The Fixer (29 page)

T
he Dunkin’ Donuts on Old Colony Avenue in Southie was perched in the middle of a big parking lot, which made it a useful place to meet. It was a busy street, another advantage. Or so he was told. Rick was no expert.

He sat in his rented Saturn parked within view of the entrance. He wore a Red Sox cap and was barely recognizable.

He watched the customers enter.

A teenage boy with a bad case of acne. A man in glasses and an ill-fitting blazer, who could have been an accountant. An overweight woman in her twenties wearing a pantsuit. He gave a second look to a man who looked as if he worked with his hands but decided he was probably a construction worker.

He had nothing but fragmentary memory to go on. A shamrock tattoo on the man’s wrist and not much more. He’d seen that only close up. Leathery hands. But the man he was waiting to meet would be powerfully built and in his fifties or older, maybe closer to sixties. Rick was twenty minutes early but wouldn’t have been surprised if the man—Shamrock, he’d call him—arrived early, too. He’d look around, probably make a circuit, before he got his coffee.

Then at five minutes before seven a man came striding purposefully along the sidewalk and up to the restaurant. There was little question this was Shamrock. A bull-necked man of around sixty with a hard look, wearing an expensive-looking black leather jacket and a gray tweed scally cap. He had a pug nose and a scowl and big hands. He looked like a tough SOB. He was chewing gum. The cap was the giveaway. It was a flat cap, a longshoreman’s cap with a small brim. It might as well have been a neon sign with an arrow.

The man squinted and cast a glance around the exterior, then entered.

Rick got out of the car and, making sure Shamrock wasn’t looking out, crossed the street.

Directly across the street was a dive bar. It had a green awning with a Guinness sign on it and a green-painted door. There were four or five customers in here. The ones at the bar looked like regulars. The window in the front door had a good view of the Dunkin’ Donuts.

He texted Shamrock:

Saw someone I know in DD. Meet me in bar across street.

He wondered if this change in plans would screw things up. He watched out the bar window.

But not a minute later Shamrock came striding out. It was hard to tell whether he was pissed off or that was his normal glower.

He crossed the street and entered the bar. His eyes shifted side to side. He must have known what Jeff looked like; they’d probably met before.

Rick sat in a booth near the bar.

Thirty seconds later Shamrock’s eyes slid past Rick’s face and kept moving.

An instant later his eyes slid back and alit on Rick’s.

A moment of recognition, and then he smiled nastily.

He approached Rick’s booth and slid in next to him. Rick could feel something poking into his side. The blood drained from his face.

Shamrock leaned in close and whispered into Rick’s ear. Rick could smell the barbershop and feel Shamrock’s humid breath.

“So it’s the other fella’s body in the house, not yours. Ballsy gobshite, I’ll give you that. But stupid as shit.”

Rick’s pulse accelerated wildly. He knew this was it and that it could go any number of ways. He tried to look unafraid but couldn’t help a slight twitching in his left eye muscle.

“Here’s how we’re going to play it, boyo,” Shamrock whispered. “You and I are going to walk out of here nice and quiet. My nine millimeter’s safety is off. I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your spine.”

Rick swallowed, nodded.

The gun in Shamrock’s windbreaker pocket was hard in Rick’s ribs.

“Get up after me and if you try to fuck around, it’ll be the last time.”

Shamrock got up from the booth, and Rick slid out, light-headed, heart jackhammering.

Shamrock helped him out, grabbing hold of his elbow as he did so, yanking him roughly to his feet.

This was, Rick realized, the most foolish thing he’d ever done. Bravery was akin to stupidity. He was about to die. He looked around the bar frantically but kept going. Shamrock’s arm was around his shoulder. They could have been two friends who’d had too much to drink.

Shamrock shoved the front door open and Rick felt a gust of cold air hit his face.

He took a breath, then said, blandly, “You’re surrounded.”

Shamrock laughed disdainfully.

Three men in blue FBI windbreakers seemed to materialize out of thin air. As they shouted, “FBI!,” Rick dropped to the ground as he’d been instructed to do. He felt the sting of asphalt on his face.

Shamrock didn’t even struggle. He knew there was no point.

As Rick got up, he caught Shamrock staring at him with burning hostility. “You goddamned son of a bitch,” he said. “You don’t know what you just did.”

R
ick was surprised—pleasantly—at how quickly he was able to write the exposé. He knew the subject matter well.

Still, it took him all night. He was powered by caffeine and outrage.

In the morning he e-mailed the piece to Dylan, the copy desk guy at
Back Bay
.

Half an hour later Rick’s phone was ringing.

“Dylan.”

“Dude, you’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“I post this, I could lose my job.”

“Dylan, I wouldn’t want to put you in a situation where you—”

“No, no,” Dylan interrupted. “I put that in the plus column.”

*   *   *

It had been one gaseous speech after another. The head of the Boston Redevelopment Authority boasting about the Olympian Tower—“the tallest structure in Boston at twelve hundred feet high and sixty-five stories”—and the mayor had talked about “this gleaming silver tower on the site of what was once Boston’s blighted Combat Zone.” A brass band played a John Philip Sousa march. Confetti fluttered down over the VIPs, blasted high into the air from six confetti cannons. The TV lights barely made a difference on this bright sunny day.

Groundbreakings were deadly dull, no matter how much confetti you pumped in, whether you use a silver spade or gold. Everyone wanted to claim some piece of credit. Nobody really wanted to be there. No ground was actually broken. Everything was theater.

Thomas Sculley understood this instinctively. He’d had countless groundbreaking ceremonies for the buildings he had put up. So his remarks were blessedly brief.

The mayor of Boston had introduced Sculley, whom he called “a man of singularly philanthropic bent.” Sculley, dressed in a beautiful blue suit, had taken the microphone and spoken just a few sentences.

“When I came to this country fifty-two years ago from Belfast with just a shovel and a wheelbarrow, I’d never in a million years have imagined that one day I’d be standing up on a stage with the mayor of Boston. I’d never have imagined people would someday be waiting just to hear the words come out of my mouth. Oh, wait. As my wife reminds me, they’re not.” Polite laughter. “So with no further ado, let’s break ground for the greatest building in the greatest city on earth!”

Andrea hadn’t been invited to the ceremony, but it took no more than a quick call to Sculley’s office to wangle an invitation for her and a guest. After all, Geometry Partners was to be given office space in the new Olympian Tower. She was here to celebrate, too.

After the dignitaries had dug a few symbolic shovels of dirt, to wild applause, Andrea sidled up to the low stage. She was beautifully dressed in a white dress and looked poised, but Rick could see she was nervous. Of course she was.

Reporters thronged around the mayor. Sculley they largely left alone. Finally, Andrea found her moment. She slid up to Sculley and handed him a folded sheet of paper.

Rick watched intently as Sculley looked at the note wonderingly, grinned, then took out a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket. His brow creased.

He read the note. It was only a few sentences. His eyes lifted from the page and met Andrea’s. Then they scanned the crowd, squinting, right to left, then left to right.

And then his eyes found Rick.

Sculley’s smile faded. His expression was dead, but Rick was sure that in Sculley’s eyes he could detect something very close to fear.

S
culley led the way to a small white tent on one side of the stage where employees of the Bay Group were handing out glossy brochures on Olympian Tower to the media and prospective investors.

As he approached, a couple of the employees recognized him and sat up straight in their chairs. A young man got up with an awestruck smile. “Mr. Sculley, how can I help you?”

“Can I have this tent?” Sculley said.

It took a moment for his employees to understand that he wanted them to vacate the tent, but once they did, they moved quickly.

Andrea hung back. Sculley flashed her a smile and said, “Mr. Hoffman and I will have a little chat.” She nodded and let the two men enter the now empty tent.

“Shall we have a seat?” Sculley said, indicating a small card table piled high with Bay Group brochures.

Rick shook his head. “This shouldn’t take that long.”

He was struck anew by how craggy Sculley’s face was up close. He had the face of someone who’d done manual labor outdoors all his life, though he probably hadn’t since he was in his twenties. He was now over seventy.

“You look rough, lad,” Sculley said. He gestured toward the bruises on Rick’s face. “Maybe you should take it easy, you know what I mean?”

“I’m fine,” Rick said. “I’m alive.”

“We never had that sit-down, you and I.”

Rick smiled. “I get it now. You told Mort Ostrow you wanted the ‘Rick Hoffman treatment’ because you wanted to meet me in person. Size me up. And at the same time you had your thugs put a scare into me. Sort of a two-pronged approach. Because you’re a check-every-box kinda guy.”

Sculley shrugged.

“I think you knew my dad, didn’t you?”

“I certainly did.”

“You took care of his nursing home expenses for twenty years.”

“And you’ve come to thank me?”

“Actually, I’m here because I’ve finally gotten around to that Thomas Sculley piece. But the story has shifted a bit since I started.”

“Now, how do you mean?”

“My story details how you covered up the death of the Cabrera family in the Ted Williams Tunnel in 1996. How you paid people off—a policeman, the survivors, even a community activist—all to make sure nothing slowed down your progress.”

Sculley’s face was impassive. “What a grand story you’ve got there. A grand and fanciful story!”

“Not so fanciful. Fortunately, my dad left records of the payoffs he made for you.”

“Mr. Hoffman!” he thundered with a joyous smile, as if Rick had told him a wonderful joke. “Now it sounds like you’re threatening me! Shaking me down!”

“Not at all. I’m a journalist with a story to finish. Call it the ‘Rick Hoffman treatment.’”

Sculley stared at him for a long moment. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Hoffman, and it’s something I’ve always wanted to ask a journalist. What motivates you?” He squinted and tilted his head to one side. “Really, what motivates you? Why would you choose to be on the sidelines, watching the action? Why does a clever man such as yourself
choose
to be in the audience and not in the ring? This I’ve never understood.”

Rick smiled. “When I was in college, a famous journalist came to give a talk, and one of the students asked him the very same question. What motivates you? And the journalist said, ‘I’m just a guy who wants to know how the story ends.’ I’ve always liked that answer.”

“You’re an odd duck, Mr. Hoffman.”

“So let’s talk about those payoffs.”

Sculley snorted. “Payoffs? Do you know who had to be paid off to make the Big Dig happen? Everybody! Anyone with a complaint got bought off. The government bought air conditioners and soundproof windows, even new mattresses for homeowners in the North End who hated all the noise of the construction. Must have been ten thousand palms were greased. This is the way of the world, laddy. You didn’t come here to ask about
that
.”

“Then let me put it more pointedly. Your empire came with a body count. How the hell do you sleep at night?”

Sculley’s face flushed. “Do you have any idea how that tunnel has transformed this city? Boston traffic used to be a joke, a national punch line. Driving through downtown at rush hour used to take half an hour. Now it takes three minutes. Traveling to the airport is seventy-five percent faster. The Big Dig was the largest and most complex and most technologically challenging construction project in the history of this country.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Did a few poor souls die because of the Big Dig? Son, a hundred men died building the Hoover Dam. A thousand men died building the Erie Canal. Four hundred Chinamen died building the transcontinental railroad. How about the Panama Canal? One of the greatest engineering feats in history?
Thirty thousand
men died building it. Ambitious projects always cost lives, son. That’s the truth. Have you ever visited the great pyramids of Giza?”

Rick shook his head.

“They’ll take your breath away, they will. But nobody who sees them sheds tears for the thousands of men who died building them. A pharaoh had a vision, and that’s what remains. His vision. Do you know what would happen if they tried to build the pyramids today? There’d be a goddamned environmental impact review and a board of grievances and we’d have nothing more than a shelf full of pretty blueprints. The world is full of small men who want to tie the great ones down.”

A woman popped her head into the tent. Sculley held up a hand, palm out, and she immediately left.

“When small men get in the way of big things,” Sculley went on, “which d’ya think must go?”

“Small men. Like my father, you mean?”

Anger flashed in Sculley’s face. “That was a decision
he
made.” Then he gave Rick a basilisk smile, a snake regarding a mouse. “Do you know what the difference is between a man like your father and a man like me?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” Rick said acidly.

“Small men are always waiting for their opportunity. Great men seize the opportunity. Great men say yes to life. They’re not naysayers. Every day you face the decision—do you say yes or do you say no? Do you seize the opportunity? Your father left you three million dollars? The curse of the small bequest. Not enough money to do things with. Just enough money
not
to do things with. So the question for you is, What could you do with
thirty
million?”

“Just yesterday you tried to have me killed and now you’re offering me thirty million dollars?”

“I think I’m good at taking the measure of a man, up close and face-to-face. You’re ballsy. You’re sharp. But the question is, do you have the kind of spirit that says yes to opportunity? Thirty million, a man with imagination can do a thing or two with that kind of coin. Dream a little, my son. You can do anything you want with it. Set up your own news-gathering organization. Buy your own office building. You can choose to be one of the big apes, or you can be a microscopic louse nestling in their pubes. Which will it be?”

He placed an arm on Rick’s shoulder, his eyes boring in. “You know, there’s a saying in my business: Those who can, build. Those who can’t, criticize. So my question for you is, What kind of man are you? Do you want to be one of the big boys, the ones who build something great? Or the ones who just want to pull things down? Because it isn’t too late for you. A new day, a new decision. You’ve got the chance to take the money, ride the whirlwind, and do something special. Will you take it.
Are you that man?
”

“Not really, no. I’m just the guy who wants to know how the story ends.”

A man stepped into the tent and Sculley put out his palm again, eyes flashing with anger.

“I said, leave us,” he barked.

The man didn’t move.

Rick saw the man in the blue FBI windbreaker, Special Agent Donovan, standing at the tent’s opening. Rick nodded and smiled and held up one finger, asking him to wait a minute.

“What the hell is this?” Sculley said. But he now seemed to understand. He turned and stared at Rick.

“I can’t finish my piece without some sort of response from you,” Rick said. “It’s sort of a policy of mine.” He took out his iPhone and unlocked it. “Otherwise, it’s all ready to go. And I mean, go live.”

Sculley’s face had gone deep red. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’ll just say that Mr. Sculley declined to comment.”

Rick hit a phone number, and when Dylan from
Back Bay
answered, he said, “Just as I wrote, Mr. Sculley declined to comment. We’re ready to rock ’n’ roll, Dylan. Go for it.”

“It’s done,” Dylan confirmed a few seconds later.

“If this is blackmail,” Sculley said, “it’ll never work. You wouldn’t dare.”

“I just did.”

“Lad, you just sealed your own fate.”

“
Your
fate, actually. And my friend in the windbreaker here is about to escort you to it.”

The words came from Sculley in a rasp: “You’ll never get what you want.”

“Yeah, well, I think I just did. At least I know how your story ends. Because I wrote it myself.”