Boston Noir

  "You said that to him?" Officer Jimmy's voice holds a hint of respect, and for a moment Sloan feels as if they really are buddies in a foxhole. But she hadn't actually said any of those things to Trevor.

  "We came into the office and he stood behind his desk."

  "His hundred-thousand-dollar standing desk?"

  "I've never seen him use that. No, he stood behind his sitting desk, but he didn't sit and I could tell he didn't want me to sit, but I did anyway. Then he opened his desk drawer and without looking reached in and took out an envelope, and I tried as hard as I could to come up with a good reason why my bonus check was the only one left in the drawer, and why it was after 7 o'clock and the only reason he was talking to me at all was because I'd caught him trying to slip out, and why if it was good news he hadn't already given it to me."

  "I hear you."

  "When he pushed the envelope across the desk, he gave me one of his looks where he cocks up an eyebrow. 'I think you'll be very pleased with that.'" She tries to capture not just his accent, but his condescending tone. "I just sat there with this pain in my stomach and a horrible sensation running up and down my back and I thought...I really thought I was just going to die sitting right there waiting for him to tell me."

  "You sound like you were in shock."

  "But he just stood there, still in his raincoat, doing one of those things where you glance at your watch without wanting someone to see that you're doing it."

  "Prick."

  "Then he said, 'Aren't you going to open it?' and I said, 'I didn't get it, did I? I didn't get MD.' He looked at me and I could see what he was thinking right on his face. You bitch. You ungrateful little cunt. I know that's what he was thinking because I've heard him say that word before and he wasn't even trying to hide it, how much he hated me. How much he loathed me for not letting him go home or to the cigar bar or...wherever. That's when I knew."

  "What did you know?"

  "That I was never going to get MD."

  Sloan pushes herself up from the floor, but falls back against the window. Her skirt comes all the way up her thighs as she tries to find her balance. No food for almost two days. No water since early afternoon. The heat. It's all starting to catch up with her and she'll pass out soon. She finally makes it to her feet.

  "No matter how good I was, no matter how much money I made for them, they were going to keep telling me I was this close and to hang in there and that next year would be my year. And then next year would come around and they'd promote someone like Beck because they like Beck and they can talk about golf with him."

  One by one, she pulls the shades down.

  "What are you doing up there, Sloan. What's going on now?"

  Maybe she's memorized this room, because how else can she walk across the office through the dark without bumping into things? She finds the gun on the standing desk.

  "Talk to me, kid. I need to hear you."

  "Trevor told me he had this wired. He told me there was no way I wasn't getting it, that this was my year. When I reminded him of this, he said, 'Who can fathom what goes on behind those closed doors? Certainly I can't. One answer goes in and a different answer comes out. It's damn confounding, damn confounding, but you can't take it personally.'"

  "He's still a prick, but what are you doing?"

  "That's when I started to think about it. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to grab him by his tie and squeeze until his head popped off, which wasn't a real option. But I did have the gun."

  "Do you have the gun now?"

  "You know how you just said that if one thing had gone differently yesterday, maybe none of this would have happened?"

  "Yes."

  "It was Sunday. The thing that happened. I had to use the gun on Sunday in Millbrook. It was still in my travel bag. I forgot to take it out, so there it was."

  Officer Jimmy says nothing for a few seconds. "You didn't hurt anybody out in Millbrook, did you?"

  The tears come again. She tries to hold them back--she's never cried in front of anyone--but it's no use, and then she's wailing into Officer Jimmy's ear. "The only one who got hurt out there was me."

  She's standing behind Beck now, looking over his shoulder at Trevor's framed photos on the wall. There's a light from somewhere, because she can see it clearly, the one he was most proud of: Trevor with Nick Price. The first time she'd ever heard of Nick Price was the first time she'd been in Trevor's office, the day of her first interview. The pro golfer, he'd explained, patiently filling in the unfortunate gaps in her knowledge. "Nicest guy you'd ever want to meet" is what he'd said. Later she'd learned that it was what he said to everyone who came into his office. Price had written in bold black strokes across his own red shirt, To Trevor, Keep your head down, my friend. All the best, Nick.

  Sloan couldn't hear anything, too much noise outside, but she could see Beck struggling. He couldn't see her, but he must have sensed her standing behind him with the gun. "He won the British Open," Sloan says, repeating to Jimmy what Trevor had said to her at just the wrong moment, in just the wrong tone. If he had just taken off his raincoat...

  "Who did?"

  "I was sitting in my chair completely devastated. I couldn't stand to look at Trevor, so I looked past him and I must have been staring at Nick Price and it occurred to me that Beck had gotten MD." Her hands shook so much she had a hard time releasing the safety. "I didn't get MD. Beck did. That's what they were talking about. That's what they were laughing about."

  "I'm hearing you, Sloan, but you have to slow things down. Do me a favor and take a breath. Please."

  "I've decided what I want, Jimmy."

  "Tell me."

  "I want you to mix my ashes with Rowan's."

  Officer Jimmy is breathing harder now. She pictures him standing, maybe doing some pacing of his own. "Don't start talkin' like that. No one's going to be ashes at the end of this because then I'm going to look bad and neither one of us wants that." He tries for one of his light chuckles but it's not like before. "Besides, you don't want anything happening to that beautiful horse of yours."

  "He's dead."

  For the first time in their conversation, Officer Jimmy has nothing to say. Then, finally, "What happened?"

  "He spooked. He ran into a car and I had--" She tries for a breath, but it catches in her chest. "I called the vet but it took too long and he was so broken and suffering too much and I couldn't watch him like that so I had to--" Her head pounds with the effort to get each word out, but she's determined. No more requirements. No more contingencies. "I put him down. He was never going to be all right again. I had to put him down." This time when she takes a breath the air goes deep, and she feels calm. Rowan could always calm her down. "His ashes are in the box on the table in my condo."

  "Okay, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking there's nothing left for you, right? You're thinking there's no way outta this, but it's not true..."

  Jimmy's voice fades away. When did this gun get so heavy? She can barely lift it. "Do one other thing, Officer Jimmy." She presses the barrel against her forehead, puts both thumbs on the trigger. "Please tell Trevor's family that I'm sorry." She closes her eyes and thinks about Rowan.

  "Go! Go! Go! Go!"

  The door explodes behind her. Her hands stop shaking. She holds the gun steady and pulls the trigger.

  ANIMAL RESCUE

  BY DENNIS LEHANE

  Dorchester

  Bob found the dog in the trash.

  It was just after Thanksgiving, the neighborhood gone quiet, hungover. After bartending at Cousin Marv's, Bob sometimes walked the streets. He was big and lumpy and hair had been growing in unlikely places all over his body since his teens. In his twenties, he'd fought against the hair, carrying small clippers in his coat pocket and shaving twice a day. He'd also fought the weight, but during all those years of fighting, no girl who wasn't being paid for it ever showed any interest in him. After a time, he gave up the fight. He lived alone in the house he grew up in, and
when it seemed likely to swallow him with its smells and memories and dark couches, the attempts he'd made to escape it--through church socials, lodge picnics, and one horrific mixer thrown by a dating service--had only opened the wound further, left him patching it back up for weeks, cursing himself for hoping.

  So he took these walks of his and, if he was lucky, sometimes he forgot people lived any other way. That night, he paused on the sidewalk, feeling the ink sky above him and the cold in his fingers, and he closed his eyes against the evening.

  He was used to it. He was used to it. It was okay.

  You could make a friend of it, as long as you didn't fight it.

  With his eyes closed, he heard it--a worn-out keening accompanied by distant scratching and a sharper, metallic rattling. He opened his eyes. Fifteen feet down the sidewalk, a large metal barrel with a heavy lid shook slightly under the yellow glare of the streetlight, its bottom scraping the sidewalk. He stood over it and heard that keening again, the sound of a creature that was one breath away from deciding it was too hard to take the next, and he pulled off the lid.

  He had to remove some things to get to it--a toaster and five thick Yellow Pages, the oldest dating back to 2000. The dog--either a very small one or else a puppy--was down at the bottom, and it scrunched its head into its midsection when the light hit it. It exhaled a soft chug of a whimper and tightened its body even more, its eyes closed to slits. A scrawny thing. Bob could see its ribs. He could see a big crust of dried blood by its ear. No collar. It was brown with a white snout and paws that seemed far too big for its body.

  It let out a sharper whimper when Bob reached down, sank his fingers into the nape of its neck, and lifted it out of its own excrement. Bob didn't know dogs too well, but there was no mistaking this one for anything but a boxer. And definitely a puppy, the wide brown eyes opening and looking into his as he held it up before him.

  Somewhere, he was sure, two people made love. A man and a woman. Entwined. Behind one of those shades, oranged with light, that looked down on the street. Bob could feel them in there, naked and blessed. And he stood out here in the cold with a near-dead dog staring back at him. The icy sidewalk glinted like new marble, and the wind was dark and gray as slush.

  "What do you got there?"

  Bob turned, looked up and down the sidewalk.

  "I'm up here. And you're in my trash."

  She stood on the front porch of the three-decker nearest him. She'd turned the porch light on and stood there shivering, her feet bare. She reached into the pocket of her hoodie and came back with a pack of cigarettes. She watched him as she got one going.

  "I found a dog." Bob held it up.

  "A what?"

  "A dog. A puppy. A boxer, I think."

  She coughed out some smoke. "Who puts a dog in a barrel?"

  "Right?" he said. "It's bleeding." He took a step toward her stairs and she backed up.

  "Who do you know that I would know?" A city girl, not about to just drop her guard around a stranger.

  "I don't know," Bob said. "How about Francie Hedges?"

  She shook her head. "You know the Sullivans?"

  That wouldn't narrow it down. Not around here. You shook a tree, a Sullivan fell out. Followed by a six-pack most times. "I know a bunch."

  This was going nowhere, the puppy looking at him, shaking worse than the girl.

  "Hey," she said, "you live in this parish?"

  "Next one over. St. Theresa's."

  "Go to church?"

  "Most Sundays."

  "So you know Father Pete?"

  "Pete Regan," he said, "sure."

  She produced a cell phone. "What's your name?"

  "Bob," he said. "Bob Saginowski."

  Bob waited as she stepped back from the light, phone to one ear, finger pressed into the other. He stared at the puppy. The puppy stared back, like, How did I get here? Bob touched its nose with his index finger. The puppy blinked its huge eyes. For a moment, Bob couldn't recall his sins.

  "Nadia," the girl said and stepped back into the light. "Bring him up here, Bob. Pete says hi."

  They washed it in Nadia's sink, dried it off, and brought it to her kitchen table.

  Nadia was small. A bumpy red rope of a scar ran across the base of her throat like the smile of a drunk circus clown. She had a tiny moon of a face, savaged by pockmarks, and small, heart-pendant eyes. Shoulders that didn't cut so much as dissolve at the arms. Elbows like flattened beer cans. A yellow bob of hair curled on either side of her face. "It's not a boxer." Her eyes glanced off Bob's face before dropping the puppy back onto her kitchen table. "It's an American Staffordshire terrier."

  Bob knew he was supposed to understand something in her tone, but he didn't know what that thing was so he remained silent.

  She glanced back up at him after the quiet lasted too long. "A pit bull."

  "That's a pit bull?"

  She nodded and swabbed the puppy's head wound again. Someone had pummeled it, she told Bob. Probably knocked it unconscious, assumed it was dead, and dumped it.

  "Why?" Bob said.

  She looked at him, her round eyes getting rounder, wider. "Just because." She shrugged, went back to examining the dog. "I worked at Animal Rescue once. You know the place on Shawmut? As a vet tech. Before I decided it wasn't my thing. They're so hard, this breed..."

  "What?"

  "To adopt out," she said. "It's very hard to find them a home."

  "I don't know about dogs. I never had a dog. I live alone. I was just walking by the barrel." Bob found himself beset by a desperate need to explain himself, explain his life. "I'm just not..." He could hear the wind outside, black and rattling. Rain or bits of hail spit against the windows.

  Nadia lifted the puppy's back left paw--the other three paws were brown, but this one was white with peach spots. Then she dropped the paw as if it were contagious. She went back to the head wound, took a closer look at the right ear, a piece missing from the tip that Bob hadn't noticed until now.

  "Well," she said, "he'll live. You're gonna need a crate and food and all sorts of stuff."

  "No," Bob said. "You don't understand."

  She cocked her head, gave him a look that said she understood perfectly.

  "I can't. I just found him. I was gonna give him back."

  "To whoever beat him, left him for dead?"

  "No, no, like, the authorities."

  "That would be Animal Rescue," she said. "After they give the owner seven days to reclaim him, they'll--"

  "The guy who beat him? He gets a second chance?"

  She gave him a half-frown and a nod. "If he doesn't take it," she lifted the puppy's ear, peered in, "chances are this little fella'll be put up for adoption. But it's hard. To find them a home. Pit bulls. More often than not?" She looked at Bob. "More often than not, they're put down."

  Bob felt a wave of sadness roll out from her that immediately shamed him. He didn't know how, but he'd caused pain. He'd put some out into the world. He'd let this girl down. "I..." he started. "It's just..."

  She glanced up at him. "I'm sorry?"

  Bob looked at the puppy. Its eyes were droopy from a long day in the barrel and whoever gave it that wound. It had stopped shivering, though.

  "You can take it," Bob said. "You used to work there, like you said. You--"

  She shook her head. "My father lives with me. He gets home Sunday night from Foxwoods. He finds a dog in his house? An animal he's allergic to?" She jerked her thumb. "Puppy goes back in the barrel."

  "Can you give me till Sunday morning?" Bob wasn't sure how it was the words left his mouth, since he couldn't remember formulating them or even thinking them.

  The girl eyed him carefully. "You're not just saying it? Cause, I shit you not, he ain't picked up by Sunday noon, he's back out that door."

  "Sunday, then." Bob said the words with a conviction he actually felt. "Sunday, definitely."

  "Yeah?" She smiled, and it was a spectacular smile, and Bob saw that the face
behind the pockmarks was as spectacular as the smile. Wanting only to be seen. She touched the puppy's nose with her index finger.

  "Yeah." Bob felt crazed. He felt light as a communion wafer. "Yeah."

  At Cousin Marv's, where he tended bar 12 to 10, Wednesday through Sunday, he told Marv all about it. Most people called Marv Cousin Marv out of habit, something that went back to grade school though no one could remember how, but Marv actually was Bob's cousin. On his mother's side.

  Cousin Marv had run a crew in the late '80s and early '90s. It had been primarily comprised of guys with interests in the loaning and subsequent debt-repayal side of things, though Marv never turned his nose down at any paying proposition because he believed, to the core of his soul, that those who failed to diversify were always the first to collapse when the wind turned. Like the dinosaurs, he'd say to Bob, when the cavemen came along and invented arrows. Picture the cavemen, he'd say, firing away, and the tyrannosauruses all gucked up in the oil puddles. A tragedy so easily averted.

  Marv's crew hadn't been the toughest crew or the smartest or the most successful operating in the neighborhood--not even close--but for a while they got by. Other crews kept nipping at their heels, though, and except for one glaring exception, they'd never been ones to favor violence. Pretty soon, they had to make the decision to yield to crews a lot meaner than they were or duke it out. They took Door Number One.

  Marv's income derived from running his bar as a drop. In the new world order--a loose collective of Chechen, Italian, and Irish hard guys--no one wanted to get caught with enough merch or enough money for a case to go Federal. So they kept it out of their offices and out of their homes and they kept it on the move. About every two-three weeks, drops were made at Cousin Marv's, among other establishments. You sat on the drop for a night, two at the most, before some beer-truck driver showed up with the weekend's password and hauled everything back out on a dolly like it was a stack of empty kegs, took it away in a refrigerated semi. The rest of Marv's income derived from being a fence, one of the best in the city, but being a fence in their world (or a drop bar operator for that matter) was like being a mailroom clerk in the straight world--if you were still doing it after thirty, it was all you'd ever do. For Bob, it was a relief--he liked being a bartender and he'd hated that one time they'd had to come heavy. Marv, though, Marv still waited for the golden train to arrive on the golden tracks, take him away from all this. Most times, he pretended to be happy. But Bob knew that the things that haunted Marv were the same things that haunted Bob--the shitty things you did to get ahead. Those things laughed at you if your ambitions failed to amount to much; a successful man could hide his past; an unsuccessful man sat in his.