A Trouble of Fools (26 page)

“I don’t know what you think you’re up to, young man,”

she screeched.

It must have been a while since anyone had called Mooney “young man” in that tone of voice. I could feel him jump. He glanced around. His face flamed as he became fully aware of his surroundings.

He pivoted to face his accuser. “It’s okay, lady,” he said quickly. “I’m a cop.”

I was laughing so hard I had to sit down on the floor.

I made it home before midnight, and spent some time sitting cross-legged on my unmade bed, chewing my fingernails.

Then I got resolutely to my feet, and walked across the room to the telephone. The journey seemed like a long one. I didn’t think I’d wake Sam. He’s a night owl; used to be, anyway.

The phone rang and rang; ten, twelve, fourteen times.

The answering machine never answered. I thought I might have dialed the wrong number, so I tried again, and kept on trying until 2 a.m.—playing guitar, dialing, wondering where he was, dialing. Pretty soon I knew his number by heart.

The next morning, when the receiver clicked and I heard his voice, I started talking before I realized it was a recording.

He must have come home, flipped on the machine, and left again, unless he was using the damn thing to monitor calls. The phone beeped in my ear. I panicked and hung up, unprepared for my allotted thirty seconds. What the hell could I say in thirty seconds? I dialed again, left my name, asked him to return my call. I sounded cool and impersonal, even to myself. He didn’t call back.

I read about the funeral in the Globe. Not a detailed obituary, just one of those small alphabetized notices, listing the funeral home—a place I’d never heard of in the North End—and visiting hours: Wednesday 2-4. In other notices, husbands, wives, children were named as chief mourners.

This one began: “Grandson of Anthony Gianelli.” Then it listed his mother’s name, then his father’s. It said: “Relatives only.” No funeral mass. No place to send donations in lieu of flowers.

I bought flowers at a shop on Huron Avenue, purple iris that wilted in the unseasonable heat. My gray wool skirt clung to my thighs. It was too hot for wool, but I didn’t own any summer mourning. By the time I got to Park Street Station, I was sweating and sorry I’d chosen the airless Red Line train instead of my Toyota. I once made a vow never to drive into the North End. The streets are so narrow, and parking is impossible.

The North End is no place for an Irish funeral. It’s Italian, densely populated, sliced off from the rest of Boston by the Central Artery. The streets are edged with strips of uneven sidewalk that directly abut the narrow three-story row houses. No lawns, no trees. But the buildings are surprisingly well maintained, clean and freshly painted. Pots of geraniums brighten window boxes and iron fire escapes. Old men sit on the front stoops reading the papers, passing the time. Espresso shops and bakeries scent the air. Sheets of cream-filled canolli sit in the bakery windows.

The funeral home was unusual, set back from the street, a squat brick house with three steps up to a pillared portico, separated from its neighbors by foot-wide walkways. A hearse was parked at the curb, followed by three black limos.

They turned the two-way street into a one-lane battle zone.

Six Boston cops added to the confusion.

A steady stream of people flowed up the front walk, the women subdued, the men in dark suits, white shirts, dark ties. Most were elderly. As they entered, the door swung wide, and I could see a dim foyer where two men in black suits flanked an inner double doorway.

Cars honked. Adding to the traffic jam was a gas company van, parked across the street, two wheels up on the sidewalk, yellow lights flashing. It had tinted-glass side windows.

The FBI likes to film Cosa Nostra funerals. I wondered why they hadn’t just planted the camera in plain sight.

I gulped a deep breath, and started up the front walk. I’d walked over a mile already, from Park Street Station. My shoes pinched. My skirt felt heavy. My stockings chafed. I should have worn a hat. My hair looks out of place at funerals.

Most of the old ladies had their heads covered with black lace mantillas.

The air in the foyer was pleasantly cool. I felt the slightest pressure tugging my right elbow. Then my left elbow was gently pushed and I was shunted neatly aside, one large goon at each side.

Tweedledee said, “Family only, miss.”

Tweedledum said, “We’ll express your condolences.”

I tried to shake them off. They held on. I said, “Yeah.

What name’fl you give?”

The grip on my arms tightened. I dropped my bouquet. I hoped one of them would reach for it, but they were professionals.

They left it lying on the tile, one droopy iris bent double.

The inner doors were half glass. Through them I could see a narrow reception hall with deep red flocked wallpaper, oak wainscoting, a crystal chandelier. A gilded mirror over a fireplace reflected marble statues and groups of softly chatting mourners. An ornate sideboard held a cut-glass vase of lilies. I thought I could see the back of Sam’s head. He’d gotten a haicut. The back of his neck was pale.

“Tell Sam Gianelli—” I began.

“Family only, miss,” Tweedledee said firmly. “You don’t want to make a scene.”

“Big family,” I muttered.

The tall man turned his head. It was Sam, his face as fixed as the marble bust on the mantelpiece. Through the glass door, he looked as if he existed in a different world, a sad, formal place where no one smiled. A portly man patted his shoulder, shook his hand. Sam stared at me over the fat man’s head. He couldn’t have missed me. His lips parted slightly, then pressed themselves together in a thin line. He swallowed. He didn’t look away. He didn’t look down. He looked right through me.

I closed my eyes, just for an instant. When I opened them he was gone.

I turned to the goon on my right. “Will you give Mrs. Flaherty the flowers?” I asked. My voice was shaky, but I think he heard me.

A third man elbowed his way out of the reception hall, grabbed the bouquet, and shoved it in my arms. They turned me around, and gave me a dignified version of the bum’s rush out the door.

I stood blinking on the portico, one hand touching a cool pillar, more for reassurance than support. I was aware of a low rumble of voices, raised eyebrows.

I left the damn flowers on the hearse.

The hurly-burly died down after a while, in spite of Herald headlines the likes of black mask killer on the loose. About a week after Flaherty’s funeral, somebody got a hot tip, and came around to question Gloria. She says her largest brother answered the doorbell chewing on a hunk of raw meat. I don’t believe a word of it, but whatever happened, nothing ever got into print concerning the Old

Geezers’ conspiracy.

I talked to reporters at first, on the grounds that publicity couldn’t hurt business. I got tired of the game before the press did. After a while, I started letting the parakeet answer the phone.

First, I took the bug out of the receiver. I gave it to Mooney as a keepsake of his encounter with the FBI.

Mooney didn’t do too badly in the papers either, and the Deputy Superintendent declared himself indebted for the entertainment value of the early part of the evening. And while the unexpected killing may have given Mooney a couple of sleepless nights, it didn’t bother the department as a whole. I mean, what’s one more drug pusher? Flaherty’s death was back-page news, except for the spectacular manner of his going. Nobody mourns a dead drug pusher long—except his family.

Six days after the bus station fiasco, the earthly remains of Eugene Devens were pulled from the harbor, near the spot where they’d found his cab abandoned, not far from the bus terminal. One of the local goons talked.

All the Old Geezers came to his funeral. And a lot of unknown men paid their respects as well. At the wake, I kept wondering: Which one killed Jackie Flaherty? Which of the faces crowded into O’Brien’s Funeral Home had I last seen masked by a black hood?

About the money … Margaret Devens was not only serious about not wanting it back, she was even more determined that the Old Geezers and the IRA should never know it existed. She didn’t want to donate it to the church. There was no charity she wished to endow in Eugene’s memory.

She wanted to forget about it.

T.C. waltzed off with the loot after all.

I made Margaret take the difference between the insurance settlement and the damage to her house, and enough to cover Eugene’s burial. She couldn’t have been left too hard up because she bought one of Roz’s tamer paintings for two hundred bucks.

To celebrate, Roz dyed her hair fright-wig white.

After figuring my time and expenses, I deposited my fee, plus a bonus, in my checking account. I made a donation to the Animal Rescue League in T.C.‘s name. I treated myself to two sets of GHS guitar strings, a new Chris Smither album, and an old Lightnin’ Hopkins one. I gave a goodly sum to the YWCA, anonymously. Otherwise, they hound you for life.

I consider the rest Paolina’s college fund.

I hope “Mr. Andrews” is still out there somewhere, searching for Thomas C. Carlyle.

The End.