The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  Mom and Dad made it clear that they were fine with my choice to keep the name and even the bad character traits. My first stroke of good luck in life came in the form of two amazing people I got to call my mom and dad. I’d stumbled into a set of parents who actually wanted me just the way I was. And kept me. Mom and Dad always had confidence in me and gave me space to be the person I am even though I was always a bit different. I’m not reckless per se. I don’t act out much. I don’t stray. I’m fairly predictable. Well, until now. Until Lan went missing.

  Missing.

  There it is again. Every time that word comes to mind, a bitter taste floods my mouth. It’s such an inadequate word. It feels sorely lacking. It doesn’t match the feelings that rise up in my throat at its mention. I close my eyes for a moment, reining in my emotions. Leaning my head back in the driver’s seat, I take three deep breaths and force myself to regroup and focus on the task at hand.

  Infiltrate Eden. Get close to anyone who might know more about Lan’s disappearance. Find her. Go to Kevin Santini with all the details. Go home.

  My eyes find the printout of Carrick ‘The Beast of Boston’ Ferguson’s picture sitting in the passenger seat. It’s a newspaper article from a few years ago before he retired from professional boxing.

  He’s in his iconic deep green, satin boxing shorts and has the coldest, most aloof stare. A shiver wracks my bones at the sight of those strange, dark eyes. My attention goes to his body. He’s big and has various tattoos here and there. The one inked in the center of his chest catches my attention and I wrinkle my brows trying to figure this one out. It’s odd to see a large tattoo across his chest of a fully bloomed red rose. The blood red petals are splayed wide showcasing the intricacies of the velvety blossom. The stem is thick and thorny with the little beasties that resemble shark teeth more than anything else. It’s a weird tattoo for a menacing man like him to sport. An unladylike snort slips out as I realize the paradox in front of me.

  Mom used to have a rose bush that really was more like a tree. The damned thing was gargantuan. It flooded with vivid, deep, red blooms every spring and she personified the thing by naming it Beast. She originally gave it that name as homage to Lan’s favorite Disney movie. Lan used to beg Mom for a rose from Beast so she could put it under Mom’s upturned tea pitcher, pretending she was Belle in Beast’s castle attempting to see the man beneath the monster. Mom always carefully chose a long stem with a perfect bloom at its end and gave Lan the rose but forbade her from trying to touch it herself.

  Thorns and all.

  We used to walk out to the small garden behind our house with mom and watch her prune Beast while she’d tell us all about the looming presence. She used to say the same thing every year. She’d gather us close at her side and kneel down in front of Beast and get animated as she said, “This is Beast. Beast is the size of a Volkswagen and has an impossible amount of buds, and blooms a thousand or more. Beast also has thorns. Big ones. But if you can sneak close enough to catch a whiff, and avoid the gnarly thorns, you'll be ruined for all the other roses for the rest of your life. The sweetest scent amongst the thorns.”

  How funny that this monster—this Beast of Boston—is also gargantuan and happens to sport one lifelike red rose of his own. He too has thorns, just not the type you can see. His are hidden, and they’re that much more dangerous for it.

  He’s a pretty monster.

  That’s not quite accurate though. He’s not pretty. He’s beautiful. Well, if you can look past his thorns, that is. There isn’t a female on the planet that would deny him. I’m no fool. May as well call a spade a spade. The Beast of Boston is a hell of a man to look at. Being in the heavy weight division, he’s a mammoth of a man. The specs for his last prizefight—a fight he won, pocketing a substantial purse—says he weighed in at 218 pounds and towered at 6 feet 4 inches. He’s a solid foot taller than me and almost one hundred pounds heavier. The photo shows him at the weigh-in before the fight. Despite being a fighter, his face is enchanting, with sharp features and striking eyes. It’s only too bad that he’s rumored to be a fucking murderer and happens to be one of the leaders of the criminals who I suspect took my sister. I snag the copy of the image and shove it into the main compartment of my bag and climb from my car.

  It’s no secret in Boston, especially in Southie, who The Beast of Boston is. A local hero turned friendly neighborhood villain. He was at the peak of his career when he retired with no rhyme or reason. Locals idolized the boy from Southie who went on to become a legend in the boxing ring. Guys want to be him. Women want to fuck him. I wonder now if he still looks the same today. All the photos I’ve dug up seem to date back a few years. Images of that cold stare, the closely shaved hair, the defined square jaw, and that rose tattoo come to mind. Forcing the images of him in the ring away is becoming more tedious by the day, which makes me hate myself immeasurably.

  He hasn’t been in the news in a long time but I doubt that it’s for lack of trying on his part. He’s Orin McCrae’s right hand man and the guy in charge of their outfit but only in name. Everyone knows Orin McCrae truly heads up the operation, but Carrick “The Beast of Boston” Ferguson is a crime kingpin in his own right, a fear-mongering savage without an ounce of mercy in his body. All of that is made worse only by the fact that his body in and of itself is a formidable weapon. He was a goddamned professional heavyweight boxer before he ditched that life and decided to be a full-time criminal. I’ve never seen him in person. I never dreamed of actually wanting to see him in person and yet… I’m bending over backwards, vanishing from my life, creating a new one, just to get close to him. God help me, but help him more, if he’s the man responsible for Lan’s disappearance.

  Chapter Five

  The Beast of Boston

  “Look, if we’re gonna be on the fuckin’ hook for some shit we didn’t do, I need to know who put us there.”

  “I’ve already done my homework. The crew hasn’t done a thing. They know better to make a move without orders.” Murph is calm and cool as usual, and for once I wish he’d show a little gusto. It’s not how he operates though. I know that. I, however, am a ball of nerves. It’s been pretty quiet between High Knoll and The Family for a few years with exception to a couple small skirmishes here and there. The temporary cease-fire was hard won. We’ve been fighting La Cosa Nostra for decades. I don’t expect it to ever end completely but we’ve been enjoying the slight reprieve from the carnage.

  I nod my head at Murph then look back to the article about the disappearance of La Cosa Nostra’s Italian girl. Someone is either extremely stupid, one of our guys is lying, or someone is trying to open an old wound.

  “We don’t need this kinda heat right now, Murph.” I shake my head knowing that we don’t need it but we’re getting it. The fucking Italians are going to be out for blood. I’ve seen the fallout from this type of thing before.

  “I know. I’ll keep checking on things. Has Or said what he wants done?”

  “Or wants the same thing I want. We need to know who took the girl, where she is, why they took her, and where we fit in with all of it.” Murph nods and takes another long pull from his vodka neat. “It’s all over the goddamn news too.” I sigh and reach for the remote to put on the local evening news. “Unless somethin’ changes like yesterday, we’re catching the flack for this one. I know it, you know it, and our people know it.”

  “Fuck that. Gonna go have a talk with more of our people. See what I can dig up.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Murph drains his glass and leaves my office without another word. I have confidence in him. If there’s any useful information to be had, Murph will extract it with no problem. There’s a good fucking reason he’s gotten as far as he has in High Knoll. He has no hang-ups, he listens, and he’s smart. There’s also a reason he was given Animal as a nickname all those years ago. He’s an animal in all regards. His sense of people, his intuition, his survival instinct, and his viciousness have carried him far
within the crew. He’s third man and my Lieutenant. I trust that animal with my life. If he says our guys aren’t responsible for kidnapping one of the Italian’s girls then I believe him.

  I lean forward in my seat and begin searching the web. On a hunch, I search for recent missing persons reports. More specifically, females between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five. If the Russians or the Asians are snatching local women again, they are the only ones dumb enough to shit where they sleep. Snatching girls from our own city is a rookie move made by only two types of criminals—extremely careless ones, or extremely desperate ones. While High Knoll and the Italians have kept a low profile and ceased fighting with each other, we’ve both flourished. Our territories are big and lucrative which has left little room for the smaller groups—the Russians and the Asians—to hustle much money. They may be trafficking women to bridge the gap in their pockets.

  My computer screen populates with search results and multiple missing persons reports complete with pictures of various young women.

  “One, four, eight,” I mutter to myself, counting the reports. Eight missing local women in the last six months fitting my search. And this is just Boston. My stomach turns at the sight of it. Not many things make me uneasy, but missing young females fucks with my head. High Knoll has suffered the wrath of the fucking Italians on the north end because of a one of their own that went missing all those years ago.

  In truth, she wasn’t missing at all. She chose to leave and High Knoll took the wrap. Like Helen of Troy, she started a war that resulted in many casualties and retribution in the form of kidnapping, assault, arson, murder...

  You name every miserable possibility, it took place. If that special kind of hell is about to run rampant again, I want all the information I can get. The first time this happened years ago, it wasn’t Orin’s fault. Sure, he fell in love with the wrong woman but he paid dearly for his trespasses. She hadn’t mentioned that she was promised to the future Capo of the family.

  Bitch.

  Yet another reason why I keep women around only long enough to get off. They’re nothing but trouble. It’s only too bad I run a strip club and a particularly illegal high-end escort service. I’m stuck with the troublemakers and I don’t trust a single one of them. Or made sure to teach me well with regards to that. Hell, I even named the club after one of histories biggest tragedies forced upon a man by a treacherous woman. It serves as a great reminder.

  Eden.

  Beginning at the most recent missing female, I work my way down, scrolling through the list. Most of them have very few leads and vague descriptions. Two have diagnosed mental health issues with a history of taking off and I immediately rule them out as run of the mill disappearances. The other six, they could definitely have been fed to the Russians or the Asians. It occurs to me that if the old Capo is still bloodthirsty, he could have arranged this thing himself, a false flag of sorts. Any excuse to exact more revenge. I can’t say I blame him. If I had a daughter and she ran off to bed one of my enemies, I’d lose my mind too. I’d lose my mind further, if years later, my young great granddaughter went missing. Like déjà vu the streets are already whispering, convicting High Knoll of something we didn’t do. I don’t steal women. I don’t hold women hostage, and I damn sure don’t sell women to the highest bidder, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to kidnap the fucking granddaughter of the old Italian slob. Not unless he went above and beyond and did something special to deserve it.

  I scroll down the list a little further and survey the images, committing the pictures of the missing to memory. I don’t know why, but a blue-eyed girl catches my eye and I read her info.

  “Motherfucker,” I grumble when I read the details regarding the last place she was spotted.

  Alana Nicole Perryman was last seen one block away from Eden, a gentlemen’s nightclub, in Boston. Alana is thought to have been wearing charcoal gray leggings with a dark green tunic top and black ballet style flats. Alana also has a small butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder blade. If you have any information about Alana Nicole Perryman’s disappearance, please contact Boston Police Department immediately.

  It’s no wonder High Knoll has already been charged, tried and convicted of taking the Italian girl. If the Italians have read these missing persons reports in search of a telling trend just as I am, which I’m certain they have, then they are going to immediately suspect us. Why wouldn’t they? It’s no secret that I own and operate Eden, and apparently a woman has recently gone missing right outside my front door. Fan-fucking-tastic. The need for a distraction from work has me dialing Kate. Unfortunately.

  I don’t bother saying anything to Kate as I pull my pants on and fasten my belt. She’s a decent distraction but it’s temporary. Her company for the night was a fleeting moment of moderately satisfying sex but it wasn’t enough to make me forget the shit show I have going on right now.

  I’ve been consumed with thoughts about the missing Italian girl and the implications since I found out about it. Murphy and the rest of the inner crew, some thirty odd men, have been keeping their ears and eyes open for any useful information. Associates have been directed to dig up what they can, too. But nothing credible has surfaced.

  “Leaving already, baby?” Kate pouts sleepily with her makeup smudged eyes only half open. She stretches and yawns in her bed, her tacky fluorescent yellow tongue ring catching the light coming in through the window. One leg falls to the side, casually giving me an immodest look at all she has to offer probably in hopes that I’d slide right back under the covers and help myself to more of her. No thanks.

  Women.

  I watch, slightly irritated as she prowls to the foot of her bed like a stray cat curling its body around something that feels nice. “I’ll do you if you do me. Just this once,” she licks her lips and motions to my cock with her eyes, offering oral in exchange for oral.

  “Kate, I wouldn’t eat your pussy with someone else’s mouth. Now stop being so fucking trashy or you’ll be out on your ass,” I warn, planting my palm against her forehead and pushing her away from my cock. She continues to pout in the most unflattering goddamn way and I cringe at the thought of fucking her again. Ever. “See you later, Kate,” I mumble then let myself out of her apartment.

  “I sure hope so,” she purrs.

  I shake my head thinking that scraping off another woman is never worth the temporary escape they provide me with. I slide my phone from my pocket and check it for any new messages from Murph.

  Murphy: Meet at the club at tonight?

  Me: Yes.

  The minute I walk in the door of my sanctuary, I head right for the shower. Kate wears this fruity perfume that smells cheap and it clings. I peel my clothes off and step into the shower hoping to wash away the stink of candied pineapple and looming war—war that I should be able to diffuse if I could only prove that our hands are clean with regards to the Italian girl and the girl that happened to vanish near Eden. If I could track the Italian girl down and deliver her home, I would be saving time, money, and most importantly the lives of my men.

  I know I need to call Or. He’s waiting for an update but I have nothing new to offer and it makes me feel incompetent. He has me in a trusted position of power and I’m expected to deliver. I don’t have a choice but to deliver. I’ve never had a choice. Not since Orin took me in, a bloodied teenager who’d just stood over his dad’s dead body. I’m indebted to the man for taking me in and saving my life all those years ago. I would likely be dead or in prison without him. When I had no one and nowhere to go, Orin McCrae gave me purpose and direction without ever asking for anything in return. Until four years ago.

  His younger brother suffered a massive heart attack and died, leaving a gaping whole in High Knoll’s hierarchy. Such holes in an organization’s structure lead people to believe that the structure is damaged and weak. Orin has been like a father to me and so he called upon me to show our family, friends, and especially our enemies that there are no weakness
es to be found in High Knoll. I’ve done my best and will continue to do my best to make sure no one forgets it.

  The crew never second guessed his decision to make me his Captain. They didn’t breathe a word about it. They know better. Orin McCrae may be in his golden years but he’s still ruthless and decisive, a true leader in every sense of the word. It isn’t wise to cross the man. After all he’s seen, all he’s done, all he’s lost, he’s a tough motherfucker who just so happens to look like any regular old man off to grab the senior plate at the nearest IHOP.

  Once I’ve toweled off, I go to my dresser and drag out my shorts and a white tee shirt. Nothing helps me more than a few rounds at the gym. It’s a pain convincing anyone to give it a go with me but someone always relents and offers to volunteer as the sacrificial lamb. I miss boxing. I miss every single thing about it, even the punches that land and hurt like hell. The one thing my sick piece of shit father taught me was how to box and more specifically how to get my ass kicked and still keep going. I don’t get my ass kicked anymore but there’s something homey about the way someone’s flesh and bone gives way under my fist.

  Well, color me twisted.

  “Get the fuck outta here. No way. I volunteered last time,” Mikey crows shoving his older brother, Will towards the ring. The guys are soldiers in High Knoll and they have my respect and trust. I’ve known them both for most of my life. We’re all from Southie. They help enforce High Knoll law when they are ordered to and if someone needs to be roughed up, the brothers are the guys who get a call from me or Murph.