About a half hour later, I was at the local district headquarters of the Boston Police Department, where I found Sergeant Francis Xavier O’Connor sitting behind a chest-high wooden desk, passing on whatever was considered justice in this part of town. There in the lobby area, the tile floor yellow and stained, two women in bright red lipstick, hands cuffed together, shared a cigarette on a wooden bench. O’Connor had a folded over copy of the Boston American in his hands, his face red and flush, and he glanced up at me as I approached the desk.
“Ah, Beantown’s biggest dick,” he said over half-glasses.
“Nice to see you too, sergeant. Thought you’d be spending some time up at your vacation spot on Conway Lake.”
“Bah, the hell with you,” O’Connor said. “What kind of trash are you lookin’ for tonight?”
I leaned up against the desk, my wrists on the wooden edge. “What I’m looking for is right in front of me.”
“Eh?”
“Quick question,” I said. “Got a visit tonight from a young lady, mid-twenties, said she was from Seattle, looking for some help. She told me she came here, talked to you, and somehow my name came up. Why’s that?”
He grinned, bounced the edge of the folded newspaper against his chin. “Ah, I remember that little flower. Came sauntering in, sob story in one hand, a Greyhound bus ticket in the other, and she told me what kind of man she was lookin’ for, and what the hell? I gave her your name and address. You should be grateful.”
“More curious than grateful. Come on, Francis, answer the question. Why me?”
He leaned over, close enough so I could smell old onions coming from his breath. “Figure it out. Young gal had some spending money, spent it for some info…a name. And you know what? Her story sounded screwy enough that it might fuck over whoever decided to take her on as a client, and your name was first, second, and third on my list. Any more questions, dick?”
I stepped away from the desk. “Yeah. Your dad’s nose still look like a lumpy potato after my dad finished him off?”
His face grew even more red. “Asshole, get out of my station.”
The next evening I went into the Shamrock Fish & Tackle, off L Street in South Boston, near where I grew up. It was crowded as I moved past the rows of fishing tackle, rods, other odds and ends. Out in the back, smoking a cigar and nursing a Narragansett beer, Roddy Taylor looked up as I approached him. He had on a sleeveless T- shirt that had probably been white at one time, and khaki pants. He was mostly bald but tufts of hair grew from his thick ears.
“Corporal Sullivan, what are you up to tonight?”
“Looking to borrow an outboard skiff, if that’s all right with you.”
“Hell, of course.”
“And stop calling me corporal.”
He laughed and leaned back, snagged a key off a nail on the wall. He tossed it to me and I caught it with my right hand. “Number five.”
“Okay, number five.”
“How’s your mom?” Roddy asked.
“Not good,” I said. “She…well, you know.”
He took a puff from his cigar. “Yeah. Still thinking your brother’s coming home. Am I right?”
I juggled the key in my hand. “I’ll bring it back sometime tonight.”
“Best to your mom.”
“You got it.”
Outside I went to the backseat of my old Ford and took out a canvas gym bag. From the dirt parking lot I headed over to a dock and moved down the line of skiffs and boats, found the one with a painted number five on the side, and undid the lock. I tossed my gym bag in the open skiff, near the small fuel tank and the drain plug at the stern. I stood up and stretched. Overhead lights had come on, illuminating the near empty parking lot, the dock, and the line of moored boats.
She was standing at the edge of the dock. She still had her leather purse but the skirt had been replaced by slacks and flat shoes.
“Miss Williams,” I said.
“Please,” she said, coming across the dock. “Please call me Mandy.”
“All right, Mandy it is.”
She peered down at the skiff. “It looks so small.”
“It’s big enough for where we’re going,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I grew up around here, Miss-”
“Mandy.”
“Mandy, I grew up around here.” I looked about the water, at the lights coming on at the shoreline of Boston Harbor and the islands scattered out there at the beginnings of the Atlantic Ocean. “I promise you, I’ll get you out and back again in no time.”
She seemed to think about that for a moment, and nodded. Then she moved closer and gingerly put one foot into the boat, as I held her hand. Her hand felt good. “Up forward,” I said. “Take the seat up forward.”
My client clambered in and I followed. I undid the stern line and gently pushed us off, then primed the engine by using a squeeze tube from the small fuel tank. A flick of the switch and a couple of tugs with the rope starter, and the small Mercury engine burbled into life. We made our way out of the docks and toward the waters of the harbor, motoring into the coming darkness, my right hand on the throttle of the engine.
After about five minutes she turned and said, “Where are the life jackets?”
“You figuring on falling in?”
She had a brittle laugh. “No, not at all. I’d just like to know, that’s all.”
I motioned with my free hand. “Up forward. And nothing to worry about, Mandy. I boated out here before I went to grade school and haven’t fallen in yet.”
She turned into herself, the purse on her lap, and I looked over at the still waters of the harbor. It was early evening, the water very flat, the smell of the salt air pretty good after spending hours and hours on Scollay Square. Off to the left, the north, were the lights of the airport, and out on the waters I could see the low shapes of the islands. Over to the right was the harbor itself, and the lights of the moored freighters.
One of the islands was now off to starboard and Mandy asked, “What island is that?”
“Thompson,” I said.
“I see buildings there. A fort?”
I laughed. “Hardly. That’s the home of the Boston Farm and Trades School.”
“The
“Farm and Trades. A fancy name for a school for boys who get into trouble. Like a reform school. One last chance before you get sent off to juvenile hall or an adult prison.”
She turned, and in the fading light I could make out her pretty smile. “Sounds like you know that place firsthand.”
“Could have, if I hadn’t been lucky.”
Soon we passed Thompson and up ahead was a low-slung island with no lights. The wind shifted, carrying with it a sour smell.
“What in God’s name is that?” Mandy asked.
“ Spectacle Island. That’s where the city dumps its trash. Lots of garbage up there, and probably the bodies of a few gangsters. Good place to lose something.”
“You know your islands.”
“Sure,” I said. “They all have a story. All have legends. Indians, privateers, ghosts, pirates, buried treasure… everything and anything.”
Now we passed a lighthouse, and I said, “ Long Island,” but Mandy didn’t seem to care. There was another, smaller island ahead. “That’s Gallops. You ready?” I asked.
