A Trouble of Fools (18 page)

Gloria gave him another fare. Allston, near Boston University.

I stayed close around the rotary and across the B.U.

Bridge. Whatever else he was, Flaherty was a good driver.

Fast. I hoped he didn’t keep his eyes glued to his rearview mirror.

So it went. He kept busy. He wasn’t dogging it, that’s for sure. He grabbed hailers off street corners, worked Kenmore Square cab stands, took his share of radio calls. I was starting to enjoy myself, finally getting accustomed to the timeT

zone shift, discovering how city nightlife had changed since my last stint as a cabbie. Miniskirts and patterned stockings were back, but with a tough high-heeled edge to them. I saw women wearing black lipstick; men, too. I liked the gritty feel of Kenmore Square. It seemed like a place at home in the dark, pulsing with the restless energy of the red and blue neon Citgo sign. It made me want to smoke cigarettes and listen to funky music, not the bleat of the cab’s radio.

At 2:45 a.m. Gloria put out a call to cab 102 to pick up Maudie someplace in Dorchester. 102 started to respond, then Flaherty cut in, and said he’d take it; he was practically next door.

Which was a lie.

I hung way back, over three hundred yards. If I lost him now, it wouldn’t be so bad. I could pick him up from the street address. It was after he scored the fare that worried me.

In front of a battered triple-decker, a well-dressed man in his twenties, with a muscular build and swaggering walk, was escorted to’ the cab by two young males, big fellows, maybe Hispanic. They looked like the kind of hoods who’d beat up an old lady like Margaret Devens just for the fun of it. The man who got into the cab carried a gym bag. I tailed them toward Franklin Park, keeping well back.

I cut my lights during the race through the park, relying on 442’s taillights and the occasional overhead streetlamp.

The road felt like it hadn’t been repaired in twenty years. If Flaherty didn’t actually see me, he could probably hear my car bottoming out in the ravines the Department of Public Works calls potholes. I flicked on my lights at the rotary, followed 442 over the bridge past the Arnold Arboretum and onto the Jamaicaway.

Brake lights flared, too late for me to make an inconspicuous stop. The passenger bailed out on Brookline Ave., in front of Fenway Park. I sailed by, took a left, and three pointed a turn. By the time I nosed the cab back onto the main street, I could see 442’s taillights heading down Brookline to Park Drive.

I would have followed the passenger, except for one thing. The young man had carelessly left his gym bag in the cab.

I prayed for heavier traffic. A nice van to hide behind as we played follow-the-Ieader over to Commonwealth Ave. No such luck. I pulled in behind a big old dented Pontiac.

I had to squeeze the yellow light at the B.U. Bridge. I’m always surprised when I do that and two cars behind me come barreling through as well.

For a while, I thought Flaherty was homing the gym bag to the cab company, which got me worried. If Sam was there to take possession, I didn’t want to be a witness. I breathed easier when 442 passed the shortcut most of the cabbies take home.

442 coasted to a stop on Harvard Street, across the street from the Rebellion. I took a quick turn into an alleyway. Angling my rearview mirror, I could see Flaherty run across the street, gym bag tacked under his arm. He went to the side door of the bar.

By this time, it was 3:35. Way after closing time. I got my cab turned around, a tight maneuver in the narrow alley. I almost bashed into two parked Green & White cabs. I wrote down their numbers, and started cruising the neighborhood looking for more. I found one right in the Rebellion’s parking lot. In a loading zone around the corner, I saw G&W

863, a cab I’d tailed two nights ago. Sean Boyle’s cab.

Okay. Something was going down at the Rebellion, something that looked very much like a meeting of the Gaelic Brotherhood Association. Something that could involve the contents of one gym bag picked up at “Maudie’s”

in Dorchester. I wondered if the contents of the bag came in neatly banded little bundles, like the cash in T.C.‘s litter box.

I had options. I could sit here like a dummy. I could find a good location, take photos as each cabbie departed.

The GBA pin I’d found in Eugene’s locker seemed suddenly heavy. It weighed my collar down. I touched it. I could just walk in.

Damn. There was the matter of the bartender. If it was the same bartender, old Billy what’s-his-face, and if he remembered me, recalled my questions, my license, my card, I’d be sunk.

Maybe I’d have gone in anyway. Maybe I’d have taken some Pulitzer Prize photos, maybe I’d have gotten zip. I’ll never know.

Flashing blue lights appeared out of nowhere, racing up behind me.

Shit. I smacked my horn in pure frustration, pulled over.

The cops. Always there when you need them.

“It’s her, all right.” A huge red-faced cop, the kind they used to call a harness bull, peered in my side window.

“Any problem, Officer?” I said in my sweetest voice. I wondered if the bull was named Doyle or Donahue, if he was employed by the IRA to handle things just in case someone tailed their delivery cab. I thought about the pipe under my seat.

“Carlotta Carlyle?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Lieutenant Mooney wants to talk to you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nah, we’re supposed to bring you in.”

“For questioning,” a bright young patrolman added. He was sticking his head in the passenger door.

“You don’t have to tell her that,” the bull snapped.

“Okay.” The young guy backed off.

“Bring me in?” I said incredulously. “Arrest me? Mooney wants to arrest me?”

“He wants to talk to you,” the harness bull said, as if that made everything okay.

“This is harassment,” I said.

“Harassment,” the bull repeated, pawing his book of traffic tickets. “You call this harassment?”

“Look, I didn’t do anything—”

“Oh, I thought you might not have signaled back tiiere at the last right tum. Or maybe your high beams aren’t working.

Or maybe you ran a red.”

That, I call harassment.

“So, you want to talk to Lieutenant Mooney, or what?”

the bull said.

“What,” I answered.

“Good. He’s over at Area D. We’ll escort you.”

Just what I always wanted, a police escort.

At the station, Mooney was tilting back in his swivel chair, big black cop shoes on die desktop, hands clasped behind his head, eyes half closed. He had a dime-sized hole in his left sole, and his right shoe could have used a new heel.

His office was like his shoes. The big walnut desk was scratched and stained. The blotter curled at the edges. Two four-drawer gray filing cabinets overflowed in a corner. No flowers, no plants, no pictures. No wonder Mooney kept his eyes closed.

I knew he wasn’t sleeping. I was too damn mad to sit down, so I stood there, arms crossed, fighting off the urge to grab both his heels and teach him to do a somersault. I was probably angrier than I should have been. I tend to get mad when I enter that police station. It’s got too many memories for me. Some of them good ones, granted, but mainly it’s the bad stuff that lingers. The “partner” who didn’t want to let the “girl” drive. The clubby “boys only” atmosphere. The carved-in-granite belief that if I achieved anything it was because I’d slept with the right cop.

I breathed.

Part of it was that when I looked at Mooney, I thought about Sam. And that made me uncomfortable. I mean, why should Mooney remind me of Sam? Why should seeing Mooney’s face make me feel guilty? I hate feeling guilty.

“Coffee?” he said.

They have rotten coffee at Area D. They serve it in nasty Styrofoam cups. Instead of milk or cream, there’s this big jar of powdered beige gunk.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Coffee?” he repeated. This time his eyes were open.

“Am I under arrest?” I repeated.

“Carlotta, you’re gonna thank me for doing this. Why the hell didn’t you call? I must have left twenty messages.”

“I called. You were out. Am I under arrest, or what?

Should I call my lawyer?”

“Christ, I’m sorry I interrupted your life. I was only trying to do you a favor. Forget it. No charges. You can leave anytime.”

Now that was infuriating. Mooney knew I’d never leave without finding out what the hell was going on. He turned his attention to a file folder on his desk, and yanked a single sheet of paper, holding it in his right hand. He read a few lines with pretend concentration, shook his head sadly.

“Mooney—”

“Go on. Get lost.”

I took the two steps I needed to get close enough, reached over, and jerked the paper out of his grasp. I think he let go on purpose. As I read, I sank into the visitor’s chair, a disgusting molded-plastic job.

I hardly noticed the discomfort. What I had in my hand was a criminal record, a rap sheet, for one Thomas Charles Carlyle. And let me tell you, this Thomas Charles Carlyle was one bad boy, a one-man crime spree. Petty Larceny, Grand Larceny: three arrests, two convictions. Illegal Firearms: three violations. Statutory Rape. Rape. Armed Robbery. Et cetera.

There were mug shots attached. No mug shot is great, but these were dreadful, because Thomas Charles Carlyle looked like he’d had a fight with King Kong about an hour before the photographer arrived. His nose was mashed over on one side of his face, his lips were cut and swollen, one eye was puffed shut. He sported a handlebar mustache. If he’d shaved it off, no one could possibly identify him from the photo, what with all the damage to his face. I glanced back at his rap sheet and found a token Resisting Arrest among the offenses.

“Carlotta,” Mooney said as soon as I looked up, “there is no condo company at Cedar Wash.”

I opened my mouth and shut it again.

“Thomas C. Carlyle,” he continued, “this Thomas C.

Carlyle, the guy with the sheet, is wanted by the FBI. They got a hot tip. They think he’s tied to some right-wing radical group in the state, the New Survivalist League, or something.”

I’d

heard of them. They’d tried to rob an armory someplace in New Hampshire. Shot their guns, made a rumpus, got away with a couple of handguns and a box of grenades. I swallowed and nodded.

“They’re using this contest thing to smoke him out,”

Mooney continued. “They did it in Florida a few years back, tried it out on a few bastards with outstanding arrest warrants.

Lots of the creeps showed up for their condo tour, and got slapped in jail instead.”

The fluorescent lights in Mooney’s office made me blink.

“I don’t believe this. My cat gets Mother Jones. How could they link him to a bunch of right-wingers?”

Mooney’s shoes hit the floor with a thud and he stood up.

His height was menacing in the small room, and his voice let me know I wasn’t the only angry soul around. He spoke softly, aware of the cops on the other side of the glass door pretending to work while they listened. “The Feds are supposed to inform us, not run their own stinking circus. Doing it this way tells me they think the department sucks.”

“No twenty thousand,” I said. T.C. wasn’t going to dine on FancyFeast and Catviar.

“Not a nickel.”

“T.C. was looking forward to it.”

“You didn’t believe this shit, did you?”

“Of course not,” I said. Hell, no. I’d just finished asking Roz if she could fake me a Mass. driver’s license. I’d not only called every damn Carlyle in the phone directory, I’d proposed fraud to a cop.

I could tell Mooney was trying to keep a self-satisfied smirk off his face. He shook his head. “Carlotta,” he said, “you know why you didn’t last as a cop? Your imagination runs away with you.”

“Wrong, Mooney. I didn’t make it because I didn’t brownnose.” There’s enough truth in that statement to make it sound good. In spite of the sleaze, and the hostility from the “boys,” I might have stayed if I hadn’t had to deal with Administration.

“So, you want me to tell the FBI they screwed up?” Mooney asked eagerly.

“No,” I said slowly. “Don’t say anything. Not yet.”

He adjusted to the disappointment. “Yeah, well, okay.

Fine. I mean, those FBI bastards, I wouldn’t tell ‘em if their ass was on fire.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, keep me informed, will you? If they pull anything really dumb, I want a chance to call the newspapers, and give some reporter a ringside seat, okay?”

Considering how Mooney feels about reporters, he must really despise the FBI. He rocked back on his heels, and looked uncomfortable, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me out again. But all he said was, “How’s that old lady of yours doing? The one who got beat up?”

“Not too bad.”

“The case going okay?”

His tone was extra sympathetic. I guess he felt bad about breaking my Cedar Wash bubble. I decided to take advantage of his solicitude.

“Mooney,” I said, “You remember the Valhalla, that ship that—”

“The IRA gunrunner. You’re not hooked up to that, are you?”

“Have you heard any gunrunning tales lately, anybody talking IRA revival?”

“Not a thing, Carlotta. Far as I can tell, the only people talking IRA gun deals are FBI, or Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, trying to entrap. Why?”

I tried my leprechaun story out on him. He didn’t like it any better than Jay Schultz had.

I was starting to get a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought about Eugene Devens.

Screeching the cab into its G&W parking slot dissipated maybe a grain of my foul temper. Gloria pretended not to notice. No doubt she’d given Mooney my cab number. I might have taken exception to her generosity except that all three big brothers, including the former NFL ear-biter, were hanging around the office, glowering on cue.

What I couldn’t figure was where Sam Gianelli fit in.

John Flaherty was Jackie, the young Irish firebrand Pat had described. While Mooney was busy mocking my intuitive powers, I’d flashed on the outline of Flaherty’s head under the cab’s domelight, the set of head on neck, the shape of his ears. I knew where I’d seen him before: reflected in a mirror near a sign proclaiming Michelob Light the preferred weekend brew of every patriotic American. At the Rebellion, the night I’d trailed the three old coots. He was the younger, talkative one. Even though I hadn’t seen Flaherty’s face that night, on the shape of his ears alone I was ready to label him Irish Jackie, organizer of the GBA revival.