The chief jabbed his cigar at them both, rubbing at his protruding gut, “speak of the devil and he shall appear, eh Joe? Our hero of the moment, Detective Benjamin Hughes.”
Joe Kennedy stepped forward, raised his eyebrows appraising Ben coolly. “Damn pleasure to meet you finally, Detective Hughes. I’ve heard a heck of a lot about you. Quite the dashing British hero, by all accounts.”
“Sure, nice to meet you too,” Ben lied. Tried to smile. His jaw locked and clicked.
“As you’re probably already acutely aware, I was the ambassador to your fair homeland a few years back. Didn’t end too well. Differences of political views and some such nonsense. Damned shame. Hitler wasn’t hurting anybody but the sheenies in my humble opinion. Damned shame. Lovely place, however. Britain. Just lovely.”
Joe stuck out his hand to shake and Ben slid his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Took a step back. Nodded several times.
“I’ve not called England home for over twenty years,” Ben took off his hat, held it for a moment and then pushed in back onto his head.
The climate in the room became a few degrees hotter.
The chief cleared his throat as though making a point and waved his cigar again. “Like I mentioned earlier, he doesn’t like to shake hands, Joe. Doesn’t like to touch anybody. Don’t take it personally. He’s our precinct neurotic, aren’t you, Hughes?” The Chief said, grinning with stained chipped teeth, eyeing Ben as coolly as Kennedy.
Ben stared at a black stain on the sole of Sullivan’s shoe. It looked as though he had stamped on a cockroach. Could have been chewing gum. Ben didn’t know but couldn’t drag his eyes from it. He broke out into an electric sweat. Guts, solid and aching, groaned audibly. Felt similar to crashing, opium withdrawal again but wasn’t. The Chief shrugged, gazing at the tip of the cigar thoughtfully and continued to talk.
“Another robbery in progress foiled due to your eagle-eyed diligence, Hughes. The Boston Police Department owe your heroics a debt of gratitude. Hell, the whole of Boston does. Isn’t that right, Joe? A real Boy Scout we got here.”
“It certainly is and we certainly do. I was just saying to your boss here, Ben, that I could very well use someone with your type of moxy. Your drive. How would you like to come and work for me this weekend? With the big man’s blessing of course.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben avoided the man’s eye contact. Focusing on a gold and mother of pearl stick pin lanced through a blood red necktie.
“A little work, is all, Sport.”
“What exactly would this little work entail?”
Joe Kennedy glanced at The Chief and the Chief shrugged, nodded at him to go ahead.
“Well, it would be a kind of security detail.”
“I would’ve imagined someone of your reputation would have their own security already. Armed guards and what have you.”
“I have a couple of good fellows, yes, that’s true. But they’ll be engaged in other matters this weekend. Short notice. I’ll need yourself and a few suitable men, of your choosing of course,” Kennedy slipped a small candy tin from his pocket, shook some breath mints into his large mouth. Lips puckered. Ben looked back to the stain on the bottom of Sullivan’s shoe. The Chief interjected and picked up the ball.
“We aren’t talking about men from the department either, Hughes. We’re talking about your other friends. The lads over on Dorchester Street,” Sullivan winked.
“What do you need that kind of security for?” Ben asked, even though he had a good idea. Southie rumors always have a hard edge of truth about them.
“Well, that’s not something I’m willing to go into with you just yet, Sport.”
“I don’t walk into a dark room without switching on a light or two, Joe. That’s a good way to cause injury to yourself.”
“Joe? It’s as though we’re becoming fast friends already. All right then, Ben. I wouldn’t want to you feel in danger of stubbing your toe. Let’s just say some little upstart Italian gentlemen are somewhat dissatisfied with a business relationship that came to an end last month. I’m having an important gathering of people in Salt Lake City this weekend. A lot of important people. Movers and shakers from the most prestigious fields. People creating a new kind of America. A better kind of America. And I don’t want any disgruntled, hot-headed fucking guineas spoiling all the fun and disrupting the flow of things, if you follow me.”
“I follow you. Thus far. Who’ll be attending the party?”
“Well, it’s a private affair, as is the guest list, Sport. However, I will say that the head of a major movie studio, one or two governors, some other upper echelon politicians and some well-known Hollywood types will be in attendance. A cardinal, if you’re impressed by that sort of person. Those are just some of the minor players of course. But real movers and shakers, like I said. The old blood, if you will. King makers. Good people to know and better people to have on your side,” Kennedy winked.
Ben looked away at The Chief. The Chief tapped cigar ash into an ashtray, stony faced.
“I’m working a couple of cases here. Besides, Salt Lake City is pretty far away. Why would I want to involve myself and my associates in babysitting a bunch of spoilt elites? No offence intended, of course, Joe.”
Kennedy chuckled, cleared his throat and looked over the lenses of his glasses towards The Chief. Sullivan examined the tip of his dress shoes as he spoke, “Hughes, my boy, this is a stupendous opportunity for you. As Joe said, a lot of important folks’ll be there. The kind of people who really know how to return a favor. What we’re saying here is, we need men with a little bit of discretion. Guys who know when it’s best to look the other way. Like you Ben.”
“Like me?” Ben caught his reflection in glass of the office door. He straightened his shoulders and shook his head.
The Chief threw his head back, crowing out a loud ‘HA!’ then looked Ben up and down slowly. “Just like you, Ben. Look lad, see this little job through and tell you what, I’ll finally push through that transfer request you’ve been hounding me for. I didn’t want you to go out to Los Angeles, but I’ll sign the damned paperwork and push the damn thing through. All right? I won’t be able to find a man as good as you, but fuck it, I’ll send you to California. If that is what you want? That is what you want, isn’t it?”
Ben nodded slow, unsure of how to respond.
“You could even take that young girl you’ve been frolicking with as of late. Li Yu, isn’t it?” The Chief stood up, brushed ash from his slacks and came round the desk. Leaning his soft, sagging body against it. Peppery hair out of place and his face a flushed, red. The vile stink of something corrupt drifting out from his stained, creased shirt. Ben stepped back again, wishing there were an open window in the room. He felt too hot. Placing a hand on the door frame to steady himself and automatically regretting it. It was sticky. He rubbed his fingers together grimacing. Took out a handkerchief, pretended to sneeze into it and then thoroughly wiped at his hand. Joe and The Chief made slow eye contact with each other.
“Los Angeles… Too many spics and hebes for my liking. But what the hell, the heart wants what it wants. How long’s it been, anyway?” Sullivan went on.
“Been since what?” Ben asked, folding the handkerchief back into his breast pocket.
“Since you saw your kids? That’s why you want to go out there, isn’t it?”
“You know about my children? And you know about Li?” Ben asked frowning.
“Of course I do. I’m the Chief and I like to know what my favorite little underlings are getting up to in their free time, Hughes.”
Ben’s face burned up. The Chief slapped his knee and guffawed. “Well I’ll be damned! I got the boy blushing! Lad, I don’t care if your wife ran away taking the kiddies with her. I don’t even care who you fuck, Ben. A lot of people around here they wouldn’t understand any of that, but I understand you. The restraining order your ex-wife has out on you can be our little secret. And as for the whore? Hell,
I’ve been known to dip into China Town myself on occasion. Get myself some of that exotic erotic.” He laughed too heavily and broke out into a hacking cough.
Ben felt another headache stretching out in his skull with clawed legs. Sullivan cleared his throat, spat phlegm into the wastepaper basket and puffed at his cigar thoughtfully. “No, it wouldn’t be good for you if it got out at all, like so many other things. Say for example, did you know, Ben, the revolver that was used in the attempted robbery you foiled yesterday was last recorded missing from the evidence locker two fucking years ago?” The Chief shook his head faux sad, sucking on the cigar. “That’s pretty damn peculiar, isn’t it? Some people around here would have a hell of a lot of questions about that, like Lewis Jones. He’d have you in cuffs in front of a tribunal faster than a twelve-year-old shoots his load at the sight of a pair of big titties. But not me, Ben.”
Ben swallowed bile and closed his eyes. Needed to sit down. Vision topsy-turvy.
The Chief grinned at Kennedy, continuing, “No, not me. You’re my good pal and one of the best men I’ve got around here. I could add that the bullets we took from the stiff also matched the other bullets at the scene. The bar door. I could also add that you’re a fucking moron, Ben. Killing the perp with the same gun you framed him with.”
The Chief and Kennedy erupted into a cackling laughter then cut it off abrupt. Glaring at him. Ben swallowed. His legs trembled and he tried to shift his weight to stop it. Staring back. Sullivan slapped his knee. It sounded like a gunshot in the suddenly silent office. “I could say all those things, but I won’t. I won’t say a damned thing. You’re as safe as houses with me and Joe here, lad. Anyway, all’s I’m trying to say here is, you’re looking a little under the weather. Having to put a perp down, especially a violent perp is always a very stressful business. Very stressful. Maybe a little personal time away in Salt Lake City is exactly what you need. A holiday. A vacation. All those mountains and fresh air will do you the world of good.”
“I’ll also pay you and your pals handsomely, Ben. Very handsomely. One thousand dollars per man, per day,” Kennedy chimed in.
“Two thousand dollars for a weekend of Security? For a party in Salt Lake City?” Ben’s interest peaked. He would be able to add the cash to his savings for a new life with Li Yu in California.
“That’s exactly right, Ben. Two thousand dollars for two days. I’m renting the entire Peery Hotel. It’ll be empty of clientele and staff, with the exception of a few maids, cooks, and what have you.”
“I’ll also be one of the lesser important people attending the party, Ben,” The Chief cut in, “so you’ll be in good company.” He smirked.
Kennedy eyeballed Sullivan and went on, “Yes, The Chief here will be the man with the guest list. Making sure those who come up to the top floor are invited to the party and not unwanted interlopers. You just have your men positioned around the hotel lobby looking rough and tumble. There will be rooms for you to use on the lower floor. I imagine you’ll work in shifts. But I’ll leave all those kinds of arrangements in your very capable hands. However, no one, and I mean no one, is to come up to the top floor or enter the banquet room for any reasons whatsoever. That’s the sine qua non. I don’t care if the devil himself rolls through the front doors. No one is to bother the party. Now, tell me, Sport, is that easy money, or isn’t it? Think of all the great things you could do with four thousand dollars.”
“Four thousand dollars?”
“Well yes, obviously I’ll be paying you double for your trouble and that certain moxy, I spoke of earlier, of course.”
“How can I reach you to let you know my decision?” Ben stepped back towards the door. The two men’s faces seemed to be distorting. Something slithering underneath the flesh. His hand itching where he had touched the doorframe. The smell of shit and breath mints. Something awful in the atmosphere of the office, drifting from Kennedy and Sullivan both. Ben held his breath. Pulled the handkerchief from his pocket again. Wanting to get the hell out of the office and away from them both. Fast. Needing to scrub his hands desperately.
“He still needs to think about it? Jesus H. Christ,” Sullivan slapped his knee again, blowing thick pungent smoke towards Ben’s face.
“No, I don’t reckon so. I worked in Hollywood for a little while. He’s already sold. Like a slutty little starlet desperate for a part in the movie, he’s just playing hard to get, aren’t you, Ben?” Kennedy grinned.
Ben shrugged. Squeezed the handkerchief in his fist tight. It looked as though the two men were wearing masks. Rubber Halloween masks of human faces pulled too tight over something grotesque and ancient.
Kennedy rubbed at his jawline as though hearing Ben’s thoughts and guffawed. “Let the boss here know and I’ll know. You and I won’t be seeing or hearing from each other again after today, Sport. Our little discourse here is done.” He stuck out his hand to shake. Ben ignored it.
“I’ll give your proposal some thought and send word within twenty-four hours,” he spat out, going to leave, gasping for oxygen. The Chief threw a hand in the air, telling him to stop, went back around the desk, took a thin, white envelope from a top drawer and handed it to Ben.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with Wallace, but no one over there is answering the fucking telephone. Line is deader than Abe Lincoln.”
“Stevie had the telephones taken out of the club a couple of months back.”
“Why the fuck would he do a thing like that? I knew the street gossip must’ve been true.”
Ben looked down at the envelope in his hand and then glanced out of The Chief’s office window at the golden dome of the New State House shining in the distance. The building was meant to stand for everything righteous in Boston, but Ben could never help but think it just underlined everything that was wrong with the place. It started to rain again. Droplets trickled down the glass like a child’s tears. The Chief clicked his fingers twice, catching Ben’s attention and pointed at the paper envelope in his fingers.
“Take that to Wallace.”
“Sure, I’ll do it after the morning’s briefing.”
“When have you ever given a rat’s ass about the morning briefing, Hughes? No, do it now, right away, it’s important. Very fucking important. Can’t stress that enough, lad.”
“What about the briefing?”
“I said don’t fucking worry about the briefing. It’s the usual bullshit. A dead whore with her tits hacked off in the North End and another missing brat. You’re on holiday leave as from this moment. I want that envelope in Wallace’s hand within the hour, you hear, Englishman?”
Kennedy and the Chief chuckled and slapped each other on the back as though sharing a private joke. Ben’s flesh itched and prickled all over. His heart lodged in his throat. Tears running down the windowpane. Needing to wash his hands desperately. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
He swung open the door to leave. The sweat scalding, trickling down his back.
“Uh-uh, aren’t you forgetting something, Hughes? Gimme, gimme, gimme” Sullivan said, holding out his palm and wriggling his fingers back and forth. A cockroach on its back.
“Yes, right. Of course,” Ben said, pulling the thick Manila envelope from the inside of his jacket pocket and letting The Chief snatch it out of his hand, licking his thick blue lips.
“Good boy, Ben. I hope you didn’t take more than your percentage. Be a mistake to start getting greedy. Now, go and get some rest and recuperation. Take that little Chink girl out somewhere nice. I’ll see you in Salt Lake City. And, don’t get into any more fucking trouble.” He winked again the same way Kennedy had.
“I’ll need to write the reports about what happened in Seaport yesterday morning before I go.”
“That’s not going to be a problem, they’ve already been typed up and filed.”
“What?”
“Just say ‘thank you’, Hughes.”
Ben croaked out a thanks, nodded. Turned around and left quickly
. The sounds of their laughter crawling after him down the musty hall. The clatter of typewriters machine gun fire in the typing pool. Feeling filthy. Contaminated. Needing to decontaminate his hands and rinse his mouth out.
Kennedy frowned at the closed office door, “Sully, I do believe that boy is a certifiable bed bug.”
The chief fell back into his chair, coughed up phlegm, spat it into a wastepaper basket. Spittle dribbled down into the crevice of his double chin. “Hughes? What did I tell you? Crazy as a shithouse rat, but those are the best kind of guys. Trust me, ain’t no one better to pull security for your get-together. The amount of shit I got on him would make your head spin around. He’s the guy for the job.”
“It’s on your head, Sully,” Kennedy took off his spectacles and cleaned the lenses on a silk handkerchief.
The chief chuckled and shrugged, puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair to look out of the window at the dome of The State House.
“Shit, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
They both laughed, but at different things and Kennedy glanced at his wristwatch trying to think of a good remark to leave the fat slob behind the desk on.
Detective Mellon was smoking one of his French cigarettes and drinking an old coffee from a paper cup, his brown hair pomaded back on his head catching the morning light from a grimy window when Ben approached his desk.
“What the hell you want, Hughes? Don’t just loom over me, scratching at yourself,” he said in his thick New Yorker’s accent without looking up.
Ben took out the photograph from inside his pocket, unfolded it and dropped it onto Mellon’s cluttered desk. Mellon took a long drag on his cigarette and examined the photograph ripped from the newspaper. Shrugged, took off his spectacles, glanced up and blew smoke into Ben’s face.
“Yeah, another missing, kid. So what? What the hell you asking for? Got any tips or what?”
“I wanted to know if you have any leads yet?” Ben shot back, waving the smoke away.
“No, not yet. We got jack shit, as per usual. No one talks to cops in this town, you know that. All we got is a couple of crank calls. The maid the kid was with when he did the Houdini is clean. No suspects. Nothing. Like all these other missing kids. It’s like the Pied Piper of Hamlin came to Boston. Only difference is Boston is still full of fucking rats.”
I'll Pray When I'm Dying Page 8