found shot to death in a fish market in Dorchester yesterday. One of his employees left his car keys at work, went back to retrieve them, and saw the office light burning. There was a lot of blood. Two shots, fatal but not immediately so – he’d been left to die. Joey was the ambassador for the Irish mob in Boston. He was the go- between, the kingmaker, the problem solver. He was untouchable. On the surface, he was neutral. In reality, he sided with the status quo; all that mattered was the efficient running of business, which was good for everybody. As Tommy Morris became more of a liability, he threatened that stability. A decision was made that it might be best if he were to keep Ronald Doheny company, except Tommy went to ground. Most of his men have abandoned him, but he still has a couple of loyal followers. They met with Joey on the day of his killing. Apparently, they wanted to know if he had sanctioned the kidnapping of Anna Kore in order to draw her uncle out. Joey denied it. Then he was killed.’
‘You know who pulled the trigger?’
‘Officially, no. Unofficially, we believe it was Tommy Morris himself.’
‘Unusual. You’d think he’d palm off a job like that to his people.’
This time, a response flickered. It was like the briefest ripple on the surface of an otherwise smooth pond where an unseen creature had flicked a fin. There was something there, something interesting.
‘I told you, he doesn’t have many people left,’ said Engel. ‘It could be that it was personal for him. The ones who’ve been around for a while, they learn to bury their feelings deep. They hold on to the grudges, then wait for a time when they’re justified in making a move.’
‘You seem very well informed. You have a wire somewhere?’
‘We have lots of wires. That’s why we’re the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not the Local Bureau of Supposition.’ He was settled again. That brief flash of uncertainty was gone. ‘It’s also why, if you’re concerned for the safety of your client, we can guarantee that he’ll be looked after. We can put men on him, or move him out of town for a while. It is a “he,” right?’
I did a little cheek-puffing and imitation weighing up of potentially grave consequences, then allowed that the client was indeed male.
‘He doesn’t want to leave town,’ I said. ‘In fact, that’s something of a deal breaker for him. He has a nice life in Pastor’s Bay. He wants to hold on to it. And I don’t want federal agents on him. Half the people in here probably smelled you as law the minute you arrived, and the other half didn’t have to because they were lawmen themselves. If someone like Tommy Morris is going to be sniffing around this, then I want as little attention as possible drawn to our client. If it comes down to that, I’ll look after his protection myself.’
‘You sure about that?’
The straight line became a jagged scar: a smile, assuming you didn’t look for warmth or reassurance in a smile, or anything resembling a decent human emotion.
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘Tommy Morris has left the reservation, and we believe he’s heading this way.’
‘All the more reason to keep my own client safely off the board.’
‘It’s your call. When can we expect to talk with this elusive gentleman?’
‘I want more.’
‘Really?’
‘I want freedom to investigate on his behalf. In return, I’ll share any information of relevance with Walsh.’
‘He won’t like you being on his turf. Neither will Allan.’
‘They’ll just have to hold their noses.’
‘I’ll talk with them and see what I can do.’
‘I’m sure you can convince them, you silver-tongued devil, you.’
‘And in return we get access to your client?’
‘I’ll get in touch with his lawyer.’
‘That shouldn’t be hard, since she just walked through the door.’
I turned and spotted Aimee. She hesitated when she saw that I was with someone. I beckoned her forward, and introduced her.
‘Aimee, this is Special Agent Robert Engel of the FBI’s Boston field office. Special Agent Engel, Aimee Price. Special Agent Engel likes to be called “Special Agent Engel,” Aimee. It’s a matter of some pride.’
Aimee looked confused but said nothing. Special Agent Engel smiled in the way an executioner might smile at the condemned man’s last good gag just before he dropped the ax.
‘Special Agent Engel and I were just discussing client safety, but we’re all done now,’ I said.
Engel rose, and thanked me for his drink. ‘I’ll let discussions commence,’ he said. ‘I look forward to hearing from you both very soon.’
He left more than half of his whisky on the bar and headed for the door.
‘He didn’t finish his drink,’ said Aimee.
‘I think he only asked for it so as to seem more human.’
‘He certainly needs something.’
‘Agreed. When he looks in the mirror, his reflection probably wants to punch him in the face.’
‘What did you discuss?’
‘I let him wear me down to the point where I felt that perhaps our client should present himself for interview, and in return he told me more than I knew before, and maybe a little more than he wanted me to know, because he believed that he was getting the better part of the deal. It may be that he’ll also persuade Walsh and Allan to let me operate on Haight’s behalf, or just to give me enough room to breathe.’
‘So you didn’t feel obliged to let him know that Haight had already made his decision? That’s almost, but not quite, dishonest. Are you sure you didn’t train to be a lawyer?’
‘I’d have flunked insincerity.’
The Bear was now almost empty, and the stragglers were being encouraged to make their way home, or at least somewhere else that wasn’t the Bear. I poured Aimee a glass of white wine, put it on my tab, and said, ‘I have a treat for you. What are we missing here?’
‘Good company.’
‘Good company. Exactly!’ I placed my hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the back of the bar. ‘But in the absence of it, I have some people I’d like you to meet instead.’
It had been months since I had seen them. Louis’s new beard was certainly striking, I had to give him that. They both stood as we approached.
‘Aimee Price, I’d like you to meet Angel. And this is his close friend, Old Father Time…’
22
They checked into a suicide motel just out of Belfast, the kind of place that Dempsey always associated with estranged fathers, commission-only salesmen, and hookers who kept the lights down low so the johns couldn’t get a good look at their faces. It had probably been built in the fifties, but it was too ugly and dilapidated to merit the description ‘retro,’ and the only restoration job worth doing on it would have involved restoring the lot on which it stood to a condition of vacancy. It struck Dempsey that he was growing disturbingly used to staying in such places, to eating without looking at his food, his eyes constantly scouting for familiar faces in unfamiliar places, for the car that disgorged a passenger while the driver kept the motor running, for the gaze that lingered just a moment too long, for the approaching figure and the moving hand, for the sight of the gun that would, in time, surely take his life.
No wonder he was plagued with stomach pains and constipated to hell and back. He could now hardly recall a time when he was not fearful, not wary. He had to force himself to remember beery afternoons in Murphy’s Law at First and Summer, in the shadow of the big generating station, and Philly-steak spring rolls in the Warren Tavern in Charlestown, or just sitting with a coffee and a newspaper in Buddy’s on Washington Street in Somerville, the old diner’s elevated position giving him a sense of inviolability, of safety. All gone now, all gone, and he would never be able to return to them. Instead, there were just anonymous rooms in dumps like this one, rooms that always smelled of smoke despite the No Smoking signs, and food eaten out of paper and plastic, and the constant grinding
