The Beast of Boston

by JL Mac

  Dad definitely knows. Of course he knows. He knows everything. He has quietly eyed me over the dinner table. He will pull me aside when the time is right. Lan chats with Mom about school and her friend’s sleepover next weekend. Dad and I study each other, offering nods and mumbled responses to mom and Lan when prompted.

  “Why don’t you two go put a log in the fireplace and me and Ena will clean up the kitchen,” Dad says.

  “Make hot chocolate too!” Lan claps her hands and bounds from her seat at the dinner table.

  I smile and nod and push away from the table with my plate in hand. Once Mom and Lan are out of earshot, dad casually sidles up beside me at the sink, depositing the rest of our plates on the counter for me to wash. He turns, resting his back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, a contemplative look wrinkling his brow.

  “Do you think the bad guys in this world were born bad or do you think it’s an environmental thing? You know, the whole nature versus nurture thing?” he asks quietly. I peer up at him for a second, giving his question honest thought.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little of both,” I shrug, lathering dish soap into the sponge in my hand. Dad doesn’t move away but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. I don’t bother looking at him. He knows and I won’t lie about it.

  “Where’s my shaver?”

  “My backpack, but I guess you already know that.”

  “Ena, you think I don’t want to punish the bad guys? You think I don’t want to rough them up before I take them in?”

  I shrug my shoulders and keep working soap over dirty dishes.

  “I do. I catch someone real screwed up and I wish I could handle justice myself,” he whispers, leaning closer. “But I can’t. That’s not my job. It’s my job to deliver the bad guys to justice. Not to see it carried out on my own.”

  “I’m not a cop,” I rebut, shrugging.

  “No you’re not, and you never will be if your idea of handling a bad guy is to rough them up yourself. You can’t go around policing and punishing people like some vigilante. You’ll meet your match one day, Ena. There’s always someone tougher than you out there.”

  I shrug. “He messed with Lan. He said he liked her hair and wanted to touch it and she shrugged him off in front of his little friends. He decided to cut her hair and make a little keepsake out of it. So… I gave him a little haircut too. He got what he deserved.”

  “You can’t take on the bad guys of the world, Ena.” He shakes his head tiredly.

  “I never said I wanted to. I just don’t like people messing with my family so I handled it.”

  “You know, some of the criminals I arrest say the same type of thing when I ask them why they have done something to deserve a ride in my car.” The look of discontent in my dad’s eyes spears me and I hate that he’s disappointed in my methods but I can’t say I’d change what I did. We’re at an impasse. Dad pats me on my shoulder then disappears into the pantry for hot chocolate mix. I understand what he’s saying but it doesn’t change anything for me.

  Until Lan, and my mom and dad, I had nothing and no one. My papers say I was an unwanted pregnancy for the homeless teenager who gave birth to me. Having a family means more to me than most. He can never understand that, and I don’t expect him to, just like I know he doesn’t expect me to change. I spent ten years learning all sorts of awful things. I guess it’s engrained in me.

  I shake off my little walk down memory lane and force the vision of my dad’s worried gaze to the back of my mind. Even forced back in the recesses, I can feel that disappointed look crawling over my skin and I hate it. I can’t think about that now and it’s too late anyway. I’ve come this far. I’m doing it.

  Organized crime is predictable enough. Even their soldiers, associates, and on up to the lieutenants, captain, and boss are easy to figure out. They live to make money, and lots of it. Nothing is off limits. Racketeering, money laundering, fraud, extortion, drugs, prostitution, arms dealing. They do it all. Top earners who happen to be ruthless and tough—or world class sociopaths—climb in the ranks. High Knoll is much like the Italian mafia, La Cosa Nostra, with exception to one very crucial detail. The Italians on the north end of the city are all about tradition and The Family. They impose ancient practices and an honor code that matches. They have rules. The Italians are an exclusive bunch. They arrange marriages between La Cosa Nostra’s daughters and sons. They are ritualistic and treat their lifestyle more like it’s a religion. The Irish mob here in Southie? They are a bunch of lunatics with no hang-ups on family and honor. These barbarians have only a few concerns: making big money with as little effort as possible, killing or maiming anyone who crosses them, and keeping law enforcement in their pocket while avoiding the cops that aren’t. It’s as simple as that. They aren’t held to standards, and that makes them more dangerous.

  “No turning back,” I mutter to myself as I concentrate on my breathing. My iPhone stares up at me mockingly. I ignore the shot of adrenaline running through me at the thought of seeing The Beast of Boston in person. Like smoking cigarettes, drinking too much, or any other bad habit, I relent and swipe my screen. I open my messages and reread my last text message conversation with my little sister hoping to stir courage.

  Alana: Sorry I missed your call. What’s up? :)

  Me: I’ve been blowing up your cell. Wtf? Where are you? Mom’s flipping out.

  Alana: Calm your tits. I was busy.

  Me: Where are you?

  Alana: DAMN E! Stop acting like my keeper. I’m an adult now.

  Me: Don’t start your shit with me. Mom said you’ve been job hunting and I know you’ve been in High Knoll neighborhood. You wouldn’t be trying to work at one of their joints… would you?

  Alana: I might be able to get a really good job. The neighborhood shouldn’t matter. Good tips do! You aren’t going to fuck this up for me.

  Me: I will SO fuck this up for you because I know this has trouble written all over it. Come home. Now.

  Lan: I’m tired of being a financial drain for mom. I don’t make enough money at the coffee shop. I can help if I get a better job.

  Me: Don’t talk like that. I’ll be making more soon. Come home.

  Alana: I’ll be home later tonight and we can talk about this.

  Me: Promise.

  Alana: Swear it. <3 you.

  Me: Love you too. I’ll be waiting. You don’t show, I’m comin’ to get your scrawny ass.

  Me: Lan, why did you hang up? I’m calling back. Answer the phone.

  Me: Lan!!!

  Me: Lan, please answer. You’re scaring me now.

  Me: Lan. Call. Please call and tell them you’re not missing. Tell us all that you’re fine. Please.

  Despite my best efforts, my throat constricts and tears threaten, but at the same time fury builds. It feels warm and tingly in the pit of my gut, always there like glowing embers. All I have to do it stoke those embers, poke them around with the iron rod that is my stubborn will, and flames leap from the glowing bits to lick at my throat. Those flames brook my courage to willingly walk into trouble if it means bringing my baby sister home.

  I jam my phone down into my glove compartment leaving the burner phone in my bag. I close my eyes, picturing Lan’s face and instigate my own rage. It feels a lot better to be angry than to play the part of some kind of victim. That’s one of the best lessons my early youth taught me. Ten years in foster care taught me a lot. Rob and Viv taught me more than I ever wanted them to. Viv taught me that a woman’s greatest weapon is her body and using it like a piece of luggage is perfectly fine if you get what you want or need, and what she wanted and needed was a fix. Rob taught me that men can’t be trusted. I couldn’t forget it if I tried.

  “Thanks for the life lessons, assholes,” I mumble to myself.

  Flipping the mirror on my visor open, I smooth a fresh layer of red lipstick on. It looks damn near garish against my pale skin and red hair that is freshly done with brunette lowlights
giving me a darker look. The blue contacts I bought remind me of Dad’s blue eyes. I absently wonder if I would have had his blue eyes if he’d been my biological father. My brain wanders from that topic back to Lan. She inherited blue eyes, though they’re a shade lighter than Dad’s were. I pause and wonder what Lan was wearing when she came here. I know for a fact that she was famous for changing her clothes and plastering on layers of makeup the minute she left the house. There was no way she’d have come in a place like Eden wearing the leggings and tunic with flats that she was last seen leaving the house in.

  Today marks day 87 since she walked out of the house claiming she was off to some Boston College study group. She had an argument with Mom that morning and both of them were fine with taking a breather but I knew better when I’d heard her spout of the shoddy lie to Mom. I just graduated from BC. The study group she had mentioned doesn’t fucking exist. I leaned against the counter sipping my coffee as I narrowed my eyes at her to let her know that I wasn’t buying her bullshit. Her blue eyes met mine briefly, but long enough for me to know that she was going to avoid me like the plague when I sent her a text the minute she walked out of the house. She did, too. Hours passed before she finally responded and made me that promise that she was going to be home later that night. She promised to call me before she headed home and she did. I was just about to berate her with questions when she put me on hold. The muffled sound of talking told me she had her hand over the phone. I couldn’t hear everything, but I heard enough to figure out that she was talking to someone like she knew them. The call was dropped before she got back on the line but she promised she’d come home. She promised me. She broke her promise.

  I stride with purpose into the dimly lit foyer of the club and remind myself to look the part. I can only hope that the desperation within me isn’t as transparent as it sometimes feels. I couldn’t help Dad. He died serving this screwed up city. I can’t do anything to bring him back but I can damn sure do something to try and bring Lan back.

  “Hi,” I greet the doorman as casually as possible. “I’m a dancer and would like to speak with the manager.” The man with dark eyes and an expressionless face presses a button on his earpiece and speaks so low I can’t make out what he has said.

  “Wait here.”

  I wasn’t shown the door! Yes!

  Nerves and butterflies fly into high gear, but I manage to feign nonchalance. I run my hand over my skin-tight jeans as I shift on my stiletto heels. I force myself not to tug at the material of my halter top or adjust the plunging neckline. I’m an exotic dancer. I’m Abigail Tally, and I am here for a job.

  A woman old enough to be my grandmother appears beside the mammoth man with the earpiece. “Who are you?” she asks with a scrutinizing eye and a rattling voice.

  “Abigail Tally,” I lie, giving her my alias.

  “Noreen,” she announces her name in that raspy voice that I assume was made that way by smoking about a pack and a half a day for a few decades.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “You dance?” she asks with her gray eyes roaming up and down my body in a critical fashion. You’d think the woman was purchasing art not hiring a stripper.

  “I do.”

  “Mhmm,” she nods. “Stay here,” she orders then disappears into the main club beyond the foyer. I peer around, taking in the richness of my surroundings. The foyer is done in a minimalist fashion but it only underscores the high-end quality of the place. Supple deep green—nearly black—leather loungers are lined against the longest wall. A slim podium, upon which the doorman has his elbow resting, sits between the exterior entrance and the interior entrance. The flooring appears to be marble but the dim light emitted by the wall sconces don’t help me with discerning too much more. The minutes drag on and on and the feeling of being watched has my paranoia ratcheting up to a ten. Finally Noreen’s slim figure reappears. “Come with me.”

  I follow her without hesitation and do my best to convince myself of my own lies. I own the walk, the look, the lie.

  I am Abigail Tally and I am a dancer.

  I‘m led through the darkened main stretch of the club and we turn right down a wide corridor that matches the foyer’s understated opulence. The elderly Noreen walks swiftly, belying her age and obvious smoking habit. I struggle to take in my surroundings while also keeping up with her. We arrive at the end of a long wide corridor lit by dim wall sconces dotting down the length of the hall. Noreen is expressionless and mute as she points from our place at the entrance into the darkened space where a collection of shadowy figures are seated. When I arch a brow, she motions with a tick of her head directing me to enter the large room she has led me to. I take a full step inside and pause to let my speeding heart slow as I look around the space. I do so while mentally tripping over the fact that I am in the lion’s den. I inquired about a job and they let me just waltz right in to mix with some of the most violent and notable criminals in the country—perhaps the world.

  When I lift my gaze toward the table Noreen indicated, I feel predatory eyes watching me. His large frame is cast mostly in shadow but he’s easy enough to make out now that my eyes have adjusted to the darkness.

  Beast.

  It’s really him and as much it repulses me to admit, even partially cloaked in shadows, he truly is a beautiful monster. I take a small breath for courage and good luck as I carry myself directly to him like a sacrifice prepared to die. I come to a stop beside the round table that four hulky men are seated at and mentally wonder what to do. I have no way of knowing what my next move should be. Noreen hadn’t said and I didn’t ask.

  I recognize the men from my research as being Beast’s closest confidants. These three men have been seen with Beast publicly and often. They’re talking back and forth about someone named Jackie and Rick, whoever they are. The two bulky men sitting next to each other are both sporting fresh black eyes. One of them has a split lip. The other has a gash across the bridge of his nose.

  Real lookers, these two.

  It’s hard not to stare at the evidence of fresh brutality. They’re all kinds of banged up.

  The two punching bags do most of the talking while the more serious looking man sitting furthest from me is leaned back, his arms folded comfortably across his chest. He’s got dark brown hair and rich brown eyes. His expression is stoic and cold. His jaw is razor sharp and if I didn’t know better I’d say he could be one of those mysterious, blank-faced models I always see advertising designer underwear or cologne or expensive watches. But, I know better. His face is captivating but the scars on his hands are telling. No Rolex commercials for you, buddy. I shift on my feet waiting to be acknowledged by any of them, and his dark eyes slip to me briefly before he gets back to listening to the other two men. That leaves Beast who has gaze pinned on me.

  Noreen has dumped me off and made her escape. I lift my chin and clear my throat. “Excuse me, I was hoping to speak with whoever does the hiring,” I smile making sure to saturate my words in enough molasses to draw every creepy crawling insect for fifty miles around. His eyes drift up my body from tip to toe in a lazy stroll but his face is steel making me wonder what’s going through his mind. He’s staring at me with an immovable expression. Completely vacant. “Is there a manager I can speak to or…” Panic leaps forward in a rush and I begin to wonder if I am fucking this up already. The four men just stare at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language. I swallow and look around the room for Noreen but she’s nowhere in sight. Silence settles as my anxiety wages war against my resolve. I haven’t been in the building for longer than fifteen minutes and I’m floundering. “Should I speak to Noreen about this?” I ask as I begin to withdraw from their group. Before I can back away one strong hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me slightly, holding me in place with ease.

  “And who are you?” he demands in a rich, deep voice that sends a wave of electricity zipping through my body. All three of the other men at the table snap their attention to the man holding my
wrist in his vice-like grip.

  “Abigail Tally,” I lie, giving him my new alias.

  “And you are?” I try sounding nice, flirty, but I’m not entirely sure I pulled it off. I may have fooled thirteen-year old Brandon Simmons all those years ago but something tells me—screams at me—that I will find it much more challenging to fool The Beast of Boston.

  I’ve never been the flirty, girly type and I certainly never thought it would be a skill set I’d need to employ one day. I thought wrong. I should have actually tried to date more during my four years at Boston College. I let a smile spread across my face and one of the men drinking a beer guffaws loudly.

  “Abigail, baby, where have you been hidin’? Goddamn,” he whistles low, openly eye fucking me.

  Beast remains holding me in place and doesn’t say a word, he only stares at me like he’s reading a book, my secrets spilling out through every word I’m not saying aloud. It’s unnerving.

  “Who sent you here?” he demands more than asks.

  “A long string of bad life choices,” I say. “I need a new job,” I go on coolly. “I need the money.” I do my best to look embarrassed as I lie my ass off. The Beast tightens his grip on me a little more. My eyes slip down to his hand wrapped like a python around my wrist. Veins in my hand bulge and my normally pasty hand glows bright pink-red. I lift my eyes to meet his again.

  “If it’s money you’re lookin’ for baby, I know of another gig that may suit you real nice,” the one with the broken nose offers with another head to toe assessment of my body.

  “Yeah? Are they hiring?” I ask quietly, my eyes slipping away from Beast for a moment.

  “No,” Beast says releasing my wrist and shoving it away like I’ve dirtied him somehow.

  Fuck.

  “I could apply though?” My voice is pleading, and the beer guys laugh boisterously at me. Mr. Rolex commercial even snorts a little at my expense. I look between them, pretending to be clueless when I’d really love to unleash on them.