The City Below (37 page)

"City on a Hill," Squire said. "Fucking city is killing us."

"What do you mean?"

"Busing. The judge. The niggers. Fucking killing us."

"Oh, yeah," Tucci replied, but with a dullness meant to show that he didn't care about busing.

Squire hadn't meant to bring it up, but looking back at the city had made him feel its violation fresh. Now that he thought about it, he realized he was discharging the useless energy of his anticipation of Terry's coming visit. Fucking Terry, and his wife.

But Tucci—Squire forced himself to concentrate—was the brother that mattered now. This asshole, Squire thought, is more my brother than Terry is. And this asshole carries a purse.

Squire faced around toward Mystic Wharf and aimed a finger toward the sprawling, crane-dominated commerical dock, fronting on the deep-water channel. Charlestown had beat Southie out for these new piers, and Quincy too, the government making up for shutting down the navy yard. This was the new heart of Boston Harbor, where container ships tied up. "That's what I asked you down here to see." Squire was pointing at the new crane that dwarfed the buildings in Everett and Chelsea beyond—a bridge-shaped, automated offloader six stories high. Its two legs rode on parallel sets of railroad tracks that ran two hundred yards along the water's edge. Its hoisting mechanism yawned, empty now, dangling from the crane-bridge like the claws of a hovering bird of prey.

"It's big," Tucci said.

"There are only two cranes like that on the eastern seaboard. We got this one thanks to a guy named Kennedy who remembers that his brother got his start in Charlestown."

"You fucking Irish."

"Yeah, how about that In the year it's been here, shipping into and out of Boston doubled, and will again even sooner, but Charlestown still gets screwed. This crane practically operates without longshoremen. Instead of jobs, what the Town got is a caravan of heavy trucks rattling through Sullivan Square. Sea-Land trucks, you've seen them. The containers go right on the flatbed."

"Yeah, I've seen them."

"People see them go by, now they say, Fuck Kennedy. First these trucks, then the buses." Squire snorted.

Tucci stared at the crane, saying nothing.

Squire thought of Deebo McCarthy, twitching on this pavement with a knife in his gut. Did Frank even know how close they were to the very place? Probably not. What was Deebo's death to him?

"So why the fuck am I here? To get wet when it rains?" Even against blue sky, dark clouds were massing.

"I'll show you." Squire led the way across to Terminal Street, past a pair of potbellied men in baseball hats and nylon jackets who'd been fishing and were now packing up their gear. As Doyle and Tucci approached the fenced-off clock area, an airliner just taking off from Logan soared into the sky above them, its engines screeching. Squire pointed at it, Frank looked. Squire scanned the road behind them, the warehouses in the distance, the storage yards and the pier ahead, all quiet He took Tucci's arm and picked up the pace, heading for an innocuous gate in the high fence. A padlock dangled from its slot, but when Squire tugged it once firmly, the hook fell open. He pushed the gate and they went through.

Once inside the yards, with the gate closed behind them, the men stood for a moment, taking in the sight of metal massed like the granite blocks of which the monument was built: the boxcar-size containers on one side, some on truck beds and some stacked three or four high, as tall as buildings; and on the other, on the waterfront itself, the massive crane. The dark glass of the cockpit control booth at the top of the nearest leg was like an eye staring out over the harbor, toward the hills of Everett The crane, like everything else, was shut down. The black mushroom-shaped bollards on which a ship's lines would be secured were naked. The pier was empty of men. Nothing was moving.

"This way," Squire said.

He led along a wall of sealed cargo containers to a narrow, ad hoc aisle that ran between the rows. It was like entering a maze, and with a single turn they were surrounded by the metal walls. Squire approached a particular container without hesitating, and he threw a latch. One side of a set of double doors popped open. Squire pulled it and drew back, revealing the cavernous dark interior of an empty container.

"Come on in," he said.

Frank followed him into the box, ducking, though at eight feet it was two and a half feet higher than his head. Opening his arms, Squire turned slowly. "Forty feet by eight feet by eight and a half." He slapped the flat of his hand against the nearby wall, jolting the air. "Two thousand of these babies offloaded in Charlestown every month last year. Four thousand a month next year, packed with everything from reed bathmats to sacks of coffee beans to mahogany furniture to Datsun muffler pipes to—"

"To your flower bulbs?"

"Yes. Dutch tulips. Daffodils. Hyacinths. Narcissus. Hardy bulbs, bred in ice-skating country, just right for tough New England weather. My wholesale bulb business gets bigger every year." He slapped the wall again. "I have four of these guys coming in over the next three weeks. I could sell eight. People are just catching on to bulbs. After dormancy, all they need is dirt, water, and rising temperatures, and poof! The glories of spring in your own back yard, in your windowbox. Bulbs. It's what made me see these fuckers." And once more Squire banged the wall. "Hear it?"

"What?"

Only using his knuckles now, he struck the metal again.

Tucci shook his head.

"It's hollow, Mr. Tucci. The walls of these containers are a double thickness of aluminum bolted together onto I-beams." He pointed out the ribs of the containers. "Twenty-four I-beams per container. Along each I-beam runs a hollow cavity. Here, see?" Squire knocked the metal, off the beam, then on it. The sound displayed the difference. "Each beam can take four and a half keys of packaged powder."

"Ten pounds?"

"That's right, each beam. Two hundred and forty pounds if you used every beam, which you probably—"

"Jesus Christ." Tucci put his little handbag under one arm, then ran his hand along the corrugated metal.

"Two or three special containers a week, Mr. Tucci, with these wall panels rigged to pop off. That would more than double Masio's
monthly
take at Logan—but over here you have no customs, no narcs."

"How do you know what Masio's take at Logan is?"

"I didn't read it somewhere?"

Tucci stared at Doyle. "You hold out on me, Doyle. You do it all the time."

Squire smiled that smile. "I'm showing you the future, Mr. Tucci. Two million of these containers entered the U.S. last year. Next year, four. The year after that, eight The days of smuggling dope in suitcases in the holds of airplanes are over. There are too many of these things for the government to deal with, and even if they could, the whole point of shipping cargo like this is
not
to open them. These containers wind up everywhere, so port of entry means nothing anymore. The worst the narcs could do is spot checks, but with these mothers, even that isn't simple. There's no on-site customs here, and in this yard, not even the government can unload one of these containers, which is the first thing they'd have to do to check these walls. So they'd need trucks. They'd need an inspection site. They'd need crews. They
could
get all of that up now and then, but by the rime they did, I'd know it"

"How?"

Squire went on as if he had not heard Tucci's question. "And it would be a simple matter to keep our special, one-in-a-thousand gift box on board the ship for delivery another day. Even if customs snagged one, whose name would be on it? Not yours."

"And it wouldn't be tulip bulbs."

"You can bet on that."

"An arrangement like this..." Tucci stopped, intensifying his stare. "I'd have to coordinate with people in New York."

"I assume that."

"They would expect me to have total control."

"You'd have that."

"And this would change your participation."

"Not much. I'm still only interested in the Town. I'd be your guy on this dock That's all."

"So what has to happen?"

Squire looked out. The rain was just starting to fall, and with it the patter of drops hitting the metal container began, a surge of resonating noise inside the thing, like the warning clicks of a Geiger counter. Squire said, "Someone has to make the deal with the shipping company in Rotterdam. It should be you. I can introduce you to a guy from my Dutch bulb business."

"What about that other fellow?"

"Who?"

"Moran."

Squire missed a beat as he scrambled inwardly—away from a cliff was the feeling. "Moran?" He shrugged. "Quincy is not in the picture."

"The shipyard there is slated to get a crane like this."

Squire smiled. This fucker was good. "Not this year. Probably not next. If Quincy lands a crane, it'll be—"

"Moran runs the action at the shipyard. Unless I'm mistaken, your Dutch friends had a meeting with Moran in Amsterdam. They flew him over."

"And you say
I
hold out on
you
" Squire said. "Lots of people go to Amsterdam, Mr. Tucci."

"Venlo, I should of said." Tucci paused for effect. "He had his meeting in the town of Venlo."

Doyle faced away to watch the rain fall. Jerry Moran, the fucker.

From deep in the container, from well behind Doyle, Tucci's voice resonated gravely, each word weighing more than before. "I'm not going to compete with Moran. Understand? When I go to New York with this, they'll ask me who else is on the square, and I'll have to say no one. Do you hear me?"

"Yes. I'm sure I can—"

"So kill him."

Doyle immediately faced Tucci, knowing how everything depended on the Italian's seeing his eyes at such a moment, their clarity and resolve. "That's not how I operate. I don't even own a gun."

Tucci surprised Doyle by flinging his handbag at him, that effete item of wop fashion. But instead of soft leather, it was the bulk of steel that hit Doyle's chest, and as he caught the bag, he realized what was inside. It was not a wallet but a holster.

"Now you have one. Use it."

Deebo, Squire thought. Here was the difference between Frank Tucci and old Guido. Frank uses one mick to kill another.

"I didn't hear you, Doyle."

"All right, Mr. Tucci. Whatever you say." The two men stared at each other for a long time.

Finally Tucci walked to the edge of the container, to a place next to Squire. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain collect in puddles. That close to Tucci, Squire's size bulked. But he had the feeling he was the only one of the two who knew how much bigger he was than the Italian.

Tucci was content to stand in silence for some moments before asking, "When?"

"By this time tomorrow. Jerry Moran is no friend of mine."

"You didn't answer my other question, before."

"What."

"About customs. Jumping this place, if they did. How you'd know ahead of time."

Squire laughed. "Mr. Tucci, they're all micks. Customs, FBI, DEA, the State Police Task Force—they're all my people. Your people are in the olive oil business. Mine are cops. Of course I'll know."

"That's what makes some of my friends nervous about you."

"Good," Squire said quickly, twirling the leather bag, the dead weight of it. "I like folks to be nervous about me." Then he flashed that born-to-bring-flowers smile of his. "Everyone but you."

Tucci's eyes lingered noncommittally on Doyle's bright face. Then he looked out at the rain. He turned his suit collar up. "Christ, I hate to get this suit wet."

Squire knew what he was being ordered to do, but now he did not hesitate. He took his large sweater off and draped it around Tucci's shoulders. Tucci tugged it closer, as if he had expected this, and started to go.

"One more thing, Mr. Tucci." Squire's hands were still on his shoulders, holding him. Tucci stiffened. "None of the coke stays in the Town. That rule holds."

Tucci stepped away and faced him. "You're the boss, Squire."

Doyle held up the leather bag. "Is this loaded?"

"I loaded it myself."

"Thinking you might need it here?"

Tucci stared at him for a moment, then said, "After you use it, ditch it. I'm trusting you to get rid of it."

"Don't worry, Mr. Tucci." Squire smiled. "But maybe I'll keep the bag. I don't have one this nice."

Tucci continued to stare a moment longer, then ducked out into the passing storm, cut quickly across to the turn in the maze of containers and was gone. Squire stayed where he was, listening as the roar of another airplane overwhelmed the drumming rain on the metal box.

***

At the end of that Georgetown party where they'd first met, Joan and Terry had found themselves at the door together. She'd been the one to offer him a lift, which he accepted, as if he did not have his own car parked farther down the same block He found himself in the passenger seat of a churning Austin-Healey, in British racing green, the top down, though it was January. The low-slung headlights split the night. Joan's profile was backlit by the illuminated marble walls of the Kennedy Center. As the car whipped past Watergate, and as he saw her face outlined against the shimmering Lincoln Memorial, for once the sight of that Ionic temple did not make him think of Didi.

After that, Terry had often pictured Joan barreling down Pennsylvania Avenue from the Corcoran, beyond the White House. From the west parapet of the Capitol, where he usually waited, he could spot her half a mile away. When her car disappeared into the fold of trees just below, he would take off full tilt for the other side, to be there when she pulled up. The sports car fit her like an item of apparel, and her face was never more its vibrant self than when framed by the short, desert-colored feathers of her windblown hair. When the car stopped, her hair always fell instantly into place.

When he married Joan Littel, he married the Healey too. He grew accustomed to himself as a man who rode shotgun, although not on that Saturday in Boston. He would drive because this was his town, and his return. By the time they left the house, the noontime showers had passed, and though the streets were still wet and the sky cluttered, there was no question of not folding back the top.