smoke.
Yeah, says Mike the Bear, like he knows that already.
Fifteen years old: Tom, who does not smoke, sells cheap cigarettes to the other kids, from a booth at the diner, from his backpack on the playground. By the pack, sometimes by the carton, always without that stupid tax tape on them, that's why they're so cheap. The kids know this is a small piece of Tom's father's action: they could buy these same cigarettes from Junior's Corner, still a lot cheaper than at the A&P or the magazine place but for more than Tom gets. But Tom takes care of his friends.
One day on the ballfield, the kids just messing around, Tom says this to Jimmy: Anyone you know needs smokes, they don't have to come to me, you know. I could give you a couple of cartons, make it easier.
Now Tom and Jimmy, they're in different schools, and Jimmy's a jock besides, so, yeah, Jimmy knows different kids, there's some money to be made. But Jimmy sees something else, too. Jack is Tom's brother. Jack goes to St. Ann's with Tom, but he's a grade higher; different group of guys there. And Jack plays summer league softball at the Y same as Jimmy, knows some of the guys Jimmy knows. But Jack doesn't peddle cigarettes or anything else. Tom's offer, it's not about making a few bucks, not about making anything easier. It's Tom's way of asking,
On the ballfield, Jimmy tosses the ball high in the air, watches it streak straight up. He waits for that breathless instant at the top when it's not going in either direction. Then here it comes cutting back down through the blue sky, thumping into his glove.
He says to Tom, No, thanks, man, I'm not much good at that kind of thing, know what I mean?
Tom nods. I hear you, he says.
And that's the end of it. The kids get older, start to drink in the bars, Jimmy goes to the Bird, stays out of Flanagan's, like his dad. Tom, he's in and out of the place, happy to hang at the Bird with everyone, but Sunday afternoons now, you're looking for Tom, you can find him at Flanagan's, watching the game.
Jack likes Flanagan's best; almost always, that's where Jack is.
And since that day on the ballfield, Mr. Molloy still grins at Jimmy when he sees him, waves his cigar, asks him, How's it hanging? Gives Jimmy a bottle of single malt when he graduates from the Academy, a whiskey so expensive Jimmy doesn't know anyone who's ever tasted it, except Mr. Molloy. Tells Jimmy how proud he is, he always knew Jimmy would do great, get to be just what he was born to be.
So here in Flanagan's, Jimmy watches Mr. Molloy slip the second cigar back in his pocket like he knew all along Jimmy wasn't going to want it. Jimmy thinks about this, thinks about Mrs. Molloy, her smile, and her sad eyes.
Well, he says, and drinks more beer. Well, he says, anything I can do.
Thanks, Jimmy.
It surprises Jimmy that Mr. Molloy actually sounds relieved, as a man would who'd been worried he'd be refused.
Mr. Molloy wraps his huge hands around his beer mug, leans forward again. It's Jack, he tells Jimmy. I got a problem with Jack.
MARIAN'S STORY
Chapter 7
Marian tore herself from the grip of memory, from the empty darkness of long ago, and forced herself to return to this sunlit room, her room in this office that was hers.
This morning, unlike that desolate night, she was not alone. Here, unlike in that desolate place, she had work to do. Work: always, before, the rescuer that had saved her. Work. Yes; all right; this was familiar, putting her own needs aside to do important work. Breathe in, out, slow the heart, calm the panic.
“Someone killed Mr. Randall?” Marian spoke tranquilly, gazed directly into this thin reporter's eyes. “I haven't read that. The papers all say it was . . . that he took his own life.”
“The circumstances were suspicious. I'm sorry—the police would rather we didn't discuss any details. But that's why I'm here. My paper's following the story.” Stone stopped, frowned at her recorder, poked a button. In her silence, Marian watched her, thinking,
Stone glanced up again. “He was following a few new leads,” she said. “They had to do with the McCaffery stories.” She paused, looked at Marian expectantly.
“What are you saying?”
“Well”—almost apologetic—“a lot of people were upset about what he'd been writing.”
“One of
Stone said, “It's the current thinking,” the way she might have suggested Marian carry an umbrella because, though neither of them liked it, it was raining. “He'd caused trouble for some people by exposing secrets. Maybe he was about to expose others.”
“In my experience,” Marian said, restraining her voice, keeping it calm and deliberate, “it's only in books that people kill other people to keep secrets from being exposed. Generally, in life, if people are afraid they're about to be
She watched the young woman flinch and felt bad for her. But it was necessary. This talk of secrets, of exposure. To assuage this young lover's heart? To fulfill her aching, forlorn need to believe her beloved had been taken from her, rather than that he chose to leave her?
