by Linda Barnes
“I am an old woman, named after my mother.”
I sang along with the first verse. Whenever I hear that song I have to restrain myself from leaping up and grabbing my guitar. It didn’t seem appropriate at the moment.
“You know this Jack Flaherty?” I said, running my fingertips down the line of dark curly hair on Sam’s chest. “At G and W?”
“Nah.” Sam yanked my arm lower, and I couldn’t hear any tightness or discomfort in his voice. “You think I know all the drivers?”
“Just the women,” I said, to keep it light.
“Oh, yeah, that Rosie, she’s one hot dame.”
“Yeah?” The idea cheered me up. I hoped crabby Rosie went home to one steamy romance after another.
“Oh, you got a lot to learn before you’re in Rosie’s league,” he assured me. A pretty good liar, Sam. Papa Gianelli should be proud.
“Just give me one thing that I can hold on to.
To believe in this livin’ is just a hard way to go.”
Raitt gave the song one of her fine wailing finishes. Her voice quieted the other noises in the room, from the ticking clock to T.C. meowing in the corner. He likes to warn me when I pay too much attention to another male.
After that, I didn’t feel bad about not telling Sam why I was driving for G&W. I figured we were even, both lying. It might not be the perfect basis for a meaningful relationship, but it was fine for what we had going.
Anyhow, it took me two days to meet this Flaherty, two minutes to decide I’d seen him someplace before, and two seconds to spot him for a jerk. He was a couple years older than me, which made him young by G&W standards, maybe the only Caucasian driver under fifty. He had bad teeth, yellow and crooked. His face was well shaped, but all the features seemed squeezed together in the center. His eyes, nose, and mouth were too small for the flesh surrounding them. He was the kind of guy who gabs with men, but takes a friendly hello from a female as an attempted seduction, so I couldn’t get into the kind of conversation that would have naturally led to the questions I longed to ask: So where’d you work before this? How do you know Sam Gianelli? Ever been in Ireland? Collect much money for the IRA last week? Buy any machine guns?
I followed Joe Fergus for half a night, Andy O’Brien the other half. Choosing the guys who’d met at the Rebellion, and giving precedence to Irish-sounding surnames, the next night I followed a Maloney and an O’Keefe. None of them robbed the Bank of Boston. O’Brien made a brief stop at the Rebellion, but I didn’t see any other cabs in the parking lot. O’Keefe dropped somebody off at the Yard of Ale. Maloney picked up a fare in front of the All Clear. I tried to make something of it, but taxi drivers get a lot of barroom business these days, what with bartenders worried about getting sued if some drunken patron piles his car into the neighborhood nursery school after tossing back one more for the road.
I listened to radio calls, wrote each one down, but couldn’t find a pattern. No calls from a mysterious woman in red at midnight. I was careful to note any woman’s name that blared out of the squawkbox, because of what old Pat had said about a woman being involved. But G&W, a small cab company, tried for personalized service. Gloria radioed the name of each caller along with the address: George Burke at 468 Beacon, Mrs. Edelman on Cumberland. Sometimes just a first name, sometimes just a last. I wrote down a lot of women’s names.
I was getting nowhere, and Margaret Devens was coming home tomorrow. Not only was Margaret coming home, but I’d called Mr. Andrews and Cedar Wash Condominium Resorts was threatening to revoke my twenty K unless I showed up with my husband, Thomas, within the week. The missing persons report on Eugene Devens had drawn a fat zero. Between Sam and screwed-up biorhythms, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t connect with Mooney on the phone—
As my grandmother used to say: You’re such a brain, you can worry more in one minute than other people can in a whole year.
Wednesday night, I decided John Flaherty was the one to tail. I waited until he signed in—late again. He sailed off in cab 442, one of the brand-new ones, which didn’t make me like him any better, since I was stuck with another antique. He spoke up maybe ten minutes later, accepting Gloria’s offer of a fare in the South End.
Now I know the back roads of Boston. I can beat a civilian to any city location with minutes to spare, but another cabbie, that’s a different story. I screeched the tight curves on the Fenway, cut over to Huntington Avenue by the Museum of Fine Arts, and was blessed by the god of traffic lights for once in my life.
A well-dressed young couple promenaded the sidewalk in front of 117 Pembroke Street. The man carried a slim briefcase, and the woman was decked out in Ralph Lauren’s version of what Connecticut WASPs wear to the market. I pulled into an unlit sidestreet with a decent view, and waited maybe five seconds for G&W 442 to catch up with me.
Well, we had one exciting night, let me tell you. Cab 442 took the couple as far as the Westin Hotel. I mean, they could practically spit as far as the Westin from Pembroke Street. Walk? At night? God forbid.
442 queued up for the Westin’s doorman, and was rewarded with a fare, a lone businessman. From the Westin we journeyed to the Hyatt Regency in Cambridge, tracing Storrow Drive to the Mass. Ave. Bridge, which is a mess of construction lights and battered yellow barrels. Then Memorial Drive up to the Hyatt’s front door. Nothing odd in that. I ran my meter just the way Flaherty should have been running his. I’d check the total with Gloria. If I couldn’t nab him for anything else, maybe I could get him for embezzlement.
Gloria gave him another fare. Allston, near Boston University. I stayed close around the rotary and across the B.U. Bridge. Whatever else he was, Flaherty was a good driver. Fast. I hoped he didn’t keep his eyes glued to his rearview mirror.
So it went. He kept busy. He wasn’t dogging it, that’s for sure. He grabbed hailers off street corners, worked Kenmore Square cab stands, took his share of radio calls. I was starting to enjoy myself, finally getting accustomed to the time-zone shift, discovering how city nightlife had changed since my last stint as a cabbie. Miniskirts and patterned stockings were back, but with a tough high-heeled edge to them. I saw women wearing black lipstick; men, too. I liked the gritty feel of Kenmore Square. It seemed like a place at home in the dark, pulsing with the restless energy of the red and blue neon Citgo sign. It made me want to smoke cigarettes and listen to funky music, not the bleat of the cab’s radio.
At 2:45 A.M. Gloria put out a call to cab 102 to pick up Maudie someplace in Dorchester. 102 started to respond, then Flaherty cut in, and said he’d take it; he was practically next door.
Which was a lie.
I hung way back, over three hundred yards. If I lost him now, it wouldn’t be so bad. I could pick him up from the street address. It was after he scored the fare that worried me.
In front of a battered triple-decker, a well-dressed man in his twenties, with a muscular build and swaggering walk, was escorted to the cab by two young males, big fellows, maybe Hispanic. They looked like the kind of hoods who’d beat up an old lady like Margaret Devens just for the fun of it. The man who got into the cab carried a gym bag. I tailed them toward Franklin Park, keeping well back.
I cut my lights during the race through the park, relying on 442’s taillights and the occasional overhead streetlamp. The road felt like it hadn’t been repaired in twenty years. If Flaherty didn’t actually see me, he could probably hear my car bottoming out in the ravines the Department of Public Works calls potholes. I flicked on my lights at the rotary, followed 442 over the bridge past the Arnold Arboretum and onto the Jamaicaway.
Brake lights flared, too late for me to make an inconspicuous stop. The passenger bailed out on Brookline Ave., in front of Fenway Park. I sailed by, took a left, and three-pointed a turn. By the time I nosed the cab back onto the main street, I could see 442’s taillights heading down Brookline to Park Drive.
I would have followed the passenger, except for one thing. The young man had carelessly left his gym bag in th
e cab.
I prayed for heavier traffic. A nice van to hide behind as we played follow-the-leader over to Commonwealth Ave. No such luck. I pulled in behind a big old dented Pontiac.
I had to squeeze the yellow light at the B.U. Bridge. I’m always surprised when I do that and two cars behind me come barreling through as well.
For a while, I thought Flaherty was homing the gym bag to the cab company, which got me worried. If Sam was there to take possession, I didn’t want to be a witness. I breathed easier when 442 passed the shortcut most of the cabbies take home.
442 coasted to a stop on Harvard Street, across the street from the Rebellion. I took a quick turn into an alleyway. Angling my rearview mirror, I could see Flaherty run across the street, gym bag tucked under his arm. He went to the side door of the bar.
By this time, it was 3:35. Way after closing time. I got my cab turned around, a tight maneuver in the narrow alley. I almost bashed into two parked Green & White cabs. I wrote down their numbers, and started cruising the neighborhood looking for more. I found one right in the Rebellion’s parking lot. In a loading zone around the corner, I saw G&W 863, a cab I’d tailed two nights ago. Sean Boyle’s cab.
Okay. Something was going down at the Rebellion, something that looked very much like a meeting of the Gaelic Brotherhood Association. Something that could involve the contents of one gym bag picked up at “Maudie’s” in Dorchester. I wondered if the contents of the bag came in neatly banded little bundles, like the cash in T.C.’s litter box.
I had options. I could sit here like a dummy. I could find a good location, take photos as each cabbie departed.
The GBA pin I’d found in Eugene’s locker seemed suddenly heavy. It weighed my collar down. I touched it. I could just walk in.
Damn. There was the matter of the bartender. If it was the same bartender, old Billy what’s-his-face, and if he remembered me, recalled my questions, my license, my card, I’d be sunk.
Maybe I’d have gone in anyway. Maybe I’d have taken some Pulitzer Prize photos, maybe I’d have gotten zip. I’ll never know.
Flashing blue lights appeared out of nowhere, racing up behind me.
Shit. I smacked my horn in pure frustration, pulled over. The cops. Always there when you need them.
Chapter 24
“It’s her, all right.” A huge red-faced cop, the kind they used to call a harness bull, peered in my side window.
“Any problem, Officer?” I said in my sweetest voice. I wondered if the bull was named Doyle or Donahue, if he was employed by the IRA to handle things just in case someone tailed their delivery cab. I thought about the pipe under my seat.
“Carlotta Carlyle?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Lieutenant Mooney wants to talk to you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nah, we’re supposed to bring you in.”
“For questioning,” a bright young patrolman added. He was sticking his head in the passenger door.
“You don’t have to tell her that,” the bull snapped.
“Okay.” The young guy backed off.
“Bring me in?” I said incredulously. “Arrest me? Mooney wants to arrest me?”
“He wants to talk to you,” the harness bull said, as if that made everything okay.
“This is harassment,” I said.
“Harassment,” the bull repeated, pawing his book of traffic tickets. “You call this harassment?”
“Look, I didn’t do anything—”
“Oh, I thought you might not have signaled back there at the last right turn. Or maybe your high beams aren’t working. Or maybe you ran a red.”
That, I call harassment.
“So, you want to talk to Lieutenant Mooney, or what?” the bull said.
“What,” I answered.
“Good. He’s over at Area D. We’ll escort you.”
Just what I always wanted, a police escort.
At the station, Mooney was tilting back in his swivel chair, big black cop shoes on the desktop, hands clasped behind his head, eyes half closed. He had a dime-sized hole in his left sole, and his right shoe could have used a new heel.
His office was like his shoes. The big walnut desk was scratched and stained. The blotter curled at the edges. Two four-drawer gray filing cabinets overflowed in a corner. No flowers, no plants, no pictures. No wonder Mooney kept his eyes closed.
I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I was too damn mad to sit down, so I stood there, arms crossed, fighting off the urge to grab both his heels and teach him to do a somersault. I was probably angrier than I should have been. I tend to get mad when I enter that police station. It’s got too many memories for me. Some of them good ones, granted, but mainly it’s the bad stuff that lingers. The “partner” who didn’t want to let the “girl” drive. The clubby “boys only” atmosphere. The carved-in-granite belief that if I achieved anything it was because I’d slept with the right cop.
I breathed.
Part of it was that when I looked at Mooney, I thought about Sam. And that made me uncomfortable. I mean, why should Mooney remind me of Sam? Why should seeing Mooney’s face make me feel guilty? I hate feeling guilty.
“Coffee?” he said.
They have rotten coffee at Area D. They serve it in nasty Styrofoam cups. Instead of milk or cream, there’s this big jar of powdered beige gunk.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Coffee?” he repeated. This time his eyes were open.
“Am I under arrest?” I repeated.
“Carlotta, you’re gonna thank me for doing this. Why the hell didn’t you call? I must have left twenty messages.”
“I called. You were out. Am I under arrest, or what? Should I call my lawyer?”
“Christ, I’m sorry I interrupted your life. I was only trying to do you a favor. Forget it. No charges. You can leave anytime.”
Now that was infuriating. Mooney knew I’d never leave without finding out what the hell was going on. He turned his attention to a file folder on his desk, and yanked a single sheet of paper, holding it in his right hand. He read a few lines with pretend concentration, shook his head sadly.
“Mooney—”
“Go on. Get lost.”
I took the two steps I needed to get close enough, reached over, and jerked the paper out of his grasp. I think he let go on purpose. As I read, I sank into the visitor’s chair, a disgusting molded-plastic job.
I hardly noticed the discomfort. What I had in my hand was a criminal record, a rap sheet, for one Thomas Charles Carlyle. And let me tell you, this Thomas Charles Carlyle was one bad boy, a one-man crime spree. Petty Larceny, Grand Larceny: three arrests, two convictions. Illegal Firearms: three violations. Statutory Rape. Rape. Armed Robbery. Et cetera.
There were mug shots attached. No mug shot is great, but these were dreadful, because Thomas Charles Carlyle looked like he’d had a fight with King Kong about an hour before the photographer arrived. His nose was mashed over on one side of his face, his lips were cut and swollen, one eye was puffed shut. He sported a handlebar mustache. If he’d shaved it off, no one could possibly identify him from the photo, what with all the damage to his face. I glanced back at his rap sheet and found a token Resisting Arrest among the offenses.
“Carlotta,” Mooney said as soon as I looked up, “there is no condo company at Cedar Wash.”
I opened my mouth and shut it again.
“Thomas C. Carlyle,” he continued, “this Thomas C. Carlyle, the guy with the sheet, is wanted by the FBI. They got a hot tip. They think he’s tied to some right-wing radical group in the state, the New Survivalist League, or something.”
I’d heard of them. They’d tried to rob an armory someplace in New Hampshire. Shot their guns, made a rumpus, got away with a couple of handguns and a box of grenades. I swallowed and nodded.
“They’re using this contest thing to smoke him out,” Mooney continued. “They did it in Florida a few years back, tried it out on a few bastards wit
h outstanding arrest warrants. Lots of the creeps showed up for their condo tour, and got slapped in jail instead.”
The fluorescent lights in Mooney’s office made me blink. “I don’t believe this. My cat gets Mother Jones. How could they link him to a bunch of right-wingers?”
Mooney’s shoes hit the floor with a thud and he stood up. His height was menacing in the small room, and his voice let me know I wasn’t the only angry soul around. He spoke softly, aware of the cops on the other side of the glass door pretending to work while they listened. “The Feds are supposed to inform us, not run their own stinking circus. Doing it this way tells me they think the department sucks.”
“No twenty thousand,” I said. T.C. wasn’t going to dine on FancyFeast and Catviar.
“Not a nickel.”
“T.C. was looking forward to it.”
“You didn’t believe this shit, did you?”
“Of course not,” I said. Hell, no. I’d just finished asking Roz if she could fake me a Mass. driver’s license. I’d not only called every damn Carlyle in the phone directory, I’d proposed fraud to a cop.
I could tell Mooney was trying to keep a self-satisfied smirk off his face. He shook his head. “Carlotta,” he said, “you know why you didn’t last as a cop? Your imagination runs away with you.”
“Wrong, Mooney. I didn’t make it because I didn’t brownnose.” There’s enough truth in that statement to make it sound good. In spite of the sleaze, and the hostility from the “boys,” I might have stayed if I hadn’t had to deal with Administration.
“So, you want me to tell the FBI they screwed up?” Mooney asked eagerly.
“No,” I said slowly. “Don’t say anything. Not yet.”
He adjusted to the disappointment. “Yeah, well, okay. Fine. I mean, those FBI bastards, I wouldn’t tell ’em if their ass was on fire.”
“Yeah.”
“Look, keep me informed, will you? If they pull anything really dumb, I want a chance to call the newspapers, and give some reporter a ringside seat, okay?”
Considering how Mooney feels about reporters, he must really despise the FBI. He rocked back on his heels, and looked uncomfortable, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me out again. But all he said was, “How’s that old lady of yours doing? The one who got beat up?”