Serpents in the Cold (9 page)

“It's all my fault, isn't it?” he asked her. His hand was still bleeding and he was amazed he had any blood left at all. He crawled into bed next to her, slowly, carefully, as if not to wake her, lowered her eyelids with his bloodied fingers, tenderly kissed her cheek, which felt cold and waxlike, and caressed her chin, her neck, leaving trails of blood along her skin. The walls and the rest of the room soon dissolved around them. And like a tearful voice skipping on a dusty old record, he told her over and over how much he loved her until there was nothing left in him but the simple desire to get her warm again, holding her close to his body, so close that even with the most gentle whisper she could hear how he had always loved her, that he would always love her.

The silence in the room was disturbed by the sound of broken voices coming from the holes he'd punched into the wall. He pulled his naked, blood-smeared body off the sheets and pressed his ear against the wall, listened to the multitude of pained cries reaching up from down below, below the city, perhaps even below the crust of the earth. Each echoed cavernous and full of sorrow, creating the sleepless, anesthetized melody of an asylum, filled with hunger, guilt, and shame. He reached into a hole and felt the heat of an open furnace curl the hairs on the back of his hand. A sharp tickling carried over his bare arm, which soon became a burning, and he pulled his arm out into the light. Hundreds of termites were crawling over him, feasting on him as though he were made of wood. He stared at their large heads and fat, pale, urine-colored bodies churning like a garment over him. He brushed at them and they fell off, a disintegrating sleeve, but others reappeared as quickly. In the black wiry mass of his pubic hair, they covered him and chewed at him, in between his buttocks, in the soft part of his thighs, moving up and blanketing his chest and covering his neck like a scarf. He couldn't scream, for he felt them in his mouth, filling in the spaces between his teeth and his cheeks, moving down his throat to warmer things.

DANTE WOKE IN
a chair, feverish. The candles were all guttered out and a gelid light spilled though the room's windows. He stared at the ceiling sagging from water damage and mold, the broken furniture scattered about, the black spots where a past fire had eaten away at a section of the floor and halfway up the wall. Upon the floor, Lawrence lay with his head resting on the crook of his arm, saliva shining on the side of his face. The emaciated woman, Rosie, had curled herself into a fetal position in an armchair. Her skirt was bunched up around her waist, and through torn nylons Dante could make out a map of yellowed bruises on her pale legs. The Slavic man with the thick glasses was gone. The large man in the yellow fleece stirred in the corner. Something between a moan and a death rattle escaped his mouth, and an overpowering stench of hot shit wafted in the air.

Dante climbed to his feet, stood shakily before the window, and watched the sky brighten as the junk lost its grip on him. As the sun rose, the red brick of the surrounding buildings regained their color and he understood that he was back in the present time, on his own feet, and no longer floating in a nightmare, and the face of the man—Sheila's lover—came to him again; on that day in early summer at the Boston Common, the man she had introduced to them. He looked down at the scars on his knuckles, turned over his hand, and looked at the long scar staggering across his palm. He clenched his fingers and made a fist, felt a throbbing pound away at his wrist.

The guy on the Common was the same guy at the Pacific Club, the sharp dresser who had beckoned Sheila back to the table and away from him, and his name was Bobby, he remembered. Sunlight began to shine through the window and he winced against it. Maybe this Bobby was just a low-rent hood, a good-looking Italian who used his greasy charm to win people over, especially Sheila. Maybe it wasn't even his charm and good looks that interested Sheila but something he had, something she'd wanted for herself. The visions of the nightmare had faded completely, and the need for real sleep called out to him; his muscles ached as if they'd been scraped with a wire. He made his way back to the chair, grabbed his works, what was left of his heroin, and walked out of the room and down the shattered staircase.

_________________________

Boston Common, Downtown

ON THE PARK
bench a bum, a woman wearing a wool hat striped like a candy cane, lay stretched out beneath cardboard and rolled newspapers. The fountain was laced with fresh snow from the night before. Hoarfrost covered her face. A clouded
VOTE FOR FOLEY
button hung crookedly from the collar of her coat and shone with ice. Cal placed his hand above the woman's mouth, rested his fingers on her throat just below her jawline. After a moment he reached down and pulled the stiff makeshift blanket up over her head. Snow tumbled to the ground about his feet. He made the sign of the cross instinctively and looked about the park. A mounted cop, riding high atop a wide brown quarter horse, was making his way through the Common, heavy leather and wool collar pulled up tight against the wind. Cal waved him down and the cop trotted the horse toward him.

The horse snorted and stamped its hooves, eager to keep moving. Its hindquarters quivered and white smoke steamed from its nostrils. The cop's eyes were on him. A real hard guy but then Cal knew quite a few like him.

Cal gestured toward the park bench, and the cop's eyes followed. “Dead,” he said.

“Yeah,” the cop said, and sighed. “You know this guy?”

Cal didn't think it would matter to tell him that it was a woman. He shook his head.

“Another fucking John Doe. More John Does in the morgue this winter than citizens.”

“It's a bitch of a winter.”

“And it ain't ending anytime soon. We try to round them up every night, many as we can, try to get them to the shelters, in out of the cold. But you can't make people do what they don't want to do. This is the sixth body in two days.”

“A bitch of a winter,” Cal repeated, and shook his head. He sucked on his teeth, and the bitter taste of tobacco filled his mouth.

“A regular
Farmer's Almanac,
you,” the cop said but without malice, and Cal nodded. He offered the cop a cigarette, but the cop shook his head.

“Thanks, but I've got to call this in.”

The cop turned the horse around and made his way toward the call box on Church Street and Cal watched as the large animal's shanks rippled as it trod away, metal shoes scraping bare cobblestone that showed between patches of snow. He stared at the dead woman again and watched as one of her arms swung free from beneath the newspaper and cardboard and the knuckles of her hand cracked loudly against the iron leg of the bench. A crumpled card fluttered to the snow, and he bent to pick it up.
Bernadette Murphy,
it read.
Registered Voter City of Boston. Address: Room 1114, The Emporium Hotel, Tremont Street.

He shook his head. With the election for the vacant Senate seat coming up, half the frozen dead in the city probably had rooms at the Emporium, rooms they'd never occupied and never would. He doubted the doorman would even have let them step into the lobby out of the cold. He pushed the card back into Bernadette's rigid hand and walked slowly east, then uphill toward Beacon. The startling laughter of children skating on the frozen Frog Pond not two hundred yards away came to him. Above the skeletal tree line the gold dome of the State House caught the cold sun and for a brief, transitory moment appeared glittering and almost beautiful.

_________________________

Scollay Square, Downtown

OUTSIDE SCOLLAY STATION
the wind twisted the ragged coat about Dante's legs, pushed at his back, and sent him stumbling. There was no traffic on the street or on the sidewalk, and Charlie hadn't even made his first appearance yet, his booth on the corner with its wood slats still locked down and stacks of this morning's newspapers waiting to be racked and sold. Dante ducked his head and carried himself on weak legs off the island exit onto Tremont toward Epstein's Drug. Once at the corner, he dodged into a doorway and stood for a moment in the windbreak, hands upon the walls, taking pleasure in the ache of blood returning to his fingers. He walked back out, kept his head low, and let the wind guide him. From the corners of his eyes he glimpsed windblown trash scurrying through the snow-packed gutters, the brief glances of people on their way to work, leaving doorways and turning street corners, the cold sucking all shape and color and leaving them muddy silhouettes.

He made it up the stairs, opened the door to his apartment, and paused. Claudia wasn't in her usual chair by the window. The morning light cast its slow, dull illumination over the bare cushion and the end table where one of her crime novels lay open. An electric current of panic vibrated inside his chest and in his empty stomach. Without bothering to take off his jacket or place his hat on the rack, he moved slowly into the room. He held his breath and approached the hallway by their bedrooms, but stepped back into the living room when the toilet suddenly flushed and the lid banged down. He looked nervously about the hallway. Out the door, that's where you want to go. Be a coward in your own home, that's okay. He fought the urge to flee and walked ahead, stomping his feet, wanting to be heard. The odors of burning tobacco and hot coffee came toward him from the kitchen. The dull stirrings of conversation sounded off the walls.

Claudia sat at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, a cup of tea in front of her, a faint dusting of rouge on her cheeks, and a feverish smile on her face. Across from her, with a cup of coffee, a bottle, and a glass, was Shaw. His sheepskin jacket hung over the back of the wooden chair and he sat with his legs outstretched, his small feminine hand running through the wiry curls of red hair. Opposite him sat Blackie Foley, lean and youthful-looking, wearing dark jeans and a leather bomber jacket. He seemed unusually pale, his pupils small pinpricks of black in the bright blue irises. He seemed to be making a great effort to appear calm and still when it was obvious he was bored and impatient, and when he looked up, his face brightened in the same mischievous way that Dante knew was trouble. Suddenly it seemed as if no time at all had passed since their childhood together, and Dante felt as small and insignificant as he had in those days.

“Look who's here, the pride of Saint Mark's. Welcome home, old pal.” Shaw cackled.

“Dante,” Blackie said, staring at him.

The bathroom door opened and down the hall came the Pole from Kelly's Rose, a thick white bandage crisscrossed over the wide bridge of his nose, a swollen, livid welt like a hot wire burnt across his brow. Smiling, he pushed past Dante, forcing him into the room.

“C'mon, Dante,” said Shaw, “don't look like you just stepped in dog shit. We were in Scollay to take in a quick bite and thought we'd pop on by to say hello to you and your sister. We're old neighborhood, remember? Blackie came along for the ride to see how we get things done.”

When Blackie spoke, his voice was flat, emotionless. “I came because Sully asked me to come.”

Shaw swallowed his whiskey and then, coughing, nodded. “Sure, Blackie, sure. Whatever you say.”

Dante stared at Shaw, took the face in, imagined it turned inside out and scattered like glass all over some sidewalk. The words came out of his mouth with more conviction than he would have thought possible. “You're in my house uninvited, drinking my whiskey at my kitchen table in the apartment I pay rent for. You have no right to come here. You've taken advantage of my sister who doesn't know any better. Show us a bit of respect.”

“You hear that, Blackie? Most inhospitable. All we were discussing were old memories, lots of old memories. No reason to get red.”

Claudia stood. “Dante, there's no need for this. We've been here talking about Dorchester, about the old neighborhood, and they've been filling me in on who's doing what. Why don't you just sit down and have a moment with us.”

Dante glared at her, his jaws clenching, and she sat back down. As though she would explode with unease if she didn't move, her hand went for the radio that sat on the kitchen table.

“Shut it off, Claudia.” Dante stepped farther into the room, and the Pole straightened up, as if waiting for the bell to ring.

Dante reached for the bottle, poured himself a quick one, and downed it with a strange desperation that bordered on recklessness.

“Can we talk in the living room, just you and me?”

Shaw nodded approvingly, shook off the Pole, and then eyed Blackie briefly before getting up from his chair.

Dante entered the living room with Shaw following leisurely at his back, the pungent smell of his exotic Turkish cigarettes billowing before him. Dante turned his head slightly. “You came in mighty early to shake me up. Guess you thought I'd still be asleep.”

“Besides taking a good beating, one thing you do well is hide. I give you that, Cooper.”

“I remember he always did find the best hiding spots when we were kids, right, Dante? None of us could ever find him.”

Dante looked toward the voice. Blackie stood in the doorway behind Shaw. It was brighter in the room, the many windows letting in the snow-cast light, and his eyes seemed as pale as dimes.

“Sometimes we'd just call the game and go home, and he'd stay hidden for hours and hours, afraid to come out.”

Shaw cackled dismissively, sucked air through his teeth.

“You remember that far back, Dante?” Blackie asked.

“I remember.” Dante slowly reached into his pants pocket, felt the fold of crisp one-hundred-dollar bills he'd found in Somerville. In some way he had to distract Shaw and Blackie. Once they went through his pockets and found the money, they'd get suspicious, wonder where it came from, and ask him questions he couldn't answer.

“I need another day or two. I promise, that's all I need to get it.”

“Jesus Christ, Cooper. Your promises mean shit,” Shaw said and stepped in closer.

His fingers were still numb from the cold, and in a sudden, careless move, Dante reached both of his hands into his coat pockets, turned them out as if to show in dramatic fashion that he was flat broke, not one cent on him.

Half a dozen of the photographs came out with his left hand and fell to the floor. He quickly dropped to his knees and clawed at what he could, pulling them together as though he was grabbing at the winnings of an alley craps game before any weapons were pulled. Sheila's bare crotch gaped obscenely up at him, slick fingers splaying her vagina open. He stammered, reaching and grasping for another photo to cover it with.

Shaw put a foot into his shoulder, knocking him to the floor. “Not so fast there.”

Claudia and the Pole had entered from the hallway and stood beside Blackie, all of them watching.

Shaw's mouth opened in surprise as he reached down to the floor for one of the photos. “This ain't some joke, old friend?”

Blackie stepped up beside him. “What is it?”

Shaw handed it to Blackie. He raised the photo to his eyes, squinted as if his vision were taking its time focusing on the body inside the glossy frame. The corner of the photo crumpled between his thumb and index finger. He looked at Dante.

Shaw rubbed at his chin and looked over the photo again, grinned as if he had figured it all out. “Like a goddamn wet-brain beggar, Dante. Just look at you. And to make it worse, you're turning to peddling smut. And you're fucking half-rate at that, too. You can't even see the girl's face in these, they're all pussy and asshole. That's real classy, real fucking classy.”

Dante tried to get up on his knees, but Shaw kicked him in the shoulder again, softer this time, breaking his balance and sending him onto his rear, where he remained in a sitting position.

“Look, I don't give a shit about this smut. Where's our fucking money?”

Claudia came to him, grabbed him by the arm as he mustered the strength to pull himself to his knees. He pushed her aside with a straight arm, and she inched back to the doorway, hands reaching up to her mouth.

She began to cry, and with her voice cracking, screamed into the room, “I'll give you the money, just leave him alone!” The tendons in her neck were tightly drawn under her flushed skin. She looked down at her brother with eyes full of desperation and then fled to her bedroom, feet thudding heavily on the hardwood.

Dante eyed Shaw with sudden rage, and when he spoke, spittle flew from his mouth. “I know now never to come to that fat Paddy bastard for nothing.”

Shaw didn't seem offended that his boss had just been insulted, and instead carried on as if Dante hadn't spoken a word. “You can keep the photos of the whore.”

Claudia came out with a handful of bills balled up in her hand. She reached over and handed them to Shaw. “That's all I have,” she said, sobbing, her voice sounding stripped and raw. “There's fifty-three dollars. Now leave him alone.”

For a brief moment, Shaw appeared almost sympathetic. He looked away from her, glanced over at Blackie, who had seated himself in a chair next to an old rolltop desk and was watching their interaction with his arms crossed and a wry, crooked grin on his face. Shaw handed the money over to the big Pole; with one large hand, the Pole shoved the bills into his pants pocket.

“That's good for now,” Shaw said. “I want the rest by the end of the week.”

Blackie laughed coldly. “This is top-notch vaudeville. Wake me up when the fucking clowns come out.”

“Just shut it, for Christ's sake. Why'd you even come along?”

“Maybe I came along to see how piss-poor of a job you do shaking down junkies. Maybe Sully asked me keep an eye on you.” He leaned forward in the chair, arms still crossed against his chest. His eyes didn't budge from Shaw, who suddenly knew better.

“Fetch my hat and coat, Ski,” Shaw called out to the Pole, who lumbered toward the kitchen. Standing with her shoulder on the wall, quietly sobbing, Claudia turned and followed him.

Shaw watched the two of them leave the room and turned back to Dante, lowering his voice. “God, your sister looks like she's aged twenty years in a year. Do something nice for her, why don't you? When you finally pay us off the rest, you go out and get a fucking job like a real man. And with that money you take in, bring her to Filene's and get her a dress and a hat, make the dog feel pretty.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Just saying, if she had some Irish in her, maybe she'd have a chance still. But it looks like she got the worst of your no-good Polish father and that Italian heifer of a mother.”

Dante watched Shaw's eyes momentarily drift, and he shot off the ground, threw a haphazard left that connected on the side of Shaw's head, and sent the short man stumbling sideways into the end table. He charged at him and put all his weight behind a fist that landed hard against his chest. Dante watched him stagger and fall, and he relished the brief moment of victory. He waited for Shaw to get to his feet so he could give it to him again, but from behind him came the sound of heavy footsteps, and as he turned, large hands locked on his shoulders and flung him to the floor.

Dante rolled onto his stomach, wrapped his arms about his head, and closed his eyes, wincing under the heavy boots kicking at his chest, stomach, hips, spine, buttocks, and balls. Ski and Shaw kicked at him until their breaths were ragged, and if not for Claudia's screams, they would have kept going until there was nothing left of him.

Sounds came to him disembodied and fragmented. Light flickered weakly on the undersides of his eyelids. They'd been talking and then they were gone, their footsteps fading, reverberating in the stairwell along with the Pole's raucous laughter, and then he heard Claudia talking to herself in the kitchen between fits of sobbing.

He heard the sound of a glass shattering, but instead of rising to his feet and going to comfort her, he lay on the floor, listening to the clock ticking slowly upon the mantel, and heaving deeply, waiting for his lungs to work properly again. He curled into himself, went to cradle his tender balls, but the mere touch made bile rise in his throat.

“Dante, what the fuck have you done to yourself?” Blackie was still in the room with him, sitting in the chair by the old desk, watching him with those cold yet startlingly clear blue eyes. “All of us from Fields Corner, we thought you'd be the next Gershwin. Your name up in the big lights, you wearing a fancy suit and playing for a bunch of rich fucks. But you had to piss it all away.”

Blackie shifted in the chair, the wooden legs squeaking against the seat. “I got no idea why you dealt with those kike and spic backers. They shouldn't have taken a hammer to your hand over such a small debt. You could have come to me. I would have made that debt go away.”

Dante looked at him rising from the chair and then walking toward him. He closed his eyes, expecting a fist across the face. “Get the fuck outta my house, Foley,” he managed.

“That's no way to talk to me, Dante.”

Blackie was leaning over him now, his licorice breath on his neck, and in a near-whisper: “This was the worst those fucking idiots could do to you. And they think that's something. You don't know what I can do to you.”

Dante heard the floorboards creak, as though Blackie was walking to the front door, but suddenly they stopped, and Blackie's voice came to him one final time. “And tell my old buddy Cal that I saw his fine wife walking along Dot Ave a few weeks back. He should be careful, watch out for a looker like that—anything could happen. No problem, though. I followed her to make sure she got home okay.”