Now she opened her purse, took out a white tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes. “Silly, isn’t it…it’s been nearly a year…I know I’m not making sense, it’s just that Roger didn’t come back. He was killed a few months before the war was over.”
My hand tightened on the pen. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, what can you do, you know? And ever since then, well, I’ve gone on, you know? Have even thought about dating again…and then…”
The tissue went back to work and I waited. So much of my professional life is waiting, waiting for a phone call, waiting for someone to show up, waiting for a bill to be paid.
She coughed and continued: “Then, last month, I got a letter from a buddy of his. Name of Greg Fleming. Said they were bunkmates here. And they shipped out together, first to France and then to the frontlines. And Greg told me that Roger said that before he left, he hid that shoe box in his barracks. He was afraid the box would get lost or spoiled if he brought it overseas with him.”
“I see,” I said, though I was practically lying. “And why do you need me? Why not go to the base and sweet talk the duty officer, and find the barracks your fiancé was staying at?”
“Because…because the place he was training at, it’s been closed since the war was over. And it’s not easy to get to.”
“Where is it?”
Another dab of the tissue. “It’s out on Boston Harbor. On one of the islands. Gallops Island. That’s where Roger was stationed.”
The place was familiar to me. “Yeah, I remember Gallops. It was used as a training facility. For cooks, radiomen, and medics. What did your man train for?”
“Radioman,” she said simply. “Later…later I found out that being a radioman was so very dangerous. You were out in the open, and German snipers liked to shoot at a radioman and the officer standing next to him…that’s, that’s what happened to Roger. There was some very fierce fighting and he was…he was…oh God, they blew his head off…”
And then she bowed and started weeping in her tissue, and I sat there, feeling like my limbs were made of cement, for I didn’t know what the hell to do. Finally I cleared my throat and said, “Sorry, miss…Look, can I get you something to drink?”
The tissue was up against her face and she shook her head. “No, no, I don’t drink.”
I pushed away from my desk. “I was thinking of something a bit less potent. I’ll be right back.”
About ten minutes later, I came back with two chipped white china mugs and passed one over to her. She took a sip and seemed surprised. “Tea?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting back down. “A bit of a secret, so please don’t tell on me, okay? You know the reputation we guys like to maintain.”
She smiled, and I felt I had won a tiny victory. “How in the world did you ever start drinking tea?”
I shrugged. “Picked up the habit when I was stationed in England.”
“You were in the army?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“What did you do?”
I took a sip from my own mug. “Military police. Spent a lot of time guarding fences and ammo dumps or directing traffic. Pretty boring. Never really heard a shot fired in anger, though a couple of times I did hear Kraut artillery as we were heading east when I got over to France.”
“So you know war, then.”
“I do.”
“And I’m sure you know loss as well.”
Again, the tightening of my hand. “Yeah, I know loss.”
And she must have sensed a change in my voice, for she stared harder at me and said, “Who was he?”
I couldn’t speak for a moment, and then I said, “My older brother. Paul.”
“What happened?”
I suppose I should have kept my mouth shut, but there was something about her teary eyes that just got to me. I cleared my throat. “He was 82nd Airborne. Wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. Mortar shrapnel. They were surrounded by the Krauts, and I guess it took a long time for him to die…”
“Then we both know, don’t we.”
“Yeah.” I looked down at the pad of paper. “So. What do you need me for?”
She twisted the crumpled bit of tissue in her hands. “I…I don’t know how to get to that island. I’ve sent letters to everyone I can think of, in the army and in Congress, and no one can help me out…and I found out that the island is now restricted. There’s some sort of new radar installation being built there…no one can land on the island.”
I knew where this was going but I wanted to hear it from her. “All right, but let me say again, Miss Williams, why do you need me?”
She waited, waited for what seemed to be a long time. She took a long sip from her tea. There were horns from outside, a siren, and I could hear music from the nearest burlesque hall. “Um…well, I’ve been here for a week…asking around…at the local police station…asking about a detective who might help me, one from around here, one who knows the harbor islands…”
“And my name came up? Really? From who?”
“A…a desk sergeant. Name of O’Connor.”
I grimaced. Fat bastard, never got over the fact that my dad beat up his dad ten or fifteen years ago at some Irish tavern in Southie; he always gave me crap, every time he saw me. “All right. What did he tell you?”
“That you used to work with your dad in the harbor, pulling in lobster pots, working after school and summers, and he said…well, he said…”
“Go on, Miss Williams. What did he say?”
“He said that if anyone could get me out to the islands and back, it’d be that thick-skulled mick Billy Sullivan.”
I tried not to smile. “Yeah, that sounds like the good sergeant.”
Her voice softened. “Please, Mister Sullivan. I…I don’t know what else to do. I can’t make it out there without your help, and getting those memories from my man…that would mean the world to me.”
“If the island is off-limits during the day, it means we’ll have to go out at night. Do you understand, Miss Williams?”
She seemed a bit surprised. “I…I thought I could draw you a map, a description, something like that.”
I shook my head. “Not going to work. I’m not going out to Gallops Island at night without you. If I find that box of mementos for you, I want you right there, to check it out.”
“But-”
“If that’s going to be a problem, Miss Williams, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
My potential client sounded meek. “I…I don’t like boats…but no, it won’t be a problem.”
“Good. My rate is fifty dollars a day, plus expenses…but this should be relatively easy. And that fifty dollars has to be paid in advance.”
She opened her purse, deftly pulled out three tens and a twenty, which I scooped up and put into my top desk drawer. I tore off a sheet of paper, wrote something down, and slid it over to her. “There. Address in South Boston. Little fishing and tackle shop, with a dock to the harbor. I’ll see you there tomorrow at 6 p.m. Weather permitting, it should be easy.”
My new client folded up the piece of paper and put it in her purse, and then stood up, held out a hand with manicured red nails. “Oh, I can’t thank you enough, Mister Sullivan. This means so much to me, and…”
I shook her hand and said, “It’s too early to thank me, Miss Williams. If we get there and get your shoe box, then you can thank me.”
She smiled and walked to the door, and I eyed her legs and the way she moved. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” I said.
She stepped out of the office and shut the door behind her.
I counted about fifteen seconds, and then, no doubt to the surprise of my new client had she known, I immediately went to work.
I put on my hat and coat and went out, locking the door behind me. I took the steps two at a time, out to the chaos that was Scollay Square, and then I spotted her, heading up Tremont Street. I dodged more sailors and some loud, red-faced businessmen, the kind who had leather cases full of samples and liked to raise hell in big bad Boston before crawling back to their safe little homes in Maine or New Hampshire.