Boston Noir

  A minute later she went back upstairs and got dressed. Inside the bathroom mirror, her face was a mess, it had broken out, and a thousand boils had taken up residence. She got out her lotions, her rinses, and her special dermatology soaps, and after about half an hour she emerged with a new face and quarter-pound of foundation.

  I'm going to the bank, she said to his back, the muscles moving slowly up and down under his jacket as he washed and dried the few plates. Her mug of coffee was sitting there untouched, her eggs too. He covered them up with a napkin.

  I'm getting you some money so you can go, she said, so you can start again.

  He turned then to look at her, his eyes hard and still. There was a warning in them and his whole face had turned to stone. She saw how he could kill. Easily.

  I'm not going to the police, she said, I'm going to the bank. Suddenly she felt testy. If this were about the police, I would've handed you over last night. Don't you want to have a life? Don't you want freedom? She saw something shift in his face and it emboldened her. You have to trust me too. This works both ways. I had to trust you last night and that wasn't easy.

  Outside, the air was incredibly humid and the men working for the cable and electric companies were already attached to posts repairing wires; police cars rolled slowly up and down the street as if looking for somebody, and the dog walkers were out too, with their baggies of brown stool. Young mothers pushed their expensive strollers and joggers, delighted to see the sun again, daintily sidestepped puddles of water. Hard to believe that not too long ago this was considered an old working-class neighborhood full of mainly Irish and Italians who worked in the arsenal. Now the town was full of yuppies driving up property taxes and opening restaurants that served arugula salads and Kobe organic burgers. And the arsenal now housed the gourmet ghetto, expensive artist studios, condominiums, and a high-priced mall.

  She walked by the tiny cemetery where many a dog went to defecate against the mildewed tombstones, and by the old church they were developing into more condominiums. She waited at the light, and when it changed she walked past the hairdressing salon, the Syrian shoe repair shop, the Greek diner, and the Miles Pratt house, taken over by dentists now. She nodded hello to a man and his little girl standing outside the Armenian Library and Museum. Down the tiny side street near the CVS was the Iranian restaurant where she'd had lunch a few times by herself; she liked the rice sprinkled with fleshy pomegranate, the ice cream flavored with cardamom and rose water, and had planned to take her daughters there when they visited. To the left of the restaurant was the post office, and beyond that the Charles River, with its cool, dark, slow-moving waters. Often she went there to read or to feed the ducks even though there was a big sign prohibiting this. Sometimes just to empty her head and to be in the company of nature.

  Outside the bank, she sat on the bench near a Japanese maple and smoked three cigarettes in succession, waiting for the line to thin. Up the street near the CVS, a police car circled the square slowly.

  PART II

  SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET

  FEMME SOLE

  BY DANA CAMERON

  North End

  A moment of your time, Anna Hoyt."

  Anna slowed and cursed to herself. She'd seen Adam Seaver as she crossed Prince Street, and for a terrible moment thought he was following her. She'd hoped to lose him amid the peddlers and shoppers at the busy market near Dock Square, but she couldn't ignore him after he called out. His brogue was no more than a low growl, but conversations around him tended to fade and die. He never raised his voice, but he never had a problem making himself heard, even over the loudest of Boston's boisterous hawkers.

  In fact, with anxious glances, the crowd melted back in retreat from around her. No one wanted to be between Seaver and whatever he was after.

  Cowards, she thought. But her own mouth was dry as he approached.

  She turned, swallowed, met his eyes, then lowered hers, hoping it looked like modesty or respect and not revulsion. His face was weathered and, in places, blurred with scars, marks of fights from which he'd walked away the winner; there was a nick above his ear where he'd had his head shaved. Seaver smiled; she could see two rows of sharp, ugly teeth like a mouthful of broken glass or like one of the bluefish the men sometimes caught in the harbor. Bluefish were so vicious they had to be clubbed when they were brought into the boat or they'd shear your finger off.

  He didn't touch her, but she flinched when he gestured to a quiet space behind the stalls. It was blustery autumn, salt air and a hint of snow to come, but a sour milk smell nearly gagged her. Dried leaves skittered over discarded rotten vegetables, or was it that even the boldest rats fled when Seaver approached?

  "How are you, Mr. Seaver?" she asked. She tried to imagine that she was safely behind her bar. She felt she could manage anything with the bar between her and the rest of the world.

  "Fair enough. Yourself?"

  "Fine." She wished he'd get on with it. "Thanks." His excessive manners worried her. He'd never spoken to her before, other than to order his rum and thank her.

  When he didn't speak, Anna felt the sweat prickle along the hairline at the back of her neck. The wind blew a little colder, and the crowd and imagined safety of the market seemed remote. The upright brick structure of the Town House was impossibly far away, and the ships anchored groaning at the wharves could have been at sea.

  He waited, searched her face, then looked down. "What very pretty shoes."

  "Thank you. They're from Turner's." She shifted uncomfortably. She didn't believe he was interested in her shoes, but neither did she imagine he was trying to spare her feelings by not staring at the bruises that ran up the side of her head. These were almost hidden with an artfully draped shawl, but her lip was still visibly puffy. It was too easy to trace the line from that to the black and blue marks. One mark led to the next like a constellation.

  One thing always led to another.

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Seaver?" she said at last. Not knowing was too much.

  "I may be in a way to do something for you."

  Anna couldn't help it: she sighed. She heard the offer five times a night.

  "Nothing like that," he said, showing that rank of teeth. "It's your husband."

  "What about him?" Gambling debts, whores, petty theft? Another harebrained investment gone west? Her mind raced over the many ways Thomas could have offended Mr. Seaver.

  "I saw him at Clark's law office this morning. I had business with Clark...on behalf of my employer..."

  Anna barely stifled a shudder. Best to know nothing of Seaver or his employer's business, which had brought a fortune so quickly that it could only have come from some brutal trade in West Indian contraband. Thick Thomas Hoyt was well beneath the notice of Seaver's boss, praise God.

  "...and your husband was still talking to Clark."

  "Yes?" Anna refused to reveal surprise at Thomas visiting a lawyer. He had no use or regard for the law.

  "He was asking how he could sell your establishment."

  "He can't. It's mine," she said before thinking.

  Seaver showed no surprise at her vehemence. "Much as I thought, and exactly what Clark told him. Apparently, Hook Miller wants the place."

  "So he said last night. I thanked him, but I'm not selling. He was more than understanding."

  Seaver tilted his head. "Because he thinks the way to acquire your tavern is through your husband."

  The words went through Anna like a knife, and she understood. Her hand rose to her cheek. The beating had come only hours after Miller's offer and her refusal. Thomas had been blind drunk, and she could barely make out what had driven him this time.

  "If I sell it, how will we live? The man's an idiot." She was shocked to realize that she'd actually said this, that she was having a conversation, this conversation, with Seaver.

  "Perhaps Thomas thinks he can weasel a big enough price from Miller."

  "The place is mine. No one can take it, not eve
n my husband. My father said so. He showed me the papers." Feme sole merchant were what the lawyers called her, with their fancy Latin. The documents allowed her to conduct business almost as if she was a man. At first, it was only with her father's consent, but as she prospered--and he sickened--it was accepted that she was responsible, allowed to trade on her own. Very nearly independent, almost as good as a man, in the year of Our Lord 1745. And, though she could never say so aloud, better than most.

  "I think Clark will be bound by the document," Seaver said. "At least until someone more persuasive than Thomas comes along."

  The list of people more persuasive and smarter than her husband was lengthy.

  "It's only a piece of paper." Seaver shrugged. "A fragile thing."

  Anna nodded, trying not to shift from one foot to another. Eventually, Hook Miller would find a way. As long as she'd known him, he always had.

  Anna swallowed. "Why are you telling me this?"

  He shrugged. "I like to drink at your place."

  She almost believed him. "And?"

  She knew what was coming, was nearly willing to pay the price that Seaver would ask. Whatever would save her property and livelihood, the modicum of security and independence she'd struggled to achieve. What were her alternatives? Sew until she was blind, or follow behind some rich bitch and carry her purse, run her errands? Turn a sailor's whore?

  "And?" she repeated.

  "And." He leered. "I want to see what you will do."

  The bad times were hard for everyone, but it was the good times that brought real trouble, she thought. A pretty young lass with no family and a thriving business on the waterfront. She might as well have hung out a sign.

  Anna hurried back to the Queen's Arms, shopping forgotten. No one had ever paid the property any attention when her father ran the place. It was only after she'd taken over the tavern, within sight of the wharves that cut into Boston Harbor, that business grew and drew attention.

  The Queen was a neighborhood place on Fleet Street. "The burying ground up behind you, and the deep, dark sea ahead," her father used to say, but in between was a place for a man to drink his beer after work--or before, as may be the case--the occasional whiskey, if he was feeling full and fat. Or three or five, if he was broke and buggered.

  She stumbled over the cobbles in the street, but recovered and hurried along, needing to reassure herself the place was still there, that it hadn't vanished, hadn't been whisked away by magic from the crowd of buildings that lined the narrow streets above the harbor. Or been burned to the ground, more likely. She never doubted that her husband, stupid as he was, would find a way to rob her for Miller, if that's what Thomas imagined he wanted.

  Had Thomas Hoyt been content with hot meals twice a day, too much to drink and ten minutes sweating over his wife on Saturday night, church and repentance Sunday morning, Anna could have managed him well enough. She wanted a more ambitious man, but Thomas had come with his mother's shop next door. When that allowed Anna to expand her tavern, she thought it a fair enough trade.

  Until she discovered Thomas was ambitious, in his own way. While she poured ale, rum, and whiskey, he sat in the corner. Ready to change the barrels or quell the occasional rowdiness, he more often read his paper and smoked, playing the host. His eyes followed his pretty wife's movements and those of all the men around her.

  There were two men he had watched with peculiar interest, and Anna now understood why. One was Hook, named Robert Miller by his mother, a ruffian with a finger in every pie and a hand in every pocket. Hook's gang were first to take advantage of all the trade on the waterfront, from loading and unloading ships to smuggling. But he did more for the local men than he took from them and was a kind of hero for it. Of course Hook appealed to Thomas: he was everything Thomas imagined he himself could be.

  The other man he watched was Seaver, but even Thomas was smart enough to be circumspect when he did it. When one of Miller's men drunkenly pulled Seaver from his chair one night, claiming his looks were souring the beer, Seaver left without a word. But he came back the next night, and Miller's man never did. That man now drank at another house, where no one knew him. Three fingers from his right hand were broken and his nose bitten off.

  The other men left Seaver alone after that. Anna smiled as she served his rum, but it stopped at her eyes. He was content to sit quietly, alone with who knew what thoughts.

  Thomas was scrubbing the bar when she arrived. He looked up, smiled as though he remembered nothing of what had happened the night before. Maybe he didn't.

  "There's my girl. Shopping done?"

  "I forgot something."

  "Well, find it and I'll walk you to the dressmaker's myself. It's getting dark."

  He said it as though the dark brought devils instead of the tradesmen who came regularly to her place. Who worshipped her. She had married him a year before, after her father died, for protection. She ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, felt the swelling there, felt a tooth wiggle, her lip tear a fraction.

  "I won't have you be less than the best-dressed lady in the North End," he said expansively, as if he emptied his pockets onto the counter himself. Anna and Mr. Long, the tailor, had a deal: Anna borrowed the latest gowns; wearing them, she showed them to perfection, the ideal advertisement with her golden hair and slim waist. The men at her place either sent their wives to the dressmaker's so they'd look more like Anna, or spent more money at Anna's just to look at her, a fine, soft, pretty thing amid so much coarseness.

  She pretended to locate some trifle under the bar, and Thomas wiped his hands on the seat of his britches. She forced a smile; her mouth still hurt. Better to have him think she was stupid or in love. Even better, afraid.

  "The best news, Anna," he said, taking her arm as they went back onto the street. "Rob Miller has added another twenty pounds to his asking price. We were right to wait."

  It was still less than half the value of the place. Under no circumstances would she consider selling to Hook Miller and give Thomas the money to invest and lose.

  She nodded, as if her refusal to sell had been a joint decision.

  "I think we'll wait until Friday, see if we can't drive the price a little higher," he said, patting her hand. His palm was heavy and rough. She saw the faint abrasions along the knuckles, remembered them intimately.

  She nodded again, kept her eyes on her feet, shoes peeping out from under her skirt, as she moved briskly to keep up with Thomas. He raced across the cobbles, she a half-pace behind.

  Friday, then. Three days. Between Miller's desire for her tavern and Thomas's wish to impress him, she was trapped.

  Friday night came despite Anna's prayers for fire, a hurricane, a French invasion. But the place was as it always was: a wide, long room, stools and tables, two good chairs by a large, welcoming fire. The old windows were in good repair, the leads tight, and decent curtains kept out the drafts. The warm smells of good Barbadian rum and local ale kept the world at bay.

  When Miller came into the tavern, Thomas got up immediately, offered him the best upholstered seat, nearest the fire. Miller dismissed him outright, said his business was with Anna. Anna tried with all her might to divert his attention back to Thomas, but Miller could not have made more of a show of favoring her in front of the entire room, who watched from behind raised mugs. Thomas glowered, his gaze never leaving Anna.

  "Why won't you sell the place, Anna?" Miller's words and tone were filled with hurt; she was doing him unfairly.

  Anna's eyes flicked around the room; the men sitting there drinking were curious. Why would Anna cross Miller? No profit in that, they all knew.

  "And if I did, what would I live on then?" she asked gaily, as if Miller had been revisiting a long-standing joke.

  "Go to the country, for all of me," he said, draining his glass. It might as well have been Go to the Devil.

  As if she had a farm to retire to, a home somewhere other than over the barroom. "I promised my father I would not,"
she said, trying to maintain the tone of a joke, but the strain was audible in her voice, her desperation a tremor in her answer.

  "Well, come find me--" he set his empty glass down. "When you're ready to be reasonable." He tipped his hat to her, ignored Thomas, and left.

  After that, the other regulars filed out, one by one. None wanted to see what they all knew would come next. Anna tried to entice them to stay, even offering a round on the house on the flimsy excuse of someone's good haul of fish. But it couldn't last forever, and eventually even the boy who helped serve was sent home. Only Seaver was left.

  It was late, past the time when Thomas generally retired. It was obvious he wasn't going to bed.

  Seaver stood up. Anna looked at him with a wild hope. Perhaps he would come to her aid, somehow defuse the situation. He put a coin down on the counter and leaned toward her.

  She glanced hastily at Thomas, who was scowling as he jabbed the fire with a poker. Anna's face was a mask of desperation. She leaned closer, and Seaver surreptitiously ran a finger along the back of her hand.

  "Better if you don't argue with him," he breathed, his lips barely moving. "Don't fight back too much."

  She watched his back as he left. The room was empty, quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the beating of Anna's heart in her chest.

  Thomas straightened, and turned. "I thought we had an agreement."

  Anna looked around; there was no one to help her. The door...

  "I thought, any man comes in here looking for a piece, you send him up to that fancy cathouse on Salem Street. And yet I see you, a damned slut, making cow eyes at every man in here, right in front of me."

  She ran, but just as her fingers touched the latch, she felt the poker slam across her shoulders. She cried out, fell against the door. The next blows landed on her back, but Thomas, tired of imprecision and mindful of leaving visible marks that would make the punters uneasy, dropped the poker and relied on the toe of his boot.