“Yeah. She asked if I had one Lomax would print, one without the words fuck, shit, or asshole in it. I told her she’s going to have to paraphrase.”
“Give her all the details?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The part about the asshole buying the lighter?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The part about the Marlboros and the Penthouse?”
“I didn’t think that was important.”
“The part about Cheez Doodles spilled all over the floor by the door?”
“Didn’t think that was important either.”
“You can’t write a good story without details, Thanks-Dad. Call her back, and this time give her all of it.”
While he was making the call, I tossed my sandwich wrapper in the barrel by the door and walked back into the store. Zerilli was bent over, scooping Cheez Doodles packages from the scuffed tile floor.
“Hey, Whoosh. How’d the asshole pay for his purchases?”
“Credit card.”
“Visa? Discover? MasterCard?”
“Sheila!” Whoosh shouted to the clerk. “What kinda plastic did the asshole use?”
“Visa.”
“Great.” I said. “Gimme the number.”
* * *
Secretariat was right where I left him in front of the chop shop. As we walked up, Deegan popped out of the garage and threw me the keys.
“You’re all set,” he said. “Sorry for your trouble.”
As I pulled away from the curb, I pushed the play button. The opening guitar lick of Tommy Castro’s “Mammer-Jammer,” the first cut on the CD that was in the player when it was ripped from the dash, screeched from the speakers.
Mason’s hands went to his ears. “Would you mind turning that down?”
I reached over and turned it up.
A moment later, a battle of the bands ensued as Deep Purple broke in with “Smoke on the Water.” I punched the CD player off and flipped the cell open.
“You!
fucking!
bastard!”
“Sorry, Dorcas, but I don’t have time to chat right now.”
As my favorite philosopher, Kinky Friedman, once said, “In the sky of every love affair are little tickets to hell, falling like confetti from the stars.”
I found a space in front of the welfare building just down the street from the paper and yanked the “Out of Order” hood over the head of the parking meter. I didn’t see the humor in it, but Mason thought it was hilarious. Princes never fully appreciate the survival tactics of their serfs. He was still giggling like a schoolgirl three minutes later as we stepped off the elevator into the newsroom.
I was reading a computer printout of Veronica’s unedited copy about the arrest when Lomax walked up. “Good they finally caught the bastard,” he said.
It didn’t feel right, but I just nodded.
“It’s a court story now, so from here on out it belongs to Veronica. Time to get cracking on that cadaver-dogs story.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
I decided to keep operating on the assumption he was kidding. If the Sassy/Sugar affair hadn’t soured him on doggy features, nothing ever would.
I waited till he was out of earshot before placing a call to my Aunt Ruthie in the customer-service department at Fleet Bank headquarters in Boston.
“Liam! How’s my favorite nephew?”
We chatted about how her son Conor was doing, his one-year parole on a Fenway ticket-scalping bust almost up, before I told her what I needed. I’d just hung up when Mason sauntered over.
“So,” he said. “What do we work on next?”
“Manhole covers.”
“Pardon?”
“Manhole covers.”
“What about them?”
“You’re supposed to be a reporter, Thanks-Dad. Got yourself a notepad, a trench coat, a fedora, a sheepskin from a fancy journalism school. Try to figure it out. Start with the city purchasing department. See if you can come up with something worth printing.”
“You’re giving me an assignment?” He sounded positively giddy.
“Something like that.”
“Thanks, Mulligan! I was afraid you really didn’t like me.”
Manhole covers. I almost laughed. That should keep his inbred ass out of my business for a while.
32
Gloria leaned in close, her blond hair caressing the side of my face as we studied the perp-walk pictures on her camera’s LCD screen. We were perched on adjoining bar stools. Moisture beaded the sides of our tumblers, hers filled with draft beer and mine with club soda.
We were still in a huddle when Veronica strolled into Hopes and wrapped her arms around my neck, staking her claim. She smirked at Gloria, and Gloria smirked back. Maybe later they’d mud-wrestle. The bartender brought Veronica a chardonnay without being asked, and the two of us carried our glasses to a table with a decent view of the TV over the bar. Gloria teetered in place, wondering whether to tag along. Then she caught Veronica’s eye and thought better of it.
Channel 10’s operatic Action News theme heralded Logan Bedford’s cliché-riddled teaser for the six o’clock report: “Our long municipal nightmare is over! Our gallant men in blue have made an arrest in the Mount Hope arson case that has terrorized our fair city. Wait till you find out how they caught him. You’ll be shocked!”
Who the hell writes that crap?
Ernie DiGregorio spun a basketball on his index finger and invited us to join the fun at Foxwoods. Cadillac Frank made a show of kicking tires with his Ferragamos and announced “an offer you can’t refuse on a previously owned Seville.” Then Logan was back with tape from the press conference at Providence Police Headquarters.
It was all backslaps and congratulations, the chief, the mayor, and Polecki taking turns giving one another credit. The mayor hogged most of the camera time, attributing the break in the case to Polecki’s diligent police work and doing his best to minimize the role of Zerilli and his bat-wielding vigilantes. Polecki injected a word of caution, saying “The investigation is ongoing,” but the smug smiles and the celebratory mood made it clear they thought Wu Chiang was their man.
When it was over, the crowd at Hopes applauded. Three cops and a half dozen firemen, segregated at two tables in back, rose to their feet and raised their glasses in a toast. Then they crossed their invisible line of mutual hostility to share manly hugs, the black eyes and split lips from the brawl at last August’s PD vs. FD softball game momentarily forgotten.
33
Seems like I’m always hustling for something—a lead, a quote, a free parking space, space above the fold. When there’s time to take a breath, it usually involves sucking in a lungful of Cuban and wheezing out a cheer for the developmentally arrested millionaires with “Red Sox” stitched across their chests. Tonight I’d gotten myself into something different, and I liked the way it felt.
We strolled past Nordstrom, an anchor in the sprawling mall just downwind from the stench of the statehouse. Behind the plate-glass windows, mannequins were draped in my annual salary. I focused on my companion’s hips as they drew silky circles beneath her skirt. A minute or two slipped by before I noticed she was speaking.
“… wanted to share the byline but Lomax wouldn’t go for it, so I gave you and Mason contributing lines at the end of the piece.”
When I realized she was talking business, I felt oddly deflated. “We make a good team, Veronica.”
“You and Mason?”
“You and I.”
“I think so too,” she said.
Suddenly I was hungry. I wanted food too.
Before us was one of those pretentious places with ferns, brass railings, hardwood floors, and preening waiters with names like Chad and Corey. As we settled into a corner booth, I felt Veronica shed the day. She pulled her jet-black hair out of an elastic tie and shook it loose to settle on her shoulders. Then she sighed and crossed her legs, diverting my attention from the twelve-page menu.