Killers (20 page)

Sally considered this for a moment. “Didn't I read somewhere that to get one of them new gaming licenses, you had to post a bond to guarantee to put up a $500 million casino?”

I nodded. “Something like that.”

He looked around my windowless office, which hadn't changed since the previous owner opened the garage back in 1957. There was even an old Pep Boys girlie calendar from 1961 that no one had ever bothered to take down.

He smiled. “Does anyone really think either of us got collateral for a half-billion loan from a bank for a casino?”

“That's my point. If you think this thing through for about ten seconds, you realize it's bullshit, us fighting over something we couldn't come near affording, even if we could pass the background checks, which we can't.”

“Yeah, but my nephew's just as dead.”

I thought for a second. Then I decided to bounce something off him. That's not quite the right way to put it. I wasn't seeking his counsel; I was seeking his consent. He's the senior partner, even though I do almost all the wet work now, what little there still is, or was, until this week.

“You ever hear of this guy Jack Reilly? Used to be a cop, was a bagman for the old mayor?”

Sally put his cigar in the ashtray on my desk. I could smell it from where I sat.

“How old's this guy?”

“About my age, a little younger maybe.”

“He hang out in the North End?”

“Fuck if I know, I'm from Somerville.”

Sally scratched his head. “I think maybe I knew his mother, way back when. Lived on Richmond Street, I think. Married an Irish guy, a cop maybe?” His lip curled up a little. “Why you askin' me about this guy? We got assholes trying to clip us.”

“This guy, he comes around the Alibi the other day, asking questions.”

“Asking questions?” Sally likes strangers asking questions about as much as I do.

“Yeah, he was interested in talking. First I make him for a cop—”

“How many times I gotta tell you, never talk to a cop. I don't give a fuck, all they wanna do is be able to identify your voice in court. ‘Yes, sir, I know the defendant, I recognize his voice, I talked with him at the Alibi.'”

I'd heard this lecture a million times. Maybe two million.

“Sally, I told you, he ain't a cop. He almost got indicted, he was shaking down some other cop for a promotion, they got him on tape I think, but he was too cute for 'em.”

“Well, I like that.”

“The other thing is, I know his brother. He's done some work for me.”

“Capable?”

I shook my head. “Not that kind of guy.”

“Stickups?”

I shook my head again. “Trucks. He's just a guy hangs around. Marty, Marty Reilly. Not a bad guy. He's up at Devens right now.”

“So what'd he want, this guy, your friend's brother?”

“Not sure. We didn't talk much. I asked him, ‘Do I know you?'”

“Good.”

“Sally, I learn from you.” He placidly accepted the compliment, didn't even realize I was giving him the needle, gently. Irony has always been in short supply on Hanover Street.

I said, “The more I think about it, though, the more I think he's on to this too.”

“You mean us getting shot at?”

“I mean casinos. See, he works now for pols at the State House, City Hall, crooked pols mostly.”

“I didn't know there was any other kind.”

“So I'm figuring, maybe he's gotta couple ideas, wanted to bounce them off me. I'm thinking maybe—”

“No,” Sally said. “No civilians.”

“Sally, he ain't exactly a civilian.”

“Plenty guys at the State House almost got indicted, that don't mean you wanna be sittin' down with them. Them guys don't stand up.”

“Who does, Sally? These days, I mean?”

Before he could give me another lecture, there was a rapping on the door. The kid brought in our coffee. We waited until he was gone before resuming our conversation.

“Sally,” I said, “lemme talk to the guy. We're clay pigeons out here, and we don't even know who's using us for target practice.”

Sally frowned. “You ain't going to pay him, are you?

“Are you shittin' me? I'm a wiseguy.”

Just then Atomic Dog stood up, looked up at Sally, raised her hind leg and pissed on his pants. Sally closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he considered this latest indignity. He finally opened his eyes and looked first at Atomic Dog, who had again collapsed in exhaustion on the floor, and then at me.

“I guaran-fucking-tee you,” he said, shaking his wet trouser leg. “What just happened to me never happened to Jerry Angiulo.”

 

18

LAST CALL AT ANTHONY'S PIER 4

Mister Chairman, Senator Denis Donahue of the Worcester, Franklin and Hampshire district, was having a time at Anthony's Pier 4. One yard per person, $500 per “sponsor,” and $5,000 per table.

I got my ticket from Kevin Caulfield. As a lobbyist, he can only contribute $250 a year to any politician, as opposed to non-lobbyists. This was another of those marvelous reforms so beloved of the newspaper editorial boards. It saved the lobbyists $250 per hack, although of course if you really needed to duke somebody some cash, there was always some secretary in your office to make up the $250 deficit. And if it was really important … well, that's what they all had guys like me for. Guys like I used to be, I mean.

Old Man Caulfield wasn't in a good mood when I stopped by to pick up my ducat. Ted McGee had written another column in the
Globe
—a “special,” on the front page. The way it was written, it sounded like he'd been there when Sally's collector got hit. As usual, plenty of dialogue, no last names. At the bottom of the piece, McGee reassumed his omniscient voice and lectured the squares in the suburbs who didn't know he was making it all up. He told them how this “carnage” would continue as long as the cancer of gambling loomed over Our Fair City, the City on a Hill. Fucking guy grew up in Fitchburg, and all the rubes thought he was a Townie or some such shit.

“He's killing us,” Caulfield said.

“What's the head count on the vote?” I asked.

“It's not coming to the floor, if that's what you mean.” In other words, leadership no longer had the votes. From the tone of Caulfield's voice, it wasn't even close.

“Any way to save the bill?” I asked.

“That's your job,” he said glumly. I could see he didn't think I was up to the job, but I didn't take it personally. Probably no one could pull it out now.

I said, “I went to the game last night.”

“Really?” he said. “Let me guess, it cost you fifty bucks to park and you're pissed at the mayor.”

“That goes without saying,” I said. “But I thought you might be interested in who was sitting in Donuts' seats.”

He looked up at me. Now he was interested.

“The Pulitzer Prize winner himself.”

“McGee?”

“None other. And sitting next to him was the commissioner of probation.”

“Drew Amato? That's Donahue's guy, his cousin.”

“Really?” I said.

“You didn't know that? I thought everybody knew that.”

“I don't get around much anymore.”

*   *   *

It was the usual Pier 4 time, maybe my last, now that I thought about it. The old joint was closing in about a month; more high-rises going up in the “Seaport District” formerly known as Southie. Anthony's upstairs function room was crawling with lobbyists, legislators and assorted other hacks. I'll tell you how shady the crowd was: I broke my own iron-clad and passed out four business cards that actually had my own name on them. It was a great “networking” opportunity for low friends in high places. There's always a few veteran legislators looking down the barrel of a primary challenge, and that's where I come in. Inside the Beltway, they call my job “oppo research.” I just call it digging up shit. Which is what I was doing at Pier 4, but most of the payroll patriots just assumed I was trolling for new business. Let 'em think that. It was better that way, plus I was killing two birds with one stone.

I gulped down a couple of gin and tonics, hold the tonic, to loosen up and then lingered around the back of the room. The only time I left was to go downstairs to the main dining room and grab a couple of Anthony's famous hot popovers for old-time's sake.

The sun was setting over the harbor and I'll have to admit, the view was spectacular. I was going to miss this place. Anthony Athanas, the owner, had been a miserable old prick, but when he built Anthony's Pier 4 he was way ahead of his time, right down to the huge parking lot.

It was around nine when they flashed the lights in the room and I saw a florid-faced guy at the podium, asking for quiet in the room. I knew him from Fenway Park. It was the probation commissioner, Drew Amato. I suddenly wished I'd brought along Katy Bemis. If she'd seen this, she'd have been totally onboard.

“You all know why we're here tonight,” he said, as I noticed the two beefy guys standing behind him, their hands clasped in front of them, like they were his bodyguards, as if a probation commissioner needed bodyguards for anything but effect. On the other hand, maybe they worked for Donuts. He didn't need bodyguards either, he needed bagmen, but these guys were much too conspicuous to be picking up cash. They looked like state cops on steroids, or do I repeat myself? As your bagman, you need someone nondescript, someone like, well, like me.

Amato began: “We're here to pay tribute to our good pal, the Leader, who has done so much for all of us here, who never hesitates when any of us need a favor.”

I was growing slightly bilious. Favors? He had everything but a rate card for those so-called favors.

“Some of us may need an increase on our line item in the budget.” This was for the hacks. “Some of us may need an outside section inserted into the budget in conference committee.” This was for the lobbyists. They could put anything in an outside section, tack it on at the end of a budget along with hundreds of others, with no fingerprints, and with any luck no one would figure out for months what they'd done—a land-taking of some prime public real estate, a fake pension, a ninety-nine-year lease, putting fifty-year-olds on the State Police despite the age requirement. In other words, something you wouldn't want to see splashed on the front page with your name in the headline. An outside section was so much easier than actually having to get a bill passed—and cheaper too, because you only have to pay off one guy, in this case Donuts.

“People outside the building, you know what they say about us. They don't understand the true meaning of public service.” A few uneasy chuckles followed. The commissioner didn't appear drunk, so maybe it was some kind of inside joke, this gag about public service.

“Public service is about giving your word, and keeping your word.” Now he was back on track. God, how they loved to talk about giving their word, and keeping it. Almost as much as they loved to reminisce about who they'd stabbed in the back. “And that's what our friend is all about—keeping his word. If the Leader tells you he's going to do something for you, you can take it to the bank.” Preferably an offshore bank, where Donuts would be depositing your money.

“This is a watershed year in the history of our Commonwealth.” Aren't they all?

“Powerful interests, out-of-state interests, are attempting to change the culture of our state.” God forbid that should happen.

“They want to turn our city into a gambling mecca, with all of the social pathologies that gaming will bring in its wake.” More chuckles, but fewer than before, because most of the crowd was in on this casino play. Surely Donuts couldn't be going rogue on them at this late date, could he?

“But there is one man who stands athwart these nefarious forces.” Athwart? Nefarious? The commish was pushing it now. One of the bodyguards frowned slightly. Or maybe he was just confused by the big words.

“Denis Donahue knows that if casinos are the answer, then we must have asked the wrong question. He will do his best to halt this blight before its malignant tentacles begin strangling our state.” Somebody must have written this shit for the commissioner, I was sure of it now, even if I couldn't see any notes on the podium. On casinos, Donuts was galloping off the reservation. Everything was starting to fall into place. “My friend, your friend, the man we have gathered together to pay tribute to tonight, knows the high price he may pay for his principled stand, but as we have all heard him say on more than one occasion, ‘I answer only to the people.'”

Eventually, it'll be twelve people he's answering to, along with a few alternate jurors thrown in for good measure. Was there a reporter here? Or perhaps the FBI had bugged the room. I hoped they were enjoying this as much as I was. Especially the part about paying tribute and high prices.

“But you don't want to hear from me. You want to hear from the man himself, the majority leader of the Massachusetts State Senate. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our dear friend, the man whose word is his bond, Denis Donahue.”

Donahue approached the podium, and gave the commish a bear hug. He whispered something in Amato's ear, and Amato nodded in the direction of his two plug-uglies, who peeled off to the side. If anyone was taking photos, especially newspaper pictures, Donuts didn't want those two behind him. I wondered why.

The senator stepped to the podium, and bowed in mock appreciation of the applause, which I'd rate somewhere between tepid and average. Apparently the tickets bought access, not enthusiasm. This was incumbent money here tonight. The only thing they believed in was being with the winner. You wouldn't call it a tough crowd exactly, but it was jaded.