“If you’re a real reporter, you won’t be able to resist taking it out and looking it over.”
“That’s right.”
“Better you don’t.”
“But you know I will.”
“It’s folded inside the business section,” I said.
We talked about Rosie again for a couple of minutes. Then Mason drained his coffee, picked up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and strolled out the door.
I finished my breakfast, ambled down the street to an electronics store, and bought a wireless phone recorder for $21.99. Then I walked a few blocks to the Apex department store and bought a small duffel bag, socks, underwear, toiletries, two bottles of Maalox, a couple of black T-shirts, a pair of tan Dockers, a blue blazer, and sunglasses that could pass for Ray-Bans if you didn’t look closely. I carried my purchases back to the hotel and flopped on the bed.
That night, I called the hospital again.
“Chief Rosella Morelli?”
“Still critical.”
I plugged the recorder into the microphone jack on my cell phone and stretched out on the bed to watch the Sox battle the Angels. The Sox were trailing by three in the fourth when Tammy Wynette started whining about standing by her man. What had I been thinking? That song sucks. I checked caller ID and decided to answer anyway.
“You!
fucking!
bastard!”
“And a good evening to you too, Dorcas.”
“Who are you shacked up with tonight, you son of a bitch?”
“Speaking of bitches, how’s Rewrite doing? You’re remembering her heartworm pills, right?”
“You love that dog, don’t you?”
“Sure do.”
“Good. I think I’ll take her to the pound,” she said, and slammed down the receiver. That was new. Usually I was the first one to hang up.
Rewrite hated cages. Four years ago, when we put her in a kennel for a few days and took a rare vacation together to the Monterey Bay Blues Festival, she refused to eat until we got back. I told myself Dorcas was bluffing.
Youkilis had just tied the score with a home run when the cell rang again. This time I didn’t recognize the number so I turned the recorder on.
68
“Red Sox Nation. How may I direct your call?”
“Mulligan?”
“Who should I tell him is calling?”
“Listen up, asshole. If you want to live to see next week, you’ll give it back.”
“Give what back?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Okay, Giordano. What’s it worth to you?”
“The price of three two-hundred-thirty-grain slugs from a forty-five.”
“That would only come to a dollar and change. Given the stakes, I was hoping for a little more.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“How much?”
“Consider it from my point of view,” I said. “The cops have all but accused me of setting the fires. I’ve been suspended without pay. My journalism career is over. I need to find another line of work.”
“Blackmailers have a short life span, Mulligan.”
“Actually, I was thinking about getting into real estate.”
“Keep talking.”
“Remember our conversation over drinks at the Biltmore?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m ready to take you up on your generous offer.”
He fell silent again, thinking it over.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I just bought twenty acres in Lincoln. Gonna put up some luxury condo units. I’ll give you a five-percent share. You should clear at least a hundred grand in two years.”
“What am I supposed to do for money in the meantime?”
“I’ve got an opening at Little Rhody Realty,” he said. “Doesn’t pay much, but it’ll give us a chance to see if you’ve got an aptitude for the business.”
He was offering me Cheryl Scibelli’s old job. “Deal,” I said. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“So when do I get it back?”
“Can’t be this week. I’m on the way to Tampa to visit a college buddy.”
“Better get your ass back here.”
“Look,” I said. “My buddy got us tickets for the Sox–Rays series this weekend. No way I’m gonna miss that. The Rays are pretty good this year, so they should be great games. Besides, it’ll take you a few days to get the papers drawn up on the Lincoln property for me, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like you being out of reach.”
“I was planning to stay down there a couple of weeks,” I said, “but I’ll rebook and fly back the day after the games. I’ll give it to you as soon as I get back.”
“You got it with you?”
“It’s in a safe place.”
He didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.
“Let me know when your flight is coming in,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“Vinnie,” I said, “I suspect that beneath that cynical shell you are at heart a sentimentalist.”
“Huh?”
Hard to believe there was someone out there who had never seen
I hung up and returned my attention to the game in time to see the Sox pull out a 7–6 win in their last at bat.
Wednesday I got up late, called the hospital, and then wandered over to Doherty’s East Avenue Irish Pub for pastrami on rye and a club soda. That evening, I went back to Doherty’s to watch the Angels beat our young left- hander, John Lester, 6–4. But we were still in first place, two and a half games up on the Yankees. Except for last night’s threat on my life, Dorcas’s threat to send Rewrite to the pound, Rosie’s condition, and the fact that Veronica hadn’t returned my calls, everything was just peachy.
69
Late Wednesday afternoon found me lurking in Burnside Park again. This time I was wearing my new blazer, Dockers, and bogus Ray-Bans. I looked almost fashionable. For me, it was a disguise.
The same bums asked me for spare change. The same drug dealers offered their wares. The same teenage hooker strolled by, this time on a city councilman’s arm. The pit bull was a no-show.
When the cell rang, I recognized the number.
“Hi, Veronica.”
