“Well, according to you, he’s a witness in a murder. I’m in Homicide. I want to talk to him.”
“That’s not going to be so easy. He’s tied up.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“He’s in the trunk of a car in Revere somewhere. They’ll probably find him in June or July, first good heat wave. The way I heard the story is Marolla took some of Charlie Capobianco’s money and Charlie was not willing to just let it go. So Marolla goes into the trunk and on the way out he starts blabbing: He knows about the West End, he knows about my dad. So you see where this is headed, Brendan: You worked for Capobianco; you were there when Joe Daley died-maybe Capobianco wanted Joe Daley dead. A plus B equals C. But what am I telling you? You’re a homicide detective, you know how this works.”
“You got it wrong.”
“So enlighten me. Just answer the fucking question! What did you do for Capobianco?”
“Same as your old man did! Same as half the department does for someone or other! Capobianco runs bookie joints. It’s not like we don’t know where they are. I didn’t bother with them. That’s it. We let him operate.”
“He pays you too much for just that. I heard you’re one of the highest-paid guys he’s got.”
“He pays me more because I have stripes on my sleeve. Doesn’t mean I do a goddamn thing for him. I worked my way up, same as everyone else. Besides, most of what he gives me is for other people. I’m a middleman. It’s part of my job.”
“Come on, Brendan. I always thought a crooked cop-”
“You righteous little pri-”
“-I always thought a crooked cop had to do a little more and a little more, know what I mean? You fix a ticket, then you fix a little case in the BMC, then maybe you make some evidence disappear, then someday you find yourself picking up the phone if there’s going to be a raid and Mr. Capobianco might want a little fair warning. Work your way up, like you said.”
“What does that have to do with murder?”
“How far up did you work, Brendan?”
“Now that’s enough. This conversation is over.”
Joe parallel-parked his grumbling Eighty-Eight in front of the old house, under the basketball hoop.
In the front passenger seat, Michael realized that, for the first time, he felt no connection to this house. Just a pile of boards, barely distinguishable from the other double- and triple-deckers lining the street, all of them peeling brown and white, and tilting slightly on sunk foundations like uneven teeth. Had he really grown up here? It felt like a hundred years ago. Maybe he would try to convince his mother to sell this old dump, go somewhere nice, maybe near the water, maybe the Cape. She never would, of course. She planned to live here. With Conroy.
Margaret appeared at the top of the stairs before they even got out of the car. The sleeves of her sweater, a fuchsia cardigan, were pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was held back by a headband, a girlish detail, but she did not look young. Her face looked pale. Her thin, lipsticked mouth stood out like a red incision in her porcelain face.
Old women had to be careful about lipstick, Michael thought. They could look so red-mouthed and smeary and ridiculous.
“What are you three up to?” Without unfolding her arms, Margaret glanced at her watch and frowned. They should be at work now. Honest people were all at work now.
Michael said, “We need to talk to you, Ma.”
“Talk,” Ricky advised, “or Joe’ll beat the crap out of you.”
Each of the boys bent to bump-kiss her cheek as they passed. She received these kisses impassively, arms still folded, with a swivel of her head to offer up her cheek.
Michael thought she gave him a particularly cool look, but he could not be sure and in any case he did not, for once, feel quite as vulnerable to her. He felt, vaingloriously, like a prince sweeping past with his retinue.
It was Michael, after all, whom Joe had sought out to confide what had happened up in Revere and to share the tip that the mob had some kind of role in Joe Senior’s murder. It was Michael who had counseled his brothers to solve the mystery together, not so much to pool their various talents but because the outsiders whose job it was to find Senior’s killer had failed and, worse, seemed to have given up. And it was Michael who had directed Ricky to break into Capobianco’s headquarters-though his goal had been to corroborate Marolla’s tip, to find some scrap of evidence that would link the Capobiancos to the murder. The discovery of Conroy’s name in the ledger had been a surprise. Maybe it should not have been.
The Daleys sat in the kitchen, at the little breakfast table. This table had just four seats, so it had been used when Joe Senior was at work during mealtimes. But then, Joe Senior had been at work during most mealtimes. A detective’s work schedule did not have much to do with the ordinary nine-to-five workday. Homicide had been the worst; he would disappear for days at a time, working a case while it was hot. The boys had come to think of this table as theirs-the place where they could laugh out loud and stick green beans in their noses and fight over the sports page. It had an avocado Formica top flecked with little gold asterisks and a scalloped aluminum band around the sides, like you would see in a diner.
When the situation was explained to Margaret, minus a few gruesome or worrisome details, she did not seem to find anything especially new in it. Her husband was still dead, under mysterious circumstances. And Brendan Conroy was still what he was: a bit of a blustery politician but a good man and an old friend. She did not believe Brendan was corrupt, merely that he lived in a turbid atmosphere-you could hardly walk around in this city without it leaving a little grime on your nose. So her boys had scratched up a couple of new details. What had changed, really? Nothing. Michael did not like Brendan-that was what it all boiled down to. Well, those two were just oil and water, and they would have to find a way to get along. That was Michael’s problem, not Brendan’s, and certainly not hers.
But now there was something new. It was not just Michael anymore. Now he had Joe believing it, too, that Brendan was some kind of villain. And Ricky! Joe had always been a get-along go-along sort of boy, an easy mark. But Ricky? God bless ’m, he was a living saint-but Ricky looked out for Ricky. Ricky was the kid who stole the quarters Michael collected to send to the pagan babies in Biafra. Yet here were all three of them, her all-grown-up children, ganging up on her.
Michael said, “I don’t think he should be here anymore.”
“Oh, good Lord, Michael, haven’t we been all through this?”
“Just till we know.”
“I already know. I know Brendan. It’s enough for me.”
“He can’t stay here anymore. When this is over, if I’m wrong, I’ll set it straight with him. But for now it’s better he gets out.”
“Why, Michael? Because some gangster knows Brendan’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Ma,” Joe said, “just do what he says.”
She flicked a withering glance at Joe. Who asked him? “He’s still Brendan. He’s been our friend a long time, Michael, longer than you’ve been alive. You don’t just turn your back like that.”
“Look, you tell him anything you want. Blame it on me. Tell him I’m crazy. But I don’t want him around here, I don’t want him around you. Just till we get this straightened out.”
She shook her head in a noncommittal way.
“Did Dad ever talk to you about Capobianco?”
“No. He never talked about work. He went off to work and he came home. He was never much of a talker, you know that.”
“You ever hear him mention that name? Capobianco?”
“Not to me. He and Amy used to talk about it.”
“Amy?” Michael’s head wavered, as if knocked back.
“You know how Amy was. If she wanted to know something, she wasn’t afraid to ask.”
“What did she ask him about?”
“Well, she was always after your dad for stories. Dope about the police department, about whatever she was working on. It was not a big deal. They were family. They chatted.”
“He was the source.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call him a source- ”
