Vineyard Shadows (7 page)

Her hand tightened in mine. “No. We don't want any more trouble with Sonny Whelen.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “I don't plan to get into any trouble. In fact, I want to make sure that our paths won't cross again.” I felt a crooked smile appear on my face as I looked at her. “I think Sonny may agree to a peace treaty. He hasn't fared too well with the Jacksons so far.”

Zee took her hand away from mine. “I still have a hard time believing that really happened.”

“It really happened, and you did absolutely the right thing.”

But Zee's face wore a cloud of doubt.

One of the perks of being an official resident of Martha's Vineyard is that sometimes you get first dibs on round-trip reservations off and then back onto the island. Because of this, and because in late June more people are trying to get onto the island than off it, I was aboard an early ferry to Woods Hole the next morning.

I stood on the deck and watched the Vineyard grow smaller astern as the Elizabeth Islands and the Cape grow larger ahead. There weren't many sailboats out yet, so there was little to see but water and seagulls riding the gentle morning wind. It was going to be another beautiful day on the beautiful island of Martha's Vineyard, but I was headed for Boston and didn't expect to encounter much loveliness during my day.

It took me two hours to get to the
Globe
building, thanks to the morning rush-hour traffic jam, which, as usual, consisted of more jam than rush, and it was once again clear to me that Edgartown's infamous A&P/Al's Package Store traffic jam, about which I complained a great deal, was nothing compared to what Route 128 and the expressways into Boston had to offer. How intelligent you were, J.W., to have swapped city life for island life.

I found Quinn a few desks away from his own, talking with a sportswriter. They were arguing about the Red Sox, the principal bone of contention apparently
being whether the current management of the team was the stupidest in history or merely the stupidest in the past decade. Quinn, who made a point of being a natty dresser to belie the notion that all reporters were slobs, was in considerable sartorial contrast to his jeans-and-sweatshirt-wearing colleague.

Quinn was ticking off the names of departed players on his fingers. “First, of course, there was Ruth. The Sox haven't won a World Series since they gave him to the Yankees; then there was Fisk, the best catcher in baseball; then just in the nineties alone they said Roger was past his prime and wouldn't pay up to keep him, and all he did was win the Cy Young Award the next two years; and they said Canseco wasn't producing and let him go, and all he did was hit forty home runs the next year; and then they let Mo, their best player, go, after his best year in the majors! And then they have the gall to raise ticket prices up to the moon. You tell me. Is this any way to run a professional baseball team? Hi, J.W.”

“What a golden tongue you have, Quinn,” said the sportswriter. “You should come over to our side of the room and write sports news.” He smiled at me.

“Shake hands with Jack Thorn,” said Quinn. “He's conned the editors of this mighty metropolitan newspaper into paying him to watch grown men playing kids' games. Jack, this is J. W. Jackson, who does nothing but loaf and fish on the Vineyard. Worse yet, he's married to a beautiful woman who's really in love with me.”

Jack and I shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” said Thorn. “Well, I got a story to write, and I have to make some calls first.” He walked to a nearby desk, sat down, and reached for the phone.

Quinn led me to his own desk. “I presume that you haven't gotten any smarter than when we talked before.
I was hoping you'd changed your mind or had second thoughts about meeting Whelen. How are Zee and your daughter?”

Images of Zee's bruised face and Diana's bandaged throat appeared in my mind. “They'll be all right. Did you find out what I want to know?”

“Yeah, I found Sonny Whelen at least. It wasn't hard.”

“What about Graham?”

“Not yet. You want half a loaf, or none?”

“I'll take the half you got.”

“Okay. Charlestown is like a castle for Sonny Whelen. It's his private fortress. He goes where he pleases and does what he pleases. He's right out in the open as often as he wants to be, but he doesn't have to worry about the cops or anybody else, because half the townies look out for him. Nobody can get close to him unless he wants them to. They should call him King Whelen. Of course, uneasy lies the crowned head, even in Charlestown. Pete McBride, as I believe I mentioned, apparently aspires to the throne.”

“Tell me about Pete McBride.”

“A courtier, you might say.”

“The man who would be king?”

“Yes, but Pete isn't big enough to make any moves on Sonny, not that he wouldn't like to. Someday, maybe, but not yet. He may be hatching plans, but he's not ready to make his play.”

“Lord Peter and King Sonny. How Shakespearean. Maybe you should write a play. How can I see Whelen?”

Quinn tapped his fingers on his desk. “You can't see him. Not alone. You sure you want to go through with this?”

“I'm sure. How can I do it?”

Quinn sighed. “By going with me. I know Whelen. I
even interviewed him once. Wrote his side of things. Series we ran on police corruption. He denied being any kind of criminal, of course.”

“I remember.”

“I quoted him straight, and he appreciated that. He knows I'm not his pet reporter, but he also knows he'll get a square deal from me. I've talked with a couple of his flunkies. Told them I had a friend who wants a few words with Sonny. Asked them to tell Whelen.”

“And?”

“He likes to eat lunch at the Green Harp. It's a brewpub up by the monument. You Irish?”

“On St. Patrick's Day, at least.”

“You dressed? If you are, shed it here. You can pick it up when you go home. I won't take you if you're carrying.”

“No. No gun. I'm not planning on shooting anybody. All I want to do is talk.”

“Good. Last chance, now; you're really sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

He tapped his fingers some more, then looked at his watch, picked up his phone, and dialed a number.

“This is Quinn, over at
The Globe.
Tell Mr. Whelen that the friend I mentioned and I are heading over to have a beer and some lunch in the Green Harp, and that we'd like to buy him a Guinness. Yeah, that's right: Quinn.”

He hung up and grabbed his hat and we went out. As we drove toward the river, Quinn spoke of our destination and of Sonny Whelen.

Charlestown is a part of Boston that I never worked in while I was a cop. It lies on a hilly little peninsula between the Charles and the Mystic rivers, and is where Paul Revere waited to see one light or two before setting out
on his famous ride. It's also the site of the Bunker Hill Monument, built to celebrate the battle where, according to legend, the Colonials waited to see the whites of the British regulars' eyes before firing. The facts that the battle was really fought on nearby Breed's Hill and that the British won have not diminished the renown of the monument, which remains a popular tourist attraction.

Charlestown is also the home of a fine community college; the birthplace of Samuel Morse, inventor of the telegraph; the site of John Harvard's grave; and the home of a lot of decent, ordinary people.

It is, however, better known nowadays to Massachusetts cops and D.A.'s for the affinity of its mobsters to rob banks and armored cars, and the three monkeys attitude of many of its citizens toward local criminals. If you are set upon a life of crime, there are worse places to live than Charlestown, as certain genealogical evidence proves, for in Charlestown it was not rare for members of two or even three generations of the same family to be concurrently serving time for similar crimes.

Sonny Whelen's people had been in the rackets for a hundred years, ever since they'd come over from County Cork, but Sonny was the first to achieve major league status and was, therefore, a subject of no little pride to his kith and kin and, to only a slightly lesser extent, to townspeople who could bask in the reflected glow of his fame. He further ensured his popularity by the time-honored practice of giving generously to local charities, aiding widows and orphans, and making sure that the streets were safe for civilians. Sonny's mob might be tough and frightening, but few people outside of the profession they practiced were ever killed or damaged in Charlestown. Beyond Charlestown, of course, such was not the case, as many guards of banks and armored cars
could attest, if they were still alive. Still, like many successful criminals, Sonny preferred to practice nonviolence whenever possible, since killings always roused passions and therefore increased the dangers of retaliation from the relatives and friends of the victims, and might also goad the authorities into action they might otherwise not take.

There are a lot of narrow streets in Charlestown, and on one of them I found a place to park my car. We walked about two blocks and came to the Green Harp, another one of the many new brewpubs that are springing up all over the country and which, I believe, offer the best evidence we have that the nation is not, after all, going to the dogs, but is actually improving. All that microbrewery beer suggests a future full of hope.

We went inside. It was just before noon, and the place was about half full. The bar curved out in a semicircle from the back wall. Booths lined the side walls, and there were tables in the front. The farthest corner of the room was beyond my sight. I ignored the many eyes I felt upon us and the falling away of voices as the regulars took note of us—two strangers—and followed Quinn to the bar.

“Two pints of Guinness, if you please.”

The wide-bodied bartender pulled the drinks and put them before us. I paid and touched my glass to Quinn's. We drank the good, dark, smooth, strong Guinness, and ordered another.

“There's a booth,” I said. “Shall we sit?”

“Patience,” said Quinn.

I drank some more Guinness.

A man appeared beside Quinn, a glass in his hand. “Is this your friend, Mr. Quinn?” He leaned forward over the bar and peeked at me. I peeked back.

“This is him,” said Quinn. “Mr. Jackson.”

“Mr. Jackson, perhaps you'll step into the gents for a moment?”

“Why not?”

Another man was in the rest room when we went in. He just stood there, looking at me. He didn't seem to be there to use the facilities. The place was amazingly clean, unlike most of the heads I've seen in bars.

“Nothing personal, you understand,” said the first man. He patted me down briskly but thoroughly. “What's this?”

“Pocketknife.” I brought it out. He waved it back.

“All right, then,” he said. “Come on.”

We went out and he led me to the last booth along the far wall. There was a door between the booth and the bar, and a waiter came out carrying a platter of good-smelling pub grub. Quinn was sitting in the booth across from two other men. One of them looked to be about fifty. He had an Irish face and very pale hair, eyes, and eyebrows. The man beside him was slim and expressionless and kept his hands out of sight under the table. I sat down beside Quinn, and the man who'd led me there went away. I didn't think he'd gone far.

“This is my friend J. W. Jackson, the guy I told you about,” said Quinn.

“What do you want?” asked the man with pale hair.

“First, I'd like to buy you a Guinness, if you're Sonny Whelen,” I said.

The man beside the pale man looked at me. “You some kind of a joker?”

“Easy, Todd,” said the pale man.

“I've never seen Sonny Whelen,” I said to both men. “I don't want to talk with his twin or his stand-in, I want to talk with him.” I turned to Quinn. “Is this him?”

“It's him,” said Quinn. “Would a newspaperman lie?”

“Fine.” I looked back at Whelen. “Then, can I buy you that drink?”

Whelen smiled. “Okay, Mr. Jackson.” He made a small gesture and a waiter appeared. “Three Guinnesses, Mike.” The waiter disappeared and Whelen nodded toward the man beside him, who was looking steadily at me. “Todd, here, don't drink while he's on the job. Do you, Todd?”