Brighton (14 page)

“Perhaps you’d like to know how we separate our A’s from our B’s?” The nun pulled off her glasses and looked up. She had a long face, with eyes so pale as to be nearly transparent and cheeks that were heavily scarred.

“You heard us?” Kevin said.

“I did indeed.”

“This is Mo Stanley. I’m Kevin Pearce.”

“You write for the
Globe
.”

“I do.”

“And you went to school here.”

“I did.”

“I went to Catholic school as well,” Mo said.

“But not at Saint Andrew’s?”

“No.” Mo fell back to lick her wounds.

“You’ve never been back, Mr. Pearce?”

“Not until today, no.”

“We’re very proud of the success our students have had. We like people to know it’s because of the training they got here.”

Kevin would have laid a bit more of the credit for whatever he’d done at the doorstep of Boston Latin School, but the nun was tough, the nun was ornery, and the nun was well within striking distance.

“Yes, ma’am. I tell people about Saint A’s all the time.”

“I’m sure you do.” She came out from behind her desk and extended a hand full of long fingers and surprising grip. “I’m
Sister Lorraine.” Kevin had vague images of a younger version of the nun, standing by the door to the boys’ room, watching over them as they tried to take a piss.

“I always taught on the A side of things,” she said, “so I never had you in class.”

“That’s too bad,” Mo said, fully recovered now and tickled as all hell to get back in on the fun.

“Yes, he was boisterous enough as I recall, but I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”

“It’s about a former student,” Kevin said.

Sister Lorraine pulled a couple of chairs off the wall and gestured for them to sit. Then she closed the door to the classroom and took her place again behind the desk, clenching her hands in front of her and dropping her chin like a hammer the way only a nun can. “As I recall, Mr. Pearce, you usually write about death, so excuse me for not being more excited at your request for information.”

“I understand, Sister.”

“I assume something’s happened to one of ours.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He could smell the soap on the nun’s skin and suddenly wished he was anywhere but here.

“What’s his name?”

“Actually it’s a she,” Mo said.

“I don’t know if she went here,” Kevin said, “but I’m pretty sure she went to the Academy.”

“Chrissy . . .” The name crumbled off the nun’s lips.

“How did you know that?” Mo said.

“Chrissy McNabb.”

“The last name we have is Flannery.”

Sister Lorraine shook her head. “That was her married name.
There were three of them, all girls. Went to grammar school and the Academy. Lived with their aunt on Bigelow Street.” She lifted an accusing finger and pointed it at Kevin. “I think Chrissy was the same year as one of your sisters.”

The dam broke and it all came pouring in, torrents of blind memory bathed in streaks of sunlight—a young girl, younger than Kevin, running across the tarred playground with trailing white ribbons in her hair, chasing after Bridget, smiling and giggling, holding in a five-year-old’s secret with her hand over her mouth as she went. Kevin pulled out the crime scene photo and placed it facedown on the desk.

“That’s her?” The nun jutted her chin toward the photo while keeping her eyes fixed on him.

“Be good if you can confirm it.”

She pulled the picture across and lifted it, taking a look, then pushing it back. Outside kids were still playing in the yard. Light from the window cut fresh wounds across the nun’s pockmarked face. “I kept in touch with her.”

Kevin started to say something, but Mo touched his sleeve and the response died in his throat.

“She had a lot of problems. A lot of girls do. I guess there’s always one that just strikes a nerve.” The nun skinned back her lips. “Fat lot of good it did.”

“I’m sure you did all you could,” Mo said, brushing her hand before pulling back again.

“She’d show up at all sorts of strange times. I’d give her a little money, some clothes, a coat and boots for the winter. The last time I saw her, I tried to get her to see her aunt—she still lives in the house on Bigelow—but she wouldn’t. Anyway . . .”

A bell rang somewhere and the hallway filled with kids, running up and down, laughing, yelling, heading to and from class.

“You know they’re going to close this place down?”

“I didn’t,” Kevin said.

“This year or next, no one’s sure, but it’s already been decided. There was a rumor they were going to turn it into a day-care center. A friend told me she saw plans for a recycling plant. Rich, huh? Hang on a minute.”

Sister Lorraine got up slowly, the crush of so much life bending her frame inexorably to its will. She returned a few minutes later with a long cardboard box, opening it at her desk and running her spider fingers along a series of index cards until she found what she wanted. It was a registration form from 1969. Chrissy McNabb’s kindergarten picture was attached.

“Is there anyone else in Brighton she kept in touch with?” Kevin said, taking a quick look at the card then putting it on the desk next to the crime scene photo. “Anyone else she talked about?”

The nun shook her head. “All she talked about was the drugs. Where she was gonna get the money for whatever she needed, how it was gonna be the last time. Always the last time.”

“Did she mention a dealer?” Mo said. “Anyone who might have helped her get drugs or money?”

“I gave her money. If you’re looking for someone to blame, blame me.”

“That’s not what we meant.”

“I know what you meant. She never gave me any names. Well, she gave me one. Fidelis Way. That’s where she did her ‘shopping.’ Her words, not mine.”

“I’m sorry we had to bring this to you,” Kevin said.

“I’d rather know.”

Kevin got up to leave. Mo got up with him, pressing close against his back. Sister Lorraine rubbed the kindergarten photo with a thumb as she spoke.

“Do you know where they buried her?”

“I can find out,” Kevin said. “But it’d be better if you left us out of it.”

She shrugged because that didn’t matter—a petty concern from an alien world. So they left her in the sun-streaked room, with the windows open and dark green shades banging in the breeze. Alone with her stack of registration cards and muted memories of the girl with white ribbons, playing on a playground so long ago.

BOBBY WALKED
down the loading dock and smelled the smells—the tang of diesel overlaid with the waft from fat bags of onions and garlic, pallets of soft strawberries and heaps of overripe bananas. He stopped in front of a display for TaVilla Tomatoes and soaked in the sights—big men, skinny men, dark men, hairy men, men with bellies and ground-up cigars stuck in their mouths scribbling furiously into order books, men who never said a word, men who couldn’t keep their yaps shut, men whispering fervent whispers and screaming in shorthand produce gibberish about oranges out of California and a load of lettuce that somehow disappeared in fucking New Jersey. It was the New England produce market at a little after ten in the morning, and another day of bartering, bickering, conniving, and thieving was coming to a glorious close. Most of the buyers were headed to the bar, the off-track, or a strip club—hopefully all three if the money held out. Bobby sifted through the crowd and found his way to a building at the far end of the dock. A dozen illegals, quick hands and quiet eyes, worked in a drafty, dimly lit warehouse, stuffing celery hearts into plastic bags and packing them into boxes on pallets. A large Italian with snow-white
hair, beetle-black eyebrows, and a nose that resembled an eggplant watched Bobby as he crossed the room. Bobby nodded. The Italian’s name was Sal Riga. He explored the cavernous reaches of one of his nostrils with a thumb that seemed made for the job, looked at whatever it was he’d excavated, and wiped it on his blue polo shirt. A Vietnamese roughly the size of Sal’s latest bowel movement ran up to the man and began gesticulating wildly. Sal followed the Vietnamese through a doorway covered over by hanging plastic strips.

Bobby slipped out of the packing room and walked past a run of empty truck bays. A Chelsea rat named Obie Liston stuck his nose out from behind a pile of packing crates and sniffed at Bobby as he went. Obie was a scrawny little fuck with a red wiffle cut and a couple of green and yellow shamrocks intertwined in a tattoo across the back of his neck. He ran book for most of the market when he wasn’t boosting cars and running a chop shop out of his mother’s garage. Chances were Obie didn’t like Bobby on his turf. Fuck him. Bobby took a left at the end of the last bay and slipped into a small connecting room. Through the doorway, he could see another expanse of empty warehouse. In the very center of the room, a waterfall of cabbage—chopped-up bits of red, white, and green—fell gently through a hole in the roof and disappeared down a dark blue chute. Somewhere above him, heavy machinery thumped and throbbed.

“You like coleslaw?”

Bobby jumped. For a big man, Sal Riga moved like a fucking cat.

“Should I?”

“Every morning we sweep up all the shit off the floor and run it through the chopper upstairs.” Sal nodded at the cabbage
waterfall. “Drops down the chute, gets processed, and bagged in the basement.”

“So I should pass on the slaw?”

“Probably no worse than the fucking hot dogs and sausage they feed us. But, yeah, I don’t eat the shit.” Sal slammed the metal door shut. The only remaining light came from a single bulb encased in a metal cage over the door. “I told you to come in the other way.”

“Sorry, I got turned around. Does it matter?”

The Italian shrugged massive, meaty shoulders.

“What’s this about, Sal? You paid up last week.”

They’d met five years ago in a BU bar called T’s Pub. They were both drinking Bushmills and got to talking about sports, then betting. Bobby had the Pats that weekend getting a point and a half at Miami. Normally, a guy like Sal would make his bets with someone like Obie, but the line that week was two. Sal put down five hundred with Bobby and cashed, winning on the hook. The following week he called in another bet and won again. Pretty soon Sal was one of Bobby’s biggest players, plus he brought in other guys from the market. And they all had money. Bobby shaved a little off the lines and still made out pretty well just because of the cash they laid out. A typical Sal bet was five to ten large. Some of his pals bet more.

“What’s the line on the C’s tomorrow night?”

“I think it’s six.”

Sal nodded. “Probably gonna want to make a wager.”

“Just let me know.” Bobby waited. The machines had gone quiet for the moment, and Sal still hadn’t answered his question. Why had he wanted Bobby to come in to the market? And why were they standing in this tiny, shitty fucking room, belly
to belly, talking about a bet that could have been handled with a phone call?

“Something came up.” Sal started slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “Something I wanted to talk to you about face-to-face.” The Italian shifted his weight in his shoes. He wore loafers with argyle socks. The sides were all broken down to shit and one of them was missing its tassel. “I got a business proposition for you.”

“Yeah?”

“The guys who own this company”—Sal ran his eyes around the room—“guys who pretty much own the whole fucking market. They want to buy in. Be your partner.”

“No thanks, Sal.”

“You haven’t heard what I got to say.”

Bobby didn’t have to hear. Sal worked for Frank “Cakes” Grisanti out of Providence. The Grisanti family ran most of the big books in New England, as well as prostitution, loan sharking, racketeering, and anything else they thought they could make a buck in.

“Your boss shakes more off his dick than I make in a year on my book.”

“Who said anything about your book?” Sal’s eyes had narrowed to black slits. He was close enough now that Bobby could see the patch of fur growing along the bridge of his nose, right up into his eyebrows. One step from the fucking Franklin Park Zoo. Bobby knew he needed to tread carefully.

“Guess I’m confused then.”

“Don’t play fuck-fuck with me, Bobby.”

“I’m not . . .”

“The shit. Dope, weed, blow. Whatever the fuck else you got
going on. We know you’re pushing it into the suburbs. Newton, Brookline, Wellesley, for Chrissakes. We know you’re on the campuses. Listen, Cakes is old school. Hates niggers and won’t do business with them. So we let them run their shit in the city and fucking kill each other. But this is different. You’re different. We’re thinking we help you expand, first to the South Shore and then all the way down to the Cape. We put up the money. Provide the manpower. You share in the profits.” Sal plugged a toothpick in his mouth, rolling it with his fingers between slick, banana lips. “I’m even gonna give you a bonus. Just cuz I like you and want us to get off on the right foot.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re wondering how we know about your operation?”

“Wondering about a lot of things, Sal.”

“You heard of a place in Brighton called the Corrib?”

“Pours a nice pint of Guinness.”

“There’s a mick who drinks in there that’s running his mouth. Says he’s either gonna get paid or put you out of business. You know the mick I’m talking about?”

“I got an idea.”

“There you go. So we got a deal?”

“I don’t do partners, Sal. If I did, you and your boss would be at the top of the list. But I just don’t.”

Sal pulled out the toothpick and pointed it at Bobby. “You sure?”

Bobby shrugged. “Pretty sure.”

Sal nodded. That’s when the coleslaw bag went over Bobby’s head. He could still see Sal through the lettering on the bag, staring dully at him as the plastic sealed tight to his nose and sucked his lungs dry. Bobby thrashed with his arms, probably the stupidest thing you
could do, but he’d never been suffocated with a coleslaw bag before so what the fuck did he know? The guy behind him doing the suffocating, on the other hand, he had experience. Deftly he stepped to one side and cinched the bag like a fucking vise grip. Bobby couldn’t hear a thing. Was he screaming, scuffling, putting up any kind of a fight? His eyes found Sal again, little more than a shadow now in a shrinking circle of light—soon to be followed by eternity at the bottom of a landfill in Revere. Bobby fought down the gorge of panic rising in his throat and threw cold water on his brain. If he had thirty seconds to live, he’d use them wisely. First, he stopped trying to breathe. What was the point? He relaxed his neck and shoulders, letting himself drop to his knees, arms and wrists limp, fingers scratching his epitaph in the empty air. Whoever was behind him leaned close, giving the plastic a final, vicious twist, eager to finish the job and get to the bar for a drink. Bobby bowed forward until his forehead almost touched the floor, then snapped his head back, a final burst, a wild, lucky shot that caught his assailant on the tip of the nose, stunning him and sending him reeling into the shadows. The bag slipped off and Bobby charged forward, filling his lungs with sweet oxygen and ramming a shoulder into Sal’s soft belly. Sal vomited sausage and peppers all over his loafers. Bobby reached for a knife strapped to his ankle and slit his best customer from navel to breastbone. Sal took one look at his intestines, steaming coils trailing out onto the concrete, and howled, trying blindly to stuff organs back where they belonged before curling up on the floor like an infant and mumbling to himself. The man who’d tried to strangle Bobby was crumpled against a wall. He was just coming around when Bobby took him by a handful of hair. The man’s eyes widened, dark brows arched
in dual question marks. Bobby cut his throat with a single swipe. Then he walked back to Sal, who was somehow still alive and actually trying to bargain for his life. Bobby cut his throat as well and wiped his knife clean on the polo.

He slipped through the coleslaw plant and found his car where he’d parked it. A mile from his apartment, he pulled into a long lot by the river and pushed open the door just in time to get sick. A car blew past, some guy leaning out the back window yelling “COOOOKIES.” Bobby flipped him off, then got out and walked down to the water. The morning air felt cold and clean and cleared his head. He’d like to think he got sick because he’d just gutted two men. But the truth was he felt nothing for Sal or his pal. They’d tried to kill him. And they’d stacked the deck. So fuck them. He got sick cuz he got sick. Nothing more. And what did it matter anyway? He had a day, maybe less, before Cakes sent someone up to find out what happened to Sal. And then Bobby Scales was a dead man.