Rogue Island (15 page)

“Couple of the DiMaggios—Gunther Hawes and Whimpy Bennett—work just up the street at Deegan's, so I ring 'em up, tell 'em to haul ass over here. Then I come out, see if I can stall him. Asshole pokes around the store, then heads to the counter with a
Penthouse
and a six-pack of Michelob. Asks the girl for a deck of Marlboros, then spies the Colibri display behind the counter, says he wants to see one. You can tell by his face he likes the feel of it in his hand—probably thinkin' about using it to burn somethin' down.

“Hawes and Bennett walk in carryin' Louisville Sluggers they grabbed off the display rack out front the fuckin' store. Asshole pays for his goods, lighter included, heads for the door, sees my boys standin' in front of it. Asshole says Excuse me, tries to push past them. Hawes gives him a little tap, and he topples over into the Cheez Doodles rack. My boys stand over him with their bats, and he gets this scared-shitless look.

“That's when he yells somethin' really fuckin' funny in his dumb-ass chink accent. He says, ‘Hep! Caw duh porice!' ”

Mason winced and looked up from his notepad. “He wanted you to call the police?”

“So I did,” Zerilli said. “Sorry I fucked it up, Mulligan. Shoulda called you first.”

“Don't worry about it, Officer Whoosh.”

“Fuck you. I told you before, that ain't funny.”

“Call Veronica,” I told Thanks-Dad, “and read her your notes.”

I took a corned-beef sandwich and an ice tea from the cooler and found a seat at a little round table under the awning out front. A few minutes later, Mason sat down across from me with a bag of chips and a Coke.

“Reach Veronica?”

“I did.”

“Give her all the quotes?”

“Yeah. She asked if I had one Lomax would print, one without the words
fuck, shit,
or
asshole
in it. I told her she's going to have to paraphrase.”

“Give her all the details?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The part about the asshole buying the lighter?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The part about the Marlboros and the
Penthouse
?”

“I didn't think that was important.”

“The part about Cheez Doodles spilled all over the floor by the door?”

“Didn't think that was important either.”

“You can't write a good story without details, Thanks-Dad. Call her back, and this time give her all of it.”

While he was making the call, I tossed my sandwich wrapper in the barrel by the door and walked back into the store. Zerilli was bent over, scooping Cheez Doodles packages from the scuffed tile floor.

“Hey, Whoosh. How'd the asshole pay for his purchases?”

“Credit card.”

“Visa? Discover? MasterCard?”

“Sheila!” Whoosh shouted to the clerk. “What kinda plastic did the asshole use?”

“Visa.”

“Great.” I said. “Gimme the number.”

*  *  *

Secretariat was right where I left him in front of the chop shop. As we walked up, Deegan popped out of the garage and threw me the keys.

“You're all set,” he said. “Sorry for your trouble.”

As I pulled away from the curb, I pushed the play button. The opening guitar lick of Tommy Castro's “Mammer-Jammer,” the first cut on the CD that was in the player when it was ripped from the dash, screeched from the speakers.

Mason's hands went to his ears. “Would you mind turning that down?”

I reached over and turned it up.

A moment later, a battle of the bands ensued as Deep Purple broke in with “Smoke on the Water.” I punched the CD player off and flipped the cell open.

“You!

fucking!

bastard!”

“Sorry, Dorcas, but I don't have time to chat right now.”

As my favorite philosopher, Kinky Friedman, once said, “In the sky of every love affair are little tickets to hell, falling like confetti from the stars.”

I found a space in front of the welfare building just down the street from the paper and yanked the “Out of Order” hood over the head of the parking meter. I didn't see the humor in it, but Mason thought it was hilarious. Princes never fully appreciate the survival tactics of their serfs. He was still giggling like a schoolgirl three minutes later as we stepped off the elevator into the newsroom.

I was reading a computer printout of Veronica's unedited copy about the arrest when Lomax walked up. “Good they finally caught the bastard,” he said.

It didn't feel right, but I just nodded.

“It's a court story now, so from here on out it belongs to Veronica. Time to get cracking on that cadaver-dogs story.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

I decided to keep operating on the assumption he was kidding. If the Sassy/Sugar affair hadn't soured him on doggy features, nothing ever would.

I waited till he was out of earshot before placing a call to my Aunt Ruthie in the customer-service department at Fleet Bank headquarters in Boston.

“Liam! How's my favorite nephew?”

We chatted about how her son Conor was doing, his one-year parole on a Fenway ticket-scalping bust almost up, before I told her what I needed. I'd just hung up when Mason sauntered over.

“So,” he said. “What do we work on next?”

“Manhole covers.”

“Pardon?”

“Manhole covers.”

“What about them?”

“You're supposed to be a reporter, Thanks-Dad. Got yourself a notepad, a trench coat, a fedora, a sheepskin from a fancy journalism school. Try to figure it out. Start with the city purchasing department. See if you can come up with something worth printing.”

“You're giving me an assignment?” He sounded positively giddy.

“Something like that.”

“Thanks, Mulligan! I was afraid you really didn't like me.”

Manhole covers. I almost laughed. That should keep his inbred ass out of my business for a while.

32

Gloria leaned in close, her blond hair caressing the side of my face as we studied the perp-walk pictures on her camera's LCD screen. We were perched on adjoining bar stools. Moisture beaded the sides of our tumblers, hers filled with draft beer and mine with club soda.

We were still in a huddle when Veronica strolled into Hopes and wrapped her arms around my neck, staking her claim. She smirked at Gloria, and Gloria smirked back. Maybe later they'd mud-wrestle. The bartender brought Veronica a chardonnay without being asked, and the two of us carried our glasses to a table with a decent view of the TV over the bar. Gloria teetered in place, wondering whether to tag along. Then she caught Veronica's eye and thought better of it.

Channel 10's operatic Action News theme heralded Logan Bedford's cliché-riddled teaser for the six o'clock report: “Our long municipal nightmare is over! Our gallant men in blue have made an arrest in the Mount Hope arson case that has terrorized our fair city. Wait till you find out how they caught him. You'll be
shocked
!”

Who the hell writes that crap?

Ernie DiGregorio spun a basketball on his index finger and invited us to join the fun at Foxwoods. Cadillac Frank made a show of kicking tires with his Ferragamos and announced “an offer you can't refuse on a previously owned Seville.” Then Logan was back with tape from the press conference at Providence Police Headquarters.

It was all backslaps and congratulations, the chief, the mayor, and Polecki taking turns giving one another credit. The mayor hogged most of the camera time, attributing the break in the case to Polecki's diligent police work and doing his best to minimize the role of Zerilli and his bat-wielding vigilantes. Polecki injected a word of caution, saying “The investigation is ongoing,” but the smug smiles and the celebratory mood made it clear they thought Wu Chiang was their man.

When it was over, the crowd at Hopes applauded. Three cops and a half dozen firemen, segregated at two tables in back, rose to their feet and raised their glasses in a toast. Then they crossed their invisible line of mutual hostility to share manly hugs, the black eyes and split lips from the brawl at last August's PD vs. FD softball game momentarily forgotten.

33

Seems like I'm always hustling for something—a lead, a quote, a free parking space, space above the fold. When there's time to take a breath, it usually involves sucking in a lungful of Cuban and wheezing out a cheer for the developmentally arrested millionaires with “Red Sox” stitched across their chests. Tonight I'd gotten myself into something different, and I liked the way it felt.

We strolled past Nordstrom, an anchor in the sprawling mall just downwind from the stench of the statehouse. Behind the plate-glass windows, mannequins were draped in my annual salary. I focused on my companion's hips as they drew silky circles beneath her skirt. A minute or two slipped by before I noticed she was speaking.

“… wanted to share the byline but Lomax wouldn't go for it, so I gave you and Mason contributing lines at the end of the piece.”

When I realized she was talking business, I felt oddly deflated. “We make a good team, Veronica.”

“You and Mason?”

“You and I.”

“I think so too,” she said.

Suddenly I was hungry. I wanted food too.

Before us was one of those pretentious places with ferns, brass railings, hardwood floors, and preening waiters with names like Chad and Corey. As we settled into a corner booth, I felt Veronica shed the day. She pulled her jet-black hair out of an elastic tie and shook it loose to settle on her shoulders. Then she sighed and crossed her legs, diverting my attention from the twelve-page menu.

Veronica ordered veal. I asked for the rib eye. There are times when nothing will do but meat.

She was at it again. Talking. I caught about every third word. Arson. Deadlines. Wu Chiang. I just wanted her to tie that hair back up and pull it loose again. To uncross her legs and recross them.

“You ever get lonely, Mulligan?”

That caught me by surprise. I felt myself about to stutter, then remembered what a cool dude I'm supposed to be. “How could I get lonely with you, Gloria, and Polecki all wanting a piece of me?”

She didn't smile like I thought she would. Instead, she lowered her eyes and ran a slow finger along the rim of her wine glass.

“We kiss, we roll around in your bed, we sleep. What you want from me now is something you can get from anybody.”

“No way,” I said. “From Gloria, sure, but Polecki's a lousy lay.”

“Is everything a joke to you?”

“Most things. Not everything.”

I was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say or how to say it.

“You've figured me out,” I said. “You know the shit I slog through every fucking day, how I stink of it, and you still think I'm good enough to be with you.”

As she raised her eyes to stare at me, Chad or Corey materialized, working me for a tip. No, I don't want any more water. No, we haven't finished our drinks. Keep your cracked pepper to yourself. Go the fuck away.

We ate in silence. It was a cozy silence, and it scared me a little. I'd said too much. Or not enough. What exactly had I said? Ah, yes.
Shit,
and
stink,
and
fucking—
the three magic words of romance.

“Mulligan?”

Silence broken.

“You get me too. And I've been told that I'm a hard woman to love.”

Love? Jesus! Who'd said anything about love?

I sawed at my rib-eye, stalling for time. Then she tossed that gorgeous mane, and my breath caught on something.

When Chad or Corey showed up with the check, Veronica snatched it, handed him her AMEX card, and headed for the ladies' room. Love? Who said anything about love? I was still pondering that when I felt her hands on my shoulders and her breath in my ear.

I followed her out of the restaurant, and we strolled arm in arm to her car. We were through the door to my place and out of our clothes before I could decide whether the rush of blood to all the right places was lust or something more.

Heavy necking, Mulligan at full mast, then a cold shower. I knew the routine. But when I stretched out on the bed, her hands were insistent. So was her mouth. Then she moved to place me inside of her.

An interesting development, to say the least. As the sportscasters say, the crowd went wild.

What had I been doing with Dorcas those two wasted years? Whatever it was, it bore no relation to this. We tangled and writhed, slipped and adjusted, bumped noses and giggled, rode and shivered. And when it was finally over we—gulp—
cuddled.
Spent and sweaty, I hoped that I had been at least mildly entertaining. This lady was a keeper.

The lady lifted her head from my chest and smiled.

“That test I asked you to get?”

“Yeah?”

“You passed.”

So she
had
been just stalling for time. Be nice if she'd found a way that didn't involve me getting stabbed with a needle, but I had to admit it had worked. I suppressed a pinpoint of irritation. What exactly had been the point of waiting?

“So,” she said, “are you all tuckered out, or shall we try that again?”

Love? Who said anything about love?

34

I awoke to the familiar sound of Angela Anselmo shrieking at her kids. Something about paste, confetti, and “How could you do that to poor little Toodles?”

I swung my feet to the floor and gazed back at Veronica in the light filtering through the shade. Her breathing was deep and regular. Resisting the urge to bury my face in the tangle of jet hair on the pillow, I tiptoed to the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and lathered up. Suddenly there was a sleepy, naked court reporter beside me in the cramped stall.

“Who's Toodles?” she asked. Looking at the rivulets of hot water streaming over her skin, I had other questions, but I answered the one she asked.