Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel (14 page)

Late that afternoon, I’d spent more than my customary three seconds looking in my mirror. Getting ready for a date usually required a few simple steps. Sniff the armpits, drag a wet brush through my hair, pluck a relatively fresh shirt from a pile of laundry, and make sure my shoes matched. This time I peered at myself, wondering what I had to offer a woman as … well, as
woman
as Yolanda. Nothing changed no matter how hard I looked. Maybe I could spill some coffee on my shirt again. She thought it was cute the first time.

On the way to pick her up, I stopped off at the mall downtown and blew a hundred bucks on a pair of loafers at Bostonian. The last time I’d treated myself to a new pair of kicks was when my marriage to Dorcas was ending. They were running shoes. I’d heard somewhere that shoes say a lot about a man. I hoped the loafers were smooth talkers.

It was a short drive to East Greenwich, an artsy little town on the western shore of Narragansett Bay. Time enough to play just six tunes from my prostitution playlist. Just off Division Street, I pulled up to a cluster of roomy condos, stared at the tangle of identical door fronts, and realized that I’d forgotten to write down Yolanda’s unit number. Was it 52 or 53? Or maybe 54?

I was pulling out my cell to call her when I spotted a window with a decal of a dark, clenched fist in the bottom corner. Fierce yet discreet. Had to be her. I switched off the ignition, brushed cigar ash from my pants, bounded up the walk, and rang the bell to No. 54.

The door to No. 53 opened instead, and there was Yolanda, suppressing a smile that said she’d been watching me. Then the door to No. 54 eased open, and a squat gray panther, her hair a mass of blue curls, said, “May I help you?”

“He’s mine,” Yolanda said. “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Steinberg.”

Mrs. Steinberg looked me up and down and winked at Yolanda before closing her door.

“Fooled by the fist, were you?” Yolanda said. “Wait a sec while I grab my coat.”

She left me alone in a room that was all mint green and air, with lots of framed pictures on the walls and tables. Some were of an older woman with a face like Yolanda’s, others of a man handsome enough to worry me.

“That’s my brother Mark,” she said.

I turned and saw she’d pulled on a sleek leather jacket that went well with her faded jeans and red Tony Lamas. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore very little makeup, as if she knew she didn’t need improving.

“He used to be a reporter,
L.A. Times,
but he could see there was no future in it. He’s in law school now.”

“Good he’s got a plan.”

“It is, but he’s not thrilled about it. All he ever wanted to do was be a newspaperman. He really misses it. You guys should talk sometime.”

“Oh? So he’s okay with white guys?”

She laughed, the sound I’d been waiting for. “Like me, he considers them a necessary evil.”

I fumbled for the keys to the Bronco as she locked her door. Then she turned to me and said, “Where’s your car?”

“Right there,” I said, pointing to Secretariat, still wheezing and ticking in his stall. “I cleaned off a spot for you on the front seat.”

“Let’s take mine,” she said, and led me to a new burgundy Acura ZDX. Settling into the ivory leather passenger seat was like sinking into a tub of warm butter. Yolanda touched something on the dash, and the engine thrummed to life.

I wondered what we’d talk about on the traffic-choked, hour-long drive to Boston. The Maniellas were a conversation stopper. Dismembered children had dubious romantic appeal. And I sucked at small talk. What could I say to convince her that white guys could be A-OK? Maybe I could remember not to say things like A-OK.

Yolanda touched something else on the dash, and John Lee Hooker started grunting “Hittin’ the Bottle Again.” We fell into a comfortable silence, breaking it occasionally to touch on the weather, the car’s handling, and the quality of the selections from the satellite radio blues channel. We were two people who didn’t know each other well, trying not to talk about work. I leaned back and envisioned the two of us, bodies scrunched together in a jam-packed club, swaying to the rhythms of the best blues guitar player in the world. Maybe Buddy would get Yolanda’s mojo working.

Ninety minutes later, when Beer Helmet stumbled into her for a third time, it didn’t seem to be turning out the way I’d planned. I grabbed the asshole’s wrist and swung him around to face me.

“Apologize,” I said.

He didn’t. Instead, he tossed her a dismissive “she’s nobody anyway” look and started to turn away. I threw a left. Behind it was the power of my loathing for beer helmets, Carrot Top,
Jackass,
and all the rest of the jackasses. The punch caught nothing but air. Beer Helmet was already on the floor, clutching his balls and writhing in agony. The point of Yolanda’s Tony Lamas had scored a direct hit.

Beer Helmet’s buddies moved toward us but then backed off as two bouncers plowed through the crowd. They must have seen the whole thing because they didn’t throw us out. Instead, they gave Yolanda a high five, yanked the jerk to his feet, and dragged him off.

“My hero,” I said.

“Just a little somethin’ you pick up,” she said, “when you’re raised on the West Side.”

Beer Helmet’s ejection seemed to sober the crowd, or at least settle it down. A few minutes later, Buddy and his band strutted out. I put my arms around Yolanda’s waist, and she let me keep them there, leaning back against me as we swayed to the music. That drew hard stares from the jocks and their dates. Blues fans are mostly white these days, and Boston is far from a postracial town. Except for Buddy and the band, Yolanda was the only black person in the place.

Buddy played not one, not two, but three encores. By the time he was done with a ten-minute version of “Slippin’ In,” we’d shouted our throats raw, and Yolanda’s body had been pressed against mine for more than an hour. Buddy wasn’t coming back for a fourth time, so the bouncers cleared the room for the second show. As we strolled out arm in arm onto Lansdowne Street, both of us were hungry, although not necessarily for the same thing.

On the sidewalk, one of the bouncers tapped my shoulder. “Hey, pal,” he said. “Your lady can work security here anytime.”

Yolanda laughed out loud. I hoped it was working as a bouncer that struck her as funny, but it might have been the idea that she was my lady.

I was worried about where we’d be heading for grub. I didn’t figure Yolanda for a chili dog/cheese fries kind of gal, and I was short after shelling out for the tickets. As Yolanda turned west, I tugged her arm.

“The parking lot’s the other way.”

“Yeah, but it smells better in this direction, and a sista needs to eat.”

“This is Lansdowne Street, Yolanda. The main food groups here are beer, grease, and Tabasco.”

“Yum,” she said, and kept walking.

We strolled past Fenway Park, and at the corner of Brookline Street, she stopped in front of the Cask’n Flagon.

“Will this do?” she said. “I’ve been thinking about their cheese fries all day.”

And I fell for her a little more.

“So the show was tight, huh?” she said as we settled into our seats under a black-and-white photograph of a young Ted Williams. “I coulda listened to that brutha play all night. And damn, he’s still ripped. The way he moves, it’s hard to believe he’s seventy-four.”

She pulled her nose out of the menu and locked eyes with me. “Thanks, Mulligan. I forget to do things like this until someone reminds me that there’s a world outside the law office.”

“I could remind you more often.”

She didn’t say anything to that. Suddenly, her menu was more interesting.

“I would never have pictured you in a place like this, Yolanda, but you look right at home.”

The waiter was a young black man with more muscles than he needed for the job. “Miss Mosley-Jones!” he said. “It’s been a long time. Having the cheese fries and two sloppy burgers again?”

“Damn right,” she said. “It’s my day to be bad.”

I certainly hoped so.

The waiter turned his eyes to me, and his wattage went down a notch.

“The same,” I said. “And bring us a pitcher of Samuel Adams.”

“I didn’t realize you were a regular,” I said after the waiter left.

“I’ve only been here once. Last summer I got to missing the Cubs, so I caught a Sox game at Fenway. It reminded me so much of Wrigley I got a little weepy. After nine innings, I’m always starving, so I followed the crowd here.”

“You’ve been here once, and the waiter remembers your name?”

“You don’t think I’m memorable?”

“I think you’re unforgettable.”

Just then, my cell vibrated. I slipped it out, checked the number, and put it back in my pants pocket.

“Nothing important?”

“Just a blast from the past.”

“The almost-ex?”

“How’d you guess?”

“What’s
she
like? What kind of woman ends up with you?”

The phone started vibrating again. I pulled it out, flipped it open, placed it in the middle of the table, and pressed speaker.

“Mulligan.”

“You … fucking … bastard!”

“Good evening to you, too, Dorcas.”

“Who are you out whoring with tonight, you sonuvabitch?”

“I’m having dinner with a friend right now, Dorcas. Sorry, but don’t have time for one of our friendly chats.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, you goddamn—”

I flipped the phone shut and put it back in my pocket.

“Damn,” Yolanda said. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“Married her. She’s never forgiven me for it.”

“Gotta be more to it than that.”

“She’s unstable, Yolanda. She needs help.”

“So get her some.”

“I’ve tried, but she refuses. She thinks the rest of us are the crazy ones.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah.”

We fell into an uncomfortable silence. Maybe introducing the object of my affection to Dorcas wasn’t the smoothest move. The silence lengthened while I tried to think of something that would drown out the sound of my almost-ex’s screech.

“She can make me sound like a monster,” I said. “I’m not. I’m just a regular guy who made a bad choice.”

Yolanda smiled, and the mood lightened. “You’re not a regular white guy, Mulligan.”

“I’m not?”

“Uh-uh. Most of them try to impress me by quoting the ‘I Have a Dream’ speech, telling me how many black friends they have, and dropping the names of rappers, getting most of them wrong.”

“Gee,” I said. “And to think I was just about to tell you how much I dig Jay-Z Hammer.”

She threw back her head and laughed. When the waiter finally showed up with our food, we spent the next half hour slurping, pulling fries from a gooey mountain of cheese, and licking our fingers. I loved watching her be so unlawyerlike.

Once we’d picked the cheese fries plate clean and drained the last of the beer, she didn’t look any thicker than when we came in. I wasn’t sure I could get through the rest of the evening without unbuttoning my pants. And not in a good way.

On the drive home, we listened to more blues on the radio and talked about the show, the Cubs, and the Red Sox; but everything I said really meant “Please let me kiss you.”

“Can’t tell you how great this was, Mulligan,” Yolanda said as she pulled the Acura into the space next to my Bronco. “I felt like a human being instead of a lawyer for a change.”

“So where should we go next time?”

She turned off the ignition and turned toward me. “You gonna make me say it again?”

“You don’t date white guys.”

“You got it.”

“No one would have to know. I promise not to go public.”

“It’s late,” she said. “You should probably get going.”

We got out of the car, and I walked her to the door. She unlocked it, and when she turned around to say good night, I was right there, my face close. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me hard and quick. Then she pulled away, went through the door, and closed it. I’d been summarily dismissed.

As I drove up the interstate toward Providence, I held on to her smile, her laugh, her scent, those tight jeans and red Tony Lamas. Maybe all was not lost. When she’d pulled back from that hug, she’d tilted her head for a fraction of a second, the way a woman does when she wants to be kissed.

Or had I imagined it?

24

“Yes,” I said, “I am a member of Joseph DeLucca’s immediate family.”

“And exactly how are you related?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Why is it, then, that you have a different last name?”

“We’re half-brothers.”

“I’m skeptical,” the hospital Nazi said.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because I recognize you. You’re that reporter from the
Dispatch
.”

“Reporters can have brothers,” I said.

“I imagine so,” she said. “But this is the fifth time this year you have tried to get into a shooting victim’s room by claiming to be a relative.”

“The fifth that you know of,” I said.

“You mean there were more?”

“Would you believe my family is having a run of bad luck?”

“No.”

“Give me a break,” I said. “He’s a friend, and I really need to talk to him.”

“Get out of here before I call security.”

“By security do you mean the geriatric rent-a-cop with a limp who waved to me in the lobby, or are you talking about the fat retired beat cop who’s munching a cruller in the coffee shop?”

She reached for the phone. I shrugged and headed for the door.

It took a couple of hours, but I managed to piece together the story of what happened to Joseph by reading between the lines of the police report and chatting up three off-duty cops, two hookers, and a bartender. Of the sixty or so people who were in the Tongue and Groove when the shooting started, they were the only ones willing to talk to a reporter with a notepad. Logan Bedford, the asshole from Channel 10, had better luck. A few dozen witnesses had queued up for the opportunity to talk into his microphone. Anything to get on TV.

From what I gathered, it went down this way: