The Burning Soul

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m bored.’

  ‘What are you, nine years old? Shut the fuck up. Go to sleep.’

  ‘I did sleep. This put me to sleep. Then I woke up, and it was still playing. I thought I’d died and gone to hell’s waiting room.’

  ‘It’s not the same piece.’

  ‘It sounds like the same piece. This guy Arthur Part is running a scam.’

  ‘That’s Arvo Pärt. You are a philistine, man.’

  ‘Yeah, the Hungarian.’

  ‘Estonian.’

  ‘Just turn it off. I swear, the hillbilly shit was better than this.’

  ‘You complained that that all sounded the same too.’

  ‘It did, but at least it had words, and it was too annoying to be dull. I hear any more of this and we’ll have to get an elevator put in the car.’

  ‘Maybe some of those inspirational pictures as well, like they have in the offices of companies that are about to go under,’ said Louis. ‘You know, “Let Your Imagination Soar,” with a photograph of an eagle, or “Teamwork,” with those meerkat rat things.’

  ‘A dung beetle,’ said Angel. ‘A picture of a dung beetle, and “Eat Shit: You’ve Been Retrenched.” I hate that word “retrenched.” At least “redundant” is honest. “Let go” is honest. “Fired” is honest. “Retrenched” is just a way to sugar the pill, like undertakers refusing to use the word “death” and talking about “passing on” instead, or doctors telling you that you have a “condition” when what they really mean is you’re riddled with cancer.’

  ‘It’s from the French,’ said Louis. ‘Retrenching is digging a second line of defense. It means that you’ve been cut off again.’

  ‘What does that have to do with being fired?’

  ‘Literally? Nothing, I guess.’

  ‘See?’

  ‘No. Why, you worried about your future?’

  ‘Yeah, it gets shorter every day. That fucking music makes it seem longer, though.’

  ‘It’s nearly done.’ The piece concluded. ‘There, see? You want to spoil anything else?’

  ‘Why, you got something else worth spoiling?’

  ‘I put a load of discs in the player before we left.’

  ‘What’s up next?’

  ‘Brian Eno, Music for Airports.’

  ‘I don’t know it. Is it loud?’

  ‘Louder than Arvo Pärt.’

  ‘Silence is louder than Arvo Pärt.’

  They drove on. The music commenced. It was not loud. It was not loud at all.

  ‘You’re killing me,’ moaned Angel. ‘You’re killing me softly . . .’

  The hunters were gathering.

  Boston’s war was moving north.

  Hunting season was about to begin.

  21

  Louis and Angel came to the Bear shortly before closing. I hadn’t worked there for a while, and Dave Evans, the owner, seemed to be getting on fine without me, a fact that I tried not to take personally. Also, Aimee was paying me well, and like a good squirrel, I’d been carefully storing away enough nuts to see me through winter and beyond. But I liked the buzz of the place, and I’d never felt that working behind a bar was a dishonorable profession, particularly somewhere like the Bear where there was little tolerance for jackasses, and enough cops and repo men dotted around to ensure that any misbehavior would be frowned upon, if not actively discouraged if it persisted. Even without the presence of the law, the Bear was well able to handle the rare difficulties that arose. This was a neighborhood bar, an escape for a couple of hours, and the rules, though unwritten, were understood by nearly all.

  ‘How’s the Denny Kraus thing working out?’ Dave asked me, as I juggled separate checks from a bunch of genial New Yorkers who had left their capacity for simple division at the state line.

  ‘He’s still denying that he’s crazy.’

  ‘They have met him, right? Denny Kraus came out of the womb with an extra hole in his head. When he stands in a draft, you can hear it whistle.’

  ‘The judge knows he’s crazy. The prosecution knows he’s crazy. Even his own lawyer knows he’s crazy.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘That he was crazy.’

  ‘It’s unanimous, then.’

  ‘Except for Denny.’

  ‘What does he know? He’s crazy. Thank God he didn’t shoot anyone in here.’

  ‘Why, you want to be the first one who does?’

  ‘Absolutely. On the day I retire, I’m taking some of the chefs down. The wait staff I’ll spare. I always liked them.’ He looked over my shoulder as I sorted the checks. ‘Split check?’

  ‘Yep. Five of them.’

  ‘It’s a hundred bucks. It divides evenly.’

  ‘I know.’

  Dave scowled at the New Yorkers. ‘We need a stricter door policy,’ he said, and trotted off to see if any of the kitchen crew needed to be reminded of how Dave hoped to celebrate his retirement.

  Aimee had left a message on my cell phone informing me that Randall Haight had finally decided to come clean about his past and its unwelcome intrusion into his new life. He would present himself at Aimee’s office the next day, and she planned to inform the state police of her client’s availability before she left the office, although she had decided not to give them his name in advance. I agreed that we should meet up to discuss our plans for the interview after the Bear closed for business.

  Haight’s decision to talk to the police was still the right one, in my view, even leaving aside any concerns about Anna Kore. As a sole operator, I didn’t have the resources to do what he wanted me to do, not under the circumstances. The furor surrounding Anna meant that I couldn’t do what I would usually have done, which was to talk to people, including, as discreetly as possible, Haight’s clients, local folk, even the cops. It could have been done without letting them know the specific nature of the harassment, and in time I was confident that I could have closed in on the person or persons responsible.

  But, as the coffee shop incident had revealed, Anna’s disappearance meant that anyone nosing around Pastor’s Bay would immediately attract the attention of the police, and no independent investigation would be permitted. In a way, it was possible that by speaking to the police Haight would free me up to work more effectively on his behalf, assuming I could cut a deal with law enforcement that would allow me to nose around as long as I fed back any relevant information to them.

  Angel and Louis appeared shortly after we called last orders. I had warned Dave that some friends might be arriving late in the evening, and he’d promised to make sure they were looked after, but even he seemed a little taken aback when they arrived. Maybe it was Angel’s sneakers, or Louis’s beard, or a combination thereof, but Dave froze for an instant, as though he had somehow been assigned the role of greeting the first extraterrestrial visitors to Earth and had just realized the possible personal consequences involved. Angel raised a hand in greeting, and I was about to acknowledge it when a figure appeared at the bar. I allowed my raised hand to rest just below my neck, two fingers pointing to my shoulder. It was a sign that Angel, Louis, and I had agreed upon shortly after they first began helping me out: Keep your distance. They disappeared into one of the back rooms, but not before Angel had a quiet word in Dave’s ear, presumably to say that he was not to remind me of their arrival, and to bring some beer.

  Three stools had freed up at the bar, and the center one was now occupied by Special Agent Robert Engel. He wore a jacket and jeans, and a crisp white shirt open at the neck.

  ‘Dress-down day at Center Plaza, Agent Engel?’ I said.

  ‘I’m trying to blend in with the locals.’

  ‘I could find you a Portland Pirates shirt, or a moose-antler hat.’

  ‘Or you could just get me a drink: Dewar’s, on the rocks.’

  I poured him a generous measure, and he put a twenty on the bar.

  ‘It’s on me,’ I said. ‘Take it as a reminder of what common hosp
itality looks like.’

  ‘Still sore about your time in the Pastor’s Bay visitors’ suite?’

  ‘Psychologically and physically. Those chairs weren’t made for comfort.’

  ‘It could have been worse, although I hear the county jail is nice.’

  ‘Maybe we could arrange a tour.’

  ‘Even without one, I guarantee that it’s nicer than a federal holding cell.’

  ‘Is that a threat, Agent Engel?’

  ‘I prefer Special Agent Engel, although I admit that it’s a mouthful. And, no, it’s not a threat. I don’t believe you respond very well to threats. With you, I reckon it’s carrots all the way, not sticks. Is there a place where we can talk?’

  I nodded to Dave to let him know that I was done. Already, the bar’s clientele was starting to drift home. I gestured toward one of the booths in the corner, as far away from Angel and Louis as possible, then poured myself a cup of coffee from the pot and joined Engel.

  He was probably my age but his face was unlined, and if there were gray strands in his blond hair, they were well hidden. His mouth was very thin, his lips a horizontal cut in his face, his eyes a washed out gray-blue. In an adversarial situation, he would cut a forbidding figure. My guess was that he didn’t have many friends.

  Boo-hoo.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘it appears that despite your driving a flash muscle car around a small Maine town Chief Allan has yet to discover the identity of your client. He is dogged, though. Pretty soon he’ll be down on his hands and knees examining tire tracks.’

  I could have told him there and then that Randall Haight was about to make himself known to the police, but there would have been no percentage in it for me. It was better to listen, and wait, and see what I could get him to reveal for little or no cost.

  ‘I had no reason then to believe that my client’s difficulties were linked to the Anna Kore case. I explained that during my conversation with Detective Walsh, the details of which I’m sure he passed on to you.’

  ‘Most of them. He was distinctly rattled when he left. I got the impression he might have said something to you that he subsequently regretted. You do have a way of getting under people’s skin, I’ll give you that. I imagine it makes you good at what you do, although at some risk to your own personal safety. I bet you’ve picked up some cuts and bruises along the way.’

  ‘I’m a fast healer.’

  ‘Lucky for you. Some of those who crossed you have been less fortunate. Do you know that you’re flagged on our system?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And you knew that I was aware of it, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked the question.’

  ‘It’s very interesting. You’ve led a charmed life.’

  ‘Really? You know, sometimes it doesn’t seem that way to me, and the FBI is not blameless in that regard.’

  Engel made a minute adjustment to his features in an approximation of sorrow. ‘That was an unfortunate choice of words. I apologize. What I do recognize is that, your occasionally lawless nature and periodic poor judgment apart, your actions have generally contributed to the removal of certain unwanted elements from our society. We have that in common, even down to the sometimes lawless nature and errors of judgment. I have some questions for you. They’re general, and they shouldn’t impinge upon any requirements of client confidentiality, but they’ll enable us to move forward in our conversation and, indeed, in our relationship.’

  ‘Do you talk like that to all of your dates?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s that working out for you?’

  ‘Not so well.’

  ‘Hard to believe.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  He took a sip of his whisky and bared his teeth at the taste, like a rat testing the air.

  ‘Is your investigation ongoing?’ he asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Are you likely to be a continuing presence in Pastor’s Bay as a consequence?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘How convinced are you that your client’s interests are not connected to the Anna Kore case?’

  I paused. The bargaining was about to begin.

  ‘Uncertain.’

  ‘That’s not what you told Detective Walsh.’ He practically wagged his finger at me and added ‘tut-tut.’

  ‘I’ve modified it since then. That’s why I used the past tense when you brought the subject up earlier. I had no reason to believe there was a connection. I’ve become more open-minded since then.’

  ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Pastor’s Bay is a small town. My client’s difficulties are, well, personal rather than professional in nature. They pertain to an incident in his youth. I’m starting to think that it might be wise for him to approach the police about them. By doing so, he may at least rule out one avenue of investigation for you, and perhaps even point you in a useful direction. But I base that only on a dislike of coincidence, and nothing more.’

  ‘Have you made this opinion known to the client and, indeed, to his lawyer?’

  ‘My change in position is relatively recent, but I feel that both would be inclined to listen to me, and to act on my advice, if I made it known.’ I’d been hanging out too much with Aimee Price. I sounded like an attorney. ‘There is also the matter of ensuring that the client’s right to confidentiality is respected, and his safety is assured.’

  ‘Why would his safety be in question?’

  ‘A young girl is missing. There are newspaper reporters around, and TV cameras. Sometimes people jump to conclusions.’

  ‘We’re talking to a lot of people. Their faces haven’t appeared on TV, or in the papers. No harm has come to them. Local residents have been interviewed, and no suspicion has fallen on them among their neighbors.’

  ‘Well, maybe it’s not the locals that concern me.’

  Engel bared his teeth again, but this time there was no whisky involved.

  ‘What do you know?’ he said.

  ‘I know that there’s a connection between Anna Kore and Tommy Morris, late of Somerville, and possibly an associate of “the Hill.”’

  ‘Well, well. You have been busy.’

  ‘You gave it away by your presence in Pastor’s Bay. You should have worn a mask.’

  ‘Noted,’ said Engel. ‘Anna’s his niece, as you may or may not be aware by now. Valerie Kore, née Morris, is Tommy Morris’s significantly younger sister and only sibling. He took care of her after their parents died in a car accident when she was four, assisted by assorted aunts and relatives, but they’ve been estranged for a long time.’

  ‘Ever since someone put Ronald Doheny in the ground, and then forgot where he was buried?’

  Engel shrugged. ‘Doheny was a runner for Morris, who was trying to carve out his own patch after Whitey went on the run. Doheny screwed up. He was a loudmouth, he crossed a customer, and the aggrieved customer sold him out to the cops. He was facing a long stretch inside, and pressure was put on him to cut a deal and turn informant. He made bail, then vanished. Missing, presumed crab food.’

  ‘Did Morris know that Doheny was seeing his sister?’

  ‘Not at first, but it didn’t take him long to find out who had impregnated her. At that point, he probably wanted to kill Doheny, but would have settled for him doing the right thing.’

  ‘And then Doheny gets pinched, and someone decides that he’s unreliable and needs to be silenced.’

  ‘Tommy Morris killed him, or had him killed. That’s what we heard, although the killing would have been sanctioned from higher up. Soon after, his sister left Boston. She drifted around, but she kept straight. She is, by all accounts, a good citizen. No drugs, no booze, no contact with her brother and his people. She worked in Philly for a while, met a guy there, married him on the quiet. Her brother didn’t know.’

  ‘Alekos Kore.’

  ‘Right again. They’re now separated, but she hasn’t sought a divorce.’

  ‘She wanted to hold on to his name,’ I said. ‘If her brother
comes looking for her, she’d be Valerie Kore, not Valerie Morris. It wouldn’t keep her safe if he started digging, but it would be enough to evade casual inquiries.’

  ‘Even if he did find her, and we think he’s been keeping tabs on her, psychologically she’d left the Morris name behind.’

  ‘And you knew who she was because you’d been keeping tabs on her all this time.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Does her brother know that his niece is missing?’

  ‘Her brother is in trouble. He’s made some bad business decisions, and we’ve been fortunate in some of our efforts against him. His days are numbered.’

  ‘You haven’t answered the question. Does Tommy Morris know?’

  I could feel that Engel wanted to look away, but he managed not to break his gaze. Still, he was a mass of ‘tells.’ Engel was concealing truths.

  ‘We’ve tried to keep the girl’s relationship to Morris quiet, and her mother says that she hasn’t been in contact with him.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘We did at the start. Now we’re not so sure. She’s desperate, perhaps desperate enough to turn to her brother for help.’

  ‘So he knows?’

  ‘He knows. Do you read the papers? A man named Joseph Toomey, known to his friends as Joey Tuna, was found shot to death in a fish market in Dorchester yesterday. One of his employees left his car keys at work, went back to retrieve them, and saw the office light burning. There was a lot of blood. Two shots, fatal but not immediately so – he’d been left to die. Joey was the ambassador for the Irish mob in Boston. He was the go-between, the kingmaker, the problem solver. He was untouchable. On the surface, he was neutral. In reality, he sided with the status quo; all that mattered was the efficient running of business, which was good for everybody. As Tommy Morris became more of a liability, he threatened that stability. A decision was made that it might be best if he were to keep Ronald Doheny company, except Tommy went to ground. Most of his men have abandoned him, but he still has a couple of loyal followers. They met with Joey on the day of his killing. Apparently, they wanted to know if he had sanctioned the kidnapping of Anna Kore in order to draw her uncle out. Joey denied it. Then he was killed.’