Boston Noir (13 page)

She kept quiet, her hands now about her purse, firmly in her lap.

"Anything to say?" My client kept quiet. I held up the box. "What's in here, Mandy?"

Nothing.

"Mandy?"

I set the box back in my lap, tore away at the tape and damp cardboard, and the top lifted off easy enough. There was damp brown paper in the box, and the sound of smaller boxes moving against each other. I turned the big box over a bit, shone the light in. Little yellow cardboard boxes, about the size of small toothpaste containers, all bundled together. There were scores of them. I shuddered, took a deep breath. I knew what they were.

"Morphine," I said, looking her hard in the eye. "Morphine syrettes. Your guy...if there
was
a guy there, he wasn't training as a radioman. He was training as a medic. And he was stealing this morphine to sell later, once the war was over. Am I right? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

My client said, "What difference does it make? Look, I had a job to do, to get that stuff off that island, easiest way possible, no fuss, no muss, and we did it. Okay? Get me to shore, you'll get...a finder's fee, a percentage."

I shook the box, heard the smaller boxes rattle. "Worth a lot of money, isn't it?"

She smiled. "You have no idea."

"But it was stolen. During wartime."

"So what?" Her voice now revealed a sharpness I hadn't heard before. "Guys went to war, some got killed, some figured out a way to score, to make some bucks...and the guys I'm with, they figured it was time to look out for themselves, to set something up for later. So there you go. Nice deal all around. Don't you want part of it, Billy? Huh?"

I shook the box again, fought to keep my voice even. "Ever hear of Bastogne?"

"Maybe, who knows, who cares."

"I know, and I care. That's where my brother was, in December 1944. Belgian town, surrounded by the Krauts. He took a chunk of shrapnel to the stomach. He was dying. Maybe he could have lived if he wasn't in so much pain...but the medics, they were low on morphine. They could only use morphine on guys they thought might live. So my brother...no morphine...he died in agony. Hours it took for him to die, because the medics were short on morphine."

Mandy said, "A great story, Billy. A very touching story. Look, you want a tissue or something?"

And moving quickly, she opened up her purse and took out a small, nickel-plated semiautomatic pistol.

"Sorry, Billy, but this is how it's going to be. You're going to give me back my box, you're going to take me back to the dock, and if you're a good boy, I'll make sure only a leg or an arm gets broken. How's that for a deal?"

I thought for a moment, now staring at a face I didn't recognize, and said, "I've heard better."

And I tossed the box and the morphine syrettes into the dark waters.

She screamed and shouted something, and I was moving quick, which was good, because she got off a shot that pounded over my head as I ducked and grabbed something at the bottom of the boat, tugging it free, then dropped overboard. The shock of the cold water almost made me open my mouth, but I was more or less used to it. I came up coughing, splashing, and my flashlight was still on the boat, still lit up, which made it easy for me to see what happened next.

The skiff was rocking and filling with water as Mandy moved to the rear, trying to get the engine started, I think, but with her added weight at the stern, it quickly swamped and flipped over, dumping her in. She screamed. She screamed again. "Billy! Please! I can't swim! Please!"

I raised my hand, holding the drain plug to the rear of the skiff, and let it go.

She floundered some more. Splashing. Yelling. Coughing. It would be easy enough to get over there, calm her down, put her in the approved life-saving mode, my arm about her, to pull her safely to shore. So easy to do, for I could have easily found her in the darkness by following the splashes and yells.

The yells. I had heard later, from someone in my brother's platoon, how much he had yelled toward the end.

I moved some, was able to gauge where she was, out there in the darkness.

And then I turned and swam in the other direction.

S
ometimes Boupha honestly found them. She thought it was a gift. Her father said she wasn't so special--anybody could. He should know because it was his game; he'd been running it since he'd been driving a cab. After a while you developed an eye, like a hunter.

"American people don't see anything," he said. "People like us, we have to."

He'd taught her well, as he never tired of reminding her. Late August, when the college kids moved in, she watched the park. Winter she cruised the potholed lots behind the apartments on Jersey. In spring the long flats of Beacon beyond Kenmore were littered with the dead--worth just as much, and less trouble, besides the smell. In her trunk she kept garbage bags and rubber gloves, an aerosol can of Oust.

Each season brought a new crop, that was the genius of it. Her father was the one who'd realized the possibilities. Now that he could no longer drive, Boupha used his badge, working twelve-hour shifts to pay his hospital bills. After all his talk about keeping her eyes open, he'd been going fifty on Storrow Drive in the rain when he rear-ended a stopped tow truck. His head bent the steering wheel. The wheel could be fixed but not her father. The doctors had saved his life so he could lie in a special bed and watch TV. "Boupha!" he called when he needed anything. "Boupha!" Their apartment wasn't large enough to escape his voice. He'd had a sly sense of humor before the accident, a con man's easy charm. Now her smallest mistake sent him into a rage. She hated leaving him alone because sometimes, for no reason, he screamed. The upstairs neighbors had complained.

On his best days, he obsessed over money and cigarettes. He didn't care about food or temple anymore. His friend Pranh no longer visited.

"How much you make today?" he asked when she came home, already reaching for his Newports. Every dollar, every pack was an offering to him.

Like driving, so much of the game was being in the right place. That night she wasn't even looking. She'd dropped a silent fare at Beth Israel and stopped at the Store 24 on Beacon when the shepherd limped out of an alley directly into her path, as if it didn't see her.

Even with the shadows she could tell it was an older male, rheumy-eyed and white around the snout. Its haunches were matted black and it was hobbling so badly that she thought it had been hit. One of her father's cardinal rules was that a hurt animal wasn't worth the trouble. She'd once found a cat on Park Drive with its back legs smashed, writhing and spitting. It had no collar, so it was worthless, but Boupha couldn't leave it in the street. As she tried to slide it to the curb on a pizza box, it snarled and clawed her arm, opening three beading lines she now wore as scars. "I tell you," her father had said, "but you're too smart, you don't want to listen."

Normally strays shied away, distrustful of people, but the shepherd just waddled along ahead of her. Its back was slick with blood; it shone under the streetlights. She was almost beside her car. Thinking of the cat lashing out, she stopped.

The dog stopped and looked back as if they were going for a walk and she needed to catch up. Its tag glinted.

She had treats in the glove compartment, a leash with a muzzle. She could quote her father back to him: older dogs were worth more. The owners had more invested in them.

But the blood. The blood was a problem.

The dog turned to watch her open the passenger door, cocking his head.

"Hey. I've got something for you. Here you go."

She tossed him a treat. He waddled over and nosed it, keeping his eyes on her the whole time. Finally he took the biscuit, crunching it with his head lowered.

"Good boy, yes."

The second one she dropped halfway between them. This time he didn't hesitate.

"That's a good dog," she said, and squatted down to show she was no threat. With the leash behind her back, she set a treat on the sidewalk right in front of her.

As he came closer, he hunched lower and lower until he lay down and rolled on his side, panting, his tongue flopping out of his mouth.

"It's all right, you're okay," she said, and hooked the leash to the ring on his collar.

She pushed the treat toward him and he rolled and took it and got to his feet, chomping. She waited till he was finished to pet him. His tag said his name was Edgar and he belonged to the Friedmans. The phone number was a Brookline exchange, a point in her favor.

He was still panting, so she took the bowl from the trunk and gave him some water. As he lapped, she inspected his haunch, pouring the rest of the bottle over it. She rinsed most of the blood off but there wasn't enough light to see where it was coming from.

"I know it hurts, Edgar," she said, drying him with an old towel, but he didn't seem to mind. He stood still for her as if he was getting a bath. Maybe he was senile, or maybe he was just good-natured.

He looked good enough. She laid a trash bag and another towel across the backseat for him and drove straight home. It took only five minutes this time of night, but in the lot, when she opened the back door, his rear was matted again and the towel was bloody.

Later she realized this was where she should have cut him loose, but she'd already made her decision, and the possibility never crossed her mind. She thought she'd saved him. He had the tag, the tag had the number. That was the game. The only thing she was worried about was her father.

She couldn't lie to him. The dog didn't want to go in the cage, and there was blood on her shirt, blood on her arms. She gave him his cigarettes first.

"I don't believe you," he said. "What do I tell you, and you do this."

"I'm going to call them," she said, but when she did, there was no answer.

Edgar was bleeding in the cage, and she had to make dinner.

"Get it out of here," her father said. "What are you waiting for?"

She called the Friedmans again while he was eating. She thought it was wrong. She should at least be getting a machine.

She coaxed Edgar out of the cage and lifted him into the bathtub the way she did her father, using the flexible hose to wash his haunch. As she scrubbed him, something sharp cut her palm.

She looked at the hole in her rubber glove as if it couldn't have happened, but the blood was already welling up.

"Shit."

"What is it?" her father called.

"Nothing."

She held Edgar still and gingerly parted his fur. Poking from a lipped gash in his gray skin was the broken blade of a steak knife.

She needed the pliers to ease it out. He didn't growl as she cleaned and dressed the wound. She used extra butterflies and checked on him every few minutes to make sure he wasn't digging at it. He didn't like the cage, so she'd put down a blanket in a corner and given him a few toys. He lay with a stuffed Tigger between his crossed paws, licking the head as if it were a pup.

"I don't know why anyone would do that to you," she said, stroking him. "You're a good boy."

"Call them again," her father said.

She had the number right, they just weren't home. She had their address. Tomorrow she'd swing by and see if they'd put up posters. She wondered how long it had been.

In the middle of the night she woke to her father calling for her and the dog barking. Edgar must have nosed the door open, because he was in the middle of her father's room, his front legs braced, his fangs bared. It was like the two of them were arguing.

"Go!" Boupha shouted, clapping, and Edgar slunk away.

"Keep him away from me!" her father screamed, wild-eyed. "He tried to bite me!"

"I'll close your door. That way you'll be safe."

"Don't leave me alone!"

"I'm right here, Pa," she said, patting his arm. "I'm not going anywhere."

In the morning he was calmer, but he wanted the dog gone. Now, today.

Edgar's bleeding had stopped, the blood crusted darkly around the butterflies. The way the game worked, the longer you held on to them, the greater your reward, but her father made that impossible. She called the Friedmans, and when no one answered, she clipped Edgar to his leash and took him to Brookline.

The address on his tag belonged to a leafy side street. It was the kind of neighborhood she could never afford, with neat lawns and hedges and gardens. As she slowed, searching for the number, Edgar sat up in the backseat as if he knew where they were going.

The Friedmans' was a white frame house with baskets of geraniums hanging from the porch. Behind her, Edgar huffed and scratched at the window.

"Let me stop the car first."

When she opened the door, he shot across the yard and up the steps, trailing his leash, a burst of energy that made her think he was feeling better. He waited, facing the doorknob, as if she had the key.

She took the leash in hand and rang the bell, then stepped back, standing straight, her chin held high. Americans liked you to look them in the eye so they knew you were telling the truth. In this case Boupha was, but out of habit she prepared the details of her story, like an actor about to take the stage. As proof, she would show the Friedmans the Band-Aid on her palm. She wouldn't ask for a reward, would turn it down at first. Only when they insisted would she accept it, thanking them in turn for their generosity, and everyone would be happy.

After standing there a minute, Boupha pressed the doorbell again and heard it chime inside--
bing-bong
.

"They're probably all out looking for you," she said, scratching Edgar's head.

She was about to knock when a voice called, "Can I help you?"

It came from the porch next door, from an older lady with puffy white hair and red lipstick. She wore a flowered apron over a powder-blue sweat suit. In one gloved hand, drawn like a weapon, she held a spade.

"I'm looking for the Friedmans," Boupha said.

"I'm sorry, the Friedmans aren't here. They're both gone."

"I think I found their dog."

"Is that Edgar?" the woman said, craning as if she couldn't see him. "I thought the police took him."

Just the mention of them made Boupha want to excuse herself.

"Wait right there." The woman tottered down the stairs and across the yard. "Oh God, it
is
Edgar."

Boupha went right into her story. When she described finding the blade, the woman covered her mouth with both hands.

"Oh dear, you don't know, do you? You didn't hear what happened to them?"

"No."

"I thought everyone knew. It was all over the TV. There were reporters tromping all over my yard. I refused to talk to them. I told them they could go dig up their dirt somewhere else. It was a tragedy, that's all. God forgives everything, I have to believe that. The people I feel sorry for are the children."

"What happened?"

She really didn't want to talk about it. The woman would just give Boupha the basics--she could get them from the paper anyway.

Last Wednesday, in the middle of the night, Mr. Friedman, who was having serious health problems, took a kitchen knife and stabbed Mrs. Friedman--who was having even more serious health problems--many times. Then Mr. Friedman stabbed himself, once, in the neck (the woman gestured with the spade). He survived, she died, which the woman guessed was better than the other way around, but it was still horrible. They were both such nice people. Mrs. Friedman had been president of the Hadassah.

"I'm sorry," Boupha said.

"It's no mystery. He couldn't take care of her anymore, that was all. He was afraid."

"You said there are children." She petted Edgar as if to show how good he was.

"They're long gone. They wanted to get as far away as possible from this mess, and I don't blame them. I don't have the slightest idea how to get ahold of them. You might try the police. It's a shame. He always had such a sweet disposition for a shepherd. I'd take him in a second if I wasn't allergic."

"Is there anyone around here who could?"

The woman shrugged and shook her head as if there was nothing anyone could do.

Boupha knew what her father would do. He'd leave the dog sitting on the porch and drive away. Boupha thought she could have done that too, if the woman wasn't standing there. Maybe later she could come back and tie him to a tree in the backyard--but how long would he be there, and who would find him? She might as well drive over to Brighton and drop him off at animal control.

She thanked the woman and--finally resorting to treats again--convinced Edgar to get back in the cab. In the rearview mirror, he watched his old home go, and she wondered if, that night, he'd tried to protect Mrs. Friedman, or whether it had already been too late and he was just lucky to escape. The way he acted on the porch, she wasn't sure he understood what had happened. Had he expected them to be there waiting for him?

He was old, and hurt, and maybe he couldn't imagine that great of a change.

When she let him out in their parking lot, she noticed bloody pawprints on the seat. He'd probably opened the cut running across the yard.

"I tell you!" her father shouted. "You get rid of him! Boupha!"

She closed the bathroom door to tend to Edgar, but the butterflies were fine. In the other room, her father raged.

"Stop!" she finally shouted. "I can hear you. Everyone can hear you. I'll get rid of him when he's better. Right now he's sick."

"That's why you need to get rid of him! You're not a doctor!"

She wasn't, and she really needed to be. That night, as she was falling asleep, Edgar got up from his corner, padded to a spot in front of her closet, and squatted. The puddling noise woke her.

"No!" she yelled. "Bad!"

Fearing diarrhea, she turned on the light and saw he was unleashing a bloody stream. He looked over at her guiltily as it gushed out of him onto the carpet.

She jumped up in just her T-shirt and dragged him into the kitchen so he would go on the linoleum, because he wasn't done, but that only made a bigger mess.

"What's happening?" her father shouted.

"He's sick."

"I tell you that already."