Nina Sojo had first seen Devon Mack in a second-grade St. Louis classroom. She was the sub. He began the day beating on the kid beside him-any kid beside him. And the boy roamed. She tried to manage him by keeping him on task with challenging puzzles, painting, and storybooks. But there were twenty-three other kids with matching proclivities. Before noon, he had kicked the trash can at Nina’s bent back. She’d spun around, dropped the loaded can on the boy’s head, and made the terror clean the mess that rained down over him. “And don’t you ever in your life even think of kicking me, or anything at me, again.” Later, she took him aside and said that when little boys are so ready to fight it usually means they are unhappy about something. “Are you unhappy about something?” By 3:15 he was slumped in her arms, his eyes overrun ponds. Will you come back tomorrow? Are you ever coming back? Why can’t you come back? The questions of too many sad children she’d meet year after year.
Nina had discovered his birthday was the following week and showed up that day with a cake, coloring books, and a box of Crayolas in a big red bag. The principal arranged for Nina to drive Devon home.
“Where you taking me?” the boy demanded, cringing in the backseat of her car.
“Your house. They know we’re coming.”
Four blocks later, Nina encountered a pregnant teenager and an older woman waiting with smiles. And Devon ’s hard jaw relaxed.
Nina sent the boy a card every birthday for three years. Then stopped for four. Nothing matched the way she felt those years. Then, early in ’98, Devon ’s sister-the pregnant girl-sent Nina an e-mail. Her AOL address had been printed on the business card Nina planted in the big red bag. Tania Mack said her health wasn’t too good and asked, Could you check on my baby brother time to time? He still lived with their aunt, but the aunt’s new husband wouldn’t mind seeing Devon gone. Tania died of leukemia shortly after that and Devon went to stay with Isaac. They were already living in the Roxbury sweet spot when Nina arrived.
She called their Fort Hill place sweet because of the area’s history and the quality of the renovated housing. The Hill had been known for its tie-dye-and-dashiki brigades when she was at Berklee. The dissidents and artists remained, renovated and spurred investment from people like Mrs. Sheridan. Isaac and Devon ’s unit had elegant crown moldings, granite counters, a spa tub…in exchange for shoveling snow. And use of Sheridan ’s company vehicle: a 2001 black Durango. Nina wanted their gig.
Before taking Devon in, Isaac had been rooming with another student in a nice-looking space around the corner from Dorchester ’s “Hell Zone.” Murder round the clock. After sundown, thugs ran the streets while owners of homes worth a half-million cowered in their parlors.
Tania and her baby-daddy had had an understanding. He’d made the hookup that put Devon and Isaac in the sweet spot. “He’s friends with Mrs. Sheridan. Both of them are Korean,” Isaac eventually explained, one long weekend months ago.
“Korean immigrants, you mean?”
“Uh-uh. Korean American.” The man had big money and a big family, Isaac went on, holding Nina close. They were cuddlers big-time, for about four weeks.
“You know him?” Nina had asked.
“I know he had a thing for Tania.”
Tania couldn’t have been more than sixteen when Nina met her. She’d asked about Tania’s baby and learned it had been put up for adoption. All of it arranged before the child was born.
These days, Nina was still suspicious of the living arrangement. She didn’t tell Isaac, but she had met the landlady.
Mrs. Sheridan tagged her late husband’s name to her real estate enterprise and
Nina had been to the Paradise location in Roxbury. It was a long space, with three aisles. She’d barely been inside a minute when a stocky Latino guy coming one way fingered the crotch of a voluptuous Jamaican sister walking opposite him down the middle aisle. The woman wore black leggings and a smile. She tried to swivel around him while he held on a few more seconds. Evidently, the maneuver helped an itch get scratched. They both worked there. He custom-blended hair for weaves and braids. The woman cut and styled wigs. She had a busy operation. Two in chairs, four waiting. Her partner, built like a sprinter, cut hair like one too. Fast. Nina liked the way she was layering the cut on one customer’s wig. They called the sprinter Rocket, Nina would learn later. And it had nothing to do with speed.
Juliette Choo Sheridan, the owner, clearly spent some time in the mirror. It reflected pinkish-red hair swept into a short, spiky ponytail. Blunt cut bangs that stopped short of her carefully placed false lashes-just a few spidery ones on the upper lids. And pouty pink lips. Between all that and the red boots with stiletto heels was a tight black dress to tone things down. Nina had eyed the plunging V-neck for signs of wrinkles. But Mrs. Sheridan didn’t have enough tits for cleavage. Nina figured she was forty-three.
“You should try this,” Mrs. Sheridan had suggested, pointing to a golden-hued version of the short dark wig Nina held.
Nina had smiled. “I don’t think so.”
“Ohhhh, you too conservative,” Mrs. Sheridan scolded, scanning Nina’s bare face. “You pretty lady. Don’t be afraid to jazz it up.”
Nina was standing in Bruno Magli pumps and wearing an Italian blue tweed suit worth several grand. The suit’s short skirt proved one reason Tina Turner had hired her.
When Nina responded, “I’ll bear that in mind,” the temperature in that zip code dropped ten degrees.
Nina fell asleep after talking to Devon. It couldn’t have been a deep sleep; her armpits woke her up. Or maybe it was deep and she was just one frowsy bitch. She hadn’t showered and the stink enveloped her.
Suitably deodorized, she put on a T-shirt and yoga pants. Ate some yogurt and a banana. And turned on Betty Carter.
Nina checked her e-mail while Betty sang “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most.”
Isaac had sent a thank-you message. He and the lawyer connected. I’m seeing her Monday. I’ll let you know what happens.
He did. The lawyer wanted cash up front, he explained in his next e-mail. He was a student.
On Tuesday, Isaac’s case was continued. Nina considered this her cue to wish him Godspeed. Heading over to the Newton courthouse had entered her mind. Get a peek at the Collar. Check out the public record. Read the complaint. But she was saved from herself when a Berklee prof and his wife invited her to Martha’s Vineyard for a week. She rearranged her schedule and left Thursday.
From the ferry ride over to her last breakfast at The Grind, Nina continually ran into characters from her life’s first act. Most significantly Barry. Her stabbing victim.
They stared.
He did a playful bob-and-weave. “Do I dare come closer?” he asked.
Why not? It was only a superficial wound. He had easily disarmed her.
He had been a player. Did time for a mob-related shooting in the ’60s. Fresh out of Norfolk State Prison, he had cruised Boston with Nina in a spanking new ’78 Corvette one week, a ’77 Peugeot the next. Both cars compliments of the unofficial wives Nina knew nothing about. Barry was a decent bass guitarist and, these days, a vocational counselor.
It was late morning in Martha’s Vineyard. They sat outside an Edgartown cafe. He remembered how she drank tea instead of coffee.
“You crossed my mind the other day,” Nina told him.
“Why? Caught a foul smell or something?”
“I needed the name of a decent criminal attorney.”
“I don’t know any in Boston worth a dime,” Barry charged.
She told him why she had been tempted to call and gave the case CliffsNotes.
Barry’s lightning assessment: “This dude sounds like a jive turkey to me.” Then he told her-two types of guys volunteer to talk to cops: the ones who really are stupid, and the ones who think that they’re smarter than everyone
