“You shouldn’t have made her mad,” Kourosh yelled after them, already leading his blind mother down the street again.
Chapter 17
Bart Joyce’s establishment, the Cityside Deli and Restaurant, was located in the Quincy Market — Faneuil Hall complex of outdoor shops on Boston’s south side. The cab left McCracken off on Congress Street and he stepped out into an unseasonably warm May day. The area was packed with people, and Blaine noticed several milling about behind him near the monster truck Godzilla, which was displayed on a brick island to advertise the upcoming car show at the Boston Garden.
McCracken tempted fate with a daring dash in front of speeding vehicles and approached the statue of Samuel Adams that eternally greeted visitors at the entrance to the complex. It seemed to him that Adams’s granite eyes were leering at Godzilla across the street, as if resenting the monster truck for infringing on his territory. Blaine tapped the statue’s base tenderly to reassure it before heading for the cobblestone walk that would take him to the Cityside.
Faneuil Hall had become a model for other developments like it all across the country, combining strong historic elements with modern shopping convenience. The colonial buildings, restored to their original beauty, housed a variety of shops ranging from food and clothing to electronics and tourist knickknacks. Though Faneuil Hall is the title normally attributed to the entire complex, it actually makes up only a single large building just beyond Congress Street. Blaine passed it as he moved into the more expansive Quincy Market, formed by three parallel buildings separated by twin three-hundred-yard cobblestone walkways, each about thirty yards wide.
People moved in all directions around him, strolling, window shopping, emerging from stores with bags in hand, or relaxing on benches eating cookies or ice cream. Blaine continued to ease by them until a sign finally alerted him to the Cityside Deli and Restaurant over to his left in the center building. A large canopy stretched over a host of outdoor tables that looked across at the stores forming the South Market. Even at this midafternoon hour few vacancies could be found, and waitresses shuffled agilely in the aisles balancing trays of drinks and sandwiches.
McCracken moved up to the cash register and waited for a couple to pay their check before leaning over toward the hostess behind the counter.
“Is Bart Joyce around?”
“I think he’s in the office. Who should I say is here?”
“He won’t know me. Tell him it’s a personal matter and that it’s important.”
The hostess agreeably picked up a telephone, hit two numbers, and spoke briefly into the receiver.
“He’ll be right up,” she said, looking back at McCracken.
It was two minutes later when Blaine heard a voice at his side say, “Hi, I’m Bart Joyce. What can I do for you?”
Joyce might have traveled the world as a twenty-two-year-old bos’n’s mate, but today he was all Boston. His pronunciation of “Bart” sounded more like “Baaaaaht,” and he looked the part as well — big and stocky with a belly draped over his belt and the start of a seasonal New England tan showing on his bald dome and oversized jowls.
Blaine showed him the ID Hank Belgrade had furnished him to make such encounters simpler. “Can we talk somewhere, Mr. Joyce?”
Joyce inspected the ID and stiffened suspiciously. “There’s a table open over there by the chain.”
“Somewhere more private would be my choice.”
“This’ll do.”
Blaine followed Bart Joyce to the table squeezed between other patrons on one side and strollers down the South Market on the other.
“You got no business with me anymore,” Joyce snapped harshly when they were seated.
“Something changed.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Why don’t you tell me about loading the Indianapolis in San Francisco prior to her departure for Tinian.”
Bart Joyce squeezed his features into a mean stare. “Wait a minute, what’s this all about?”
“It’s about exactly what I just asked you.”
He shook his head. “You’re no spook, least not in the traditional sense, but even if you were, you wouldn’t give two shits about something I did over forty years ago.”
“So what am I?”
“Some reporter or something digging for yet another story on the late, great Indianapolis. I eat assholes like you for breakfast. I’m gonna do you a favor and let you leave now on your own.”
Joyce might have been about to stand up. Instead of waiting to find out, McCracken jammed a hand across the table and pinned his forearm in place. What surprised Joyce more than the move itself was the fact that his arm was already starting to go numb from the pressure the man was giving it.
“Now why don’t you stay awhile? See, you were on the right track before. I am a spook, just not in the traditional sense.”
“What sense, then?”
“I work for myself. I normally only take on assignments I believe in. This time it was different. This time I was forced into helping some people I don’t particularly like, which tends to put me in a very bad mood.” Blaine’s eyes narrowed like a Doberman ready to attack and he gave Joyce just a little extra pressure on the arm. “You wanna know something, Mr. Joyce? You can kill a man in under two seconds with your hands if you know the right ways, and there are plenty of them. I could reach across the table, prove it to you, and be gone from here without anyone raising an eyebrow from their chicken soup. That’s not what I have in mind, though. I just want you to understand that I’m plenty pissed off already. People talking tough when I want to talk serious piss me off even more. But what gets me the most pissed off of all is innocent people dying for no reason, which is just what’s going to happen unless you and I have a heart-to-heart right now.”
Joyce threw the arm that was still his up in a gesture of conciliation. “Look, buddy, I got a past I’d rather forget and I get kind of ornery when strangers make me remember. Let’s start over fresh, okay?”
“Let’s start with the Indianapolis,” Blaine said, and let go of his arm.
Joyce shook the limb to bring the circulation back. “What do you want to know?”
“You were on the loading crew, correct?”
“Absolutely. Never been more fucking frightened in my whole life. I mean that was a hell of a thing we were loading, right? Fucking atomic bombs. Nobody knew what they were back then. Be like fucking death rays are now. We didn’t load the bombs themselves; lots of people think we did but we didn’t. All it was were the unassembled parts, most of them crated up real tight.” Joyce leaned a little forward, defenses lowering. “Now look, I know you’re probably here because somewhere along the line somebody told you there were more than two bombs on board the Indy. But trust me, there weren’t. And even if there were, they’re buried with her.”
“Somebody found her.”
Joyce’s face seemed to droop. “What?”
“Why the concern? Why worry if two bombs were all you loaded? History can certainly account for both of them.”
“Don’t play games with me, okay, mister? Lay it out plain and simple.”
“Fair enough. I know something else was loaded onto the Indianapolis besides those unassembled atomic bombs. I know because whatever it was was salvaged from the wreck about a year ago.”
“My God …”
“Plain and simple, here’s the story. There’s a madman in Israel named Rasin who’s got it in for all Arabs; good, bad, doesn’t matter a damn to him. He’s going to kill them all without harming a hair on his country’s chinny chin chin with that other weapon you loaded onto the Indianapolis.”