The Society

Will managed a grin at himself.

“Sorry, bad habit.”

“You sure these streets are in Roxbury?”

The man-maybe in his eighties-had a creaky, high-pitched voice that reminded Will of a child in a school play trying to portray an old man.

“That’s what the guy wrote. Roxbury. See, right here.”

Careful to cover up the part about bringing $500, Will showed the man the note, and he studied it for a time.

“You know what?” he cackled suddenly. “I think I know why you been havin’ trouble. I don’t think Dennis is a street at all. I think it’s like an alley-Dennis Way, it’s called-two blocks, maybe three, down Spruce that way. If there’s a sign, and as I recall, there usually is one, it’s nailed to one of the buildings, not on a pole.”

“Thanks, you’re great.”

Will moved to put the Jeep in gear, but the man stopped him with a raised hand.

“I don’t think the alley’s wide enough for a car,” he said, “especially this one. You’d best park someplace near and walk.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You know what would even be a better idea?”

“What?”

“Go on home and come back tomorrow during the day. Take it from ol’ Lionel. At night the-excuse me for cussin’-darn gangs own this part of the city. Cabs almost never come here. The cops only come ’round when they have to, and then they only stay long enough to say they did it. I never carry more’n a dollar with me when I go for my evening constitutional. The Cobras used to shake me down if they were particularly desperate for money, but now they’ve pretty much given up on me. You go walkin’ about these streets-especially back in there where Dennis Way is-an’ they’ll know you’re there quicker ’n you do. It’s doubtful that you’ll make it out with your wallet or maybe even your car, for that matter. Most of them’s pretty good boys, but they don’t have much in the way of parentin’, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll be careful, Lionel.”

“Careful’s good,” Lionel said, “but it might help for you to be bulletproof, too.”

That does it, Will thought as he drove away from the man down the virtually deserted street and made a slow left onto Spruce, I am out of here.

With cars parked on both sides, Spruce was barely more than a lane wide. To either side, Will now noticed narrow alleys, each with a name bolted in some way to the brick facade of a tenement. Alley 114, one of them read, Wright’s Path, another. The fourth sign he saw was Dennis Way.

Will opened the passenger window and peered down the alley, which was illuminated by a single low- wattage, hooded lamp jutting out from a building halfway down to the next street. There were two small Dumpsters, several trash cans, and enough loose trash to fill a good portion of them. He reread the mysterious note. If he drove off now, would he ever get another chance to find out what Charles Newcomber had left for him? If he didn’t leave, would he still be alive in half an hour?

At that moment, as if by divine intervention, the lights on a parked car pierced the night two blocks ahead. Moments later, it pulled out and drove away. Will raced to the spot, although there was absolutely no competing car on the street. Silently, he promised himself that if the space was by a hydrant, he was out of there and on the way back to Fredrickston. He had mixed emotions that there was no hydrant and so no need to put the deal to a test. In less than a minute, after a brilliant job of parallel parking, he was standing on the sidewalk in a gloomy, windblown drizzle, peering uncertainly down a deserted street in one of the toughest, most dangerous neighborhoods in Boston.

Perhaps whoever had left the note had waited and was gone, he thought, confirming on his Casio that he was a full half an hour late. Again, he thought about leaving. Again, he talked himself out of it and headed cautiously back toward Dennis Way. Although both the street and the alley seemed deserted, he couldn’t shake the heavy feeling that he was being watched. He stopped at the mouth of the alley, zipped his windbreaker, and debated whether to stay where he was or move ahead. The note had instructed him to be at the corner of the alley, not down it. He was about to turn and leave when the muzzle of a gun was pressed tightly into the small of his back.

“Don’t turn around,” the youthful, almost certainly black, voice said. “You Grant?”

Will waited until his pulse rate had dropped back below a thousand.

“Yes,” he managed. “You don’t need that gun.”

“I’ll decide what I need and don’t need. Now jus’ head down that alley. All the way down. Eyes straight ahead.”

Will did as he was told, hesitating halfway down as a rat the size of a cat scurried across his path, less than a foot from the toes of his sneakers.

“No collar,” he said. “I wonder if it’s had all its shots.”

The response to his nervous humor was a sharp nudge from behind. They passed under the light and were almost at the far end of the alley when the gunman grabbed him by the jacket.

“Take this off,” he said.

He patted Will down from behind, lingering a beat, it seemed, by the front of his jeans. Then he pushed him out of the alley and onto the sidewalk of the street that seemed to run parallel to Spruce. Finally, he turned Will around and tossed his jacket back. He was, in fact, a teen, maybe sixteen-seventeen, tops-baggy chinos, pricey leather-sleeved jacket with Chris embroidered in script over the left breast, ornately stitched Rasta cap. His unlined, richly black face was equal parts pretty and handsome. His eyes, even in the dim light, were bright and intelligent enough, but they were way past being the eyes of a youth, and Will sensed the hard times they had seen. Cradled in the young man’s right hand was a snub-nosed revolver-a Saturday-night special. In his left was a large manila envelope, the sort used for transporting or mailing X-rays. The buildings at this point blocked most of the wind and rain, and Will noted with relief that, aside from a few drops, the envelope was dry.

“Did you bring the money?” the teen asked.

“I did. Believe it or not, it wasn’t so easy coming up with five hundred on such short notice, but I’ve got it.”

“I thought you were a doctor.”

“I’ve fallen on some hard times.”

“Too bad. Stick around here if you want to really learn what hard times are all about. Hand it over.”

“Let me see what you’ve got for me.”

“Hand it fucking over!”

There was no mistaking the edge in his voice. This was not the time for negotiation. Will did as he was told. The teen flipped through the stack of bills and then shoved them into his jacket pocket.

“That your name? Chris?”

“What if it is?”

“Chris, put that gun away. I’m no threat to you.”

“I’ll decide whether you’re a threat or not.”

“How did you know Newcomber was dead?”

“I. . I just knew.”

Will could tell he was lying. Despite the gun and the attitude, he began feeling sorry for Chris.

“You didn’t know, did you? Well, someone was in the process of torturing him, and he had a heart attack.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was about those X-rays.”

“Shit. He been callin’ me twice a day. Eight in the morning, eight at night. He said if he missed a call I was to get this envelope to you.”

His gun still leveled at Will’s midsection, Chris had already regained his swagger.

“The five hundred was your idea?” Will asked.