Black Diamond (19 page)

“Sweeney. Martin Sweeney.”

I locked it in my memory. “Is he connected with Dubh Crann Stables?”

He looked at me as if I had gone beyond anything our friendship entitled me to. There was both defeat and anger in his voice when he barked out, “Yeah.”

He pulled the reins and dug his heels into the roan's side to canter down the track away from me.

It seemed that at least ten thoughts were struggling for front-and-center time as I drove to the gate from the backstretch. The most pointed was a pang of remorse for putting a painful wall between me and Rick. That was the first bridge I'd try to mend when this thing finally resolved.

When I reached the gate, one burning desire rose to the top of all the other issues. I turned right on Revere Beach Parkway toward the ocean with the intent of taking another right on Winthrop Parkway. I figured that since I was close, I had time to stop in and check on Erin and Colleen without making a call on a possibly compromised cell phone. I could also see Terry for long enough to insure that she still remembered what I looked like.

I was just settling into the joy of anticipating those two possibilities when my cell phone rang. It was too soon for Manny to have heard from Scully's replacement, and only a small handful of people I'm close to have my cell number. That's why it was jarring to hear a completely unfamiliar voice with a pronounced Boston Irish accent.

“Keep drivin', Knight.”

“It's my every intent. What's your interest?”

“You'll find out. Stay on the parkway. Bear right ahead there at the fork.”

Whoever it was knew where I was and where I was heading. When it finally clicked, I checked the rearview mirror. There was a blue Chevy Impala about ten feet from my rear bumper. The driver
had his cell phone to his ear. More disturbing when he put down the cell phone was the handgun the size of a .357 Magnum he waved out the window and pointed at my gas tank. When he knew he had my full attention, he put down the gun and picked up the cell phone.

“Keep on straight, Knight. Take a right on Bennington.”

That did not sound promising. Bennington led back to Belle Isle Park. At that early hour of the morning, it would be just the two of us and the ducks. And he had the only gun.

I decided to change the odds. I dropped the Corvette down one gear and just continued at the same speed to where Revere Beach Parkway bends left at the fork. At the last second, I whipped the wheel to the left and floored it.

The Corvette, true to its breeding, leaped an additional thirty miles an hour. The Impala barely made the turn and came barreling after me. I eased off on the speed just enough to let him keep me in sight.

I made a three-quarter turn around Eliot Circle on two wheels and floored it again on Revere Beach Boulevard. The Impala labored to close the gap, but I stayed far enough ahead of him to prevent an accurate gunshot.

When I was within a hundred yards of the Castle-Mar Motel, I cut back on the speed and let him catch up. In a few seconds, he was back on my rear bumper, screaming demands into the cell phone in colorfully blistering language, but so far he hadn't fired a shot.

My fits and starts were not quite as random as he must have thought they were. I had a clear recollection of two expensive chats with Revere's finest on that stretch of road just past the Castle-Mar. I prayed that they were creatures of habit.

Fifty feet from the Castle-Mar, I hit the gas pedal, but this time only fast enough to exceed the speed limit and still keep him on my tail.

We blew past the Castle-Mar at sixty with only twenty feet between
us. For the first time in my life, I thanked God for the Revere Police Department when I saw the red and blue flashing lights fall in line behind the Impala. I knew the police couldn't stop both of us with one squad car, and they were more likely to go for the car closest.

The screaming siren sounded to me like Beethoven's
Third Symphony
. I could see the driver of the Impala scrambling to get the gun far under the driver's seat before pulling over to the curb. His face was bright red, and it turned two shades deeper when I succumbed to the urge to wave out the window.

There was one last thing to do. I turned a sharp left, and then another left onto Ocean Avenue. I cruised past the backside of the Castle-Mar and took two more lefts. That put me back on Revere Beach Boulevard. I dropped the speed to within the speed limit and drove past the spot where a nearly seven-foot traffic officer seemed to be taking serious exception to the language coming from inside the Impala.

I resisted the urge to honk the horn and wave on my way by, since my primary purpose was only to catch the license number of the Impala. That done, I got on the phone to Tom Burns.

“I need some of that Tom Burns magic.”

“Ready and waiting. You sound out of breath.”

“Just playing a little cartag with one of the boys.”

“You need help, Mikey? I have people ready to go.”

“No, Tom. I'm good. At least for the moment. I need you to run a license number for a name and address. Can you do that?”

“What's the number?”

“Mass. tag, 49560. My guess is Revere or East Boston.”

I based the guess on location on the fact that Manny Gomez must have phoned his gang contact as soon as I left the stall. His contact put the Chevy driver on my tail and gave him my cell phone number. That meant the Chevy driver lived close enough to Suffolk Downs to get there in the five or ten minutes I was talking to Rick.

The thought crept into my consciousness that the Lord might
have dropped a possibility into my lap that should not be ignored. Before I could act on it, I needed three things—a name and address from Tom Burns, a plan that could result in my surviving, and enough solid sustenance to get me through what I had in mind. A stop in the nearest Dunkin' Donuts had possibilities for all three.

Ten minutes and two chocolate-covereds later, Tom called.

“Got a pen, Mikey?”

“You're golden, Tom. Shoot.”

“Kevin Murphy. You're on the money about the Revere address. Forty-two Walden St. It's a little street off Beach Street. You got it?”

“No sweat. I know Beach Street.”

“Then you know that neighborhood. You need backup?”

“I want to try a soft approach first. Another face could throw it off. If it doesn't work, I'll thank you to send in the marines—or the coroner.”

I needed one more piece. I called my diminutive gossipmonger in South Boston, Binney O'Toole. From the sound of his voice at that hour, I caught him in mid-hangover.

“Binney, a moment of your valuable time. I need to tap your expertise.”

“And it couldn't wait till a decent hour, I suppose.”

“Right again, Binney. I need information on one Kevin Murphy. Lives in Revere.”

“Oh, for the love of the saints, Mikey. Do you get a man out of a sound sleep to ask about the likes of Kevin Murphy?”

“I do, Binney. And it sounds as if you have a bit of information to share.”

“I wouldn't count on it. I remember the last little chat we had. Gave me the trots for three days, it was that distressing.”

“It also gave you a handsome jug of the Tullamore Dew. That could happen again if I think it's worth it.”

There was a slight pause and a distinct change of tone.

“And what can I tell you about our Mr. Murphy?”

“Everything you know.”

“Little there is worth tellin'. The truth of it is he's a bagman for Doyle's outfit. Has been for the past thirty years I've known him.”

“Meaning what?”

“Sure what do they teach ya in law school, Mikey? Your education's been neglected.”

“Then educate me. Do it well and I'll call your favorite bartender and see that there's a green jug waiting for you.”

I could hear him lick his lips.

“Ah, then. Bagman 101. He's just that. He carries the bags of cash from Boyle's bookies, loan sharks, extortionists, and the rest of it back to Boyle's office.”

“And gives it to whom?”

“I'll deny that I said it. He gives it to that blackheart, Vince Scully. That's the half of it. He also carries bags of cash the other way to Boyle's politicians, police, judges. He's an errand boy, but he's one they can trust with the bags of cash.”

“Is that it? Because that's not worth half a jug. What else?”

There was a second's pause. “Well, there might be somethin'. What bartender did ya say?”

“I didn't. Give, Binney.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I shared a drop or two a couple of weeks ago with your friend, Murphy. He was well into his cups. He spilled a little word between us. It seems that every couple of weeks, they send him to the North Station. There's a locker key left for him in an envelope at the newsie's shop. Always the same locker. Five twelve. I remember 'cause it's me birthday.”

“And—”

“He said he opens the locker and takes out a leather valise. Always the same.”

“What's in it?”

“Ah, that's why he mentioned it. In a whisper, mind you. It has him puzzled too. He assumes it's cash, but he never opens it.
Wouldn't dare. The orders are to take it direct to Mr. Boyle himself. No one else.”

“What else, Binney?”

“On me mother's grave, that's all I know. Now can we discuss this other business?”

We picked a bar in the bowels of South Boston. I called and left word with the bartender that I'd be in before the day ended to pay for a jug of the Tullamore Dew. He agreed to hold it until Binney got there. We hardly finished the conversation, when I heard Binney's out-of-breath voice in the background, looking to collect his Dew.

By the time my Chevy driver parted ways with the speed cop on Revere Beach Boulevard and parked in front of forty-two Walden Street, it was a little after eight a.m. He looked about fifty, five foot five or six, and the kind of pudgy that makes everything he wears look as if it were mail ordered. His balding pate was like a mood ring—the color indicated the state of his emotions, which at that moment, were still in the red zone.

He lumbered up the flight of stairs to the porch that ran across the front of the house. He was out of breath, and his hand quivered enough to require three stabs at the door lock with a key. I was sitting on one of the lounging beach chairs that adorned the porch facing the door.

“Good morning, Kevin.”

I gave it my cheeriest tone. He leaped just high enough to take the porch light off its mooring. The key flew out of his hand and somehow landed at my feet. I picked it up while he tried to catch his breath. I expected to see him pull the handgun out of his belt, but he had apparently left it in the car.

A crotchety, elderly sounding female voice with an Irish accent came from upstairs.

“What did ya break now, Kevin?”

“Nuthin', Ma. Go back to sleep.”

“I heard—”

“It ain't nuthin', Ma. I'll fix it.”

“Why can't you get in at a decent hour like your brother? I can't—”

“Go back to sleep, Ma.”

The upstairs mother was another gift from God. Kevin was unlikely to get raucous with me on the front porch as long as his mother's hearing held out.

I got up and walked over to Kevin with a take-out cup of steaming Dunkin' Donuts coffee in each hand. He had probably been rousted out of a sound sleep by whatever gang member took Manny Gomez's call, and absolutely nothing had gone right since. He just stared at me with an expression that said he was almost too worn down to be pissed off.

I handed him one of the coffees, and said, “Kevin, why don't we sit down and talk things over? Better yet, you just drink the coffee. Let me talk. Let's see if I can make sense of this thing.”

Kevin looked as if he were too confused by the morning's events to make a clear decision to sit or stand. He probably got the early call to corral me because he was the only one who lived closer to Suffolk Downs than the boys in South Boston.

He finally sat down across from me and began slurping the coffee without a word.

“This work with a gun. It's not your line of work, is it, Kevin?”

He looked up at me over the rim of the coffee cup.

“The hell do you know about it?”

“Well, Kevin. May I call you ‘Kevin'? You don't seem too good at it.”

No response. Back to slurping. My tone went from bright and cheery to sharp and threatening.

“I want you to listen to me. You've had a bad day so far. In your most frightening dreams you can't imagine how much worse it's going to get in the next few hours. You listening, Kevin? You don't
know it, but after this morning's little farce, you're in it up to your little red ears. You don't begin to know what trouble is. Shall I lay it out for you?”

The slurping stopped, but his mouth hung open and his eyes were riveted on mine.

“Here's the deal. Mr. Boyle says you're a bagman for his organization. He says you're a good-faithful employee. He feels he can put a lot of confidence in you. What do you think of that? I bet you didn't know how Mr. Boyle felt about you.”

I couldn't hope for anything affirmative yet, but I got a very valuable negative. No denial. In fact, the slight relaxation of the folds that were creasing his forehead said he was pleased to hear it. From the look of Kevin, and the tone of his mother upstairs, it was probably the first compliment Kevin had heard since he was toilet trained.

“Do you ever get to talk to Mr. Boyle personally?”

Silence. Another slurp of coffee.

“This is a conversation, Kevin. I have a reason for asking. Do you ever see Mr. Boyle face-to-face?”

Another slurp. “Sometimes.”

“You see, this is why he values you, Kevin. He values loyalty more than anything else on earth. He's told me that a dozen times. Did he give you that impression?”