Blood in the Water

by Jack Flynn

  She smiled at him, even as her teeth began to chatter. ‘I don’t care where we go, as long as we’re together.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll go get the room. I’ll wait for you by the elevators. Wait a couple minutes and then meet me there.’ He leaned in and kissed her quickly, then headed back out to the street.

  She watched as he went, and she reflected on the truth in what she’d said. She would rather be with him than anyone on earth. It was so odd; she’d never been one for schoolgirl crushes or daydream fantasies. Her childhood had given her an early, brutal glimpse into the dark side of the ways in which men and women treated each other, and that was enough to crush the seed of romanticism before it could ever take root in her heart. And yet here she was, standing in a ruined alleyway in the middle of winter, freezing her ass off, just so she could be with this perfect, beautiful young man. And she was happy about it. She would have waited there for hours, lost her fingers to frostbite, ruined her health and given over her sanity if it meant that she could be with him. For the first time, she wondered whether this might be love.

  That question led to another. What would she do with his child? As much as she believed she loved Buddy, and that he might actually love her back, she had no illusions about any man’s dependability when it came to long-term commitments. If she had the baby she had to assume it would be hers, not theirs. Could she handle it? Did she want to?

  She wasn’t even sure why she’d asked her father for the money. She wasn’t sure she’d use it if he gave it to her. Maybe she wanted options. Or maybe she knew he would ask her what it was for, and as much as she was afraid to tell him, she needed him to know. For all his faults, Cormack had been the one person who had always been there for her, no matter what. Maybe she needed someone on her side.

  She waited in the freezing alleyway for a few minutes, until she knew it was safe now to head to the Holiday Inn. It was hardly the Ritz, but she didn’t care. She knew that she would be happy there, at least for a little while.

  Twenty-Four

  Nate Chaplain let out a groan as he secured the line to the trap and pushed it into the icy water off the transom-less stern of the Sunny Day. He could imagine no vessel less aptly named. She was a thirty-five foot Maine lobster boat that had first touched water long before Nate’s parents were old enough to copulate. She’d seen close to four decades of storms and showed the wear of each and every one of them in the grime and gunk caked to her hull and the scrapes and scratches etched in her deck. Like the men who had broken their backs and souls on her, pulling bottom feeders from the Boston waterways over the years, she was low and squat and steady in her pace. Nate Chaplain hated her, and hated even more the idea that he had been given the task of working her on such a frigid day. As he and two other men hauled the massive traps out of the ice-filled harbor, their heavy rubber gloves provided some protection from the ever-present risk of losing a finger on the gear but granted no warmth or comfort beyond that.

  How the fuck did this become my life?

  The thought rang in his ears over and over, so clear it could have been recorded digitally and laid down on a loop in his brain to play for ever, or at least until he was back on land.

  He should never have gone to work that morning. When he left the Mariner last night, he’d planned to take the day off, consequences be damned. Buddy Cavanaugh had warned against missing yet another day. Union membership had its privileges; it provided a steady stream of work, both legitimate and not. It couldn’t be taken for granted, though. Enough slips, or offense given to the wrong person, and Nate’s union card could easily be yanked, Buddy had reminded him as they parted ways. The point resonated with annoying accuracy, so Nate had pulled himself out of bed at an early hour and headed in to work to help unload the Greek cargo ship.

  When he’d gotten to work, though, he’d been told that he would be filling in on the Sunny Day for a crew member who had broken an arm the day before. It wasn’t the norm, but it wasn’t unheard of. Many of the local fishing captains and lobster men paid tribute to Cormack to avoid hassles and so that everyone would look the other way when their holds were used to transport drugs. And, in any event, Nate had been told that the order came directly from O’Connell himself, so he knew not to ask questions.

  Nate glanced at the other men on board. There were three of them, not counting Nate. Cap was the owner of the boat, a thick man with a long beard and heavy, gnarled hands that looked like they could break concrete. Peter was a deck hand, taller and thinner, with a patchy scruff covering both his head and his face. Spots of flesh shone through the hair both on his scalp and on his cheeks and neck, making it look as though moths had been gnawing on him. Nate guessed that tracks ran up his arms under the heavy rubber coat he was wearing. Cap and Peter directed Nate as the three of them worked the traps, pulling them from the water and cleaning the lobsters out, baiting the traps and sliding them back into the water.

  The fourth man on the boat was a complete mystery. He hadn’t spoken since Nate came on board. He stood next to the wheel up in the open pilot house, looking forward, calm and still. He was short and nattily dressed in a suit and topcoat, a fedora perched on his head. Nate had no idea what the man’s face looked like because he had not turned around once. His presence on the vessel suggested to Nate that the day would not solely involve lobstering. He guessed that they would be receiving some illicit cargo at some point, and delivering it somewhere on shore. That certainly would explain the demand for Nate’s presence, and the thought gave him some hope that the day would not be a total loss. If this was a drug run, Nate would be given a bonus on top of the day’s wages.

  ‘That’s the last,’ Cap said, as one more of the giant traps disappeared into the dark, icy water.

  ‘We’re done?’ Nate asked.

  Cap shook his head grimly. ‘We gotta head out past the islands.’

  Nate nodded his head knowingly. If there was going to be a drug pick-up, it would take place some distance from the harbor, where no one would see.

  Cap trundled forward to the helm, had a quiet exchange with the mystery man, who still hadn’t moved, then eased the throttle forward and headed out toward the open ocean.

  No one spoke as the seas grew rough and the water turned black as coal. After close to twenty minutes, Cap eased back on the throttle. Nate scanned the ocean, looking for a boat approaching, but there were no other vessels nearby. To the northwest he could see the shoreline, but it was a thin, undifferentiated line on the horizon.

  Nate grew confused, as he watched Cap nod to the mystery man and the two of them make their way to the stern. The man in the hat looked at Nate. He was even shorter than Nate had realized, and his clothes were impeccable, which made him seem wildly incongruous with his surroundings. His face was angular and his eyes were the dark, soulless eyes of a shark.

  ‘Nate,’ the man said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I need to know where Soh is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, son. It’s going to be rough enough as it is.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Cicero Andolini.’

  Nate could feel the blood leave his face. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘That’s right, son. This is as bad as you think it is. The only thing you need to decide is whether it gets better or worse. I need to know where Soh is.’

  ‘I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Nate’s voice quavered. He glanced around him, but all he could see was the cold, relentless sea. As he brought his eyes back to Cicero Andolini, a man with one of the most vicious reputations in Boston, he saw a dull flash of metal as Andolini’s brass knuckles shot up toward his jaw. His world exploded in a flash of light that faded quickly to darkness.

  Twenty-Five

  Kit sat in her office on the nineteenth floor of the JFK Federal Building in downtown Boston. It was a plain office with a cold, government-issue steel desk and matching file cabinet.
The chair was ancient, and creaked when she shifted in it. There were no pictures in the office, no mementos of loved ones or images of those she cared about. There was nothing but the implements of her work. She looked around the office, taking in its stark, utilitarian aura, and sighed. Was this all she was now?

  She swiveled toward the window, the chair screeching as though it was being tortured, and looked out down the hill, across Congress Street and Haymarket, out toward the harbor. Cormack was out there somewhere. The police would have tried to keep him in the hospital, but she was sure he would have had none of that, and she knew from her sources that the police had no legitimate basis to hold him. So he was somewhere along the waterfront, planning a war that would rip Boston’s underworld apart.

  She’d had no illusions about Cormack when she first reached out to him. It was well known that he had a piece of all the illegal activity throughout Boston Harbor. The authorities had spent years trying to build a case to bring charges against him, but they’d never been able to gather enough concrete evidence for a successful prosecution. Eventually they gave up the effort. Truth be told, many in law enforcement recognized that Cormack did an effective job of keeping violence under control, and some level of illegal activity was inevitable. Better the devil you know seemed to be the attitude that many took toward the corrupt union head.

  That reality presented an interesting opportunity for her. She’d campaigned to be put in charge of a task force going after MS-13, which had grown in strength and influence in Boston and the surrounding towns since the turn of the millennium. It was a task she relished, not just because she wanted to fight crime, but for personal reasons as well. Her mission didn’t necessarily conflict with Cormack’s interests, and she knew that his eyes and ears along the shoreline could be an indispensable source of information.

  She was straightforward with him the first time they met. She’d set a meeting to discuss the harbor’s security concerns. It wasn’t that unusual; his legitimate cover as the head of the largest union gave him an interest in maintaining harbor security. The pretense hadn’t lasted long.

  ‘I’m not interested in the information that comes to you through legitimate channels,’ she’d said directly. They were only five minutes into the meeting. He didn’t reply; he just raised his eyebrow, and there was a hint of interest and amusement his eyes. It was the first time she felt the attraction to him. ‘I’m interested in the information you come by in connection with your more illicit activities,’ she continued.

  ‘And what activities would those be?’ he’d asked her. The smile was still in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be coy, Mr O’Connell,’ she’d said.

  ‘Cormack. Please.’

  ‘Cormack. I’m aware that you direct – in one way or another – all, or at least almost all of the illegal activity in the harbor. From what I’ve heard, you do a hell of a job of it, too. No one gets too fat, no one gets out of control, and everyone is taken care of. You’d have made an impressive politician.’

  ‘Trust me, I am a politician,’ he’d replied. ‘Which is why I have little time to … How did you put it … direct illegal activity?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not even sure what that means, but I wouldn’t have the time for that sort of responsibility. My job is too demanding.’

  ‘Really?’ she’d feigned disappointment. ‘I must have been misinformed.’

  ‘That’s the funny thing,’ he’d said. ‘It’s tough to tell when information is accurate, and when it’s not.’

  ‘That’s supposed to be my job.’

  ‘You may need to find other employment.’ He smiled again.

  ‘Maybe.’ She wasn’t going to give up, but she’d needed a new strategy to gain his trust. ‘So why don’t you tell me exactly what it is you do in your role as the head of the union, and I can figure out how we might be able to work together.’

  He’d laughed. It was a warm, inviting sound. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t begin to describe my responsibilities in such a short meeting.’

  ‘Perhaps we should have a longer meeting, then.’ She was looking directly into his eyes, and she’d felt as though there were two conversations taking place at the same time.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he’d said. ‘Over dinner?’

  She’d stood and picked up her briefcase. He’d looked confused, and fumbled a bit as he rose from his chair. She’d put out her hand and he’d shaken it.

  ‘It was an enlightening meeting,’ she’d said.

  ‘Was it?’

  She’d walked to the door and opened it. Just before she’d walked out, she’d turned and faced him. ‘I like seafood.’

  He’d nodded. ‘I know a place.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  The dinner had gone well a week later, and she knew not to push him. Not yet. She needed to gain his trust. That trust couldn’t be gained over a dinner. Even after the first time they had sex together, she knew not to push. She lay in bed, listening to his breathing, wondering whether she would have allowed him to seduce her if she didn’t have an ulterior motive. She was attracted to him, there was no denying that. And yet her focus had been so singular from the moment she’d lost her husband and her son that she no longer knew what it was like to truly feel anything other than the rage that kept her warm and drove her forward.

  He came to her, as she knew he would. As she knew he had to. They had been sleeping together for nearly a month when he told her that there were explosives coming in through a dock in East Boston. He had been given his tribute, but he was concerned because the materials were destined for an offshoot of a militia group in New Hampshire. The explosives were sophisticated C4, easily hidden from detection, and not the sort of material used for traditional criminal endeavors.

  She’d nodded when he gave her the information. She didn’t thank him – to do so would have been an insult. His wasn’t an act of charity or patriotism, it was an act of smart business. The information came with expectations of reciprocity; protection from the authorities when necessary, information on competitors when available. They both understood the nature of the exchange they were agreeing to, and in consummating the deal, they were committing to each other in a manner that was far more intimate than sex.

  That bond was dissolved now, and she felt the separation in a way that was physical. She wondered whether her feelings were something resembling affection, but dismissed the thought quickly. This was still business, and her business was protecting Boston’s population from MS-13, to make sure no one ever suffered the way she had. And if helping Cormack O’Connell advanced the goals of her business, then it was her responsibility to help him.

  She picked up the phone and dialed. ‘Agent Martin,’ she said when the man on the other end of the line picked up. ‘I need anything new the local police have on T’phong Soh. He’s Boston’s head of MS-13. It’s for the task force.’

  Twenty-Six

  ‘Are the ropes tight?’

  Cicero looked down at Nate Chaplain’s unconscious body on the lobster boat’s deck. He raised the lapels of his dark coat against the biting wind. They were farther out to sea than the small vessel was accustomed to being, and though the water was relatively calm, the swells pitched them up and down in a steady, maniacal rhythm. He hated being out on the water and longed to be back on dry land. Still, the ocean provided a convenient and private place to do what needed to be done.

  ‘I know my knots,’ Cap replied. ‘They’ll hold.’

  ‘Wake him up.’

  Cap broke a capsule of ammonia under Chaplain’s nose, and Chaplain’s body convulsed, his head shaking and pulling back from the noxious fumes. There was little he could do to get away, though, as his hands and feet were bound tight. Cap shoved the ammonia under his nose again, and Chaplain coughed hard and spat, his eyes finally opening and taking in the scene as best they could. The look of confusion quickly turned to fear, and then terror.

  ‘Please!’ he screamed. ‘Please … No!’

  Cicero nodd
ed to Cap, and the skipper kicked Chaplain in the ribs, quieting the young man by taking the breath out of him.

  As Chaplain writhed on the deck, Cicero squatted next to him. ‘Listen carefully, Nate,’ he said. ‘You’re only going to get one chance at this. Only three people knew that Cormack was at the Mariner last night. One of them was Cookie, the bartender. Good man. He’s dead now. The others were you, and your pal Buddy Cavanaugh. It seems Buddy was smart enough to disappear. No one can find him. That leaves me with you. I’m going to need to know everything, understand?’

  Nate Chaplain’s convulsions had subsided, but he was still gasping for breath. A thick white line of saliva ran from his lips to the wood below him, and he struggled to talk. ‘I don’t know anything, I swear!’ he screamed.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Cicero. ‘It’s going to make it less pleasant.’

  ‘No! Wait! Please! I’ll tell you anything!’

  ‘Did you talk to Soh?’

  ‘No, I didn’t! I swear it!’

  ‘Where is Buddy?’

  ‘He has an apartment. It’s in the projects.’

  ‘We know that. He’s not there. Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I swear to God!’ Chaplain was sobbing now, pulling desperately at the ropes. But Cap hadn’t lied; he knew his knots.

  Cicero nodded to Cap, and the large man with the gnarled hands moved up into the pilot house and started the engine. He pointed the boat into the wind and eased her forward. Then he locked the wheel so the boat would stay straight and came back to the stern. He and Peter picked Chaplain up under the armpits and dragged him to the open stern.

  ‘Oh God! Please no! For the love of Christ!’ Chaplain screamed as they threw him in.

  The boat pulled away until the slack in the rope was expended and Chaplain’s body was dragged through the frigid water by the feet. His hands were tied, so there was no way for him to keep his head above the water. Above them, seagulls circled.