Rogue Island

clients’ permission.”

“And they aren’t about to give permission?”

“I’d have to advise against it.”

“Would those be the same ethics that prohibit leaking secret grand-jury testimony?”

“I don’t believe this firm can represent you, Mulligan. This conversation is over.”

“Hey, this has been great,” I said. “Let’s get together again real soon, maybe play a little one-on-one.”

“Didn’t you notice? We just did. You lost.”

I didn’t think so.

66

I grabbed a coffee to go at the diner and loitered in Burnside Park, proudly named in honor of Rhode Island’s own Ambrose Everett Burnside, an incompetent Civil War general whose lone achievement was popularizing the facial hair that sort of bears his name.

In the middle of the park, Mr. Potato Head stood at attention, honoring Burnside’s equestrian statue with a salute. On the spud’s flank, someone had added a memorial in red spray paint: “Thanks for 8,000 Union casualties at Fredericksburg.”

I was asked a dozen times for spare change, offered a variety of pharmaceuticals at competitive prices, snarled at by a pit bull, and growled at by a teenage hooker who felt rejected. The hooker didn’t interest me, but with my ribs still aching, I was tempted by the Vicodin.

I called the hospital again. Still critical.

It was nearly one thirty in the afternoon when Coyle emerged from the Textron Tower and strode purposefully down the sidewalk in his Italian loafers. I watched him cross the park, dash across the street, and slip into the Capital Grille, the hot spot for pricey expense-account lunches. Then I walked over to the Textron Tower and rode the elevator back to the twelfth floor.

The receptionist was fussing with something on her desk. She didn’t look up, but she must have caught a glimpse of my jeans.

“Picking up or dropping off?”

“Picking up,” I said. I walked briskly past her and started up the stairs.

“Stop! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Forgot my Red Sox cap,” I shouted.

“You’re wearing it!”

I could hear her clattering up the staircase behind me, but her high heels were no match for my Reeboks.

I tried Coyle’s office door. Unlocked. I entered, spun toward the corner where his eyes had flickered, and saw a four-foot-long mailing tube.

“What are you doing? Put that down!”

I brushed past her, went through the door, and pushed the button for the elevator. As I waited for it, I heard her shouting into the phone, asking building security to intercept a thief in a Red Sox cap and jersey. He’d be carrying a large mailing tube, she said.

When the elevator opened on the first floor, two security guards were waiting. They glanced at a tall, bareheaded man in a black tank top, several large sheets of heavy paper, folded into quarters, tucked under his left arm. Then they turned away as another elevator door soundlessly slid open. I pushed through the revolving door, walked down the sidewalk, pulled my cap out of my back pocket, and tugged it on. The day was a bit chilly without my jersey, but it was stuffed into the mailing tube I’d left in the elevator, and I didn’t suppose I’d be getting it back.

I walked to Central Lunch on Weybosset, settled into a booth, and ordered a bacon cheeseburger. While it was frying, I unfolded the sheets of paper, hastily refolded them, and asked the waitress to bag my order to go. Then I hurried over to the Peter Pan terminal and jumped on the first bus out of town.

I got off in Pawtucket, looked around to make sure I hadn’t been followed, and took a room for the night at the Comfort Inn.

Sleep, when it finally came, was broken up by pieces of one long dream. Fenway. The sun was brighter than it had ever been. In a sea of red and blue, a tall, gorgeous woman spotted Manny Ramirez and broke into a girlish grin.

67

In the morning, I tried to hold on to that image of a smiling Rosie for as long as I could, but by the time I’d showered and dressed, it had evaporated. I strolled to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts, calling the hospital again on the way over. No change. I bought a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich, and carried them to a seat by the window. Outside, the Blackstone River churned over an ancient dam that once powered the first water-driven cotton mill in North America.

Slater Mill was a museum now, celebrated as the Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution. I suppose that was one way to look at it. To me, it was the birthplace of American industrial espionage. It was here, in 1790, that an Englishman named Samuel Slater built spinning machines from pirated plans he had smuggled out of Britain.

Buses with the names of New England school districts on them were disgorging kids into the museum parking lot. I wondered if the docents would tell them that most of the mill’s employees had been children. That they had worked twelve-hour days breathing air thick with lint. That when they paused in their work, they were beaten by overseers. That the machines sometimes grabbed them by the hair, dragged them in, and chewed them into ground beef.

I thought about that for a while, then opened my newspaper and pulled out the sports section. I was reliving last night’s 8–3 victory over the Rangers when Mason walked in. He gave me a nod, went to the counter for coffee and a corn muffin, and joined me by the window looking out on the museum.

“Rosie’s still critical,” he said.

“Yeah. I know.”

He gestured toward Slater Mill. “Ever take the tour?”

“Not since I was a kid.”

“My great-great-great-great-grandfather, Moses Brown, is the one who lured Samuel Slater here and gave him the money to build his machines.”

“I was just thinking about that.”

“It’s something to be proud of,” he said.

“If you say so, Thanks-Dad.”

We raised our cups and sipped.

“Thanks for driving all the way out here this morning,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “But why am I here?”

“I need you to keep something for me for a couple of days.”

“Okay.”

“It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to do this without telling you that it’s something I’m not supposed to have and that some bad people will be trying to get it back.”

“What is it?”

“Better you don’t know.”

“Where do you want me to put it?”

“It’s small. Maybe you can just tuck it under your spare tire and throw something over it.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that? No more questions?”

“Sure.”