what would happen?
As if reading his mind, Morrissey said, 'And think about it. You're the only one we have right now. If you don't cough up the others, we come down on you in state and federal courts with a fury the likes of which you've never seen before. You'll never see a free day for the rest of your life. You won't even make bail.'
Morrissey stubbed out another cigarette and flicked it on the floor.
Black just wanted out of this room, out of his life, for that matter.
He needed time to think. He should talk to a lawyer, if he could find one. He knew that much. That thought emboldened him to speak.
'We may have a deal. I need to speak to my lawyer first,' he said.
Morrissey jumped up out of his seat, the chair almost falling backward because of his sudden force. He yanked out the chair closest to Black and sat back down, their faces now a few inches apart.
'This deal holds right now,' Morrissey said, almost seething. 'You get a lawyer involved, that creates a whole new level of bullshit I have to go through. I still have to talk those jamokes from the federal government into this. If you hesitate, I hesitate. Let me state it another way. You call a lawyer right now, I want to be the one who swings that prison door shut on the rest of your life.'
Black put his hands up to his head, through his hair, across his forehead and eyes. When he opened his eyes, he was accidentally staring at those pictures, the smiling girls, the dead father, the times past they would never have again.
Looking at the photos, Black said, 'I'll give you the guys.' His voice was so low it was barely audible. Morrissey still sat right next to him, still just a few inches away.
'How many?'
There were five involved, plus him. Black hesitated. 'All four,' he said.
'Who was the shooter?'
'I don't know.' As he said this, he thought of Stemple pitching his handgun into the harbor.
'Bullshit. How the fuck do you not know?'
Black gulped. 'They wore masks and identical clothes. They were a good distance away from me. It was getting dark. I couldn't tell which one it was.'
'Fuck it. No shooter, no deal.' Morrissey got up as he said this and walked the few steps to the other side of the room, then turned toward Black, leaning on the table with his two hands.
Black's mind went into overdrive. Does he make it up? Does he tell him Stemple because it was Stemple who ditched his gun? But maybe Stemple fired a shot that missed. Does he tell him Rocco Manupelli because he doesn't like Rocco, thinks Rocco was destined to fuck this thing up, knows that Morrissey wants to hear that it was Rocco who was the killer?
Black said, 'Then no deal. I don't know which one fired the deadly shot.'
Morrissey lit up another cigarette and walked a slow lap of the table, cutting close behind Black.
'You're missing a guy too, right? Five guys at the scene, including you, and a driver at the fish pier, right? We have witnesses.'
Black said, 'Three guys were on the guard when he came out of the bank.
One guy was on Boyle. I was in the van.'
'Yeah, and what about the driver at the pier where you dumped the first getaway car?'
Black hesitated, collected himself, and said, 'There was no other driver. We planted a car there, and when we got there, I drove.'
Morrissey shook his head. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired now.
'Bullshit again. I know how you work. You wouldn't risk leaving a car there unattended and having it be towed or watched or whatever. You like having a man on every job, a live person. You don't leave things to chance.'
Black thought of his getaway driver on the pier. Older guy, no record, not even any criminal experience. He had needed the money, but didn't need it so bad he wanted to be part of the holdup. He took the driver's job for a smaller cut and said it was the only job he'd ever do. Black recalled the way the driver watched as the men arrived on the pier, angry and scared. He had watched as Black vomited, then fearfully asked what had gone wrong.
Black would spare him. He'd spare him. To Morrissey, he simply shook his head.
In response, the detective tossed his half-smoked cigarette, still lit, against the wall and strode silently out of the room, flipping the door shut behind him.
Maybe five minutes later, the door opened and another man in a navy blue suit entered the room.
'Curtis,' Morrissey said, 'This is special agent Kent Drinker of the FBI. He's a liaison between the bureau and the witness protection program. He, along with the U.s. attorney here in Boston, has to sign off on anyone entering the program.'
twenty-one
Present Day Monday, November 6
There is nothing like a funeral to spur a dreaded bout of introspection. First off, I defy anyone who has ever sat at such services to say they haven't looked around the room and wondered how many people they might attract to theirs, what the mourners might say, how sad those closest to you would be. I mean, I admit, I joined the National Press Club just so it would take up another line of my obituary and because maybe the club's board of governors might feel compelled to show up at the church, even though they had never met me and I don't even vote at the club elections.
I bring this up because as I gazed across the vast expanse of the Sacred Heart Church, at the hundreds upon hundreds of people crammed into the pews to mourn Steve Havlicek's passing-the Little League coaches, the fellow PTA members, the governor of Massachusetts, the entire congressional delegation, the high school and college classmates, the kids who grew up on the same block, the Neighborhood Watch members from down the street, I couldn't help but fear that my own death wouldn't lure any more than a few of Boston and Washington's better-known bartenders and the couple of interns who I used to take out to lunch as another excuse to use my company credit card.
Second, these occasions serve as an abrupt reminder of our own mortality, especially this one, especially for me. I don't think I need to remind anyone, I was supposed to be in that car when the bomb went off. I was supposed to be dead. The only thing that saved me is my mediocre memory-forgetting the tape recorder-and a sense of courtesy that harks back to a more chivalrous time. Had I pulled the keys out of the ignition and left Steve Havlicek in the cold to open my front door, I'd be somewhere between heaven and hell right now, the good Lord and Satan engaged in a game of dice to determine my eternal destiny.
Martin had warned me not to travel to Boston for Havlicek's memorial service. Well, screw Martin and his warnings. I felt like I didn't have a whole lot left to lose. So come Monday morning, I snuck out of the Jefferson through the kitchen, hailed a cab to Baltimore-Washington International, the farthest away of D.c.'s three airports, and grabbed a flight to Logan.
Anyway, like I said, the funeral, held in Havlicek's native Boston neighborhood of Roslindale, was packed. Margaret Havlicek, in a dignified black dress, sat in the first row, flanked on either side by her two children, both of whom, notably good-looking, seemed to have more of her genes than his, at least from an aesthetic point of view.
The publisher of the Record was there, as were all the top editors and representatives from the other major newspapers. Everyone knew Havlicek, and to know him was to like him. I knew that better than anyone.
Despite the sickening session with Appleton and Martin the day before, I was treated with an utmost sense of respect and dignity, even if I had been ordered to stay away. Margaret Havlicek had even called me in Washington and asked me to deliver a short eulogy. Once I was there, General Ellis, the publisher, pulled me aside and lauded what he described as my 'constant acts of heroism' on the story. Appleton himself stopped at my pew
