The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (24 page)

"
C'mon, Moe," cooed a sultry voice, husky
with desire.

"Not now, Lolly; I've got to hear the rest of
this lecture."

"— in relation to what he calls absolute
entities, which become the building blocks, the molecular and atomic
structure, if you will, of his system . . ."

"Moo—00e . . ."

"Now as you'll recall, Russell and Moore
attacked the dilemma differently . . . and— posing the dilemma,
merely asking the question, you see, flips ordinary language analysis
and logical positivism into the proverbial cocked hat—"

"Stop it, Lolly, or I'll send you to your room."

Joe shook his head sadly.

"Can you believe it, Doc? Can you believe that
dirty old man in there with that young piece?"

"
You are in error. Moe is many things, some of
them a little strange. But one thing he is not is dirty. Not in
thought, word, deed, or body. And not in soul. Nobody is cleaner than
Morris Abramson."

"
Yeah, but that girl, Doc. You should've seen
what I saw as I walked in!"

"That and more. Hey Joe. Cut that out. We're in
public view."

"What? I jus-- oh.
Sorry," he said, withdrawing his hands from his pockets. He got
in his cruiser and followed me home. As I drove through the drizzle I
reflected on luscious Lolly and couldn't help but think that Moe's
philosophy worked.

* * *

Forty minutes later Mary slid back the rice-paper
screen of the tiny teahouse, kicked off her slippers, and placed a
rough clay pot on the low lacquered table near where Joe and I sat
with robes of white raw silk wrapped around us and tied with big
sashes. We didn't feel the cold damp. Silk is warmer than wool and as
strong as steel, though most people cannot believe this. The pot was
filled with boiling hot water which surrounded a bottle of saki. Mary
sat down between us.

"Tell him, Joey."

Joe poured a tiny cup of the hot wine and sipped it,
staring out through the open wall at the gray-brown water of the
pond, which rippled infinitely in the light rain.

"I've been thinking of what the killers have
been searching for all along," he said in a tired voice. It was
weary— husky with emotional fatigue. "From the start it
interested me, of course. Mary can tell you how we were weaned on the
Sacco-Vanzetti case. It's funny, but the event seemed to spark the
Italian-American community instead of depress it. It was the thing
that galvanized and united it. It made us sad, but it made us proud
and defiant. So you can see how disastrous it would be if . . ."

He paused to let out a slow sigh.

". . . if it were proved that they were guilty."

Joe let the hot wine roll around on his tongue,
swallowed it, then let out another deep breath as he shook his head
slowly.

"I've already talked to Gus Giordano about it.
That's where I went right after I left your place earlier. Hotfooted
it right down to the North End to talk to Gus. Now what we think is .
. . what we think, is that the thing the hoods are after, whatever it
might be, is some kind of proof. Probably a document or
photo-something. And what we're really afraid of more than anything
is that old Dominic Santuccio had something in his files that he
didn't tell Andy about before he died. And that something is pure
dynamite. Probably Andy found out about it last week and so asked for
the bundle back. I checked with the library; they hadn't opened it
yet, just sent it back to Andy via Johnny Robinson. Maybe Andy was
ordered to get the envelope back. Who knows?"

"Ordered? Who would order him to do that?"

"
You know who."

"
The Mob? Oh, and that's why DeLucca's name
upset you. You knew it was the Mob. Why would they be interested in
evidence from the case? And how do we know the thing doesn't clear
Sacco and Vanzetti?"

"Those two questions exactly were what was
bothering me earlier when I was pacing around in your yard, while the
rest of you ate lunch. They bothered me a lot. Okay. Either the Wise
Guys want the damning evidence to blackmail the Italian-American
community— to threaten to make it public if they're not paid off—
or else they simply want to destroy it. I kind of suspect the latter
possibility. Much as I hate the Mob, I admire the way they usually
look out for the rest of us, especially us Calabrians and Sicilians.
But you never know. For the past twenty years the Wise Guys have had
everybody believing they don't traffic in hard drugs. Everybody
thought it was the blacks and Hispanics. Not so. The Mob is heavy
into horse. Why? Because it pays. Pays like there ain't no tomorrow.
Now, if they knew the evidence or whatever in Andy's envelope could
pay, they might steal it and hold it for ransom."

"And if it got out? The effect on the North
End?"

"Disaster. My talk with Gus confirmed that. It'd
be a major blow to the community's morale. The thing would travel
across America like a shock wave. And Italians wouldn't be the only
ones hurt by it. The labor movement, the entire liberal left—
hell. The neofascist bunch they've got in the White House now would
get that much more ammunition to go after every splinter group, every
bunch who's not lily white and WASP. I could see a major backlash?

"
I couldn't. And frankly, I don't see how
anything carried in that envelope could be hot enough to kill over."

"
Yeah, but it was. Why don't you go say that to
Sam?"

"
Joe? What if whatever it is proves they were
innocent?" asked . Mary. .

"I just can't see it, Mare," he said,
shaking his head, "and Gus can't either. That's why he's even
more upset than I am. He's not telling a soul about this and neither
of you better either. Mary, how can you sell good news? You can't.
And there's no reason to hide it. There's no money or leverage in
good news. The only reason people are going after that packet is
because there's something Andy didn't want to get out. There's just
no other explanation."

I was afraid Joe was right. But I didn't say
anything.

"Charlie, you said there was no way they
could've been guilty."

"Yeah I know. And I still say it; But then, just
as guilt was never really proven and there was no confession,
innocence has never been proven either. I feel the weight of evidence
remains overwhelmingly in their favor. But it was never a hundred
percent."

"Sacco's alibi. That's it. That's what Gus
thinks," said Joe.

"What about that other guy's confession?"
asked Mary.

"Madeiros? He was doomed anyway. Again, you can
take it strongly either way, just like the rest of the case. Pro:
Celestino Madeiros knew he was going to the chair and didn't have
anything to gain by clearing Sacco and Vanzetti; he did it out of the
last twinge of conscience he had left because he didn't want to see
two innocent guys get fried. Con: just as he didn't have anything to
gain, he also had nothing to lose. Why not make a last-ditch effort
to save a few partners in crime?"

"Unbelievable. Hollywood couldn't have written a
better script," said Joe.

"It's like one of those optical tricks, Mary. Is
the picture with the curved lines an outline of a vase or two faces
staring at one another? Is that stairway the top of the basement
stairs, looking down, or the bottom of the attic stairs, looking up?"

"Sacco's alibi," repeated Joe. "Both
men had lots of witnesses swearing they were with them during the
holdup. Sacco claimed he was in Boston that day, right in the North
End, getting his passport ready so he could visit his relatives in
Italy. He said he went to a local restaurant, a coffeehouse, and met
a lot of people as he strolled around during the afternoon. But the
jury found that suspicious. Why had this guy missed work— not shown
up at his factory in Stoughton— on the very day of the holdup, when
he never missed work? Ha! they said, very convenient."

"And Vanzetti?" asked Mary, drawing her
silk robe tight around her against the chill.

"
Vanzetti's alibi depended on neighborhood
friends, who were mostly Italian too. But one legit Anglo-Saxon
vouched for him: Melvin Corl, who was mending nets on the beach in
North Plymouth. Also, Vanzetti was not absent from his place of
business as was Sacco. Reason? He had no place of business; he came
and went as he pleased."

"
The whole thing is screwy," Mary said.

"Yeah," I said. "But Joe's right. The
jury tended to believe Vanzetti a bit more than Sacco. It's the old
double. reverse again, don't you see? Sacco's alibi was doubted
because it was so good, so coincidentally foolproof. Why would a man
decide to go into Boston and be absent from his work on the very day
the robbery was committed? To the jury it meant only one thing: a
false and carefully prearranged alibi. Add to this Sacco's twinlike
resemblance to Mike Morelli . . . and there you have it."

We struggled to our feet and stood over the lacquered
tea table. I felt as if a great weight had descended upon me. I knew
what they were thinking, and felt sad. Everybody knew— had known
since the arrest and trial— that there was always a chance that it
would be shown that the shoe trimmer and the fish peddler had really
pulled the job. That they were both guilty of armed robbery and
murder and deserved to die.

We trudged back to the house. Joe was silent. He
finally announced that he might resign from the force. Mary told him
to cut the bullshit and help plan dinner. This helped some, but I was
quick to notice that he did not pitch into the kitchen activities
with his usual gusto. Instead he trudged around like a robot, slicing
and peeling here, tasting, there, trimming here, all with a look of
black depression on his big dark face.

I called Tom Costello to confirm our appointment for
early the next morning, since the original appointment had been
scrubbed because of our wrecked house. During the course of our
conversation I happened to mention Joe, and Tom replied that he'd
like to see Joe again soon. I remembered then that the two men liked
each other. I told Tom in all frankness that he'd be pretty sore
tomorrow after my work on him, and suggested that perhaps a little
jaunt with us would take his mind off the discomfort. He agreed, and
it was set up.

"I told ya, Doc, I don't want to go," Joe
said a few minutes later. I'm dropping this thing and so are you.
Frankly, I hope the whole thing blows over. All I want to do is to
get Carmen DeLucca. Dead or alive. Preferably dead."

We sat on the high stools near the butcher block and
talked and smelled the onion soup and halibut cooking. Joe got a wee
bit brighter over the deep sadness. He still said he wasn't going.

"
After today I don'; wanna hear about those two
greaseballs anymore. Not now. Not ever."

"
We're going down to Braintree tomorrow at ten.
Be at my office, Joe. Be there."

"Not on your life."

He was.
 
 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I had Tom in the chair, tilted far back, for an hour
and a half. He was getting purple in the face. If it had been a set
of lowers I was putting in, he would have remained sitting upright,
but the uppers require the patient to be almost horizontal so I can
look right into the upper gums and sockets from the tooth's point of
view. The saliva ejector squeaked and hissed and kept his mouth dry.

I had prepped Tom's eyeteeth, or canines, by grinding
them into pegs over which the ends of the six-unit bridge would fit.
I spent the better part of an hour checking and rechecking the fit,
using De Mark and articulating paper to locate humps and high spots I
wanted to remove. I checked his bite and removed the interferences
with a greenstone and the polishing wheel. When the occlusion, or
bite, was perfect, I was ready for Susan to mix the cement. Susan
mixed it perfectly in one minute. It was a brand-new wonder cement
that creates a chemical as well as physical bond between the bridge
and the teeth. Called glass ionomer, the cement contains ions of
fluoride which slow-release into the teeth constantly and prevent
decay. Great stuff!

I applied the cement, inserted the bridge firmly and
finally, and it was done. The entire upper permanent bridge lit in
flawlessly— better than any glove. There would be no wiggle or
waggle. No fuss, no muss. Tom could eat anything _and his permanent
front dentures would not come out or slip. He would not have to put
them to sleep in a glass every night. He would not have to buy
Polygrip, Dentu-Creme, or any of that elderly stuff.

I liked doing this kind of work because it demanded a
lot of skill and patience. And when I was finished my patients were
always very happy with the result.

"
You do good work, Doc," said Tom, admiring
himself in the mirror. "And I can talk now too. You can't
imagine how sick I was of sounding like a dress designer. The only
thing is, my mouth feels all tingly and fuzzy."

"Well enjoy it while you can, old sport," I
said as I cleaned up and hung up the white smock. "Because when
the local wears off there'll be some discomfort for a while. Now
here's Joe in the parking lot. Let's go."

Out on 128 Joe told Tom about recent developments in
the case, including a brief and bloody bio of one Carmen DeLucca. Tom
said he was sick of hearing about the Mob the way the Germans must be
sick of hearing about Hitler. But like me, he couldn't believe for a
second that Sacco and Vanzetti were guilty. However, the more we
explained to him, the more silent he became.