“Eh?”
“Quick question,” I said. “Got a visit tonight from a young lady, mid-twenties, said she was from Seattle, looking for some help. She told me she came here, talked to you, and somehow my name came up. Why’s that?”
He grinned, bounced the edge of the folded newspaper against his chin. “Ah, I remember that little flower. Came sauntering in, sob story in one hand, a Greyhound bus ticket in the other, and she told me what kind of man she was lookin’ for, and what the hell? I gave her your name and address. You should be grateful.”
“More curious than grateful. Come on, Francis, answer the question. Why me?”
He leaned over, close enough so I could smell old onions coming from his breath. “Figure it out. Young gal had some spending money, spent it for some info…a name. And you know what? Her story sounded screwy enough that it might fuck over whoever decided to take her on as a client, and your name was first, second, and third on my list. Any more questions, dick?”
I stepped away from the desk. “Yeah. Your dad’s nose still look like a lumpy potato after my dad finished him off?”
His face grew even more red. “Asshole, get out of my station.”
The next evening I went into the Shamrock Fish & Tackle, off L Street in South Boston, near where I grew up. It was crowded as I moved past the rows of fishing tackle, rods, other odds and ends. Out in the back, smoking a cigar and nursing a Narragansett beer, Roddy Taylor looked up as I approached him. He had on a sleeveless T-shirt that had probably been white at one time, and khaki pants. He was mostly bald but tufts of hair grew from his thick ears.
“Corporal Sullivan, what are you up to tonight?”
“Looking to borrow an outboard skiff, if that’s all right with you.”
“Hell, of course.”
“And stop calling me corporal.”
He laughed and leaned back, snagged a key off a nail on the wall. He tossed it to me and I caught it with my right hand. “Number five.”
“Okay, number five.”
“How’s your mom?” Roddy asked.
“Not good,” I said. “She…well, you know.”
He took a puff from his cigar. “Yeah. Still thinking your brother’s coming home. Am I right?”
I juggled the key in my hand. “I’ll bring it back sometime tonight.”
“Best to your mom.”
“You got it.”
Outside I went to the backseat of my old Ford and took out a canvas gym bag. From the dirt parking lot I headed over to a dock and moved down the line of skiffs and boats, found the one with a painted number five on the side, and undid the lock. I tossed my gym bag in the open skiff, near the small fuel tank and the drain plug at the stern. I stood up and stretched. Overhead lights had come on, illuminating the near empty parking lot, the dock, and the line of moored boats.
She was standing at the edge of the dock. She still had her leather purse but the skirt had been replaced by slacks and flat shoes.
“Miss Williams,” I said.
“Please,” she said, coming across the dock. “Please call me Mandy.”
“All right, Mandy it is.”
She peered down at the skiff. “It looks so small.”
“It’s big enough for where we’re going,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I grew up around here, Miss-”
“Mandy.”
“Mandy, I grew up around here.” I looked about the water, at the lights coming on at the shoreline of Boston Harbor and the islands scattered out there at the beginnings of the Atlantic Ocean. “I promise you, I’ll get you out and back again in no time.”
She seemed to think about that for a moment, and nodded. Then she moved closer and gingerly put one foot into the boat, as I held her hand. Her hand felt good. “Up forward,” I said. “Take the seat up forward.”
My client clambered in and I followed. I undid the stern line and gently pushed us off, then primed the engine by using a squeeze tube from the small fuel tank. A flick of the switch and a couple of tugs with the rope starter, and the small Mercury engine burbled into life. We made our way out of the docks and toward the waters of the harbor, motoring into the coming darkness, my right hand on the throttle of the engine.
After about five minutes she turned and said, “Where are the life jackets?”
“You figuring on falling in?”
She had a brittle laugh. “No, not at all. I’d just like to know, that’s all.”
I motioned with my free hand. “Up forward. And nothing to worry about, Mandy. I boated out here before I went to grade school and haven’t fallen in yet.”
She turned into herself, the purse on her lap, and I looked over at the still waters of the harbor. It was early evening, the water very flat, the smell of the salt air pretty good after spending hours and hours on Scollay Square. Off to the left, the north, were the lights of the airport, and out on the waters I could see the low shapes of the islands. Over to the right was the harbor itself, and the lights of the moored freighters.
One of the islands was now off to starboard and Mandy asked, “What island is that?”
“Thompson,” I said.
“I see buildings there. A fort?”
I laughed. “Hardly. That’s the home of the Boston Farm and Trades School.”
“The what school?”
“Farm and Trades. A fancy name for a school for boys who get into trouble. Like a reform school. One last chance before you get sent off to juvenile hall or an adult prison.”
She turned, and in the fading light I could make out her pretty smile. “Sounds like you know that place firsthand.”
“Could have, if I hadn’t been lucky.”
Soon we passed Thompson and up ahead was a low-slung island with no lights. The wind shifted, carrying with it a sour smell.
“What in God’s name is that?” Mandy asked.
“ Spectacle Island. That’s where the city dumps its trash. Lots of garbage up there, and probably the bodies of a few gangsters. Good place to lose something.”
“You know your islands.”
“Sure,” I said. “They all have a story. All have legends. Indians, privateers, ghosts, pirates, buried treasure…everything and anything.”
Now we passed a lighthouse, and I said, “ Long Island,” but Mandy didn’t seem to care. There was another, smaller island ahead. “That’s Gallops. You ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice strained. “Quite ready.”
I ran the skiff aground on a bit of sandy beach and waded in the water, dragging a bowline up, tying it off some scrub brush. There was a dock just down the way, with a path leading up to the island, and by now it was pretty dark. From my gym bag I took out a flashlight and cupped the beam with my hand, making sure only a bit of light escaped.
“I want to make this quick, okay?”
She nodded.
“I asked around,” I said. “I know where the barracks are. Do you happen to know where his bunk was located?”
“Next to a window overlooking the east, in the far corner. He always complained that the morning sun would hit his eyes and wake him up before reveille.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”
From the path near the dock, it was pretty easy going, much to my surprise. The place was deserted and there were no lights, but my own flashlight did a good job of illuminating the way. We headed along a crushed stone path; halfway there, something small and furry burst out of the brush, scaring the crap out of me and making Mandy cry out. She grabbed my free hand and wouldn’t let it go-I didn’t complain. It felt good, and she kept her hand in mine all the way up to the barracks.
A lot of the windows were smashed, and the door leading inside was hanging free from its hinges. We moved up the wide steps and gingerly stepped in. I flashed the light around. The roof had leaked and there were puddles of water on the floor. We went to the left, where there was a great open room stretching out into the distance. I slashed the light around again. Rusting frames for bunks were piled high in the corner, and there was an odd, musty smell to the place. Lots of old memories came roaring back, being in a building like this, taking in those old scents, of the soap and gun oil…and the smell of the men, of course.