The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (26 page)

"What did you do that they put you in here?"
I asked.

"Nothing. They call it vagrancy. I am an illegal
alien. I was arrested loitering at a bus station. Are you a
policeman?"

"No. A doctor. What is your name?"

"Amos Railford. Fisherman and carpenter. You
will help me? I cannot pay now, but later—"

"Amos Railford, are you innocent of any crime
except being here? You've heard of a polygraph, or lie detector?
Would you take a polygraph test?"

"Hmmmmph!" He snorted, and jerked at the
bars two inches in front of his face. His forearms bulged like Popeye
the Sailor's. His chest was a bronzed, chiseled slab of muscle two
feet wide. I was a little thankful for the bars. '

"Will you take it?"

"
Yes, mon."

"And what is your bail set at?"

"Bail? I don't know."

"Thank you Amos. Good luck."

I walked back down the corridor, smelling that
peculiar and depressing jail smell so well described by Raymond
Chandler. On the way out I could not help thinking that nothing much
had changed since 1927, except perhaps the appearance of those on the
lowest rung.

We walked back to the courthouse building. It was
just a couple of blocks. Sacco and Vanzetti made the trip there and
back every day during the weeks of the trial, surrounded by armed
guards. I stood facing the courthouse steps and recalled the film.
Turning toward the jail, I took myself back in time. The small,
squared-off Datsuns and Vegas became rounded Packards and Overlands.
The people wore wool and cotton instead of polyester. The women had
on wide hats with flowers on top; the men wore top hats, boaters,
snap-brims, and bowlers. A crowd came dance-stepping around the
comer, heading my way. Throngs of onlookers pressed close. Kids
shouted and ran around the edges of the crowd. A big square of
blue-coated policemen formed the nucleus of the mob, each one toting
a Winchester pump scatter-gun. Here they came bouncing fast up the
street. They were jump-roping without rope. The cars zigged and
zagged. People waved their arms and hopped around. Where was Harold
Lloyd? Buster Keaton? The mob was close now, approaching the
courthouse steps. I could see the two defendants: Vanzetti with his
proud carriage, tipping his snap-brim hat, gesticulating to the crowd
with raised fist. Injustice! he is crying, and for him it certainly
is. Almost everyone agreed that Bartolomeo Vanzetti was innocent. The
other man, though— what's going through his mind? Sacco walks on
silently, having to pause when his companion does because they are
chained together. But he says nothing, looking straight ahead,
noncommittal. Is he scared? Seething with outrage? Bored? Or is he
lying? Is he merely disgusted with himself at having been caught?

A car horn jerked me out of my reverie, and I moved
off the street. The driver rolled down his window and grinned.

"Don't tell me. Don't tell me— I know what ya
wuz lookin' at. Yuz lookin' at the jail and then the court building.
Well, I tell ya, mistah . . . they wuz guilty!"

He drove on, and we got back into Joe's cruiser and
went back home.

After dropping off Tom, Joe and I went back to the
house.

Joe's mood was still dark. He paced the living-room
carpet, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, muttering to
himself. The only words I caught were "can't believe it. . .
just can't believe it," over and over again.

"Can't believe what?" I finally asked.
"That they were probably guilty?"

"
Not that so much. I'm thinking of Andy. I can't
believe the community would turn against him. You know the Sons of—
oh hell, skip it."

He returned to pacing and muttering until the phone
rang. Mary answered it in the kitchen and called Joe.

"[oey, you know anything about Christopher
Columbus?"

"Sure. He discovered America in— what? What
the hell are you asking me a stupid-ass question like that for?"

"No, dummy. There's a guy calling you from the
Christopher Columbus. What's that?"

Joe rushed toward the kitchen like a fifty-yard man
out of the blocks. "Gimme that," he said, panting.

There was a short, intense conversation in the
kitchen, with hoarse whispers and oaths. Comments like "you're
goddamn right that's what I thought. What would you think, for
Chris-sake?" and "I didn't mean you, Mike. I was thinking
of the young guys— "

Mary and I waited in the living room until he was
finished, which wasn't long. He came stomping through the room and
hooked his finger at me. I followed him out the door as Mary sank
dejectedly onto the couch and stared at the wall.

"Don't worry, Mare. This is just a short visit
in the North End. Be back in two hours. Promise!"

"I'm coming too then."

"Can't. The Christopher Columbus is a men's
club. See you."

The neighborhood social club was on Fleet Street
between two others. The North End is famous for these men's clubs. On
any weekend in nice weather the front doors are generally open and
you can hear the television blaring out the progress of the Patriots
or Red Sox games and, further in the background, an aria. The weather
was slightly chilly and the door, with no markings or signs on it
whatsoever, was closed. Joe opened it and walked in. The men inside
stared at us. Then I realized they were staring at me. I was a
stranger. My presence in this private drinking and social club was
tolerated only because I was with Joe, who was an ex-officio member.

We walked through the front room, which contained the
TV, bar, and pool tables, and into the back one, which had a carpeted
floor, a smaller bar, a stereo from which a rich baritone crooned,
and a big green felt card table. As we entered, all seven men at the
table rose at once. Three of them, younger men, left as if on
prearranged signal and went back to the front room. The cards had
been turned face down, the play having stopped in the middle of a
hand.

Of the four men who approached us smiling, I
recognized Gus Giordano immediately. He came up and hugged me first,
which set the mood of acceptance right away. The men beckoned us to
sit down in the leather chairs, which looked as if they were
purchased secondhand from a bar that went bust. They drew theirs up
around us, facing us like a panel. Or perhaps a tribunal?

The leader, a man named Mike, spoke first. He was at
least seventy, razor-thin with a veiny forehead, pale skin, white
hair, and a thin beaky nose. He had piercing black eyes and wore a
big old-fashioned hearing aid. He chain-smoked as he
drank coffee.

'
Joey, that big Irish guy you hang around with,
Heeney?"

"O'Hearn. Kevin O'Hearn. My partner."

"Yeah, him. Well, he told Angie Catardi, who
walks the beat here, that you thought we were behind the Santuccio
murder. Joseph, shame on you."

"
I didn't say you were. It crossed my mind is
all. And I didn't mean you guys."I was thinking of the young
hotheads. You know. They'd do anything to save the community morale.
Maybe get carried away."

Mike pulled a piece of newspaper out of his trouser
pocket and handed it to Joe.

"Take a look at that; It appeared in today's
Globe and will appear for another two weeks. The Sons of Italy and
the North End Improvement Association, which you will recall Andy was
president of, are putting up a ten-thousand-dollar reward for
information leading to the arrest and conviction of his killers. Now
c'mon, pal— don't say those things about your friends, huh?"

Gus leaned over and put his hand on Joe's shoulder. I
thought my brother-in-law was going to cry.

"I guess I never really believed it. But who
else, who else would give a shit about those papers enough to do
that? Tell me, who?"

I swept my eyes around the circle of four faces,
three of them with big mustaches. All were solemn and silent. I saw
them shake their heads back and forth slightly, slowly, in bewildered
sadness and resignation.

"All I know is Carmen DeLucca— may he drown in
his mother's blood— works for the families. An enforcer. Scum. We
would never do such a thing and never truck with his kind of filth.
Shame on you, Joseph— a member of the Sons yourself. Shame on you
and may God and the saints forgive you for thinking it," intoned
Mike. He did not look angry. He was profoundly hurt. His eyes were
glistening.

The message delivered, we had coffee and beer and
talked for fifteen minutes to leave the meeting on an upbeat note.

"Will you keep in touch, Mike? The rest of you?"
asked Joe as we left the back room. "Tell me anything you hear,
okay? And listen: you guys know Paul Tescione well. No no— forget
that crap. I know you know him. I've met him briefly once. I know he
does some good around here. Stay on the wire with him, huh? Let me
know if DeLucca's back with the Outfit, okay? I gotta know."

"Thanks for coming, Joe. Doctor Adams, nice to
see you."

"Hey. Thanks for asking us," said Joe.

We left, and heard the young men called back to the
game.

"
Okay," said
Mike as we left. "Seven-card stud and Gus is showing a possible
straight!"

* * *

Things settled down a bit afterward. Life's petty
pace ground forward, trying to churn out the yardage. The needle
moved up out of the Dead Zone and into Boring, its natural home. The
days rolled by, tasting like wet cardboard. A few incidents of note
occurred, but they served only to punctuate the tedium. To underscore
it. -

One: Sam Bowman got a new secondhand safe and
retrieved his loot from Nissenbaum's. He still lacked a partner
however, and the future of Dependable Messenger Service was none too
rosy.

Two: Moe Abramson was finding another foster home for
the luscious morsel Loretta Popp, better known as Lolly. He had told
her it was only a matter of days before she would start packing. She
raised a fuss, but it was no use. She proposed marriage, but he
wouldn't listen. She proposed to continue living in sin with him, but
he turned a deaf ear. And that figured. Moe's not only a sap, he's
the world's biggest puritan too. As soon as he finds anything the
least bit pleasurable, he drops it like a red rivet. Old John
Winthrop had nothing on him.

Three: Joe told us the Boston Public Library reported
vandalism in the archives. This, and the fact that somebody broke
into my office and rifled my files, told us all that the Wise Guys
were still hunting for the hot item. But Joe figured they'd never get
it now. He also figured they'd leave me alone, finally. He said his
activities had now turned to focus on the apprehension of Carmen
DeLucca.

Four: Mary and Janice went to play tennis out at the
country club. A minor point dispute then erupted into a full gale,
force eight. Mary told me afterward that she'd "had words"
with Janice. Considering what her version of "words" meant,
Janice was lucky to be alive. Worse yet, Janice called me the next
morning at work; I wasn't sure whether Susan Petri was listening in
on the line or not. I hoped not, because the gist of the brief
conversation was that Janice was going to give me no more quick feels
if I was going to kiss and tell.

"Blabbermouth!" she said, sniffing.

I went on to explain to her that I hadn't said a
thing. Mary knew. She would always know.

"And that's why there's no future in it, Janice,
don't you see? There are certain immutable laws. Two and two is four;
the sun rises in the east; and Mary will always find out."

"But what about in the boathouse? When all the
others leave to go into Wolfsboro, and there'll just be the two of us
in our bathing suits, and—"

"Won't work. There'll be a crack of lightning
and a pillar of smoke . . . and Mary."

Janice said that it was still her favorite fantasy,
and that I was in that fantasy and there wasn't anything I could do
about it. She hung up.

To top it off, Susan and I had two fraidy cats in a
row in the chair. Now I'll be the first to admit that visiting the
tooth-puller isn't everyone's favorite pastime. In fact, a lot of the
time my job makes me feel somewhat like Bela Lugosi and gets me down.
But life is life, and involves some risk and pain, and it should be
borne with as stiff an upper lip as one can muster. We had to face
two twenty-five-year-old crybabies back to back. They fought the
needle; they were afraid of nerve damage; they broke into tears when
I described what was going to happen. Now I've tried it the other
way: not telling them what will happen. That's when pandemonium
really reigns. We've had shouting matches, tantrums, threats, the
works. As the second fraidy-cat filed out whimpering, I collapsed
behind my desk and switched on WBUR. They were playing a nice piece
by Luigi Boccherini, the Baroque cellist and composer. I like the
cello anyway, and the music was particularly soothing.

"
Why didn't you just put her out?" asked
Susan as she cleaned up.

"I really don't like to do that. Too many things
can happen when they're out. Besides, in a fearful patient the
effects of sodium pentathol are uncertain; sometimes it makes things
a lot worse afterwards?