Rogue Island

at a strip joint called Good Time Charlie’s on Broad Street.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“So I started hanging out there, too, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt so I wouldn’t look out of place. At first, my plan was to try to talk to them, but they’re probably not going to tell me anything, right? So I just sat at the bar and eavesdropped, which wasn’t all that easy because of the loud music. The first two nights, it was just a bunch of guys pawing the dancers and crowing about the Celtics and Red Sox. But on the third night, three men in work clothes came in, sat at the bar, and started complaining about this job they were supposed to do the next morning. I didn’t catch it all, but it had something to do with loading a truck, and I caught the words manhole covers. They were pretty worked up about it. One of them wanted to file a grievance.”

“Those things are heavy,” I said.

“A hundred and fifty pounds each. I looked it up.”

“So then what?”

“So early the next morning, I drove over to the highway department, parked on the street, and found a spot over by the railroad tracks where I could stay out of sight and watch the loading dock. About ten o’clock a truck pulled up and three guys, who looked like the same ones I’d seen at the bar, started loading it with manhole covers.”

“You followed the truck?”

“I did. They turned right on Ernest and right again on Eddy Street, then jumped on I-95 going north. At the Lonsdale Avenue exit in Pawtucket, they got off, drove east for a mile or so, and stopped in front of a chain-link gate. They honked the horn, the gate rolled open, and they pulled in and backed up to a loading dock.”

He grinned, wanting me to beg for the rest.

“What was this place?”

“The sign on the gate said Weeden Scrap Metal Company.”

We both laughed.

“How much is Weeden paying for manhole covers these days?”

“Sixteen dollars apiece,” he said. “I checked.”

“Let me get this straight. The highway department is buying manhole covers for fifty-five dollars each from one of the mayor’s biggest campaign contributors, and Baldelli and Grieco are turning around and scrapping them for sixteen dollars each.”

“That’s what they’re doing. So far, they’ve pocketed fourteen thousand five hundred and sixty dollars. I did the math.”

“Have you written your lead yet?”

“I’ve got one more interview first. I’m seeing the mayor this afternoon. I thought I should tell him what’s been going on and give him a chance to comment.”

“Be sure to ask him what he thought was going to happen when he appointed guys named Knuckles and Blackjack to run the highway department.”

“Lomax said I can break the story in the online edition,” he said, “and then write a longer version for the paper.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself your first page-one byline, Thanks-Dad.”

*  *  *

I went back to my desk, found the business card Joseph had given me, and dialed Little Rhody Realty. Cheryl Scibelli still wasn’t in, so I left my name and number. I opened my secret file and found that her home number was listed.

No answer.

The directory gave her address as 22 Nelson Street, over by Providence College. I drove there and knocked on the door of an immaculate white cottage.

Nobody home.

56

By five o’clock McCracken’s secretary was gone for the day, so I let myself in. After I told him what I’d learned about the lawyers, we sat quietly for a while and thought about it.

“You realize it doesn’t prove anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“A big law firm like that handles a lot of incorporation papers.”

“It does.”

“But it’s a hell of a coincidence.

“It is.”

We sat and thought about it some more.

“Be good if we could find out who owns the five companies,” he said.

“It would.”

“But there’s no way to find that out.”

“None that I know of, unless one of the lawyers decides to risk disbarment and betray a confidence.”

“Which isn’t goddamned likely.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He opened the inlaid cherrywood humidor on his desk, took out two maduro torpedoes, clipped the ends, and offered me one. He lit his with a wooden match, and I torched mine with the Colibri. We sat and smoked for a while.

“Did you remember to broadcast the description of the little thug?” I asked.

“To every insurance investigator I know,” he said. “Didn’t ring any bells.”

“He said he’d come back for me if I didn’t stop poking around.”

“And you haven’t.”

“Of course not.”

“What are you going to do when he comes?”

“Interview him.”

“Would that be before or after you kick his ass?”

“That’ll be up to him.”

The Cate Brothers riffed from my pants pocket. I checked caller ID, saw it was Dorcas, and let it go to voice mail. I was stuffing the phone back in my pocket when the band came back for an encore.

“Hi baby. Just wanted to let you know I can’t see you tonight. I’m meeting a source for dinner, and it could go late.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Definitely tomorrow. Miss you like crazy. Gotta run. Bye.”

Note to self: Change the ring tone to a song that doesn’t have the words losing you in the title.

“So,” I said. “Want to catch the Sox-Yankees game tonight?”

“You have tickets?” McCracken said.

“Yeah. Box seats at Hopes. I’ll call Rosie, see if she wants to join us.”

“Chief Lesbo?”

“Hey, I warned you about that.”

“But she is a lesbian, Mulligan. I know for sure now.”

“How’s that?”

“I asked her out, and she turned me down flat.”

“That’s how you can tell?”

“Of course.”

“You must meet a lot of lesbians.”