daphné turned and stalked out of the room in a huff. Darcelle rolled her eyes and got up from the couch where she had been reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. Darcelle, like her sister, did not fit into traditional female stereotypes. They both worked as independent contractors—Darcelle as a freelance mechanic, troubleshooter, and “Jane Fixit,” while Daphné was a computer and electronics expert. Darcelle had a more difficult time than her sister at making a living as a contractor. She only lasted a week when she tried working at an automotive center—Darcelle did not take orders well. “Are you sure you didn’t overlook the fêia blouse in the dirty clothes?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” replied Daphné. “I did laundry after our San Da class the other night, Dar.” The girls were both skilled practitioners of Shaolin Kung Fu. They were currently taking a class in San Da self-defense, also known as Chinese kickboxing.

  “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure you wore it to target shooting the next night, Daph.” Darcelle joined her sister in the hunt for the purple blouse. In addition to their skills as martial artists, the twins were accomplished with firearms. They were both licensed for conceal-carry, and they both favored Kimber pistols. Darcelle used a black 1911 Custom Target II, while Daphné carried a stainless TLE/RL II, a stainless steel version of the duty pistol carried by the LAPD SWAT. While neither one of them had ever had reason to fire their weapons anywhere except at the Boston Gun Club in Dorchester, they rarely went out on a job without carrying them.

  “Shit.” Daphné swore. “You’re right—here it is, with the jeans I wore that night. I could have sworn it was clean.”

  Darcelle held up her hand to her ear. “What’s that? I didn’t quite catch that apology.”

  Daphné threw the shirt at her sister. “Yeah, well it’s your turn to do laundry, so get my blouse clean for tonight.”

  The telephone interrupted the bickering. Both women carried cell phones, but they also had a landline that they kept for clients, acquaintances, and miscellaneous business needs. They stepped to look at the caller ID box, and then looked at each other questioningly at the name displayed. Daphné, being the elder sister—by four and a half minutes, as she liked to remind Darcelle—answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Is this Daphné or Darcelle?”

  “Daphné,” she replied. “That’s right—Mom said you might call. How can we help you, sir?”

  “Sir?” the man on the other end of the line chuckled. “I can remember when you two used to ask to play with my gun. Now you carry your own guns.”

  “Indeed. What’s up, Uncle?”

  “Well, let me explain.” Daphné switched the phone to speaker and the twins listened for the next several minutes.

  “Interesting,” Darcelle said when their “uncle” was finished. He was a close family friend, not a blood relative. “Of course we’ll come to your meeting. When is it?”

  “Tomorrow at noon.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going to meet at the Blackthorn Pub. Do you girls have any idea where that is?”

  “Be nice, uncle, or you’ll regret it,” Daphné warned.

  “Yeah, it’s at Broadway and Dorchester Street in South Boston. Why we going all the way up there? Dorchester bars aren’t good enough for you?”

  “Watch your tongue, young lady. I know many more embarrassing stories about you than vice versa. We’re meeting someone from the North End, so I chose a spot in between.”

  “Fine. You’re the one with the furthest to go, so I guess we can’t bitch too much.”

  “Like it would do you any good. Okay, ladies, see you then.”

  “Bye.”

  The twins looked at each other after Daphné disconnected the phone. “Hmmm. Whatcha think that’s all about?”

  “Dunno,” Darcelle replied. “He was playing his cards pretty close to the chest.”

  “Umm-hmmm. Well, only one way to find out.”

  “Yeah—but we’re making him buy the drinks.”

  “You got that right, sis. Now, get busy on the laundry.”

  * * * *

  Saturday saw a moderation of the winter temperature—the high was a whopping 32 degrees, a dozen degrees warmer than the previous day. Plus, the sun shone brightly and the wind had died down, so Louie walked the three long blocks to the MBTA bus station nearest his townhouse, then another half dozen or so blocks from the bus stop closest to the Blackthorn Pub. He could have taken a taxi, but when the weather was decent, Louie walked as much as possible. His physical therapist had told him to “use it or lose it.” Nonetheless, by the time Louie had painfully limped to the pub, he was in a foul mood. This cornuto Mick had better have a damned good “business proposition” after I walked all this way.

  Louie entered the pub and looked around. After several seconds trying to adjust his eyes to the dim interior of the bar, Louie heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Jamie Griffin waving to him from a table near the back. As Louie stumped to the table, he could see that Jamie was not alone—two gorgeous young women sat with him. When he reached the booth, Louie shook his head. “If that wife of yours ever finds out you’re two-timing her with two broads, it’ll be the end of the line for you, Mick.”

  As they seated themselves, Louie across from Jamie and the women across from each other, Jamie smiled. “Louie Lombardi, I’d like you to meet two young ladies whom I’ve had the privilege to know since they walked around in diapers.”

  “Uncle.” they both protested at once.

  “This one,” Jamie said, pointing to his right, “is Daphné Lopes and this one,” pointing to his left, “is her twin sister, Darcelle. Ladies, meet Louie Lombardi.”

  Louie managed to struggle up slightly from the chair as he greeted each young woman. “Pleased to meetcha. I’m no relation to the coach.”

  “The coach?” Daphné asked, genuinely puzzled.

  Darcelle made a face at her sister and sighed. “Yeah, dummy. Vince Lombardi, the coach of the Green Bay Packers.”

  Daphné made a face back. “Oh, so nothing important—just football.”

  “That’s enough girls,” Jamie raised both hands, palms facing each of the twins. “Don’t make Uncle Jamie scold you. We’re not here for that.” The girls both glared at him and Jamie added to Louie, “I’m not really their uncle, but they’ve called me that since they could talk. Now I can’t get them to shut up.”

  Darcelle narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at Jamie. “Don’t make us scold you.”

  The waitress stopped by the table. “Everyone here now? You want to order?”

  “Sure,” Jamie replied. “Build my friend and me a Guinness,” he said, pointing to Louie, “and bring these two miscreants a Shirley Temple.”

  “You are really cruising for a bruising, Unc,” Daphné warned. “I’ll have a vodka tonic,” she said to the waitress.

  “Jameson’s, neat,” Darcelle ordered.

  “Make sure you check their IDs,” Jamie added. Despite glares from the twins, the waitress did check their IDs.

  “Now, everyone look at the menu and decide what you’re eating,” Jamie said.

  “Your treat?” Louie and Darcelle asked at the same time. They looked at each other warily for having said the same thing at the same time.

  “Of course, but keep it reasonable—my funds are limited these days.”

  “Yeah, Mom said you were still sick—” started Daphné.

  “And that you lost your job. We’re really sorry.” The girls each put a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.

  “You lost your job,” Louie rumbled. “What the hell didja do, Mick?”

  “Good thing you’re so much bigger than me, Aloysius,” Jamie said, needling Lombardi with the use of one of his hated given names in retaliation for his use of the ethnic slur. �
��Otherwise, I’d have to sic these two on you.”

  “We could take him,” said Darcelle brightly. “He’s a crip.”

  Louie glared at Darcelle. “Maybe so, little one, but I could probably break you in two.”

  “Only if you could catch me. Big guys are always slow.”

  “I got ways to slow you down.” They looked at each other challengingly for several seconds.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Daphné said. “Only one of you has something to take out and measure, so shut up and let Jamie get on with it.”

  They were interrupted by the waitress bringing their drinks, then taking their food orders. When she had left, Jamie updated them on his illness and how it had cost him his job.

  “Tough luck,” Louie rumbled after Jamie had finished, “but what’s that got to do with us?”

  Jamie paused, taking a long drink of his stout. “Well, I’ve got a case I need some help with.”

  “How can you have a case?” Louie asked. “You ain’t a cop no more.”

  “Very astute, Louie.” Jamie took a long look around him, making sure there was no one within earshot, made easier due to the ambient noise of the other patrons. “Let me tell you about the case, and you’ll understand why I’m still working on it.”

  They had all finished eating by the time Jamie concluded his summary of the case, Cal’s murder, and the connection he suspected to Sedecla and the Disciples. The waitress returned, cleared their plates, and took another round of drink orders.

  “Okay,” said Jamie when their drinks arrived. “Here’s my business proposition for you all.” He paused, and then turned to Louie as he continued. “Louie, you’ve been a good source of information for me over the past year or so.”

  Louie looked around in agitation. “Damn. Don’t be broadcasting that fact, Mick.”

  “Fuist,” Jamie scoffed. “Hush, as my Máthair would say. I’m more worried than you are about the wrong people overhearing us. That’s why I chose a busy place and a table away from the rest. Louie, I want you to find out as much as you can about Sedecla and the Disciples. I also want you to act as my backup if the twins need something and I’m too sick to help.”