We Were Kings (9 page)

_________________________

Uphams Corner, Dorchester

IN THE DIM,
hot gloom of Uphams Corner Auto on Columbia Road, Cal found Dante in one of the three pits welding the undercarriage of a car, and when Cal stepped closer he saw that he was working on his wreck of a Ford. The heat hovered in the small space, intensified by the metal, stacked rubber tires, and rusted oil drums. It felt twenty degrees hotter in the place and difficult to breathe. Water dripping from a tape-wrapped pipe above his head had created a riffle in the oil-stained concrete. Sparks from the acetylene torch lit up the helmet's visor as Dante leaned into a violent blue and white halo, intensified and concentrated like a flare burning in the dark. The sparks arced in a shower, clanging and bouncing off the lip of the pit and spiraling; flickering hot filings skittered across the concrete and glowed there like embers. Cal watched from a distance until Dante finished and lifted his visor.

Dante considered his work on the undercarriage of the car, tracing the weld line slowly with his eyes until he caught sight of Cal standing beyond the pit. He dipped his head, angled it below the rocker panel to see him full-on. “Hey, Cal, what's the word? Want to help me weld a joint? My eyes are for shit.”

“Isn't that your car?”

“Yeah, we're slow right now.”

“That's good, then, because I could use your help.”

Dante took off his helmet and climbed from the pit. He put his gloves and heavy welding apron on a hook by a workbench and began scrubbing his hands in the sink. When they were clean he lowered his head and put it under the faucet and let the water rush onto his neck.

“Is it work?” Dante said.

“You mean, does it pay?”

“That's what I mean.”

Cal reached into his pants pocket and pulled out an envelope with the Pilgrim Security logo on the front. “Here,” he said and laid the envelope on the bench.

“What's this?”

“It's for a job you did three months ago, back pay. Seventy dollars in cash. The way you like it.”

Dante harrumphed and turned off the water, roughly toweled his face. Every job he did was under the table and on the side and Cal knew it. When Dante looked at him, his dark eyes shone with moisture; water dripped from his hair and slid down his cheeks.

“I was thinking of trying out for a piano job at the Commonwealth. I heard it doesn't pay half bad and it's steady.”

“You'd be a sure thing there.”

Dante nodded and opened the envelope. “I don't have the luxury of doing anything for free, Cal.”

“I know, I know. I can give you daily expenses, a small per diem, just until this other gig of yours pans out.”

Dante leaned back against the workbench and lit a cigarette. Hanging over the bench top, a yellow fly strip with half a dozen still-struggling flies twisted back and forth with a sudden gust of air. Cal took Dante's silence for reluctant assent.

“That boat that Owen told us about,” he said, “there's been more killings.”

“Jesus. And you want to get involved in that type of shit.”

“No, I don't, but I told Owen I'd ask around just to help him out. And we both know enough people from the old neighborhood who might have a hand in this or are keeping quiet about those who did.”

“And they won't talk to cops.”

“Sure as shit they won't, but they might talk to us.”

_________________________

Commercial Street, North End

DANTE WOKE IN
the morning after little sleep. He stood before his dresser, where a steel fan purred steadily, and rubbed at the stubble along his cheek. The vague impression of a bad dream teased at his memory. He lit a cigarette and tried to remember. But besides the anxious feeling of what the day would bring, nothing came to him.

First, he checked on Maria. She was still asleep, the sheets twisted around her legs and her face pressed into the pillow. Claudia was in the bathroom getting ready for her morning shift over at the diner, the pipes moaning as the water rushed through them, and he heard her singing to herself, a melody tuneless and without pitch. He knocked on the door. “Don't be too long. I have to be out of here by quarter of.”

In the kitchen, he put the kettle on, filled a pot halfway with water, and gently placed in four eggs to hard-boil. Standing before the window overlooking Commercial Street, he lit another cigarette and watched the early-morning sun reflect off the windows of the neighboring buildings. On the street below, a barrel-chested vendor and his teenage son unloaded crates of fruits and vegetables and carried them down through the open cellar doors of a small grocery. Another truck was parked up on the sidewalk in front of Hagman's Bar and Grill. The truck's side was painted with the Falstaff Brewing emblem, and in the open back, two black men sat reading the
Globe,
waiting for somebody to arrive and sign off on the delivery.

Claudia called out from the hallway, “It's all yours.”

In the shower he ran the water as hot as it could get. At the mirror, he pressed at the can of shaving cream. Very little came out. He shook the can and pressed the nozzle again. Only a hiss of air, and he knew it was empty. He used soap instead, lathered it up and rubbed the white foam into the sharp contours of his face. The stubble came off smoothly, and he rinsed the razor clean. He always did his upper lip last, and when the blade staggered across his skin there, he flinched and cursed, felt the sting first and then watched as the blood beaded out from the nick, cutting a crimson stream through the white lather. The taste of copper came into his mouth, and he wondered how many times he had tasted his own blood.
Too fucking many,
he thought.

From a jar of Brylcreem, he fingered out a generous dollop, ran it through his hair and then combed it to the side. He brushed his teeth and gargled with Lavoris until his gums stung raw and slapped some cologne along his neck. He was already sweating, and as he left the bathroom, he patted at his face with a damp towel.

Back in his bedroom, he pulled out a white shirt that was wrinkled but clean; it was a little tight in the shoulders but he muscled into it anyway, secured the top button around his neck without much room to spare. He knotted a black silk tie and slipped on a pair of pressed pants, black socks, and shoes in need of a shine.

Claudia was in the kitchen. She was wearing a waitress outfit, garish pink and white, the hemline high up on her thighs. Her hair was still wet from the shower and she sat before a steaming cup of coffee. Her lips were painted a vibrant red and her cheeks lightly dusted with rouge. She had a cup of coffee waiting for him. He contemplated pouring a shot of whiskey into it. It might help with the nerves, he thought, but he decided against it and drank the coffee black.

He looked her over. “New outfit?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“Just looks a little cheap to me.”

“Cheap?”

“Showing all that leg.”

“The new owner likes his girls showing more, not less. It was his idea. He knows his food ain't that good so he needs to make the men come back somehow.” She forced a smile. The lines of her brow deepened. “What time do you get back?”

“Not until late. The audition this morning, then I'm off to the garage.”

“You nervous?”

“About what?”

“The audition.”

“Not really. I'll be fine.”

“What song are you going to play?”

“I'll figure it out,” Dante answered. “Probably an old standard or two.”

She stood up from the kitchen chair, walked over to where he stood, and straightened his tie. Her perfume smelled medicinal and overpowering. The rouge on her left cheek seemed heavier than it was on the right, as though she were covering up an old, lingering bruise. “You should play something pretty,” she said. “The Commonwealth seems like a place that wants pretty songs. Not sad ones.”

“I'll try and remember that, Claudia.”

He paused, looked down at his sister, and fought the urge to remind her of the other night and about how she could never leave Maria alone again. Perhaps she was able to see the anger rising in his eyes because she turned and walked back to the kitchen table, took a last sip of coffee, and, without looking at him, said, “Sorry, Dante. I won't let it happen again.”

He checked his watch. “You hurry up then. I'll wake her up and get her over to Mrs. Berardi.”

In Maria's bedroom, he sat down on the edge of the small mattress and laid his hand on the child's shoulder. She turned into him, kept her eyes closed. Her small hand moved on top of his. “I want to stay home.”

“Sorry, my sweet, it's time to get up. Auntie will be back later.”

“Will I be alone again today?” she asked.

“No. Not ever. That was just a onetime thing, Maria, just one time, that's all.”

In the kitchen, he put cereal in a bowl, sliced in thin cuts of a banana, and poured in milk. She ate only a few spoonfuls and he dumped the rest into the garbage. In the bathroom, he helped her change and then watched her brush her teeth. After she was done, he wiped at the white foam clinging to the sides of her mouth with his knuckle.

Five minutes later, he put on the charcoal-gray hat with a broad black band. It had been a birthday gift from Claudia, and he'd never had an occasion to wear it. Something about wearing a new hat made him feel stiff and clumsy, made him feel as if he were trying too hard to impress somebody. It was too large and came down low on his ears, so he tipped the brim higher up on his forehead, took hold of Maria's hand, and brought her into the hallway. He locked up and then knocked on his neighbor's door.

Mrs. Berardi wore a beige housedress and no bra; her breasts hung low by her waist. Coming from the kitchen, the smell of bread baking in the oven momentarily comforted him. Maria, still groggy from her own sleepless night, looked up at Dante as if she didn't want him to go. He got down on one knee and kissed her on the cheek.

“Thanks again for this,” he said to Mrs. Berardi. “You've been such a help. I hope you know how grateful Claudia and I are. We don't know what we'd do without you.”

The woman looked him over. “No worries. No worries at all. Maria is such a good little girl. Sometimes I forget she's even here with me. So quiet, she is. In her own little world.” She reached down and took Maria's hand. “You look nice, Dante. Not going to the garage in that, no?”

“Not today.”

The woman raised a finger caked white with dough and pointed to his face. “You cut yourself shaving.”

He reached up and touched the cut above his lip. Blood stained his finger. He looked down at Maria and noticed that there was a smear of it on her cheek from where he had kissed her. He wiped it off and then said good-bye.

Pressing his upper lip with a handkerchief, he moved quickly down the three sets of stairs, his shoes clacking and reverberating in the concrete stairwell, past closed doors where radios sounded with the early-morning news and where the smells of bacon and coffee wafted about the hallway.

Dante jogged out the front door and then launched into a run. A large truck honked at him as he crossed the street without looking. From its open window came a baritone voice heavy with a Charlestown accent: “Look both ways, you stupid fucking idiot!” Dante got to the curb, turned around, and watched as the guy in the boxlike vehicle painted red with
Brink's Security
in bold white lettering revved the engine and took a hard right onto Hull toward the company garage.

Dante turned a corner onto Causeway Street and ran to the North Station depot, through the revolving door, and down the escalator, the mechanical steps groaning and shuddering as if the big belt driving them were about to snap in two. There was a large group of children on a day trip, most likely waiting to catch a train that would bring them up north to Salem or even farther, the beaches of Manchester and Gloucester. They were boisterous and loud and their voices filled the air. The two supervisors of the group were at the booth settling the proper amount of fares with an MTA worker who kept shaking his head as if in disagreement. Dante dodged through the rowdy crowd of children and, at the turnstiles, jammed a token into the slot. He pushed through and hustled toward an idling trolley car tightly packed with passengers. He slid between the doors just before they closed, knocking shoulders with a man reading the
Herald,
the headline “Heat Wave,” and moved to an open spot midway into the car. Accidentally brushing up against a young woman wearing a thin summer dress, Dante offered a smile, but she didn't return it.

“Pardon me,” Dante said.

She lifted the thin strap of her dress higher up on her shoulder, the swell of her breast trembling. He nodded apologetically before moving his eyes to the window, seeing nothing but the pitch-darkness of the underground. The car was full with body heat and the stink of the unwashed, and Dante, already breaking out in a sweat of his own, closed his eyes and tried to breathe, in and out deeply, as the trolley screeched over the bending tracks toward downtown.

_________________________

Boston Police District D-4, South End

IN THE POLICE
station, Owen took note of the businesses he planned to canvass in Dudley. He'd begin there, the center of the Irish cultural scene, and then work his way back to Southie and Dorchester. Mickey and the Irish Starlight Express had a large following and a reputation among the Irish club goers; he would get information, he just needed the right information, the kind that might keep the investigation going. He had to shed some light on Mickey's involvement with the gunrunning boat, find a connection to the other victims, if there was one, and figure out if he'd been targeted or if it had just been a case of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He looked about the room; most of the beat cops were out on patrol, although a few roamed here and there—because of the heat, the streets were fairly quiet. But it might only be a matter of days before violence erupted and spread through the town like wildfire.

Window fans stirred the briefs, police reports, and arrest records on the desks. The desk sergeant was listening to a young black woman. Another woman stood behind her, white and young and obese, glaring at the posters on the wall, staring balefully at the cops as they passed—Owen could tell straight off that she'd probably had two or more siblings who'd done long stretches, but she also looked afraid. He could almost guarantee that she knew some of the people whose faces were on that wall, and she probably knew where they were hiding; the real reason she was here was to do reconnaissance, to see if the cops were still beating the bushes or if they'd lost interest, and then she'd relay the info to her father, brother, cousin, or boyfriend. He'd seen this before, and he considered going over to shake her up a little and then decided against it. Instead, he flicked a pencil onto Caputo's desk and when he caught the cop's eye he nodded toward the hall. It took Caputo a moment but then Owen could see that he'd gotten it, and he rose from his desk and stepped toward the girl.

Two other detectives were sitting opposite each other and tying up reports; one was poring through an old record of mug shots. A large beat cop named Peter Molloy stood looking over his shoulder. Every once in a while the detective would ask him something and Molloy would shake his head and then the detective would turn the page of the enormous missal.

“Peter,” Owen called, and waved him over. “Can I ask a question?”

Peter shambled over, put his weight on his left hip, leaned against the desk, and folded his arms across his chest. He said, “Detective,” in a formal but friendly way and in a deep baritone that might have come from an actor upon the stage.

“Do you ever get over to Dudley Square?”

“Oh, for sure. It's great
craic
over there of a Friday and Saturday. I met my wife there.”

“You did?”

“I did. At the Hibernian. Ten years ago this October.”

“So you know the scene well.”

“Haven't been to the halls in a while but you hear people talking and the same bands are still around.”

“Did you happen to know Mickey Flynn from the Irish Starlight Express?”

Peter frowned and all humor left him.

“Everyone knew Mickey. Hearing about his death came as a great shock. My wife's brother often played with him at the social clubs in Dorchester and West Roxbury. Mickey would play any session there was and often for no pay. He was a hell of a man.”

“Do you think he would have had anything to do with the IRA?”

“You mean the guns and all that?”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked as if he were thinking about it, and he pursed his lips, but his eyes said something else entirely—he was considering Owen and deciding what he should tell him. He was a much smarter man than Owen had taken him for; his easy smile and manner made you think you were instant comrades, friends even.

“There's lot who support the IRA,” he said. “You've got function halls all over Boston where they're raising funds every weekend, but you won't often find family men there. I didn't know Mickey well enough to know his politics, but I never took him for a supporter.”

“Okay, but there would be plenty in Dudley who are, yeah?”

“Sure, of course. You're talking about every Irishman and woman in Boston. Everyone wants a united Ireland.”

“Including yourself?”

Peter smiled. “If you don't, you shouldn't call yourself Irish.”

“So all these clubs—they have owners, people I can talk to about these recent murders. Do you know any offhand?”

“De Burgh is the fella everyone knows—he lives down the South Shore now but owns most of the property in Dudley, not to mention the social clubs around town. They lease their properties from him. He has a hand with the unions around Boston too, even the policeman's union. He sets up relief funds for struggling Irish who have just come over, for Irish families with sick children, for people who need help with immigration. He arranges the travel for people who need to get back home.”

“I've never heard of him.”

“Did you come off the boat recently?” Peter teased, all humor now.

“No. My mother and father came off one, though, in 1912.”

Peter nodded. “God bless them—are they well?”

“They died some time ago.”

“My condolences. May they be at peace in heaven.”

He paused and rubbed a big hand across his thick chin.

“Well,” he said, “I can't name all the people who run the small venues and bands, and there's tons of them on the wedding circuit, but you should start with de Burgh. If it's about Ireland, a fund-raiser, a benefit, a
céilí,
then he's involved. Everyone recognizes him by his car, a big flashy Lincoln with whitewalls. If you see that, you know de Burgh is in the house.”

“Thanks, Peter.”

“You're welcome. Keep me in the loop. If you need anything, just ask.”

“I will.”