Boston Noir

  I brushed past a group of drunk sailors in their dress blues as I got up to my corner, the sailors no doubt happy that with the war over, they didn't have to worry about crazed kamikazes smashing into their gun turrets, burning to death out there in the Pacific. They were obviously headed to one of the nearby bars. There were other guys out there as well, though I could always identify the ones who were recently discharged vets: they moved quickly, their eyes flicking around, and whenever there was a loud horn or a backfire from a passing truck, they would freeze in place.

  And then, of course, they would unfreeze. There were years of drinking and raising hell to catch up on.

  I shifted my paper grocery sack from one hand to the other and approached the woman, touched the brim of my fedora with my free hand. "Are you waiting for me?" I asked.

  Her face was pale and frightened, like a young mom seeing blood on her child for the very first time. "Are you Billy Sullivan?"

  "Yep."

  "Yes, I'm here to see you."

  I shrugged. "Then follow me, miss."

  I moved past her and opened the wooden door that led to a small foyer, and then upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under our footfalls. At the top, a narrow hallway led off, three doors on each side, each door with a half-frame of frosted glass. Mine said, B. Sullivan, Investigations, and two of the windows down the hallway were blank. The other three announced a watchmaker, a piano teacher, and a press agent.

  I unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and walked in. There was an old oak desk in the center with my chair, a Remington typewriter on a stand, and two solid filing cabinets with locks. In front of the desk were two wooden chairs, and I motioned my guest to the nearest one. A single window that hadn't been washed since Hoover was president overlooked the square and its flickering neon lights.

  "Be right back," I said, ducking through a curtain off to the side. Beyond the curtain was a small room with a bed, radio, easy chair, table lamp, and icebox. A closed door led to a small bathroom that most days had plenty of hot water. I put a bottle of milk away, tossed the bread on a counter next to the toaster and hot plate, and returned to the office. I took off my coat and hat, and hung both on a coat rack.

  The woman sat there, leaning forward a bit, like she didn't want her back to be spoiled by whatever cooties resided in my office. She looked at me and tried to smile. "I thought all private detectives carried guns."

  I shook my head. "Like the movies? Roscoes, heaters, gats, all that nonsense? Nah, I saw enough guns the last couple of years. I don't need one, not for what I do."

  At my desk, I uncapped my Parker pen and grabbed a legal pad. "You know my name, don't you think you should return the favor?"

  She nodded quickly. "Of course. The name is Mandy Williams...I'm from Seattle."

  I looked up. "You're a long way from home."

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "I know, I know...and it's all going to sound silly, but I hope you can help me find something."

  "Something or someone?" I asked.

  "Something," she said. "Something that means the world to me."

  "Go on."

  "This is going to sound crazy, Mister Sullivan, so please...bear with me, all right?"

  "Sure."

  She took a deep breath. "My fiance, Roger Thompson, he was in the army and was stationed here, before he was shipped overseas."

  I made a few notes on the pad, kept my eye on her.

  "We kept in touch, almost every day, writing letters back and forth, sending each other mementos. Photos, souvenirs, stuff like that...and he told me he kept everything I sent to him in a shoe box in his barracks. And I told him I did the same...kept everything that he sent to me."

  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 fiance 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 o
ne 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.

  My client went around the corner, and I quickly lost her.

  Damn.

  I looked up and down the street, saw some traffic, more guys moving around, but not my client. A few feet away I stopped a man in a wheelchair, with a tartan blanket covering the stumps that used to be his legs. Tony Blawkowski, holding a cardboard sign: HELP AN INJURED VET. I went over and greeted him: "Ski."

  "Yeah?" He was staring out at the people going by, shaking a cardboard coffee cup filled with coins.

  "You see a young gal come this way?"

  "Good lookin', small leather purse in her hands, hat on top of her pretty little head?"

  "That's the one."

  "Nope, didn't see a damn thing." He smiled, showing off yellow teeth.

  I reached into my pocket, tossed a quarter in his cup.

  "Well, that's nice, refreshin' my memory like that," Ski said. "Thing is, she came right by here, wigglin' that fine bottom of hers, gave me no money, the stuck-up broad, and then she got into a car and left."

  Somehow the noise of the horns and the music from the burlesque hall seemed to drill into my head. "You sure?"

  "Damn straight. A nice Packard, clean and shiny. It was parked there for a while, then she got in and left."

  "You see who was in the Packard?"

  "You got another quarter?"

  I reached back into my pocket, and there was another clink as the coin fell into his cup. He laughed. "Nope. Didn't see who was in there or who was driving. They jus' left. That's all."

  "All right, Ski. Tell you what, you see that Packard come back, you let me know, all right?"

  "What's in it for me?"

  I smiled. "Keeping your secret, for one."

  He shook his head. "Bastard. You do drive a hard bargain."

  "Only kind I got tonight."

  I started to walk away, then looked back. As a couple of out-of-towners dropped some coins in Ski's cup, I thought about the sign. It was true, for Ski was an injured vet. He had been in the army, and one night, on leave here in town a couple of years ago, he got drunk out of his mind, passed out in front of a bar, and was run over by an MTA trolley, severing both legs.

  Nice little story, especially the lesson it gave, for never accepting what you see on the surface.

  About a half hour later, I was at the local district headquarters of the Boston Police Department, where I found Sergeant Francis Xavier O'Connor sitting behind a chest-high wooden desk, passing on whatever was considered justice in this part of town. There in the lobby area, the tile floor yellow and stained, two women in bright red lipstick, hands cuffed together, shared a cigarette on a wooden bench. O'Connor had a folded over copy of the Boston American in his hands, his face red and flush, and he glanced up at me as I approached the desk.

  "Ah, Beantown's biggest dick," he said over half-glasses.

  "Nice to see you too, sergeant. Thought you'd be spending some time up at your vacation spot on Conway Lake."

  "Bah, the hell with you," O'Connor said. "What kind of trash are you lookin' for tonight?"

  I leaned up against the desk, my wrists on the wooden edge. "What I'm looking for is right in front of me."

  "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 w
here 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."